by Pamela Clare
“Sounds impressive,” Amy said. Truth be told, she’d be hard pressed to recognize most of those flowers without a label attached. “Like these?” She held up a photo the Crime Scene Unit had taken of the flowers and vase they’d found at Megan O’Neill’s earlier in the afternoon.
“Yes,” the florist confirmed. “Those certainly look like mine. I venture to say they are the ones I sold that man yesterday.”
Amy smiled. “That’s very helpful. I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re going to need you to come with us to the Sheriff’s Office to work with our forensic artist.”
“Well, I didn’t expect I’d have to do that,” the woman said, a little flustered. “I don’t close until eight, and I can’t call my assistant to relieve me. She’s not available tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” Amy said, trying to be patient. “But you’ll have to close early. This man has killed at least four young women, including one last night. We don’t have a single minute to waste if we’re going to stop him from killing again.”
Jodie swallowed, looking ill. “Well, since you put it that way.” She shook her head. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? He seemed to be a nice young man, simply buying a quality bouquet for his girlfriend. To think there was a cold-blooded murderer standing right in front of me at that moment…”
“You told me that the man wore a tee shirt and baseball cap?” Poushinsky said, making what she’d told him on the phone into a question.
“Yes. A Cardinals shirt and hat.”
“Palm Beach Cardinals,” Beckett said. “Right?”
“Yes. We chatted a little about the Cardinals. The local ones, not St. Louis,” the florist replied. “My husband is a big baseball fan. Sometimes, I go to games with him when my assistant is able to take care of the shop. That young man certainly knew a lot about the team.”
“Do you recall how he paid for the flowers, ma’am?” Poushinsky asked.
“Cash.”
Of course he wouldn’t be stupid enough to use a credit card. “Now, I want you to tell us everything you can remember about what the man looked like and how he spoke,” Amy said. “Don’t leave out anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”
“I’ve been wracking my brain ever since you called,” Jamison said, reaching behind her for a piece of multi-colored notepaper. “I wrote down everything I could remember.” She peered down at her notes. “He was about twenty-five or so. Not very tall, but very well-built. I remember the bulge of his biceps stretching the arms of that tee shirt, like a football player or even a bodybuilder.”
“About how tall was he, ma’am?” Poushinsky asked.
“Taller than you,” she said, directing her gaze toward Amy. Then she swung her eyes toward Beckett. “But certainly nothing like you,” she chuckled. “You’re a long drink of water, aren’t you?”
Focus, lady. “Can you be any more specific?” Amy prompted.
“Well, he wasn’t much taller than me, so, about five-eight, I suppose.”
“Hair and eye color?”
“He had his cap on, but his hair was definitely black. As I said, he kept his sunglasses on, so I couldn’t see his eyes. I thought that was a little strange, but some people do that.”
“Any facial hair, or scars, or other distinguishing marks” Poushinsky asked as he continued to make notes.
“As I said, he had heavy stubble on his cheeks and chin. I didn’t see any scars, but he had some tattoos.”
“On his arms?”
Jamison nodded. “One was a valentine, but with a knife through it instead of an arrow. That jarred me a little, I have to say. I’m sure that’s why I remember it so well.”
Amy could believe it. The killer obviously hated women.
“Did you see his vehicle, ma’am?” Beckett asked in his going-back-to-Louisiana voice.
The florist got a dreamy look on her face as she gazed at him. Apparently no woman was immune to Beckett. “I’m afraid not,” she said.
That was enough for now. Jamison would be able to give Orosco lots to work with. By later that evening, they’d have a reasonable likeness of the killer—one that could be released to the media immediately.
Leaning against the counter—probably touching the same surfaces the killer had touched—Amy could practically feel the malevolent presence of Jodie Jamison’s “nice young man.” They were getting closer to the killer, but she wouldn’t be able to take a relaxed breath until she had the bastard staring down the barrel of her gun.
Chapter Fifty
Wednesday, August 4
7:45 p.m.
After Angel Orosco had worked some quick magic, Jodie Jamison had pronounced his composites to be near-perfect matches with her memory. In one, the killer wore sunglasses and had heavy stubble. In the other, the sunglasses were gone and he was clean-shaven. For that one, Orosco had guessed at his eye shape and size, but he had a proven talent for judging correctly based on the subject’s facial bones.
While that was going on, Amy had arranged for Media Relations to stand by to release the forensic composite to the newspapers and TV outlets as soon as Cramer gave the go-ahead. The commander had some kind of dreary civic event at the south end of the county, but had jumped at the chance to get out of it when Amy reached him on his cell.
She plunked photocopies of the composite in front of Poushinsky and Beckett. Both had been hanging out around her desk.
Poushinsky looked doubtful. “Not nearly a perfect match with Kozak. Maybe close enough, though.”
Amy looked at Kozak’s ID card again, then at the clean-shaven composite, then back again. The shape of the face was very similar, but the man in the composite had a stronger jaw and a slightly flatter nose. The contrasts in the killer’s face intrigued her. Orosco had drawn the eyes deep-set, almost hooded, and wary. Maybe even predatory. But the full lips conveyed a certain gentleness, even though Amy had refused to let Orosco composite the wide smile Jodie Jamison had said he wore during most of his brief time in the store. There was no way the Sheriff’s Office would release a composite of a grinning serial killer.
In the clean-shaven version, the mouth gave the man an almost boyish look. And even with the dangerous eyes, the killer might look right at home in a country church. Amy could visualize him as the kind of young man who could persuade a suspicious woman to open her door.
“He looks early twenties, especially minus the stubble,” Amy finally said.
Beckett remained silent, staring at both compositees. He furrowed his brow, and stroked the stubble on his own jaw.
Amy waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Beckett?”
His head snapped up. “I feel like I’ve seen this guy myself somewhere. There’s definitely something familiar about him, but it’s not coming to me. Not yet, anyway.”
“You probably saw him at a ballpark,” Poushinsky offered.
Duh. Amy knew Poushinsky had many talents. Stating the obvious was one of them.
Beckett gave him a wry smile. “Yeah, probably. But I sign a hell of a lot of autographs, too. Guys come up to me all the time, on the golf course, on the street—everywhere. I’m sure I’ve seen this face some place.”
“I’ll get you a copy of the composite,” Amy said. “Keep it with you and maybe it’ll help jog your memory.”
Poushinsky draped his lean body against her partition. “You know what I’ve been thinking about? Why the guy would wear the frigging team shirt and cap. Why would he wear something so easily recognizable?”
“Obviously, he wanted to fool Megan O’Neill,” Beckett answered. “Make her think he was with her husband’s team. But, you’re right, Pushy. Why wouldn’t he have worn something nondescript to get the flowers, then changed into the team gear before he went to Megan’s?” He gazed straight at Amy. “Maybe he’s getting careless?”
Possibly, or he was finishing up his spree, at least in this part of the world. Maybe he was heading somewhere else. Maybe even out of the country. He probably sensed they were c
losing in and wanted to get away while he could. Part of her desperately wanted that to be true, because she didn’t know if she could stand seeing another young woman brutalized, murdered, and dumped like a bag of trash.
But the other part wanted him right here so she could get her hands on him.
It wasn’t just about satisfying her thirst for justice. It was also because she knew in her head and in her gut that if the killer got away from them here, he’d strike again somewhere else. And strike again and again until he was dead or behind bars. Just like Wayne Duguid. After Ariane, he’d murdered two more women before making the mistake that finally got him caught.
Serial killers didn’t just stop cold. They ran and they paused. But they never stopped.
“There’s one thing we’ve been overlooking,” Beckett continued when she didn’t respond. He winced as he flexed his bad leg.
Amy winced in sympathy. The man must be in pain all the time, but he never complained. “What?”
“Kozak’s still our best bet. I agree with that. But Jodie’s description of her guy throws doubt on him, right?”
Amy narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at?”
“Well, we’ve pretty much eliminated all the Cardinals and Hammerheads.”
He knew that all their alibis had been checked. “So?” she said impatiently.
“I’ve been thinking about where the killer got his Cardinals gear. Chances are pretty good that it was at the team store at Roger Dean. Either that or he got it over the Internet. Whichever it was, he’s probably left a trail.”
Amy sucked in a surprised breath.
“Wish I’d thought of that,” Poushinsky muttered.
Beckett smiled as he fished for his car keys. “I’m going to take a composite up to the park. Maybe one of the clerks at the stadium store saw our guy.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Amy acknowledged.
He looked at her, a silent challenge in his gaze. “You coming?”
Even though she didn’t like the idea of spending any more time than necessary with Beckett, she didn’t hesitate. His idea could actually lead them somewhere. “Oh, yeah. Poushinsky?”
Her partner shook his head. “We don’t need to triple-team the poor clerks, do we? I’ll hold the fort here.”
Amy suspected an ulterior motive, but let it slide. Not that she could blame Poushinsky, given what they were about to face.
As she and Beckett headed out HQ’s main doors, she glanced up at him. “Brace yourself for the vultures.”
Though the crowd of reporters and cameramen had thinned, they were quickly surrounded and a sea of hands shoved microphones at her. As calmly as she could, Amy told them that the Sheriff’s Office would release a police artist’s composite of a suspect within the next hour. When one reporter pushed up against her, Beckett looked pissed, ready to manhandle him away from her. She gave him a slight shake of her head as the reporters poured out a flood of questions.
“Are you sure the man in the composite is the baseball killer?”
“Who gave you the information for the composite?”
“Do you believe the killer is still in the area?”
“One at a time, please,” Amy said, holding up her hands. She looked straight into the nearest camera. “All I can say at this time is that we have reason to believe the man in the composite is responsible for at least the most recent murder—that of Megan O’Neill. We have potential witnesses, but we won’t be releasing their names.”
“So more than one person has seen the killer?”
Amy nodded. “We believe that to be the case.”
A reporter she didn’t recognize spoke up. “Devon Marte with Channel 37 News. Detective Robitaille, your twin sister was the victim of a serial murderer when you were a teenager. How much more motivation does that give you to catch this killer?”
The question sliced like a blade into her gut. Ariane’s death had happened so long ago, and she’d been hoping the media wouldn’t go there. This was the last fucking thing she needed.
She stared the woman down. “Believe me, I have all the motivation I need to catch this killer and every other murderer in this county. I’m a Homicide detective—it’s my job.”
Amy began to turn away, but Marte shoved her microphone back in her face. “I’m afraid that’s not an adequate answer, Detective. My sources in the Sheriff’s Office claim that you’re obsessed with this case because of your sister’s murder. Do you believe you have the necessary distance to investigate this case objectively?”
Calice, inside sources?
She fought to keep her composure, intensely aware of Beckett standing next to her, radiating hostility toward the earnest young reporter.
“Any concerns in that regard should be addressed to Captain Cramer,” she answered calmly. With a nod to the two deputies standing by, Amy cut off the scrum. Along with Beckett, the deputies cleared a path to her car.
“Smoke’s coming out your ears,” Beckett said as she fired up the engine.
Amy swore as she wheeled out of the lot. “That goddamn Ryan. She can be brutal, but I never thought she’d blab to a reporter about my sister.”
“You’re sure it was her?”
“I don’t know of any other cop who would undermine me.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a detective.” He pointed to the HQ building. “Lots of other people in there must know, too.”
Amy tried to relax her tight jaw. “I know I shouldn’t let them get to me, but reporters can be such jackasses. I wonder how they’d like somebody rooting around in their past. Poking at wounds that hurt almost as much now as they did all those years ago.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I know what it feels like.”
She was so focused on her own feelings that she kept forgetting his past. God, could she be more self-absorbed? “They kept bringing up your sister’s death?”
“The media really hooked on to it when I left the army and went back to playing baseball. Even though I had a medical discharge, some reporters liked the theory that it was primarily psychological. That I still couldn’t deal with what happened to Kate.”
She glanced at his grim features, a little shocked. “I’m sure that wasn’t true.”
Beckett turned his head and stared out the window as she sped onto the I-95 on-ramp. “Just the opposite. When al-Qaeda murdered her, I wanted to go to Iraq and hunt down every single son of a bitch that had a hand in the kidnapping. But less than two weeks later my Humvee was blown up by a roadside bomb. Killed two guys in my company outright, and another died after being airlifted to Germany. I was lucky. All I got was some shrapnel souvenirs and a first-class concussion. That’s how I wound up with a medical discharge.” He exhaled a sigh. “Every once and awhile somebody still brings Kate up, though. It’s something we’ll always have to live with, you and me.”
As he spoke, Amy felt the bond tighten between them, and that she didn’t need.
“Well, screw the reporters,” she tossed back at him. “Now that we’ve got a solid lead, I don’t want to waste even five minutes on them. Five minutes could mean a woman’s life.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Wednesday, August 4
8:30 p.m.
By flooring it, Amy got them to Roger Dean Stadium in less than twenty minutes. Flashing her badge at the ticket taker, she led Beckett through the gates into the now-familiar ballpark. Through an entry corridor leading to the stands, she glimpsed the center field scoreboard. The game was still in the first inning.
The team store was located just inside the main entrance. Close to empty, it was staffed by two bored-looking young guys sitting behind a counter. Two rail-thin girls, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, picked through racks of apparel with disdainful looks. They gave the distinct impression they’d rather be anywhere than at a baseball game on this hot summer evening.
“Their boyfriends are obviously the baseball fans,” Beckett said when he noticed Amy frowning at the girls. “The guys are drinking bee
r and relaxing while they enjoy the game, and the girls are already out here screwing around because they’re bored out of their minds.”
Amy shot him a glare. “What, you’re the Mentalist, now?”
He chuckled. “They just want it to be over with so they can hit the clubs. The guys probably haven’t even noticed they’re not around anymore.”
Amy jabbed his rock hard bicep. “Is that a variation on the bro’s before ho’s theme?”
He gave her that damn lopsided grin. “Hey, I just call it as I see it.”
That jock mentality had always driven her crazy. “Maybe that’s why so many athletes have lousy marriages,” she retorted. “Or never get married at all.”
He arched a brow, then turned and sauntered to the counter. Sighing, she followed.
The clerk closest to them was focused on a magazine open on the counter and didn’t look up. When Beckett cleared his throat, the young man finally raised his eyes, which suddenly went wide.
“Luke Beckett?” he managed in a faint voice.
Beckett stuck out his hand. “Yep. How are you?”
“Um…fine. Wow.” The clerk rose, grasped Beckett’s hand and pumped it. “Jimmy Bentall. Wow, Luke Beckett. Go Nationals!”
Beckett smiled. “Jimmy, this is Detective Robitaille of the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office.”
Bentall looked even more astonished. “You’re here with a cop?”
As Amy tapped her badge, Bentall’s face turned a deep scarlet shade. He looked ready to have a panic attack. Or a stroke. Probably had some weed in his pocket.
“Relax, Jimmy,” she said. “We just want to ask you about a man who may have recently bought some merchandise here.”
The kid exhaled a long breath. “Oh, okay. Sure.”
Amy reached into her file folder and drew out Orosco’s composites and Kozak’s ID card. She arrayed them on the counter. “You, too,” she said to the other clerk. The second guy sidled around to look over Bentall’s shoulder.
“Can I touch them?” Bentall asked.
Amy nodded.
