by Pamela Clare
“I wish Justin was here,” M.L. whimpered. “I’m sure the game’s over by now, but he’ll be out drinking again, especially after what happened last night.”
“Criss, just call him,” Amy said through clenched teeth. “Tell him to get his no-good ass home because you need him.”
“You’re right. I’m going to call him right now,” her sister sniffed.
“Good. And if he doesn’t come soon, call me back. I’ll go to the bar and drag him home to you in a squad car.”
M.L. chuckled through her sniffles. “You would, too.”
“Count on it, Chère.”
“Amy, I’m sorry I dumped on you.”
“Forget it. Just call him, and take care of yourself and my godson.”
“I will.”
“Love you. Bye.” Amy hung up.
When she returned to her cubicle, Beckett was standing there with his arms crossed, looking like he was itching to leave. His dark eyes raked over her body as she approached. She clenched her teeth as her traitorous inner muscles tightened in response.
“It’s done,” he said, nodding at the monitor screen. “Now I’m going for a beer.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled as he strode away without saying goodbye.
Amy sank into her chair, sighing at the comforting warmth that remained from Beckett’s body. Suddenly she felt very much alone. She told herself she was glad to be rid of him.
Right.
She started to read his draft, but it took awhile before she was able to absorb a single word.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saturday, July 31
8:15 a.m.
Amy stared at the computer screen, squinting as she made the map of Florida bigger and smaller and then bigger again. The killer had struck in the Lakeland, West Palm, and Jupiter areas so far, dumping the bodies within a half hour drive from where they’d been abducted. If the murderer was a player, chances were that he’d strike near the city where he was playing. She knew ballplayers had games almost every day during the season, so it didn’t seem plausible that the killer would be traveling all over the state. The logistics of that would be virtually impossible.
Not that she could allow herself to get stuck in the mindset that the killer had to be a baseball player. It could be a fan, but God help them if it was. Running down the whereabouts of every professional baseball player in the state would take time, but at least it was doable. If they had to broaden their potential suspects to every baseball fan in Florida, or even farther afield, that would be a whole new ball game. One with very long odds of success.
At exactly eight-thirty, Captain Cramer called her into his office. The meeting took five minutes. Cramer congratulated her on her draft statement and reiterated how important it was to calm the waters the media had roiled with their inflammatory coverage.
Amy was so ready she’d didn’t even glance again at Beckett’s statement. After spending half the night rehearsing it and anticipating the questions that would be thrown her way, her nerves had finally subsided. Now she just wanted to get it over with so she could get back to doing her real job of nailing the bastard who was killing innocent women. But to remind herself that the press conference was important, she’d written “PLAY NICE” and drawn a smiley face in purple ink in the top corner of the statement. Just in case some reporter pushed her buttons and her Gallic temper overcame her restraint.
A few minutes before nine, Lisa rounded up the team and led them downstairs into the first floor room used for major press conferences. Scanning the interior from the doorway, Amy felt a twinge of alarm when she didn’t see Beckett. Yes, she was ready, but she really didn’t want to have to handle any baseball-related questions on her own.
The conference room was a scene of barely controlled chaos. Reporters had filled all the chairs and were busy chattering away. Five or six TV crews had set up cameras on the sides. Electrical cables snaked along the walls and were taped down wherever they crossed the floor. Cameras started to flash as soon as the line of cops strode through the door.
Amy’s nerves jangled as she followed Knight to the front and sat down next to him. She’d spoken at press conferences before, but never at anything as big as this. If the population was as revved up as this press corps, calming the waters wasn’t going to be easy.
Amid the chatter of reporters, Cramer leaned in over her shoulder. “Any idea where the hell Luke is?”
“Not a clue, sir. He doesn’t check in with me.” The seat next to Cramer remained empty. The captain had obviously reserved if for their baseball expert.
“Or anybody else,” Cramer grumbled. “Well, we’ve got to start this thing. The wolves are already howling.”
“I’m ready,” Amy said, not sure whether it was a lie or not.
Cramer moved to the podium, towering over it. After signaling to the deputy at the back of the room to close the door, he tilted the microphone almost straight up and cleared his throat.
“Good morning,” he boomed into the mike.
Amy had to give the boss credit. He looked completely comfortable in front of a group of slavering reporters. Cramer had obviously learned the political ropes on the way to landing the job as division commander. He had the looks, the voice and the presence to dominate a room. Sensing his ability to control anything that might go wrong, Amy relaxed a little.
“Thanks for rousting yourselves out on a Saturday morning,” he said. “The Sheriff’s Office has called this press conference to provide as much information as we can about our investigation into the murder of Carrie Noble, whose body was discovered in Okeeheelee Park in the early morning of July twenty-ninth. To start, I’ll introduce the investigative team.”
The back door swung open and Beckett strode in as if right on time. Cameras flashed instantly. Some of the TV camera operators pivoted their units to track Beckett’s path to the podium as the room filled with buzz. A young blond reporter from a local station jumped up and thrust her mike into Beckett’s face, but he simply smiled and strode to the front. As he passed behind Amy, he gave her a light tap on the shoulder.
Cramer looked more relieved than pissed off as he pointed Beckett into the empty chair beside him and restarted the introductions. He left Luke until last, introducing him as a consultant who would be assisting with technical aspects of the investigation.
Cramer nodded toward Amy. “I’ll now call on the lead investigator in the case, Detective Amy Robitaille. Please hold your questions until after she completes her statement.”
Letting out a tight breath, Amy moved to the podium. As she glanced over at Beckett, he gave her a slight smile and a nod of encouragement. She tilted the microphone down to the level of her lips.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, looking straight into the eyes of the aggressive blonde who had tried to buttonhole Beckett, “at approximately seven a.m. on the morning of July twenty-ninth, the body of Carrie Noble was discovered by a jogger in the south section of Okeeheelee Park. As has been already reported, Mrs. Noble was the spouse of Matt Noble, a pitcher for the Jupiter Hammerheads. Mr. Noble positively identified her body later that day.”
In a few sentences, well-crafted by Beckett, she described the crime scene and the condition of the body before moving on to detail the autopsy report. After the earlier din, the room fell eerily quiet as she laid it all out. Then she came to the cause of death.
“The Medical Examiner determined that death resulted from the killer injecting the victim with the drugs sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride. The drugs were administered in separate injections.”
Instantly, dead quiet turned into tumult as half a dozen reporters stood and shouted out questions.
“So, it’s the same killer as the one in Lakeland. What about the body found in Dickinson Park yesterday?” yelled one reporter.
Amy held up a hand. “I’m about to get to that. For reasons you will understand, we are not releasing full information about the case at this time. Howe
ver, we have determined that there are sufficient similarities to the murder in Polk County to conclude that they were in all likelihood committed by the same person.”
More shouting, but she carried on and recounted how the investigative team had already met with the Polk County detectives, and had also involved the FBI. As she neared the end of the written statement, she started to consciously relax her muscles and center herself. The worst was yet to come.
“As you are aware,” she said, “a young woman’s body was discovered yesterday morning in Jonathan Dickinson State Park. An autopsy will be performed by the Martin County medical examiner today. There are numerous similarities to the other two murders, but we will of course await the results of the autopsy and blood analysis before reaching any conclusions.”
Again, a dozen reporters stood and bombarded her with questions. She held up her hands in the universal “stop” gesture, and then forged on with the usual canned statements about team efforts across jurisdictions. Finally, it was time to wrap it up.
“On behalf of Sheriff Garrett, Captain Cramer, and the investigative officers, I would like to assure the people of Palm Beach County that all necessary resources are being devoted to apprehending the individual or individuals responsible for the senseless and reprehensible murders of these three young women.”
Cramer rose and took over. “All right, we’ll take a few questions now. You’ll appreciate that our priority is working on catching this killer, so let’s stay on point.”
He scanned the forest of hands and began taking questions. Cramer deftly managed the reporters, giving out just enough information to satisfy them before moving on. After several minutes, he pointed to a young woman Amy recognized as the crime beat reporter with a local paper.
“Cassie James, Palm Beach Sun,” the tall blonde said as she stood. “My question is for Luke Beckett. Luke, it’s obviously highly unusual for a baseball player to be involved in a murder investigation. What do you think you can bring to the investigative team?” She gave Luke a warm smile before sitting back down.
Amy had to fight the instinct to roll her eyes in exasperation. She’d been praying that Beckett’s presence wouldn’t create a celebrity sideshow, but it looked like her prayers were going to go unanswered. Beckett remained seated, but glanced over at her. She swore his eyes conveyed an unspoken apology.
“Cassie, I want to make one thing very clear,” he drawled in his Louisiana accent. “I want to make sure everybody understands that the last thing this investigation is about is Luke Beckett. I’m just a tiny piece that Captain Cramer thought might help complete the puzzle.” He gave the reporter a wide smile. “As to what I can bring to the investigation, well, I suppose it’s that I know baseball and I know ballplayers. In fact, a lot of people would say that’s all I know,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
Most of the reporters chuckled along with him. Even Amy couldn’t help but smile under his charm offensive.
“I hope my knowledge can be put to good use to help catch this murderer,” he added. “Like Detective Robitaille said, we’re all ready to work night and day on this, and that includes me. We’ll do whatever it takes.”
Natalie Shuster waved her hand almost frantically, and Cramer pointed to her. Amy liked Natalie, a radio reporter she’d dealt with on several murder investigations. The pretty brunette had always been both tough and fair.
“Detective Robitaille, this case must be particularly difficult for you, since your sister is married to a Florida State League player. Can you tell us what extra precautions you’ve advised your sister to take? And have you issued cautions to other players’ wives across the league?”
Tabarnak. This was bad. She knew Natalie was just doing her job, but she wanted to throttle her, anyway. The sudden buzz in the room made it clear that most of the reporters didn’t know about M.L. Thanks to Natalie, that had changed forever, and it also placed an unnecessary focus on Amy.
Her stomach clenched as she stalled. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal any conversations with M.L. Finally, she leaned into the podium, running her gaze over the bank of reporters. “We don’t think it’s useful for us—or for you—to make all those women afraid that they may be the target of an attack. As Captain Cramer said, we continue to pursue possible connections between the victims.”
Shuster stood again. “But I’m afraid you’re not answering—
Cramer cut her off. “Let me add something,” he said in a deep warning voice. “You folks will write and report what you want to write and report. But we’re asking you to please refrain from speculation. What we have are three apparently related murders. We don’t yet know the full extent of the connection. Until we do, as Detective Robitaille said, it will serve no purpose to make the citizens of this county believe there could be a killer targeting a specific population.”
Amy carefully watched the reporters’ reactions. If their avaricious gazes foretold the stories that would soon be on the air and in the papers, Cramer’s words were falling on deaf ears. And who knew how much of that attention might rebound onto her own family?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday, July 31
10:45 a.m.
Amy hung up the phone, leaned back in her chair, and blew out a sigh of relief. It was her first chance to take a breather since the press conference ended. On the way back to the Floor, Cramer had actually congratulated her on a job well done. That amounted to soaring praise, but she really had Beckett to thank for it. He’d nailed the written statement, making it easy for her to maintain control.
But she hadn’t anticipated Natalie Shuster’s bombshell. Like all cops, Amy tried hard to insulate her family from media attention. Normally, it wasn’t a big deal, but this time, with a serial killer murdering baseball players’ wives, it was a very big deal. She should have known the media would quickly zero in on her sister’s connection to baseball, and to the Florida State League in particular. After all, Cramer had put her out front, making her the focus of the investigation. But no one had ever said she was a whiz when it came to media relations. Still, the question had been out of line. There was absolutely no reason to drag a cop’s family into the limelight, especially when the connection had no concrete bearing on the investigation.
Amy glanced down at her note pad. She’d just hung up the phone with the detective in Portland, Maine who’d handled the baseball wife case there. The victim, Rita Ramirez, had been bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat, not killed by injections. The body had not been posed, nor had OUT been carved into the victim’s torso. The house had been ransacked and some cash stolen. The Portland Police had figured it for a burglary gone bad, and the case remained unsolved. Ramirez’s husband, a Portland player at the time, had a solid alibi.
Another dead end.
Why then did her gut keep telling her something different? As much as the San Antonio and Portland murders looked unconnected, both to each other and to the three Florida murders, Amy had a hard time buying it. Five wives of minor league baseball players murdered in the past three years? That was too much of a coincidence for her to swallow. Poushinsky had already checked the FBI database for any murders of wives of major league players in that period. Zero. Same for the NFL, NBA and NHL.
Her cell rang. Scarpelli, reporting in from Viera.
“Hey, Adrianna, what’s up?”
“Amy, the Hammerheads have postponed the series that was supposed to start in Sarasota tonight. We found out when we got here that the players were in open rebellion and told management they would only play last night’s game if the next series was cancelled so they could go home.”
Amy smiled. “Good for them.”
“We were able to speak to the manager and a handful of players this morning, but they’re all anxious to get back home. So, we’re all going to head back, too. We’ve got the list of players and coaches, and we’ll start working our way through the rest of it later today.”
“Were you able to get a handle o
n how many players are married or have live-in girlfriends?”
“Not a firm one,” Adrianna said with a hint of a chuckle. “The girlfriend thing seems a little fluid. But we know seven players are married, not counting Matt Noble and Tyler Rist. At least two more have live-ins. The manager is married, but his wife’s in Kentucky. One of the coaches is married and living in Boca.”
“Good work. Those are manageable numbers. Can you email me the list?
“Sure. Right away.”
“I’ll get the brass to work on getting cruisers in front of their houses.”
“The sooner the better.”
“When do you think you guys will be back?”
Scarpelli hesitated a moment. “Maybe three hours?”
“Let’s meet here around two, then.”
“I’ll tell Jenn and DeSean.”
“See you.” Amy hung up.
She called Beckett’s cell. He’d headed off after the press conference ended without saying a word to her. And she would go to her death before admitting it, but that treatment had felt way too much like last night’s rejection.
“It’s Robitaille,” she said curtly when he answered.
“Good morning, again,” he said.
She clenched her teeth against the rush of pleasure set off by his deep, seductive drawl. “Ryan, Washington, and Scarpelli are headed back from Viera. The Hammerheads are on their way home, too. The team postponed the next series and gave them the weekend off.”
“Smart. The players wouldn’t be worth a damn on the field right now, anyway.”
Amy snorted. “I hope management’s motives were better than that.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
She cursed silently, not meaning to sound so chippy. “We’re going to meet here this afternoon around two. Can you make it?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Sorry, I can’t. You can call my cell, though, if you need to reach me.”
