Lethal Confessions (7 page)

“No noises in the middle of the night?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just my oldest waking me up to tell me he couldn’t sleep.”

Amy closed her notebook and glanced at Poushinsky, who nodded. “That’s all the questions we have at the moment. We appreciate your time.”

Back in the car, Poushinsky opened a new pack of Orbit spearmint and offered it to Amy. She waved his hand away. “Marriage and kids,” he said, popping two pieces into his mouth. “The Ardiels and the Nobles aren’t exactly poster couples for marital bliss, are they?”

“Matt’s a good old boy, and Carrie was a frustrated young wife stuck somewhere she didn’t want to be. A tried and true formula for trouble in River City.”

Her partner looked thoughtful. “I figure he could have killed her. We’re only a couple of hours away from where he played last night. No sweat to off her and get back up there before anyone noticed.”

Amy had been thinking along those lines, too. “He could have taken her somewhere else, killed her, and dumped her body in the park, leaving their home pristine. They had a bad marriage, and a big fight just a few hours before her murder. But, then there’s the Lakeland murder.”

“That one could have been practice for him,” her partner speculated. “It’s not like it hasn’t been done before.”

“Practice and misdirection,” Amy said, starting the car. Right now, Matt Noble was the closest thing they had to a suspect.

She hoped to hell he was more than that.

Thursday, July 29

12:10 p.m.

Luke Beckett and Kellen Cramer had slipped into a solid friendship despite philosophical differences that should have made it impossible for them to become close. It had started with one thing in common—their dedication to the kids at the Children’s Hospital. One weekend afternoon, they ended up in the same unit and got into a conversation. That led to a few beers at a bar in Fort Lauderdale, and the next thing Luke knew, he was playing golf at least once a week with his new pal.

Regularly, their get-togethers ended in shouting matches. One time it would be politics, with Luke unable to stomach Cramer’s staunch social conservatism. Hell, Luke was no airy-fairy liberal, but in the little Louisiana town where he’d grown up, Democrats had ruled the roost for as long as anyone could remember. But what drove them practically to blows was Cramer’s fanatical worship of the New York Yankees. The freaking Yankees. The devil’s spawn. Though he hadn’t even played in the American league, Luke hated the Bronx Bombers, anyway.

For some reason, he and Kellen liked each other enough to overcome those normally irreconcilable differences. So, when his friend called and insisted he drop whatever he had planned and meet for lunch, Luke hadn’t hesitated. Cramer had said it was about something important, and his uncharacteristic vagueness had tweaked Luke’s interest.

Not to mention the fact that he could use the opportunity to casually extract some info about Detective Robitaille. The image of her hasty retreat out the door of the hospital made him smile as he shot up the interstate in his Mustang.

Luke needed his GPS to find the hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant not far from the West Palm airport. His cop friend liked occasional exotic cuisine to supplement his diet of coffee and donuts. For Luke, anything more daring than grilled steaks and baked Idahos constituted exotic, but Cramer kept insisting he broaden his horizons. He’d learned to appreciate a good dim sum, and he’d come to terms with tandoori chicken, but that was about it.

The restaurant was tiny enough that Luke was able to easily spot his friend at the rear, his chair facing the entrance. Cramer was dressed to the nines, obviously in full professional mode. And natty, especially compared to Luke’s well-worn jeans and Nationals’ tee shirt. Luke grabbed the opposite chair, picked up the Corona already waiting for him, and took a pull.

“You’re late,” Cramer said, making a point of staring at his watch. “Your beer’s been getting warm.”

“Good to see you again, too, Kellen.”

Cramer snorted. “Catch any of the Yanks-Angels game last night?”

“Nah, too late. I was getting my beauty sleep.”

“You should have seen the monster homer Teixeira hit in the top of the ninth for the go-ahead runs. That guy’s got almost as much power as you had.”

“Almost,” Luke conceded with a chuckle.

“Good thing he’s not as full of himself as you were.”

“Wow. Looked in the mirror lately, man?”

“Drink your beer,” Cramer said with a smirk.

Luke drained half the bottle in a long pull. “I’m thinking you didn’t insist on me dropping everything just for the usual chit-chat. What’s going on?”

Cramer hesitated for a couple of seconds. “Murder is going on. Two young women—one near Lakeland a few weeks ago, the other here in West Palm early this morning. And it’s got to be the same killer. Given the rituals, it looks like we’ve got a serial murderer.”

Luke clenched his teeth. Even after all these years, it still felt like a hard punch to the gut every time he heard or read about a young woman getting murdered. And two in the same area, with maybe more to come? What a freaking nightmare.

Cramer knew that kind of news would hit him hard. So, why was he telling him?

“There must be a good reason you’re telling me that,” Luke said.

Cramer looked guilty. “There is. Both victims were wives of minor league ballplayers, Luke. And both had the word
OUT
carved into their abs.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Luke muttered. “They were raped?”

“The one near Lakeland wasn’t. I’m betting the rape kit on the victim here will show nothing, either.”

That was surprising. Luke hadn’t studied serial killers, but when young women were abducted and murdered, he knew rape was usually involved. “Any leads so far?”

Cramer shook his head. “Polk County’s got an open investigation, and we’re just starting our own. But I don’t believe in coincidence. There has to be a baseball connection.”

“I presume you’ll start by checking which teams were playing near Lakeland and West Palm on those nights.”

“Of course,” Cramer said, glancing at his menu. “The Lakeland victim’s face was cut up, but not the one here. Other than that, it looks like identical M.O.’s.”

Luke set aside his menu, his appetite gone. “Once in a while some fan gets obsessed with a player’s wife. Or maybe even more than one. I’ve seen it happen. Most teams set aside a block of seats for the wives, and some guys will get seats close to them and try to chat them up. It’s usually innocent stuff, but I’ve known some cases where it’s turned into stalking.”

“That was my first thought, too,” Cramer said. “But the fact that the murders took place in cities so far apart militates against that.”

A middle-aged woman in a green and gold sari brought a plate of naan bread and took their orders. Once she left, Luke forced himself to tear off a small piece of the garlicky naan, only to abandon it a moment later. But for the garlic, it tasted like dust in his mouth.

“Lakeland and West Palm are within a couple of hours drive,” he said. “Lots of diehard fans will go that far to catch a game, even if their home team isn’t playing.”

Cramer’s black brows furrowed into a frown. “Sure, in the majors. But the Florida State League?”

“Some of these kids are the big stars of the future,” Luke said. “Guys will chase them around just to get autographs, thinking they’ll be worth something down the road. I had people ask me to sign every damn thing they could put their hands on. When you’re twenty or twenty-one, you’re still excited and impressed by all that crap.”

“So, if a fan will make a road trip for an autograph, he’ll for sure make one to stalk a beautiful woman.”

“Exactly.”

Cramer took a slow pull on his Corona. His friend seemed to be avoiding eye contact, and that kind of gave Luke the creeps.

After a second, Cramer put the bottle down and met Luke’s gaze. “Luke, I want you to help us out with this case. Be part of it.”

Luke gaped at his friend, who showed no sign that he might be kidding. “Look, Kellen, I’m happy to talk to you about the case, but if you’re suggesting that—”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” Cramer interrupted. “I want you to work as a consultant with the team I’ve put together. This investigation is going to need somebody with real baseball expertise. And someone who knows how to handle himself in a potentially risky situation.” He furrowed his brow. “It’s not like you’re a stranger to risk.”

Luke couldn’t argue that.

“You’ll enjoy working with the detectives on the case,” Cramer continued. “They’re the best I’ve got. Real warriors—like you.”

Cramer leaned back in his chair and his eyes gleamed with a clear challenge. “Besides, what else do you have to do now that you’re retired? I figured I’d be doing you a favor by keeping you out of trouble. Hell, you need something in your life besides golf and charity work.”

Luke stared at him in disbelief. He didn’t know what to say, so he deflected the topic. “You know damn well how much I want to get back into baseball, Cramer,” he retorted. “I’ve got feelers out. The right opportunity could come along any day.”

That was partly true, but it was also a dodge, and they both knew it.

Cramer inspected his face like a man holding a full house in a poker game. “Well, while you’re waiting, how about helping us catch a serial killer?” He leaned forward, his elbows planted on the table. “Don’t you think your sister would have wanted that?” he said softly.

Jesus
. Kellen Cramer was a manipulative bastard if there ever was one.

Luke glared at him. “Ah, fuck you, Kellen.”

But of course Cramer was right. He had to do it, and his decidedly less-than-full calendar couldn’t afford him an excuse. Kate would have wanted him to say yes, so he would. He’d do this for her, and for all the other women senselessly murdered by butchers.

Like the butchers who had taken his sister away from him.

Thursday, July 29

12:20 p.m.

Amy’s stomach uttered a growl of protest as she paced inside the front entrance of the Medical Examiner’s Office. She had only herself to blame for skipping breakfast. Though she liked to think she was organized and efficient, those skills didn’t seem to translate into preparing meals. Her culinary skills extended to pouring boiling water over a bowl of instant oatmeal, and some days she didn’t even manage that. All the kitchen-savvy genes had passed from her mother to her younger sister. In fact, Marie-Louise got damn near all the so-called feminine qualities. Amy, much to her mother’s dismay, had inherited her father’s hard-ass cop genes.

No wonder M.L. had been the one to marry and have a kid when she’d barely turned twenty, while Amy was already thirty-one and still single. So single she hardly bothered to throw a line into the water any more.

Who had the time, anyway? And most of the guys she came into contact with were either cops or criminals. She had no intention of ever dating either species.

Poushinsky, leaning lazily against the wall, jerked his head toward the walkway leading in from the parking lot. A tall, athletic man pushed through the doors. Amy would likely have recognized Matt Noble from the anxiety and fear etched into the lines of his rugged face even if he hadn’t been wearing a Jupiter Hammerheads cap.

“Mr. Noble?” Amy extended her hand.

“Yes.” Noble shook her hand tentatively, as if the very act of touching her would unleash the horror waiting behind the morgue door. “You’re the detective who called me back?”

“Yes, sir. Amy Robitaille. This is Detective Alex Poushinsky.”

Poushinsky gave him a quick handshake. As they led Noble through to the morgue, Amy watched his eyes and movements. She’d seen wife killers play the role of distraught spouse to perfection, but Noble, his face a bleached-out white, seemed genuinely on the verge of losing it.

She steeled herself as she pushed through a series of inner doors with Noble bracketed between her and Poushinsky. Morgues were about the starkest, most harrowing places on earth with their metal tables, instruments and lockers, and their stomach-turning odors of chemical preservatives and disinfectants. Impossible to forget once you’d been in one. And a hell of a place to first see the dead body of someone you loved.

A body rested on a morgue gurney, fully covered by a white sheet. Amy grasped Noble’s elbow in a reassuring grip. “Are you ready?”

“God, I don’t know.” His voice quavered. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”

“There’s no rush. We can take a few minutes, if you like. Get you a drink of water, or a cup of coffee.”

Noble swallowed hard. The man looked to be struggling to stay upright. Amy’s heart squeezed with sympathy as she felt the trembling in the brawny muscles under her fingertips.

“No,” he finally ground out. “I can handle it. Let’s get it over with.”

Amy nodded to the morgue attendant, who peeled the sheet down to reveal the blond head and pretty shoulders of the victim.

“Oh, Jesus, it’s her,” Noble cried, his body swaying as a deep groan came from his lips.

He nearly dragged Amy down with him, but she stepped a foot back and braced herself to absorb his weight. Poushinsky rushed in to grasp Noble under the arms, and the two of them gently guided him to a metal stool near the door.

As she helped him sit, Amy watched his face carefully. Either the guy was a hell of a fine actor, or he didn’t kill his wife.

When Noble had pulled himself together enough to stand again, they walked him next door to the HQ building and into an interview room on the Homicide Floor. Poushinsky brought him black coffee while Amy called the Crime Scene Unit and registered the victim in the system as Mrs. Carrie Noble. By the time she got back to the interview room, Noble had stopped shaking and regained some of his composure.

“Mr. Noble, I realize this is a very difficult time,” she said gently. “But if you’re up to answering a few questions now, it would help speed up our investigation into your wife’s murder.”