Lethal Confessions (16 page)

Reassure the public? Sure, she’d tell them that the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office would be working night and day with the municipal police forces and the FBI to apprehend this killer in the shortest possible time. What else could she say? That she’d promised on her sister’s grave that every last ounce of her blood, sweat and tears would be devoted to putting the son of a bitch behind bars or in the ground?

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her throbbing temples. Now
that
would be a hell of a sound bite.

Friday, July 30

7:00 p.m.

One quick look at Kellen’s warpath scowl had told Luke that somebody in the room was about to take a bullet train to hell. The detectives’ faces—including the irascible Ryan’s—had dropped the second the captain walked into the meeting room.

All but one. Amy Robitaille had met her boss’s glare with a steady gaze. When Kellen had let loose with his rant about the press, she’d been the one to respond in a clear voice.

The woman had some high-gauge steel in her spine, no doubt about it.

She’d be able to handle the press jackals, probably chewing them into small pieces while smiling like a petite angel the entire time. But preparing the press statement was obviously another matter.

Luke had watched her from across the Floor as she tapped away, on and off, at her keyboard, squinting in concentration. A couple of times she’d printed out a page and read it over, only to ball it up and fire it into her recycle basket while muttering French curses. The written word didn’t seem to come easily to her. If he was reading her right, Detective Amy Robitaille was a lot more at home on a firing range than at a computer workstation.

Not only that, the fucking press statement was about to blow up his plans for Robitaille’s evening. If she was as much of a perfectionist as he suspected, he’d be waiting half the night for her to finish.

Luke had spent the past hour researching the San Antonio and Portland players, double checking that he’d accounted for every one of them from the years in question—even the guys that had only been in those cities long enough for a cup of coffee before being traded, promoted or demoted. A guy named Zach Griffin was the one and only possibility, but he’d pitched for the Portland Sea Dogs in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania the night of Krista Shannon’s murder.

And with such totally different M.O.’s in play, Luke’s doubts that there was a link between all five murders escalated. Still, it was weird. Ballplayers’ wives were hardly abducted and killed on a regular basis.

A growl from his stomach reminded him that it had been too long since he’d eaten. Luke decided to give Robitaille another hour, and after that, he’d go get dinner himself and try his luck with Detective Intense another night.

As he glanced up at the institutional clock at the other end of the Floor, Pushy hung up the phone and rose from his desk. After a yawning stretch, the lanky detective donned his jacket and ambled down the aisle that separated his row of cubicles from Robitaille’s. Grateful for any excuse to get out from behind his cramped desk, Luke stood and joined them. If Pushy had news, he might as well hear it firsthand.

Robitaille didn’t look up but raised her right hand, palm out, as Pushy approached. Judging from her knitted brow, she seemed to be in the midst of an overdue creative burst at the keyboard. As Luke looked down at her jet black hair, a little damp and curling at the temples, the image of a terrier jumped into his mind. One of those little black Scotties, maybe. Cute and tough as all hell, and ready to take on anything, no matter how big.

Robitaille sighed and stopped typing. “This is total shit,” she grumbled. “I know what I want to say, but every time I try to put it down on paper it sounds like a half-baked lecture. I suck at writing.”

Luke couldn’t repress a smile. “That’s because you’re a warrior, Robitaille, not a scribe.”

Pushy grinned. “Well, fucking A on that, man.”

Robitaille gave a reluctant laugh, a low, pleasing sound that slipped right under Luke’s skin.

“I have to say you two are pretty good for my ego,” she said. “You got something for me, Poushinsky?”

“Not much. I talked to the detective who investigated the San Antonio murder. He confirmed that there was no carving. No evidence of any torture, in fact. And the husband didn’t get a photo in the mail. The killer abducted the victim from the parking garage of her apartment, took her to a wooded area south of the city and shot her in the head. They had some suspicions the husband might have contracted the murder, but they couldn’t come close to assembling enough evidence. No murder weapon, no significant trace evidence.”

Amy nodded. “I’m not surprised. It looks like there’s nothing in common with ours except the baseball wife thing.”

“And remember, the San Antonio woman was a fair bit older, too. Twenty-eight. She’d married a younger player.”

“Not much point in pursuing that one any further,” Amy said. “Maybe Ryan will have more luck with Portland.”

“Hopefully.” Pushy jangled the set of keys in his pocket. “Anyway, I’m done for tonight. Got a date at eight and I can’t be late,” he rhymed.

Luke stifled a grin. Pushy’s timing was perfect.

“You are such a studly man, Poushinsky,” Amy snorted. “Just make sure you give a thought to me slaving away back here while you’re slinging back your girlie drinks.”

“Ouch. Going for the kill shot, huh?” Pushy gave her a grin then turned on his heel and sauntered off.

Luke arched an eyebrow. “Girlie drinks?”

She rolled her eyes. “What can I say? The guy’s crazy for daiquiris, Beckett. Daiquiris,
hostie
. He makes sure to drink beer when he’s around other cops, but he finally confessed to me.”

“He was probably yanking your chain.” Luke refused to believe any cop would drink daiquiris. At least any male cop.

“Nope. I was with him when he guzzled down two of those god-awful things they make down at the Royal Palms. He can’t resist a frozen blue daiquiri, and I’m not kidding.” She pointed a threatening finger at him. “But don’t you say a word, Beckett. I told him his secret was safe with me.”

“I’ll take it to the grave. So, what’s your personal poison, Robitaille?”

She turned her face toward her monitor and didn’t respond for several seconds. “Jack Daniel’s neat when I’m stressed out. A good Languedoc Cabernet when I’m not.”

“Good choices,” he said. “After today, I’d say you could use a shot or two of Jack right about now.”

She glared at him. “Oh, that’s brilliant, Beckett. Didn’t you hear the captain? He wants this statement on his desk before I leave, and I’m still just going around in circles with it.”

Luke reached a hand down and rested it on her shoulder. “Then take a break. Let’s go grab some Jack and a steak. I’m buying.”

As she started to shake her head, he dropped into a crouch by her desk so their eyes were level. She met his gaze, but a faint blush glazed her fine cheekbones.

“Look,” he said, “you need to give that overloaded brain a rest, Robitaille. Have dinner with me, then we’ll come back and I’ll help you nail this thing. I’m not bad with words, believe it or not, and I’ve had to deal with the media most of my life. I know how to feed the vultures.”

Robitaille looked him over suspiciously, but then pushed her chair back and stood up, forcing him to rise quickly, too. As usual, the ligaments in his left knee gave a little yelp of protest. He’d wrecked the knee in Afghanistan and tore it up again in a spring training game. Surgery had allowed him to play two more years, but he’d have some level of pain for the rest of his life.

Robitaille touched his arm as he winced. “Are you okay?” Her silver-gray eyes reflected concern.

“Sure,” Luke said, enjoying the warmth of her small hand. “Old injury. No big deal.”

She nodded, but he didn’t think she wasn’t buying it.

“Ninety minutes, starting right now,” she said. “And not a minute more. You buy, and I drive. And when we get back, you take a shot at finishing up this sucker. Deal?”

Luke had no problem agreeing to those terms. It would get the job done and still give him a chance to be with her without the brutal pressure of their work staring them in the face. “Deal. There’s a decent steak house five minutes from here. Ready to go?”

Her mouth hinted at a smile. “Give me two minutes.” She reached for her jacket but Luke snatched it away and held it for her. She slipped her arms inside, flipped the back of her hair up and over the collar, and gave him a wry, sweet smile that sliced right through him.

Damn.
Robitaille would surely set him back on his heels if he wasn’t careful.

“Not many men do that these days,” she said as she turned and headed toward the rest rooms.

Luke stared at her as she walked away. Cop or not, Amy Robitaille was one hundred percent sexy female. Slim and beautifully toned, she still had generous curves in exactly the right places. He hoped that someday soon he would have the chance to explore those curves in detail.

But it would all have to be in good time. Robitaille had made it crystal clear she didn’t want him hitting on her. While subtlety with women had never been Luke’s forte—he preferred the direct, no nonsense approach—Amy Robitaille was something special. Smart. Driven. Beautiful, but without pretensions. And he respected her dedication to the job and this case.

In some ways, she reminded him of Kate. Not physically, of course. Kate had been bigger—a good five inches taller—and her chocolate brown, almond-shaped eyes were completely unlike Robitaille’s. But their personalities matched. Both were brave, dedicated warriors. Kate’s battleground had been journalism, the dangerous kind that takes a reporter to every global hot zone to bring home no-holds-barred stories of war, terrorism, natural disaster, and disease. Robitaille battled the dark forces on her home ground with the same kind of grim determination that had led Kate to continue taking the most dangerous assignments, even after she could have ridden a senior editorial desk in Paris.

Luke muttered a low curse as the familiar rush of anger tinged with despair tightened his chest. Kate was gone forever, and he still missed her like hell. He often wondered if anything could ever fill the void her death had left in his soul.

Friday, July 30

8:15 p.m.

Amy gazed across the candlelit table at Don and John’s and wondered again what had possessed her to submit to Beckett’s persuasion. Yes, she’d been tired, and so frustrated with the stupid press statement that for a couple of nanoseconds she’d even regretted that Cramer had named her lead on the case. But neither factor excused this lack of judgment, this uncharacteristic…mental weakness.

She knew Beckett. At least she knew his kind. Too sexy for their shirts or whatever that old song said. So effortlessly handsome and charming, expecting women to be grateful for even an appraising glance or a wolfish smile. Nouveau riche, toy-loving, perpetual adolescents who made their living entertaining others and thought it was actually important.

In two words, a Gabe Labrash—the kind of man she vowed to steer clear of forever.

Then again, Gabe hadn’t interrupted his big career to go halfway around the world to fight for his country, so the parallels only went so far. Even so, she knew damn well that Luke Beckett wanted to do more than buy her a relaxing dinner. And that was before he’d obviously decided not the make any attempt to mask the warmth in his eyes or in his smile.

She’d also caught him furtively glancing at her breasts, but in her weary, light-headed state it had almost made her laugh. He was, after all, a total guy.

But why had he decided to hit on her, of all people? Proximity? Opportunity? Had to be. A man like Beckett could get anyone his womanizing heart desired. Why would he want to fool around with a thirty-one year-old cop with a cheap haircut and sleep-deprived eyes? Especially when so far she’d shown absolutely zero romantic interest in him? At least she was pretty sure she’d managed to keep her fascination well below his radar.

She took another sip of her silky smooth Scotch. Beckett had ordered Jack, but she’d decided on a whim to opt for the best single malt on the liquor list. Not because Beckett was picking up the tab—in fact, she’d insisted she pay for their drinks. It was because she didn’t want to be predictable. Why that mattered, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Beckett hadn’t mentioned the case yet, and that was more than fine with her. She wanted to de-stress, so the last thing she needed was to grind away over the case.

“Starting to relax a little?” Beckett asked in that smooth drawl of his.

Amy tilted her glass, appreciating the amber depths of the scotch. “You’d have to be walking barefoot on broken glass not to relax with this stuff sliding down your throat.”

He narrowed his eyes, inspecting her. “Good. But your neck and shoulder muscles are still holding the tension. Sitting at the keyboard all that time probably knotted them up.”

Calice, the next words out of his mouth are going to be an offer to massage those muscles when dinner’s over
.
And damned if that doesn’t sound pretty appealing
.

“You work at a computer a lot yourself these days, Beckett?” she said quickly. “I thought you’d be spending all your time on the golf course. Isn’t that what rich, retired jocks are supposed to do?”

He gave an amused snort. “You must be thinking of retired cops.”

She couldn’t help a chuckle. “True enough, I suppose.” Her father spent at least four afternoons a week hacking his way around his Fort Lauderdale course.

“I checked out your business card,” he said, smoothly shifting the subject. “It gives your first name as Amélie, with Amy in brackets.”

He pronounced it almost perfectly.
Ah-meh-lee
. Pleased, she nodded. “It’s good to see those years spent in Montreal weren’t entirely wasted.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. “It’s a beautiful name. I think you should use it more.”

If only
. “I gave up after a couple of years down here. I got tired of hearing ‘Emily’ or ‘Amelia’. Some people really tried to get it right, but it usually came out something like ‘Omly’. So, I decided to anglicize it. Amy’s pretty hard to mispronounce.”