by Pamela Clare
M.L. heaved a big sigh. “Amy, that’s just not the right way to think about it. You have to use your feminine charms, for God’s sake. Tell him you’re going to your sister’s for dinner, and you’d be thrilled if he came along. Tell him you’re sure he’d enjoy it, because your brother-in-law is a pro ballplayer and a huge fan and they’d have so much to talk about.”
Amy wanted to pound her head on the desk. Just what she didn’t need—a humiliating social outing with the guy who was already driving her nuts. “You do realize we’re in the middle of a murder investigation here, don’t you?”
“All the more reason for you to take a breather from all that pressure and relax,” her sister responded in a wheedling voice. “And you both have to eat, right? It’ll just be a few hours. Come on, Amy. It would mean a lot to me. You know how much my marriage needs a boost.”
Amy shifted her gaze to the small framed photo sitting on her desk. With their stunning good looks and toothpaste commercial smiles, M.L., Justin, and little Cooper Wilson might have been the perfect all-American family.
Pictures lied.
Still, it wasn’t be a bad idea to check in with M.L. and Cooper, and at the same time try to impress on Justin the need to stay closer to home until the killer was found. “All right,” she said on a sigh. “I’ll ask Beckett, but don’t get your hopes up. This is a total long shot. I barely even know the guy.”
“Oh, right. Amy, I saw the way he looked at you when you were standing at the podium this morning. He had that look—like he wanted to do you right there.” M.L. snorted. “But, hey, you’re so clueless about men you probably didn’t even notice all that chemistry.”
That was vintage M.L. As soon as she’d gotten what she wanted, she could easily slip back into cattiness. Or, when it came to Justin, bitchiness.
“I’m sorry, but you know it’s true,” her sister continued when Amy didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re so married to that damn job.”
“Keep on talking, Sis. I really didn’t want to have to ask Beckett, anyway,” Amy growled.
“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot,” M.L. said quickly, obviously concluding that she should stop biting the hand she wanted to feed her. “You know I get carried away sometimes and don’t mean all the stuff that comes out of my big mouth.”
As much as M.L.’s insensitivity irritated her, Amy loved her little sister far too much to push her away or carry grudges. Life was short, and she only had one sibling left. She would do whatever was necessary to protect M.L. and keep her close.
Still, that didn’t mean the brat got to treat her like dog shit. “If, by some miracle, Beckett says yes, then you’re going to owe me big-time, Marie-Louise Robitaille Wilson. And don’t think I won’t collect.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saturday, July 31
7:40 p.m.
“Robitaille, don’t you ever go home?”
Amy almost did a spit-take of her mouthful of cold coffee. Focused on her computer screen, she hadn’t noticed Beckett slip in. The Floor was always near empty on Saturdays, this late in the day. As usual, she was chief straggler.
She’d been hanging around, waiting until later in the evening to go to Chester’s bar because the day shift bartenders and waiters probably wouldn’t be able to be much help. She’d hit Chester’s around nine, then grab some takeout Thai before going home. Fortunately, home was only ten minutes from the bar.
Reluctantly, she looked up at Beckett standing next to her desk. God, he looked good. He’d changed his clothes since she saw him in the morning. Now he wore a linen sports jacket in a rich cream shade, black dress pants, and an open-necked white shirt. He could have just stepped out of an ad in Vanity Fair or GQ.
The sexual magnetism he radiated practically flattened her, and that really pissed her off. After Gabe, she’d learned to run in the opposite direction whenever a particularly hot guy started sniffing around. And that’s exactly what she’d be doing with Luke Beckett if her damn boss hadn’t opened up the door and invited the big bad wolf to take up residence on the Floor.
“If I was at home, all I’d think about would be the killer, anyway,” she answered, forcing her gaze away.
He propped one muscular arm on her partition, looking ready to settle in for the night. “I get that. But it’s Saturday night. A woman like you should be out having fun. Guys must be beating down your door for you to go out with them.”
She avoided looking up at him, even though every cell in her traitorous body clamored to respond to his charm. “Sure, Beckett. I have to get my door repaired at least once a week.”
That was a deflection and a lie, of course. She hardly dated at all anymore. She wouldn’t date cops under any circumstances, and she worked so much that she hardly had time to meet anybody else. Besides, most guys didn’t seem to be able to handle dating a cop, anyway. At least not her kind of cop—a career obsessed homicide detective. It made for a frustratingly sporadic sex life, but she had no interest in the bar scene or Internet match-ups.
But she wasn’t a nun, either, so she was hardly surprised when her hormones went ballistic around a guy as hot as His Beckettness.
He grinned. “You have a righteous sense of humor for a hardass.”
She flicked her gaze from his shoes to his face and then returned it to the page on the FBI web site. “You look ready for a night on the town yourself. Nice shoes, by the way.”
They were, too. Expensive Italian leather, by the looks of them.
He shrugged. “I’m not going out anywhere tonight unless it’s to have a drink with you.”
She couldn’t help snorting with derision. “I doubt you got dressed up on the extremely remote chance that such a thing might happen.”
“You just like to play hard to get. But no, I didn’t get dressed up for you. I got dressed up for a seven year-old girl.”
Amy blinked, a bit stunned by his answer. Finally, she swiveled her chair to look straight at him. “The one you were going to visit at the hospital?”
Beckett reached over to the adjoining cubicle and rolled a chair into her space. When he sat, his knees almost touched hers. She pressed her feet into the floor and pushed her chair a couple of inches sideways toward the window. Beckett gave an easy smile, but it didn’t fool her. The man was definitely on the prowl.
“Right. I’m trying to help an orphan girl who’s about to have major heart surgery. This afternoon, after I spent some time with Alicia—that’s the girl’s name, Alicia Trent—I talked to the social worker about her case. Alicia’s so smart and so sweet and so damn brave, I can’t stand that she’s going to be all alone, if she even survives the surgery. She’s got nobody in the world.”
Amy winced. She’d misjudged him again, which seemed to be developing into an unfortunate habit. What was it about Beckett that screwed with her intuition?
“That sure sucks,” she said apologetically. “She doesn’t have any relatives who would take care of her?”
“Not one.”
She sighed. “I guess people don’t want to adopt a kid who might die. It’s understandable, I suppose. No one who hasn’t been there can know what it’s like to lose a child.”
She’d witnessed her parents reduced to living shells after Ariane’s murder. Even today, there were times when they were barely able to cope. Ariane’s room remained a shrine to a seventeen year-old daughter. Even the faded Weezer and Stone Temple Pilots posters were still pinned up on the stark, black and white walls.
It wasn’t much less of a life-changing blow to lose a sister. Her twin, for Christ’s sake, at seventeen, and not to accident or to disease but to a scumbag murderer. A big part of Amy had died that day, too. She still thought of Ariane every day, and especially whenever she looked into M.L.’s eyes. Her sisters had shared the same stunning, icy blue eye color, and there were some days—bad days—when M.L.’s eyes just haunted Amy.
Beckett’s strong features looked grim. “I thought money might make the difference. If I offered to
pay for all her future medical bills…” His voice trailed off as he shook his head. “But the social worker said money wasn’t the big issue.”
She heard the frustration in his voice, saw it on his face. Sympathy bloomed in her chest, mixed with a sharp pang of something much deeper and more heartfelt. Beckett kept surprising her. He had the courage to fight for his country against an enemy that shot women in stadiums and blew up little girls in their classrooms. And he had the heart and the humanity to fight for a little girl facing an uncertain and frightening future. The guy wasn’t just a hero on the playing field. He was one in real life, too.
And that scared the wits out of her. If she didn’t distance herself from this man, she knew she’d suffer a world of hurt. There was no way a woman like her could mean anything to him beyond a brief hook-up or a casual affair.
So, it surprised her when her hand reached out and covered his, giving it a light squeeze before retreating back into her lap. Even worse, she realized that she wouldn’t mind having that drink with him after all.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “I get the sense you could use a drink.”
Beckett blinked, then broke into a broad smile. He stood up quickly and reached a hand down to her. Amy hesitated, standing on the brink of she didn’t know what, then grasped his hand firmly and let him pull her to her feet. Her momentum almost carried her into him and, for just a second or two, she caught his subtle, masculine scent and felt the heat radiating from the length of his powerful body.
Whoa. She might be stupid, but she wasn’t reckless. She stepped away, pivoting to grab her jacket from the back of her chair. “Just remember, Beckett, this is work, not a date. And I’ll buy the drinks.”
His gaze narrowed, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “Whatever you say, boss,” he rumbled in that deep, Southern drawl.
Somehow, Amy didn’t think he got the message.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday, July 31
8:45 p.m.
Amy had asked Beckett to follow her to Chester’s in his car, since her home was close to the bar. Besides, being in an intimate space with him was a little more than she could handle. Better to keep temptation at arm’s length.
She stopped in a no parking zone on Town Center Drive, two wheels up on the curb, and waited for him. He jogged up to her car five minutes later and leaned into her open window.
“I couldn’t find a parking spot out here,” he groused. “So, I gave up and used the stadium garage.”
“Poor baby,” Amy mocked as she pushed open her door and got out. “Maybe you shouldn’t have given your chauffeur the night off.”
“Jesus, Robitaille,” he groaned. “You are such a smart ass.”
She simply grinned in reply and headed toward the bar. He caught up with her, giving her a wry smile as he shortened his stride to match hers. She couldn’t deny that it felt good to have him with her, keeping her company and watching her back. Almost like a real partner.
Chester’s was a half a block down the palm-lined street, a nice enough looking place with big windows and a cheery green awning over the sidewalk. Even though the game at the stadium across the street was obviously still in progress, the bar was doing brisk business. Amy showed her badge to the hostess.
“How can I help you?” the young woman asked, her voice rising above the din of the canned music and boisterous conversation. Various sports events on at least a dozen TV sets added to the cacophony.
“We’d like to ask the staff a few questions,” Amy said. “Were you at work here on Thursday evening?”
“Yes, ma’am. Until one.”
“Then we might as well start with you. Can someone else relieve you for a few minutes?
The woman hesitated, but then went to talk to one of the servers. When she and the server returned, she led them to a table for four near the back of the bar.
“Thanks,” Amy said as they took their seats. She introduced herself and Beckett, then handed across a business card. “What’s your name?”
“Melina Stovall.”
“Melina, you may have heard that a young woman named Ashley Rist was murdered early Friday morning. Did you know her?”
Melina nodded, showing no surprise. “I figured as soon as you told me you were police that this would be about her. God, it’s so awful what happened. I almost fainted when I heard it on the news.”
Amy leaned closer, straining to hear above the din. “So, you did know her.”
“I guess you could say so. Ashley came here fairly often, and I usually get to know people like her a little bit.”
“And was Ashley here on Thursday evening?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Melina answered without hesitation. “That was the first thing I thought of when I got the news. How I’d seen her not long before…” She let the words trail off.
“Do you remember what time she arrived? Was she with anyone?”
The young woman’s face scrunched up with concentration. “She was by herself when she got here. And I’m pretty sure it was after ten. It was definitely after the crush, anyway. That’s what we call it when the fans come over after the game ends.”
“So, she might have been at the game,” Beckett said.
Amy almost shook her head, remembering what Lily Fisher had told Ryan about Ashley assembling her friends at the bar to honor Carrie Noble, but she kept her mouth shut.
“Maybe,” Melina said, “but I don’t think so. The Cardinals were playing, not the Hammerheads. Besides, when she comes here after a game, she’s always got her team shirt on.”
“So, she came alone, but was joined by others later?” Amy asked.
“Jody Garrett came a few minutes after Ashley, and I showed her to Ashley’s table. Later on, another girl joined them. I’ve seen her once or twice before, but I don’t know her name.”
“That’s okay. We’ll ask Ms. Garrett. Do you remember what time Ashley left the bar?”
Melina looked regretful. “I’m afraid not. She must have gone when I was on a break or in the rest room. I know it was after both the other women, though. I saw them leave, and Ashley was still here.”
“Drinking alone?”
“Some of the time. But I saw her standing near the bar, talking to a couple of players.”
Amy felt her heart pick up a beat. “Cardinal players?”
Ashley nodded.
“Can you identify them?”
“One of them was Johnny Franks. He’s in here all the time. But I haven’t met the other guy yet. I’ve only seen him once or twice, so he’s probably somebody new on the team.”
“I know Franks,” Luke said, glancing at Amy. “And maybe the other guy was called up from the Rookie League.”
She wrote down Franks’ name. “Can you describe the other player?”
Melina rested her chin on her fist and pursed her glossy pink lips. “Hmm…tall, about six-three, nice muscles, brown hair. Big, strong guy, and kinda yummy, too. I think he’s a pitcher, because I remember him talking about getting a save.”
“Did you see either of those guys leave, and were they alone?”
She hesitated. “I saw the big guy leave by himself. As for Johnny…I’m not sure. I can’t specifically remember seeing him go. But like I said, I’m not up at the front a hundred per cent of the time. And even when I’m there, I don’t always notice, especially if someone comes in at the same time as people are leaving.”
The girl had given them plenty to start with. Time to move on. “Melina, are any of the other staff from Thursday night here?”
“Not really. This is the weekend crew, so most of them are part-timers with other jobs, or students. I’m pretty sure Bruno is the only one who was here Thursday. He’s at the bar.” She pointed to a heavy-set, dark-haired man serving a group at the far end of the long, curving bar.
“You’ve been very helpful, Melina. Could you think about the other staff that were here Thursday and ema
il me their names? My email address is on the card.”
“Sure, ma’am. I’ll try to remember as many as I can.” Melina stood and walked away toward her station at the front.
Amy turned to Beckett. “Let’s go talk to Bruno.”
Beckett grasped her wrist as she started to get up. “Johnny Franks has a reputation as a hothead on the field and a party animal off it. He’s been in the low minors for years, going nowhere.”
She sank bank into her chair. “You’re thinking he hit on Ashley?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Franks would have been in Lakeland at the time of the Shannon murder, and here in Jupiter at the time of both the Noble and Rist killings.”
“Unless he was on the D.L. at the time of the Lakeland game. I’ll check on that as soon as I get home.”
Amy raised a brow. “D.L.?”
“Disabled list,” he said. “A team puts an injured player on the disabled list so they can bring another player onto their roster.”
Amy tried to keep the rush of excitement in check, but it finally felt like they were getting somewhere. “Check it out as soon as you can. In the meantime, let’s go see the guy behind the bar.”
*
Amy had decided not to stay to drink at Chester’s, not when she’d already interviewed people in the crowded bar. So, once they finished with Bruno, she asked Beckett to follow her to a quieter place—a wine bar off Donald Ross Boulevard that was even closer to her home.
She had every intention of stopping at one glass then heading home to pore again through her collection of serial killer books. After Ariane’s murder, she’d become obsessed—at least that’s how her father had described her at the time—with men who preyed on women. Even before she took criminology studies, she’d read everything she could get her hands on about serial killers, from historical figures like Jack the Ripper and Earle Leonard Nelson to modern nightmares like Ted Bundy and Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer.
