Lethal Confessions (27 page)

Calice.
Did the guy think he was Casanova?

Franks jerked slightly as he became aware of them. Poushinsky strode across the room and introduced himself. Franks gave him a wary look as his eyes dropped to the badge hooked on Poushinsky’s belt.

“We need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Franks,” Amy said.

He glared at her. “About what?”

“I think you know what. Let’s do this outside.”

Poushinsky led them outside and into a paved enclosure between the outfield fence and the clubhouse. Several vehicles were parked there. A couple of golf carts and a batting cage were also kept in the area.

When Poushinsky stopped beside the cage, Amy maneuvered Franks into a corner. “Mr. Franks, we understand you played here Wednesday evening, correct?”

“Yeah, sure. So what?” His glare focused on Amy.

“Where were you from the time you left the stadium until four a.m.?

“Shit,” Franks growled. He shoved a hand through his carefully arranged hair. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Well, you have the right to one,” Poushinsky said, “if we decide to arrest you. But we’ll give you a choice. One of those limited time offer kind of things, Johnny. You can either answer some questions right now, or we can put you in cuffs and ask them at the Sheriff’s Office. With your lawyer present, of course.”

Franks’ eyes darted from side-to-side, as if he was looking for someone to rescue him. He shuffled his feet before looking back at Amy. “Look, okay, I was with Carrie Noble that night. But I didn’t kill her. I swear to Christ.”

Amy schooled her features to show no reaction. “You were with her where?”

“At her place.”

“When did you leave?”

He hesitated for a few seconds. “Around midnight.”

“Did you have sex with her?”

He snorted. “Of course.”

Amy curled a lip at the smug little bastard. “Of course. And where did you go after you left her house?”

“Straight home. I had a beer and watched a DVD. I can’t get to sleep for hours after a game. Not even after sex,” he said with a bit of a smirk.

Amy’s hand instinctively made a fist, but she shook it loose.

“Can anyone verify your whereabouts between midnight and morning?” Poushinsky asked.

“No,” Franks ground out. “That’s why I didn’t go to the cops. How the hell did you guys figure out I was there?”

Amy ignored the stupid question. “Was this a one-night stand, or were you having an affair with Mrs. Noble?”

Go ahead and lie, jackass.

Franks snorted again. “We had sex a few times. She was all over me one night at Chester’s. Said she was looking for some payback for her husband. I didn’t mind obliging, but then she got weird.”

Amy filed away the bit about Chester’s. “Weird?”

“Like, she started calling me all the time, especially when Noble was on the road. Started making demands.”

“Demands, huh? Sounds to me like a guy might want to get rid of a pest like that,” Poushinsky said, giving him a hard stare.

Franks shook his head. “Not by killing her, for Christ’s sake.”

Amy decided to shift gears. “Were you having sex with Ashley Rist, too?”

Now the guy looked panicked, taking a step back and bumping into the batting cage. “Hell, no!”

“No? You were with her at Chester’s the night she was murdered.”

“No kidding. I fucking near had a heart attack when I heard she was dead. I swear I only talked to her for ten minutes, then I never saw her again. Colt Hansen was there. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

Amy had no doubt the buddies would back each other up. “How well did you know Mrs. Rist?”

“I saw her at Chester’s once in a while. And maybe a couple of times at the stadium. That’s it.”

“Have an alibi for early Friday morning, Johnny?” Poushinsky asked, his voice laced with contempt.

Franks grimaced. “Hansen dropped me off at home. I stayed up a couple of hours, then went to bed.”

“What about Krista Shannon—the woman murdered last month near Lakeland?” Poushinsky asked. “You have something going with her, too?”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Franks’ face reddened and he took a step toward Poushinsky. “I never even met that woman!”

Poushinsky took a step forward until the two men were virtually bumping chests. Actually, Franks’ eyes were more or less level with Poushinsky’s chin.

“Let me guess. You never left your hotel room that night, did you, Johnny? Not for a second.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Franks was trying to outstare Poushinsky and failing. “I remember that night. I went out for a couple of beers with the guys, then went back to the hotel.”

“No alibi for any of the murders,” Poushinsky said. “Gee, that’s too bad.”

“I’m giving it to you straight,” Franks said desperately. “If you want to arrest me, go ahead. But I didn’t kill those women. You two should get the hell out there and find the guy who did instead of climbing all over my ass.”

Amy caught Poushinsky’s eye and gave him a quick nod.

“All right, Mr. Franks,” Amy said, “we’ll leave it at that for now. But we’ll need the keys to your vehicle.”

“What the hell for?”

“We need to check it for trace evidence. If you’re telling the truth, that inspection should help to clear you, so you should welcome it. Speaking of your car, did Mrs. Noble ever ride in it?”

He shook his head. “No. We always met at her house, and we never went out. She didn’t want to be seen with me.”

“Then you should have nothing to worry about. You’re free to go. For now.”

She held out her palm. With a curse, Franks dropped his set of keys in it.

Sunday, August 1

7:20 p.m.

Amy did a quick head-to-toe scan of Beckett as he stepped out of his sporty Mustang. She’d been waiting in the HQ parking lot for twenty minutes, leaning against her dumpy fleet car. Always irked by people who were late, she’d started to believe that was Beckett’s standard M.O.

But
calice
if the man didn’t knock her eyes straight backwards. He’d chosen a lightweight suit in a shade her mother always called écru. Combined with a black silk shirt, black loafers, black sunglasses and his raven hair, it made him look, well, perfect. Her insides seemed to go hot and liquid in response.

She made an exaggerated show of staring at her watch as he approached.

“Fashionably late, as usual, Beckett.”

He took off the sunglasses, shoving them into an inside pocket as he gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, traffic was a bitch. You know how long a drive it can be from the south beach when the island’s crawling with tourists.”

“At least it’s only twenty minutes to M.L.’s.” Amy got into the Taurus and Beckett slid into the passenger seat. “I should have told you not to dress up. Justin’s such a slob he’ll probably be in shorts and a wifebeater.”

His lips curled in a grin that hit her deep and low. “Damn. I knew I should have stocked up on wifebeaters.” He smoothed his hands down his pant legs, as if to iron out the small creases. “Will I do, anyway?”

“Just barely,” Amy said with a hint of a sigh. “I might have to tie M.L. up to keep her off you.”

“You look absolutely fantastic, Detective Robitaille.”

She tried not to look his way as he gazed at her. It would be too easy to fall into those dark velvet eyes and never resurface.

Like an idiot, Amy had raced home after the meeting with Franks and spent a good half hour fretting over what to wear. She wanted to look good tonight, but not too good. God forbid Beckett should think she’d gone out of her way to sex it up for him. But making the decision on what to wear had almost stymied her. She prided herself on being a decisive person, but when it came to anything to do with Luke Beckett, she felt like she was turning into an airhead. That sensation bothered the hell out of her.

Apparently, though, he liked the simple, sunflower yellow sundress she’d chosen. Probably because it offered him his first decent view of her cleavage. Her face flushed hot as his gaze drifted down to her chest.

“Uh, thanks,” she said, more uncertain than ever about her choice.

“Were you able to grab Franks after the game?”

She blinked with relief that he’d turned the subject away from her looks and back to the case. “Of course. We’d have dragged his sorry ass out of the shower if we’d had to.”

“So?”

“So, he admitted to an affair with Carrie Noble, and to having sex with her that night. But he claimed he left her at midnight and went home. No confirmation of that, though.” She swung up onto the interstate and headed north toward Juno Beach. “And he confirmed that he talked to Ashley Rist on Friday night, but only in passing, and said Colt Hansen dropped him at home.”

“Are you buying his story?”

She shook her head. “I don’t buy anything without solid evidence. We impounded his car, so we’ll see if it turns up any trace evidence. Franks claimed Carrie had never been in his car. I doubt if he’d make that claim if he’d abducted her in it. He’d want us to think she’d ridden in the car before.”

“Baseball players aren’t generally rocket scientists, Robitaille.”

She laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“I presume he said he didn’t know Krista Shannon?”

“Yep. But he doesn’t have an alibi for that night, either.”

He shifted in his seat, studying her. “But you don’t really think he’s the murderer, do you?”

She didn’t. “Franks fits several aspects of the profile, and he was in the vicinity of all three murders. He knew at least two of the victims, and was having an affair with one. He had sex with Carrie Noble on the night of her death. And he’s mercurial—explosive, even.” Amy shook her head slowly. “But, no, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me that Franks would be the killer. For one thing, serial killers are damn good at covering their tracks. Why would Franks have sex with Carrie right before he killed her, leaving evidence all over the house? All other aspects of the murders indicate a killer who plans his abductions and carries them out without leaving a trail. Methodically and carefully. Franks doesn’t strike me as that type.”

Beckett nodded. “True, but it would be a hell of a coincidence that Carrie was abducted almost immediately after Franks left her house.”

“Well, think about that, Beckett. What would it lead you to believe?” Amy took her eyes off the road long enough to glance in his direction as she raised her eyebrows.

His eyes seemed to flash understanding. “That someone might be trying to frame Johnny Franks?”

“If so, the timing of Carrie Noble’s abduction isn’t coincidence at all.”

“Only if the killer knew Johnny Franks would be paying a visit to Carrie that night.”

“Yes, of course, but that could mean various things. The killer knew Franks, or Carrie, or both. Or he stalked her enough to know it was likely to happen.”

“Yeah,” Beckett said with a nod.

He fell silent, obviously thinking. She let him, finding the pause not the least bit uncomfortable. He stirred after a couple of minutes. “I know I’m going off topic here, but I think you should fill me in more about your sister and her husband before we get there. I know you’re not exactly the president of the Justin Wilson fan club.”

“Justin’s a dickhead,” she said. “A sulky, overgrown teenager and a lousy husband.”

“Stop pulling your punches and tell me what you really think of him,” he said in a dry voice.

“It’s the truth,” she said defensively.

“Down, girl. I believe you. But why would your sister marry a guy like that?”

“Kids do stupid things at nineteen, Beckett. Didn’t you?”

He tried to stretch his legs, apparently looking for some extra room in the cramped front seat. “Yeah, but I sure as hell wasn’t dumb enough to get married at that age.”

“Or ever?”

His eyes rounded.

Calice, why did I blurt that out?
“You don’t have to answer that, Beckett. I’m not usually so nosy.”

“No, it’s fine. You just surprised me a little,” he said. “I’m not a bachelor on principle, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s an interesting way to phrase your answer.”

“What about you, Amélie? Ever come close? Or are you one of those cops who’s married to the job?”

Amy didn’t have to think about her response. “No and no. I’ve been accused of the latter many times, but it’s never been consummated.”

Beckett laughed, a deep rumble that reverberated right through to her bones.

The dinner had gone pretty much according to the script Amy had predicted. Her brother-in-law, dressed in a ratty jersey and sweat shorts, had barely shut up long enough for Beckett to wedge in a sentence. And her sister hadn’t been much better. At least on that score, M.L. and her husband were well-matched. Loud, excitable and self-absorbed.

Like a pair of magnets, actually. Eerily similar, but more likely to repel than attract.

After the cringe-inducing dinner conversation, M.L. had ordered the two men out to the tiny backyard patio. Obviously, her sister did it either to get Amy alone or to give Justin more face time with Beckett. Actually, probably both. Beckett had showed he was a good sport in heading out with Justin, cigar in hand. But Amy could tell by the sardonic look he cast her way what he was thinking.

That she owed him one.

M.L. shut the patio door and spun around to face her. “Amy, what’s going on? Luke is so hot for you I was surprised your dress didn’t go up in flames during dinner.” She capped the remark with a salacious grin.

Amy rolled her eyes. The only person mentally undressing anyone had been M.L., as she mooned at Beckett from across the dinner table. “Hardly,” she said tersely.

Grabbing her wine glass, she headed into the living room and sat down on the sofa. M.L. followed and dropped into a beanbag chair opposite her. With little Cooper in bed and the men outside, the house felt unusually quiet. M.L. had switched on the gas fireplace for atmosphere, taking some of the chill out of the overly air conditioned room.

Amy tried to relax and enjoy the gentle buzz from the mojito she’d downed before dinner and the glass of Shiraz in her hand. But M.L. had rattled her, mostly because her sister was right. Beckett did want to devour her. It was obvious in the way his nostrils had flared when he first caught sight of her in the sundress. He’d given her some pretty heated glances during dinner, too, sending waves of conflicting emotions racing along her nerves. Delight, yes, but also irritation and something that felt uncomfortably close to alarm.