Lethal Confessions (29 page)

Alicia smiled again. “I named him Pudge, after Pudge Rodriguez. He
is
kind of pudgy, isn’t he?”

“Pudge is perfect.”

“Luke?” Alicia frowned, a worried look suddenly crossing her face.

“Uh, huh?”

“I’ve been thinking. You’ll take Pudge, won’t you? I mean, if…” She let the rest slip away.

Shit.
He wanted to pound his fist against the wall and howl. He wanted to hold the doctors at gunpoint until they promised him Alicia would live, and live a long life.

Luke took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Pudge will always have a home, sweetheart. I promise.”

And that was only the beginning.

Monday, August 2

9:45 a.m.

Amy stared down at the steaming bowl of instant oatmeal, unable to decide on a banana or a fresh peach as a topper. Her brain felt as soft as the oatmeal, and not much more highly evolved. Ambien sometimes did that to her. At three in the morning, rapidly losing all hope of getting any sleep, she’d given in and popped one of the little tablets. Then she’d said screw it and shut off the alarm. For once, she could be late for her shift. Hell, she’d been working almost non-stop for five days. If she didn’t give her brain a rest, she wouldn’t be worth a damn to anybody.

The other detectives in her squad were tracking down the Hammerhead and Cardinal players they hadn’t yet interviewed, as well as working on the source of the lethal injection drugs. The player follow-ups had to be done, but the theory that the killer was a ballplayer no longer made much sense to her. Franks remained the most obvious candidate, especially since he had no alibi for any of the three murders, but she wasn’t convinced. The guy was a jerk of the first order, but a sadist and a methodical multiple murderer? Both her logic and her gut told her no.

The big item for today was the report from the Martin County Medical Examiner. Dale had left her a message that the autopsy had been performed on Saturday, but the blood analysis and toxicology would be ready later today.

The mid-morning sun poured in through the blinds of her kitchen window, splashing glare off the buttery oak floor and the thick granite countertop of her bungalow on Jupiter’s Via Castilla. For the thousandth time, Amy told herself she should be both grateful and happy that her father had ponied up a big down payment on the house. She’d resisted for months, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, especially since he’d already done the same for M.L. and Justin.

Still, she wasn’t M.L. For Amy, taking handouts from anyone, even her father, was tantamount to a character flaw. She’d have dug her heels in and absolutely refused his help, but she’d known it would both humiliate a good, proud man and make him crazy. And that was something she could never do.

She yawned and stretched her arms high over her head. All through the night her mind had raced between two poles, spinning around one until it roared across to the other. She knew her worry about M.L. becoming a target for the killer wasn’t entirely rational. In fact, the odds against the psycho targeting her sister were something like three hundred or more to one. And that was assuming the killer really was choosing from among all the Florida State League wives, and was going to kill again. Still, that M.L. had even a tiny chance of becoming the next victim made Amy’s stomach cramp every time she thought about it.

And then there was Beckett. She’d stiff-armed him last night, and he’d walked away without putting up a fight. She was relieved, of course, but the relief was colored with something else. Something beyond the frustration of not being able to climb into his lap and have her crazy, hormonal way with him. Her body and her heart had clashed with her will, sending shuddering vibrations through her as she watched Beckett drive away. As always, her will had carried the day.

Hostie de tabarnak.
Sometimes she hated her fucking hard head.

Was Beckett’s lifeless “okay” his admission of defeat? She knew she should be hoping the answer was yes. But she’d been forced to admit that the prospect of him giving up on her made her irritable, jacked up, and ready to punch the nearest object, inanimate or animate.

Amy dumped the bowl of congealing mush into the sink and ran the garbage disposal. She didn’t need food right now; she needed caffeine. Good, strong, coffee, but she’d run out two days ago. She’d pick up some beans and a coffee at Starbucks on the way to HQ, and maybe even one of their always-tempting muffins for later, despite their God-only-knew how many calories. She had a hunch that today was going to be a day for comfort food.

Pudge will always have a home
.

Those words continued to echo in his mind as Luke weaved in and out of a trio of barreling semi-trailers, his Shelby Mustang rocketing north up I-95.

The doctors had obviously been straightforward with Alicia about her condition, and she’d pretty much figured out the score. He wasn’t surprised. The girl was both whip-smart and intuitive. She read Luke’s state of mind as easily as she read the tattered copy of
Charlotte’s Web
at her bedside.

He’d suffered more than his share of trouble and grief, but he couldn’t get his head around a little girl having to worry about what would happen to her big teddy bear once she was gone. It had practically ripped the beating heart right out of his chest.

What did eight year-old girls think about, anyway? All he’d talked to Alicia about was sports and her health and her favorite books. And about himself, of course. She always wanted to know exactly what he was up to. When he’d told her he was working as a consultant on a police investigation, she’d pumped him mercilessly for every detail. Not that he’d given her more than the sketchiest overview, despite her prodding. Little girls didn’t need to hear about abduction and murder.

Pudge will always have a home
.

With him. That part had been unspoken but understood. But he had to do something more—much more.

Well, idiot, if you can give Pudge a home, why not Alicia, too?

As that startling question thumped into his head, his hands clamped down on the wheel in a vise grip. Suddenly all too aware of his speed, he eased back on the gas and moved over into the slow lane. It was crazy, but the question had latched onto him and wouldn’t let go.

His mind raced through the obstacles. Would it even be possible? Would the social workers and the state consider him, a single man, as a suitable adoptive parent? Would they buy that he could give Alicia a stable home? And a stable life, for as much as she had left?

Even more importantly, did
he
think he could do it? Did he really
want
to do it? Or was it a foolish impulse, a manifestation of the helplessness he felt when he was with her?

Maybe, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like something deep and genuine.

By the time he reached the Sheriff’s Office exit, he knew the answers to the questions that were within his control.

Monday, August 2

2:20 p.m.

Poushinsky sauntered onto the Floor and stopped at Amy’s cubicle. He’d left a message earlier about making phone calls from home today. Bending over, he peered into her eyes. “Jeez, I don’t want to hurt your delicate feelings, Robitaille, but you look pretty much like shit.”

Thanks for stating the obvious, partner
. “Didn’t sleep much,” she said, keeping her gaze on her monitor.

“Ah, Luke keep you up late?” His lazy grin told her what was going through his mind.

She turned to glower at him. The look came easy. “You’re a real comedy act, Poushinsky.”

“I suppose your brother-in-law worshipped at Luke’s feet, huh?”

“Apparently they bonded over beer and cigars.”

“Anything useful come out of it?”

She shrugged. “Not much. Justin told Beckett that Franks’ favorite sport, other than baseball, is screwing other players’ women. Or at least that’s his rep in the clubhouse. He’s also got a hell of a temper. A real scrapper, both on and off the field.”

Glancing up, Amy gave Poushinsky a quick inspection. He looked great this morning in a long-sleeved, black silk shirt. Although not a bulked-up muscle man, it was obvious that he worked out and took care of his body. It made her tired just to look at him.

“I would have loved to cuff the little jerk yesterday,” he said. “Hauled his ass back here and shoved him in a holding cell with the gang-bangers.”

Amy shook her head. “You know he would have lawyered up and been out in a couple of hours. Besides, we got what we needed from him.”

“Would have been fun, though,” he muttered.

“Hauled who in?” A deep voice rumbled from close by.

Amy’s heart gave a stupid, skipping beat. Beckett had come in so soundlessly that neither she nor Poushinsky had heard him approach. He looked great, too, in a knit shirt the color of indigo and black dress pants, while she, of course, looked like hell. Not that it mattered.

Poushinsky gave him a nod. “Franks. The munchkin here denied me the pleasure of dragging his pathetic ass in for questioning.”

Beckett chuckled. “Maybe his SUV will turn up something.”

“Doubtful,” Amy said. “Did you get hold of any players, Poushinsky?”

“I managed to knock five more Cardinals off my list. All but one had an alibi for at least one of the nights of the murders. And that guy claims he’s never met any of the victims. I could follow up, but I don’t think it’s worth it at this point.”

She sighed. “I agree. Ryan and Washington have come up empty so far, too. I haven’t heard from Scarpelli yet today.”

Poushinsky leaned against the partition and rested his chin on the back of his folded hands. “I got something kind of interesting on the hospital pharmacy angle, though.”

That pricked her interest. “So, spit it out.”

“I got through to one of the pharmacists at Good Samaritan. She told me they hadn’t had any incidents of missing drugs, at least not the kind we’re looking for. But she’d heard there were thefts a few months ago at a hospital up in Stuart. She was pretty sure that some pancuronium bromide was stolen.”

“Let’s go. Right now.” Amy stood, her adrenaline starting to flow.

“Relax. I already made some calls. The drugs were stolen from Kenton Memorial Hospital. I tried to reach the Director of Pharmacy, but he’s testifying at a labor arbitration hearing today. His assistant told me he’d probably be tied up there until about four. I left him a message to call me as soon as he checked his voice mail.”

She gave him a jab in the shoulder and he faked a wince. “The second you hear from him, I want us on the road up there, Poushinsky.
Tabarnak
, this could be huge, and you had me jawing about dinner.”

Her office line rang. She grabbed it. “Detective Robitaille.”

“Bobby Jamison, Amy. We’ve swept Franks’ vehicle, but there’s still some work to do. We need to match some fiber to the carpets in the victims’ houses. Good news, though. We’ve already got a match on hair with Carrie Noble’s. I thought you’d want to know that right away.”

Why had Franks lied?
“Where did you find the hair?” If he’d knocked her out and bundled her into the SUV’s cargo area...

“On the floor in front of the passenger seat.”

“Okay. Keep me posted. Thanks, Bobby.” She hung up.

She turned to Poushinsky and Beckett. “CSU matched hair evidence they found in Franks’ SUV to Carrie Noble. They’re still working on carpet fiber. They found the hair on the floor in front of the passenger seat.”

“So, Franks lied about her never having been in his car,” Poushinsky said. “The dumbass. He should have known there was a good chance she’d left behind some trace evidence.”

“Maybe the killer planted it,” Beckett said quietly.

Amy nodded. “Smells like a set-up to me, too.”

Monday, August 2

5:10 p.m.

Grant Yamada’s two-storey, upper middle class home sprawled across a corner lot on a leafy street not more than a half mile from Kenton Memorial Hospital in Stuart. The head of the pharmacy department greeted Amy, Poushinsky, and Beckett at his door. He was dressed in dark blue business suit with a foulard tie.

After the introductions, Yamada led them into a formal living room decorated in pale tones. A half-dozen elegant Japanese prints contributed to the room’s understated, peaceful atmosphere. Amy sat on one of two expensive-looking sofas, perching on the edge of the seat, notebook in hand. Beckett took the other end of the sofa while Poushinsky eased himself into a white, high-backed chair that appeared to be in a silk fabric. Yamada offered tea or coffee, but they all declined.

Amy briefly outlined the reason for the meeting. When she mentioned the composition of the lethal injection cocktail used by the serial killer, Yamada’s eyes narrowed but he remained silent.

“We understand that your pharmacy suffered a theft of pancuronium bromide sometime in May,” Amy said.

Yamada gave her a slow nod. “Yes, that’s correct. As I’m sure you know, pancuronium bromide is a neuromuscular blocking agent most often used in anesthesia—”

“Yes, sir,” Amy said a little impatiently. “We’re assuming the theft was carried out by one of your staff since they have the easiest access.”

Ever since Poushinsky told her about the theft, Amy had thought about her discussion in the M.E.’s office with Kelli Robinson. About the killer knowing what he was doing with the drugs, probably calibrating the dosage to achieve what he wanted. Speculating that the killer might be a doctor or a
pharmacist
.

Yamada looked a bit miffed by her interruption. “I’m afraid so, Detective. A technician by the name of Brett Kozak. We have an extremely robust inventory control program, but Kozak managed to hack the software. Quite ingeniously, I might add.”

Amy wrote quickly, underlining “ingeniously”.

“Was it a single theft, or more than one?” Poushinsky asked.

“There were several thefts over a period of three to four weeks. Kozak stole other drugs in addition to the Pavulon. That’s one of the trade names of pancuronium bromide.”