by Pamela Clare
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.
Chapter Nine
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 m
ost 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.”
“Murder. Fuck, I can’t believe it.” He gave a shuddering sigh, one that seemed to come from deep inside him. “Okay. I’ll be fine.” Noble sucked in another deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists as if to loosen his tension.
“I need to inform you that we’ll be recording this conversation, sir.”
He gave a weak nod. “I understand. I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened last night. How in the name of Christ did she end up in Okeeheelee Park? Did someone break into the house and take her?”
Amy held up a hand, silently asking him to wait until she spoke for the record, starting with the date and time. “Interview with Matt Noble, husband of Carrie Noble.” She read out the long case number she’d written down. “Detectives Robitaille and Poushinsky present.” She turned to Noble. “The Crime Scene Unit is on its way to your house. We’ll know more very soon.”
“I can’t stop thinking about some son of a bitch breaking in and raping her, and me not there to protect her.” His voice caught again. “How the hell am I going to live with that for the rest of my life?”
Amy wished she could answer him. She wanted to tell him that she knew exactly what he was feeling, and that knowing the details of his wife’s murder would bring him absolutely no comfort. But she couldn’t, so she focused on the task in front of her and pushed ahead. “Mr. Noble, you told me you last spoke to your wife late yesterday afternoon, is that correct?”
He swiped a hand across the tears that cut a short trail down his bleached-out face. “That’s right. Around four-thirty.”
“Did she give any indication she’d be going out later?”
He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that came up. Frankly, we were too busy yelling at each other to talk about anything else.”
Noble’s candor surprised her, even though he’d spoken of the fight in their phone conversation. “What was the source of your disagreement?”
He let out another heavy sigh. “Oh, pretty much the same old shit. It’s been going on for a long time.”
Amy and Poushinsky waited a moment for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Poushinsky raised his brows. “Come on, Matt. We need some details.”
“Why’s any of that important?” Noble shot back.
When they didn’t respond, Noble suddenly got the picture. “Oh, shit, you think I killed her?” He shook his head. “You’re fucking crazy. I loved her, for God’s sake. And I was a hundred goddamn miles away.”
“We don’t think anything,” Amy said in a soothing voice. “We’re asking questions that we have to ask. You’ll save us all a lot of valuable time if you just answer frankly and completely. So, why don’t you tell us exactly what you say has been going on for a long time?”
“All right, fine. Things started out great for Carrie and me. We met in high school back in Montana, and got married a few months after I was drafted by the Marlins. Carrie thought we’d be on some kind of rocket ride to the major leagues, with fame and big bucks and all that stuff. But it hasn’t worked out that way. Not yet, anyway.” He exhaled a sigh. “I ran into some arm trouble in rookie ball two years ago, and I’ve been kind of slow coming back. This is my second year at Single A.”
“Did your wife get on you about that?” Poushinsky asked in a guy-sympathy tone.
Sweating, Noble wiped the back of his hand across his brow. “Sure. Carrie’s not exactly patient. Plus, she’s never adjusted to life down here. She misses Montana. Misses her family bad.”
“So, your wife thought you were letting her down,” Poushinsky said. “That must have sucked.”
Noble looked like he’d swallowed battery acid. “God, yeah. I was injured and killing myself to get back in shape, then I’d have to come home and get bitched out by the person who’s supposed to be my biggest supporter. Well, I didn’t have to stick around to take that crap, so I’d just get out—go have some beers with the guys.” He blinked, still fighting back tears. “But that just fucked things up more.”
“When did the game end last night?” Amy asked, changing tack.
He pursed his lips. “About nine-thirty, I guess, give or take ten minutes.”
“What did you do after the game?”
“Took a shower and got dressed. Then I went to a club with a few of the guys. Typical night on the road.”
“Which club?”
“The Fast Lane.”
“And you stayed there until…?”
“Around one, I think. Then I headed back to the hotel.”
“Were you inside the hotel all night, right up until you called home this morning?”
Noble jerked upright in his chair and gave her a resentful scowl. “There you go again, thinking I just whipped home and killed Carrie myself. How did I get home, then? Why don’t you check the rental car companies?”
“We wil
l, Mr. Noble,” Amy said. “Let me tell you one more time that we’re not drawing any conclusions at this stage. None. But you’ve admitted your marriage was in difficulty, and you’d had a fight with your wife a few hours before she was murdered. Under those circumstances, we need to know your exact whereabouts between your phone call with her yesterday afternoon and the discovery of her body this morning. Have I made that clear?”
Noble gave his head an angry shake. “Fine. But, hell, I loved her, Detective. She drove me crazy, but I could never hurt her.”
“Please answer my question for the record,” Amy said. “Did you remain in the hotel in Viera through the entire night?”
He slumped, looking defeated. “Yeah. I was a little drunk, and I fell asleep with my clothes still on. When I woke up, I called home right away.”
They’d check with the hotel’s night staff and the car rental agencies, but Amy had a feeling Noble was telling the truth. “All right. Do you know Kevin Kasinski?” she asked. “He plays for the Lakeland Flying Tigers.”
Noble’s head jerked back up and his brow furrowed. “Kasinski? Yeah. Well, I don’t really know him, but I know who he is. He’s their starting second baseman. We’ve played them a few times. Why?”
Before either she or Poushinsky could say anything, Noble sucked in a deep breath as the realization hit him. “My God, Kasinski’s wife was murdered last month. Are you telling me this is the same guy? What the fuck is going on?”
Amy knew she had to find the answer to that very question, and fast.
Chapter Ten
Thursday, July 29
1:55 p.m.
When Amy and Poushinsky returned to Sea Chase Drive, the look of the curving street had changed dramatically. The Crime Scene Unit van, along with one of their SUV’s and two PBSO patrol cruisers, had parked in front of the Nobles’ town home. Yellow tape cut down the middle of the concrete driveway and looped around the front of their yard to separate the house from the neighbors on both sides. A few women stood in the middle of the street, talking and gesturing toward the house.
