by V. K. Sykes
Luke liked Anna Halperin’s no-nonsense style. She didn’t sugar coat Alicia’s situation, but she had a way of boosting the little girl’s confidence. “You know the first thing we’re going to do when you get out of the hospital?”
“Go to a baseball game?” Alicia said hopefully.
“Yep. Actually, I was thinking of a couple of days at Disney World, with maybe a side trip to Tampa to catch a Rays’ game. Whenever Doctor Anna says it’s okay. How’s that sound?”
After a shriek of excitement, Alicia frowned with what looked like worry. “But I’ll be going to another foster home. And I don’t know if I could get permission.”
Luke sat on the edge of her bed, then clasped her hand. “I need to talk to you about that.”
Alicia sat up straight and tucked her legs under her. She held the stuffed hippo against her cheek, her wide-eyed gaze expectant and full of trust. That innocent trust had Luke swallowing the lump in his throat. Man, he was nervous. More nervous than he could ever recall.
“Well, I don’t know how to say this without sounding kind of dopey, so I’d better just get it out quick. I love you, sweetie. A whole lot. I don’t know what kind of a dad I would make, but if you’d like to come live with me, and if the state approves the adoption, I’d like nothing better than for you to be my daughter.”
Alicia’s mouth hung open. “You want to adopt me?” she whispered, her eyes huge and round.
Luke nodded, struggling not to choke on the emotion. “If they’ll let me, and I’m pretty sure they will. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.”
She looked like he’d handed her the moon, but then she began to cry. Luke shifted forward and wrapped his arms around her frail little body.
“But what if I—”
“Hush, kiddo. I’ll be your dad, no matter what.”
Stroking her soft brown hair, he let the little girl sob in his arms, feeling both the weight and the joy of profound responsibility. But somehow he was sure everything would all work out right.
58
* * *
Thursday, August 5
4:20 p.m.
“The St. Lucie Mets are still in Jupiter, scheduled to play the Hammerheads at Roger Dean,” Poushinsky said, checking the Mets’ web site as Amy dialed the team office. Seconds later, she had Kirk McNamara, the St. Lucie general manager, on the line.
“Mr. McNamara, does your team employ an equipment manager named Joey Garneau?”
“No, we don’t,” he said. “What’s this about, Detective?”
Amy figured Garneau might be using another name. “We’re asking in connection with the murders of three women in the Jupiter area. I’m sure you’re aware of the case.”
“Of course.”
“I’d like you to give me the names of your staff who handle equipment, sir.”
“You think somebody from our team is involved?” He sounded incredulous.
“Possibly.”
McNamara sighed. “Our equipment manager’s name is Jason Gardner. We also have a part-time assistant who works when the team’s at home. His name’s Kerwin Revere. Then, there’s our trainer, Chuck Figgins. He helps with the equipment, too.”
Jason Gardner. Joey Garneau. Amy gave Poushinsky a thumbs up. “How long has Jason Gardner been with the team?”
“I hired him last fall, at the end of October. I remember because the World Series had ended the previous night. Jason didn’t have a lot of experience, but he had a great reference from the GM for the Portland Double A team. He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Portland, Maine?”
“That’s right. Initially, I didn’t get why Jason would want to sign on with a Single A team at lower pay. But he said he needed to move to Florida to be near his sister. She’s got cancer.”
“Do you recall how long he worked for the Portland team?”
“As assistant equipment manager, I think it was one season, plus a few months before the season started. But before that he worked as a groundskeeper at the ball park.”
“Did he admit to having a prison record?”
Silence for three or four seconds. “Yes,” McNamara finally said. “But it was for some stuff he got into as a youngster. My friend told me he hadn’t worried about it when he hired Jason, and I shouldn’t, either.”
Amy agreed that it was sometimes good to give a screwed-up kid a break. Not this time. “Is Gardner with the team now, in Jupiter?”
“Of course.”
“Where are they staying?”
“The Comfort Inn and Suites.”
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. McNamara. Please don’t mention our conversation to anyone on the team. I repeat—no one. We’ll be picking up Gardner for questioning immediately.”
“Hold on a minute, Detective.” McNamara’s voice turned more aggressive. “This is my team and my staff you’re talking about. I’ve got a right to know what’s going on. You think Jason might have been a witness or something?”
McNamara obviously hadn’t seen the police composite.
“Let’s just say he’s a person of interest, sir. You’ll hear from me or one of our other detectives shortly. Thanks for your help.” She hung up.
Poushinsky had been hovering over her desk, listening in. “Gardner, huh? He couldn’t come up with a more creative alias than that?”
“Arrogant prick,” she muttered as she entered the name of the hotel in her computer’s search engine. Ten seconds later, she pushed back her chair and bolted up. “Comfort Inn and Suites, Indiantown Road. Get Ryan and Washington and let’s roll.”
* * *
Poushinsky snapped his cell phone shut and glanced at Amy as she threaded her way through rush hour traffic.
“DMV has a lot of Jason Gardners on file,” he said. “The closest to St. Lucie Stadium would be two in St. Lucie County and one in Martin County. I got them to give me the vehicles registered to the guys in St. Lucie and Hobe Sound.”
“I’ll call McNamara back and get the address Gardner gave the team.” Not that he’d necessarily have given them an accurate one. The hotel couldn’t be more than a mile away. She’d call the GM back after they checked it out. Amy noticed Poushinsky staring at her. “What?”
“Jesus, Robitaille, you’re going to bust your teeth if you clamp your jaw any tighter.”
She shook her head, frustrated. “We shouldn’t have been so focused on the players. That was really stupid.”
“Maybe. But who the hell would have thought a minor league equipment manager would be running around the country knocking off ballplayers’ wives? With fucking lethal injection drugs, no less. What were the odds?”
“We’re supposed to think past the odds,” she snapped. “Ashley Rist and Megan O’Neill are dead because we didn’t.”
“Amy, don’t do that.”
She glanced at him, startled by the use of her first name. His eyes held a weight of understanding.
“Don’t take that kind of shit on yourself,” he said gently. “You’re not clairvoyant, and you’ve put your heart and soul into catching this guy. Nobody could have done more.”
She swerved into the hotel parking lot and slammed on the brakes. “That doesn’t make those women any less dead,” she said. But he was right. At least for now, she couldn’t let recriminations cloud her thinking.
They jumped out and jogged toward the hotel entrance. The team bus was idling near the front door, and it looked like only the driver was inside. They’d made it in time.
As the front desk clerk looked up, Amy pointed to her badge. “Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. The St. Lucie Mets team is booked in here, correct?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” the clerk—her name badge said Samantha—replied with a worried frown.
“Samantha, we need a key card for Jason Gardner’s room. Fast, please.”
The woman punched a few keys on her computer and peered at the screen. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Gardner checked out yesterday.”
; Shit. “When, yesterday?”
The clerk glanced back down. “Nine forty-seven p.m.”
Weird hour to check out. Was he already running?
Poushinsky leaned against the counter. “Call Mr. Kiernan’s room. Hand the phone to me if he answers.”
Samantha looked up the room number and dialed the extension on her phone. “Mr. Kiernan, I have the police at the front desk. They wish to speak with you.” She handed the receiver to Poushinsky.
“We need to talk to you right now, sir. It would probably be better in your room than down here. Room three-one-six? We’re on our way.”
“The team manager, right?” Amy said as they hurried to the elevators.
“Yeah. He must know that Gardner lit out last night.”
Kiernan had cracked the door open a couple of inches. Poushinsky banged once on it and they entered. Inside, he quickly introduced himself and Amy.
The manager wore a Hawaiian print shirt over white chinos and held a coffee mug. “What’s this about?” he asked as he made a vague gesture toward the sofa. He looked to be in his late forties, heavy-set but in good shape. “What’s going on?”
Amy had to look up into Kiernan’s eyes. The man had to be close to a foot taller than her. “Been watching any TV, Mr. Kiernan? Or reading the local papers? Maybe you saw the police composite that all the stations have been broadcasting?”
Kiernan nodded warily. “Okay, I get it. Yeah, I saw it in the paper this morning at breakfast. Some of the guys thought it looked kind of like our equipment manager.”
For a second, Amy was speechless. “Did any of you consider the possibility of giving the police a call?”
Kiernan made a dismissive hand gesture. “Why? Jason, a serial killer? Jesus Christ, he’s a great kid. A totally normal guy who keeps his head down and goes about his job.”
Struggling not to bite the guy’s head off, Amy took a seat on the sofa. Poushinsky took the opposite end. Kiernan pulled over the chair from the desk.
“Gardner left the hotel last night. Where did he go and why?” Amy asked.
Kiernan nodded. “To be with his sister. She’s been sick for a long time with cancer. Jason said he got a call from the hospital yesterday telling him she probably had only a couple of more days. He wanted to be at her bedside, so of course I gave him the time off.”
“Which hospital?”
“One in Fort Myers.”
What bullshit. “Do you have any evidence that Gardner actually went to Fort Myers?”
Kiernan gave her a sardonic smile. “Detective, I’m a baseball manager, not a babysitter. If a player or one of my staff tells me he needs some time off, I don’t put a private detective on him.” He took a big swallow from his coffee mug.
“Did he leave a contact number?” Poushinsky asked.
“Well, he gave me the name of the hospital.”
“Which is?”
He shrugged. “I can’t remember right now. He said it was a cancer center, though.”
“No cell phone number?” Amy was increasingly infuriated by Kiernan’s laissez-faire attitude.
“I can get it from the office if I need it.”
Amy blew out a heavy breath. “You don’t seem too concerned about being able to get hold of your equipment manager,” she said for no particular reason. This guy irritated her so damn much, though. His attitude gave the impression that Gardner was wanted for a speeding ticket, not mass murder.
“Jesus, he’s the fucking equipment manager, not our cleanup hitter. We can get along without him fine for a couple of days.”
“Well,” Amy growled, “you’re going to have to get along without him for a very long time, since the next time you see Jason Gardner he’ll be doing a perp walk into one of the county courthouses.”
The manager, clearly unfazed, shook his head. “No way. I don’t believe it. Jason didn’t murder those women. Not unless he’s the best actor in the goddamn world. He’s just a normal kid. A nice kid.”
Amy shook her head in frustration. “See, that’s the thing about serial killers, Mr. Kiernan. They appear perfectly normal to most people. That’s why they sometimes get to run up long strings of kills without being caught.”
“Yeah, well…” Kiernan began.
Amy cut him off. “Your normal kid has been brutally murdering women right under your nose,” she said, unable to resist giving Kiernan another shot. “I suppose you wouldn’t happen to know where Gardner lives?”
He blinked. “No idea.”
Amy handed him her card. She’d get Gardner’s address from McNamara—the team office would surely have it. “Needless to say, if Gardner contacts you, or anyone else on the team, you’ll call me—”
“Right away,” he said. Now he was finally starting to look worried.
After Amy thanked him, she and Poushinsky headed downstairs. As they reached the lobby, she pulled out her phone, praying McNamara or somebody would still be in the office.
“Should we hang around and talk to some of the players?” Poushinsky asked.
“Waste of time. If Gardner talked to them, he’ll have fed them the same bullshit he gave Kiernan.” She muttered curses they strode out the entrance. “Could you call HQ and get somebody to fax copies of Gardner’s picture to every hotel and motel in the county as soon as it arrives?”
“Will do.”
“Meet you at the car,” she said as she dialed the St. Lucie Mets office and reached McNamara.
“Detective Robitaille again, sir. We just talked to your manager. Jason Gardner checked out of the hotel last night after telling Kiernan that he had to go to Fort Myers to be with his dying sister.” She didn’t bother to mask her incredulity.
“Really?” McNamara said, obviously surprised.
“We need his home address.”
“Give me a second.” The phone clattered as he set it down.
“Okay,” he said a moment later. “It’s in Hobe Sound.” He gave her the street and number.
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Jesus,” McNamara exclaimed, “you really think Jason—”
“Yes, we do,” she said, and hung up.
She hurried to her car. “It’s Hobe Sound.”
Poushinsky flipped open his notebook. “The Jason Gardner in Hobe Sound drives a 2007 Ford Expedition. Black.” He read off the tag number.
“Get a BOLO out on it, fast,” Amy said. She roared out of the lot, gripping the steering wheel hard. “It’s great that we know where he lives and what he drives. But my gut says he’s bolted, Poushinsky. And it sure as hell wasn’t to Fort Myers.”
59
* * *
Thursday, August 5
6:35 p.m.
Since Hobe Sound was north of the line dividing Palm Beach and Martin counties, Amy had to call the Martin Sheriff’s Office to rush a search warrant for Gardner’s house. She’d reached Christie Dale on her cell, and Dale had quickly agreed to dispatch patrol cars to secure the scene and find a judge to sign a warrant.
When Amy and Poushinsky arrived, two Martin cruisers were already parked in front of the house. Amy did a U-turn and stopped directly across the dead-end street. As she and Poushinsky got out of the car, Ryan and Washington pulled up in front of them.
The short street dead-ended at the FEC railway tracks a few dozen yards to the west. Route AIA ran parallel to those tracks, not far in the distance. The whole area seemed on the down-scale side. Ironically, less than half a mile to the east lay Jupiter Island, home to a horde of celebrities and business barons living on palatial estates. The two areas might as well have been on different planets.
Gardner’s shabby, white and blue-painted bungalow looked deserted. Next door, a man in a wifebeater shirt peered out between parted curtains. A bunch of kids ran through a sprinkler in the yard on the other side. Amy caught the scent of barbecue in the air, reminding her that she’d been running on caffeine and nothing else for hours.
While Poushinsky checked in with the Martin deputies, Amy
brought Ryan and Washington up to speed. She kept one eye on the bungalow all the time. She knew they’d have to take care when they approached the house. If it had been in Palm Beach’s jurisdiction, she’d have had no choice under PBSO protocol but to call in their tactical squad to breach and secure the premises, but this was Christie Dale’s show.
Three minutes later, Dale and her partner O’Byrne drove up in an unmarked car. In a crisp, white cotton shirt and new-looking blue jeans, the tall, lithe Martin detective made Amy painfully aware of how ragged and tired she felt.
Get a grip, Robitaille. You can sleep when this is over.
The detectives shook hands. “We got the warrant,” Dale said.
Amy nodded. “You sure you don’t want our tactical team in here? The place looks deserted, but that doesn’t guarantee that Gardner isn’t holed up in there with big-time firepower.”
Dale glanced at her partner. A small grin quirked the corner of O’Byrne’s mouth.
“We’re good to go,” Dale said. “You guys take the front, we’ll take the back?”
“Works for me,” Amy said.
Poushinsky jogged to the car and retrieved their vests. Once everyone was suited up, Dale motioned for one of the deputies to follow her, and she and O’Byrne dropped into running crouches and headed for the side of the house. In a handful of seconds, they’d disappeared around the carport.
Guns out, Amy and Poushinsky approached the front door from either side at wide angles. From behind their car, Ryan and Washington took up firing positions, as did the remaining deputies.
“Jason Gardner?” Amy shouted. “This is the police. Open the front door and come out with your hands in the air.”
Nothing.
Amy repeated the instructions and waited fifteen seconds. “Go,” she ordered Poushinsky.
He used a Halligan bar to force the door open. Amy heard the back door crash open as she slipped inside, flashlight and gun clasped in front of her. With Poushinsky right behind, she probed the small living room. “Front room clear,” she shouted.