Lethal Confessions (33 page)

Sighing, she tried to refocus on her notes. She and Poushinsky had met at Kenton Memorial early and split up the interviews with the small pharmacy staff. They’d asked the hospital to set up the meetings to start at eleven. The hospital had provided rooms, one on the main floor, and one on the third.

Amy’s second interview knocked tentatively on the open door. She smiled and stood up, extending her hand. “Detective Amy Robitaille.” She handed the young man her card.

“Ethan Meyer.” The technician’s file indicated his age to be twenty-eight, but he looked about five years younger. A curly mop of black hair and thick, black-framed glasses made her think of a comic actor, but she couldn’t bring the name to mind.

Meyer took the chair opposite her. “What’s this about? Nobody’s told me anything other than the police wanted to question me. Do I need a lawyer?” He crossed his arms over his chest, almost hugging himself.

She smiled, hoping to ease his obvious discomfort. “Relax, Mr. Meyer. I just want to ask you a few questions about Brett Kozak.”

His eyes shifted away from her. “Brett? You don’t think I was involved in any of that stuff, do you?”

“We’re not investigating Kozak’s drug thefts, per se. That matter remains in the hands of the Stuart city police. What we’re interested in is your relationship with him. We’re hoping you and your colleagues here will be able to help us locate him.” She gave him another reassuring smile. “Were the two of you friends?”

He made a little grimace. “Not really. We hung out sometimes. But I never knew he was ripping off the pharmacy, I swear.”

“What did you do when you hung out?”

“Usually we’d go for a couple of beers, then maybe get a pizza or some wings.”

“Always at the same place?”

He shook his head. “No. We’d mix it up.”

“What else? Maybe go to a movie, or take in a ball game or something?”

“No movies. But yeah, we did see a few ball games.”

A zing of energy jolted her tired brain. “Tell me about that, Ethan.”

Meyer’s nerves seemed to be settling. His posture relaxed, and he dropped his hands onto the table. “Uh, we saw some games in April and May. Three, if you want the exact number. Before Brett got fired.”

“At which stadium?”

“St. Lucie. St. Lucie’s the home team around here.”

“Do you remember which teams were playing, by any chance?”

“Sure. Jupiter, Palm Beach, and Tampa were the visiting teams.”

Jupiter and Palm Beach
. She maintained a relaxed posture. “It sounds like you were both baseball fans.”

Meyer nodded. “We talked about driving down to Miami some weekend to catch a couple of Marlins’ games. But that was before...”

“Did Kozak ever talk to any of the players before or after the games?”

His thick curls jiggled as he shook his head. “Like getting autographs? Nah. Who gives a shit about minor leaguers?”

“I’m told that players’ wives often sit together at games. Did Kozak ever try to talk to any of them?”

He looked puzzled. “Hell, no. That would be too weird.”

Amy believed him. Meyer was antsy, but showed no sign of evasiveness. “Did you know any of his other friends? Did he have a girlfriend?”

“Not really. Brett didn’t have many friends. He had...”

“What?” Amy prompted.

“Trust issues, I guess. Some bad stuff happened to him while he was in jail.”

Something that made him want to kill?
“What kind of bad stuff?”

“He didn’t want to get into it. But a couple of times he said that hell couldn’t be as bad as prison.”

The FBI agents were getting Kozak’s prison file. Amy couldn’t wait to see it. “Ethan, in the weeks before Kozak was fired, some people have said he seemed upset. Agitated. Is that how you saw it, too?”

Ethan nodded. “I figured something was wrong, but Brett wouldn’t talk about it. After I heard about the drugs, I figured it was because he was scared of being caught.”

Amy and Poushinsky compared notes over sandwiches and coffee at a Dunkin’ Donuts not far from Kenton Memorial. Poushinsky had interviewed the tech who had blown the whistle on Kozak, and the man had told him he’d become suspicious when he thought he saw Kozak stash something in the pocket of his lab coat. When the guy confronted him, Kozak had denied it and threatened to beat the crap out of him. Undeterred, the technician reported it to his supervisor, which led to a review of the inventory and ultimately to bringing in the IT consultant.

When Amy related her conversation with Ethan Meyer, and the baseball connection with Kozak, Poushinsky came to full alert. “FSL games don’t draw all that many fans,” he said. “Is it just a coincidence that Kozak goes to three games in a few weeks, with two of the three involving the Hammerheads? Not damn likely.”

“Yeah, he could have been scouting the team, or those particular players. But their wives wouldn’t have been with them in St. Lucie.”

“Maybe it’s about the husbands, not the wives.”

She frowned. “I’m not sure any of this helps us. We’ve got to hope the BOLO turns up something.” She remained optimistic, but knew Kozak could have fled the country or altered his appearance, or both. He was a con, after all.

Poushinsky played with his empty coffee cup. “I hate to even say it, but the way this guy is going, he might strike—”

Amy cut him off. “No goddamn way we’re going to let that happen, Poushinsky. Not in my county.”

Her words were nothing more than bravado, but she had to say them, more for herself than for her partner. The thought of another young woman tortured to death made her sick with anxiety. She thought about the woman’s husband, and her mother and father.

And maybe her sister.

Poushinsky could mentally picture the horror of it—the nightmare it would be for all those people. But Amy knew he couldn’t possibly
feel
it. Not in his bones and blood, not in every cell of his body. But
she
could. The pain and the terror, and the endless grief that time should heal, but never does.

Luke whipped his driver in a vicious arc, lashing the golf ball without the usual worry about where it went—whether straight down the fairway, into the trees, or toward one of the massive bunkers that lined the left side of the sixth hole. Maybe because he didn’t worry about it, he got lucky and his tee shot rose high and straight. He picked up the tee and set off down the fairway before the ball even landed on the perfectly-manicured turf.

He’d decided that he either had to take his frustration out on some Titleists or on his own body at the gym, and the weather was just too good to spend the afternoon inside working out. And golf usually took his mind off whatever was bothering him.

Usually, but not today.

Amélie Robitaille. Alicia Trent. His mind bounced back and forth between images of the two females who had so quickly changed his life. One image was Robitaille’s huffy departure last night, so obviously an escape from her emotional panic. The other was Alicia crying this morning, afraid but trying to be brave after Doctor Halperin told her she’d scheduled her surgery for next week. The little girl’s situation was more pressing, naturally, given the potentially tragic outcome.

Halperin had decided that Alicia was nearly ready to undergo the operation that might prolong her life. After the little girl had absorbed the news, she’d told Luke she was happy. But her lips had trembled even as the words tumbled out, sending a dagger right through his heart. The doctor, to her credit, had been pretty straight about the risks of the surgery. After Halperin left, Luke had held Alicia tight, brushing away her tears.

At that moment, the doubts that had been nagging him faded away. He knew exactly what he had to do. What he wanted and
needed
to do.

He’d marched down to Karen Golden’s office and told her he wanted to adopt Alicia Trent. He wanted to be her father for as long as she had left, whether that was for the seven days until the surgery or—if there was a merciful God—for the rest of his life.

Golden had put him through the wringer, firing questions about everything in his life. She finished by delivering him a stern warning about what he would be letting himself in for. But somehow he must have passed muster. Maybe Golden had done some checking up on him since their last conversation. In any case, she’d agreed to get in touch with Alicia’s case worker at the Department of Families and Children. He’d come away believing his application might have at least a decent chance of being approved by the state.

When Luke left the hospital, he felt nervous about the upcoming operation, but psyched that he might be able to adopt Alicia. Still, as he sized up his approach shot to the green, his doubts had resurfaced. He’d never been responsible for anybody in his life, and he’d never given much thought to that changing. But in a heartbeat—Alicia’s heartbeat—the ground had shifted under his feet.

He chunked his shot into the deep bunker directly in front of the green, but didn’t even bother to let fly one of his usual curses. His round was already stinking like a landfill in a heat wave, but he was determined to finish the whole eighteen despite the heat and his rotten play. Anything to keep him away from the Sheriff’s Office and his other problem, Detective Amélie Robitaille.

Just for one day. One day to sort out how he felt about last night. How he felt about the complicated and driven cop who, despite herself, had apparently been sucked into the same vortex of wild passion that was claiming him.

After all, now he had a kid to worry about.

Tuesday, August 3

9:45 p.m.

Megan O’Neill leaned toward the spyhole in her front door, wondering why somebody would be standing there this late at night. She’d already showered and put on light flannel pants and a cotton tank top, and was about to watch one of her favorite movies,
The Dark Knight Rises
, on Blu-Ray. She’d already seen it at the theater twice. Christian Bale—what a hunk.

Unless this visitor was a cop, she had no intention of opening the door. Not after what happened to Carrie Noble and Ashley Rist. No damn way.

Not a cop. A delivery guy.
The first thing Megan noticed was the flowers. The guy held a large bouquet in a vase. Under the glow of the outside lights, she could see that the man wore a Palm Beach Cardinals’ tee shirt and cap. He had a big smile on his face as he waited patiently. She liked that that he wasn’t leaning on the bell, like most people did these days.

Megan thought of Heath in Springfield and smiled. He must be trying to continue the celebration of his promotion. The flowers were a sweet gesture, like the champagne had been last night. That Veuve Cliquot had led to the best sex they’d enjoyed in a very long time.

But she wondered why she didn’t see a florist’s truck—or any other vehicle—parked in the street.

“Yes?” she said through the locked door, staring at the guy.

The young man looked straight at the spyhole and grinned. “Ms. O’Neill? I have flowers for you from your husband.”

She didn’t answer right away. He looked legit, but...

“My name’s Albert Poole,” he said quickly. “I’m with the Cardinals.” He had a lazy southern drawl that made her want to believe him. “Heath asked me to pick up these flowers and deliver them to you tonight. There’s a message from him, too. He emailed it to me.”

She knew that would be just like Heath, asking some poor, underpaid gofer to do grunt work for him. “That’s great. Thank you. You can leave them at the door, okay?”

She really should give the guy a tip, but she hesitated.

He nodded vigorously. “Sure, I can do that, ma’am. But I really could use your help. See, I cut myself pretty bad when I reached into my pickup for the flowers. A darn little flange came loose and got me. Stupid, huh?”

Megan cringed as he held up a bloody thumb. He quickly covered it back up with some kind of rag. It seemed to be a pretty deep cut, and she immediately felt bad for him.

“Would it be all right if I came in and washed it off? Maybe get a couple of Band-Aids and some disinfectant if you have any? Gosh, I’m sure sorry to trouble you like this.” He shook his head. “Maybe I should just go.”

Megan’s resolve started to weaken. How unkind would it be to refuse to help the guy? Still, she hesitated. She thought she’d met most if not all the Cardinals’ staff, but didn’t recognize this guy.

“Are you new to the team?” she asked. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just started about a week ago. They brought me in to help out Jimmie McCoy with the equipment.” Then his eyes lit up. “Look, I’ve got a team ID card. I’ll show you.”

He carefully placed the vase on the mat in front of the door and then gingerly pulled a thin wallet from a fanny pack. When he extracted a card and held it up close, Megan recognized the Palm Beach Cardinals logo right away. The card was identical to Heath’s, except for the name.

Albert Poole.
Such an old-fashioned sounding name for a twenty-something. The card finally convinced her.

“All right, just a minute.” Megan turned the heavy deadbolt and opened the door about a foot. Poole took one step forward and handed her the bouquet—a colorful mix of blue, yellow and burgundy flowers. As he did, his left hand brushed hers, leaving a small streak of bright red blood. Stunned, she took a step back and stared at her hand.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, giving her a mortified look.

Megan set the heavy vase on the narrow table near the door. “Come inside. We’ll clean and disinfect that wound. You can head straight through to the kitchen.” She pointed down the hall. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She turned and hurried up the staircase.

“You’re real kind, ma’am,” he shouted up at her back. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

When Megan came down with a bottle of peroxide and a package of Band-Aids, Poole had his hand in her kitchen sink, rinsing the wound under cold water. She reached into a drawer and tossed him a clean hand towel. He pressed it hard against the thumb, but as soon as he took it away, blood flowed again.