by Pamela Clare
Amy took a deep breath, flexing tired shoulders. “I guess Ramirez could have set that up, right? Have his friend kill his wife while he had a solid alibi?”
“Sure, that theory was on our radar. But, like I said, we had nothing on Gardner. His bank account was clean—no big payments—and so was Eddie’s. We wound up classifying the murder as a B&E gone bad. It’s still technically an open case, but we’ve got no leads.”
“You do now.”
“I guess you’re right. You really think Gardner murdered all those women down your way?”
There wasn’t a shred of doubt left in Amy’s mind. “Absolutely.”
“But what the hell’s his motive?”
“We don’t think they’re crimes of opportunity. He’s targeting particular women, but other than the Rita Ramirez case, we haven’t found evidence yet that he actually knew any of his victims personally. And his M.O. down here has been nothing like in your case.” She filled Spencer in on the OUT mutilations and the cut-out photos, then brought him up to date on the hunt for Gardner.
“Sounds like you’re closing in on the bastard,” Spencer said.
“We’d better be. Thanks for your help, Mick.”
“Sure. Keep us posted, okay?”
Amy hung up and made a note to call Heath Harrison. He should be getting his cut-out photo in the mail any time now.
*
I’m going to be a dad.
Luke still couldn’t believe it. He shook his head with bemusement and wonder as he pushed through the front door of the PBSO. When Karen Golden had introduced him to the social worker from the Department of Children and Families, he’d had no difficulty reading the young woman’s face. Shelley McManus had grilled him in a thoroughly professional manner, but her eyes and her body language had told him she wanted his application to succeed. And Golden had stuck her oar in the water on his behalf more than once. So, by the time McManus stood and shook his hand, he’d figured he’d at least hit a triple. Now, all he needed was that little bit of help from the social worker to drive him in from third base.
Soon he’d be able to take Alicia home, and he refused to think for more than a second that anything would go wrong with her surgery. They’d come too far—overcoming too many obstacles—for that to happen. In fact, he felt so optimistic that he’d already called a high-end staffing agency to start a search for a full-time housekeeper and nanny.
He meandered through Homicide, shooting the breeze with some of the detectives until he reached Robitaille’s cubicle. She had her phone against her ear, totally focused, as usual. He gave her a smile and headed across to his desk. He’d missed her, and it had already been too long since he’d held her sweet body in his arms.
Ten minutes later, a gentle caress on his shoulder from behind startled him. He turned to greet Robitaille. Sleep deprivation had scored half-moons under her eyes, but still she managed a tired smile. His heart tumbled around in his chest as he took in her beautiful but exhausted features.
“How’d it go this morning?” she said.
He smiled. Nice of Robitaille to think of Alicia first, even with all she had on her plate. “Great. Better than great. Why don’t I tell you the whole story over lunch? That way you can brief me on what’s happening this morning.”
“Things are moving fast now,” she said, glancing around the humming squad room. “I don’t have time for lunch.”
Screw that. She clearly needed a break. “Babe, you gotta eat,” he said quietly. “In fact, if you don’t get something in you besides coffee, you’re going to be no good to anybody after a few more hours. We can make it quick.”
She sighed as she glanced down at her watch. “Okay. Forty-five minutes, tops. We can go in separate cars in case you want to dawdle.”
“No need. Let’s go.”
She led the way out. More than one head turned to follow them. Guys were clearly reading the body language going on between the two of them.
Robitaille flipped down her sunglasses as she got into her car. By the time Luke’s ass hit the passenger seat, she had the car in gear and moving.
“I know we’re in a hurry, but you’re contributing to a violation of Florida law,” he deadpanned as he reached for his seatbelt.
That got a smile. “You’re just too slow, Beckett. No wonder you’re not playing baseball anymore.”
Good to see she was perky enough to rag his ass. “Luke. We’re outside HQ now, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see what I can do. We’re going to Starbucks because it’ll be quick and they make decent sandwiches.”
“If you say so. But the last thing you need is to pour more caffeine into your system.”
“The last thing I need is you telling me what I should drink,” she said in a snippy voice.
Luke chuckled. “You don’t much like anybody trying to take care of you, do you?”
“Not if it means they get to tell me what to do. Now, tais-toi and I’ll brief you on what’s been happening while you were getting your beauty sleep.”
Luke did as she asked and kept quiet as she started to speak. But when the light ahead turned yellow, Robitaille unexpectedly stomped on the brakes. He lurched against the seat belt, using his right arm against the dash to absorb the momentum.
“Sorry,” she said with a sheepish grin, looking so cute that he couldn’t stand it.
Without another thought, he grabbed the shift lever and threw it into Park, then leaned over, cupped her head with his left hand, and kissed her. When she parted her lips in response, he swept his tongue inside and slid his hand across her breast. His pulse quickened as she breathed a satisfied little murmur into his mouth and really started to get into the kiss—until a loud honk from behind reminded them of exactly where they were. Robitaille jerked back, threw the car into gear and gunned it through the intersection.
“Calice,” she muttered. “I can’t believe I let you do that. In a goddamn squad car, no less.”
“An unmarked squad car, fortunately. Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”
She threw him a scowl. “Bullshit.”
“God’s truth, Robitaille.”
Another scowl.
Man, she was even cuter when she was irritated. “Pretty great kiss, though, wasn’t it?”
“Like your ego needs any stroking,” she said. “Now, pay attention.”
Before they reached Starbucks, Robitaille filled him in on more details from the raid on Jason Gardner’s house, along with her phone calls with Dan Spendlove and Mick Spencer and then Pushy’s update this morning about Gardner’s clearly non-existent sister.
“And I saved the best for last,” she said as she parked in the Starbucks lot. “I wanted to tell you this myself, face-to-face.”
That certainly got his interest. “I can hardly wait.”
“Yeah, well, get this. Gardner’s little bedroom was plastered with baseball posters. Pretty much covered all the walls. CSU’s got the pictures—you should take a look.” She shot him a grin.
Luke groaned. “Ah, shit. You’re going to tell me he had one of mine, right?”
She cast him an assessing glance. “Oh, but there’s more, Beckett. The best part is that you’re smiling down on him from the head of his bed. Pride of place. You’re clearly Zeus in his pantheon of baseball gods.”
Luke didn’t much like the analogy. “I got the impression he was a fan boy when I met him and Figgins at the park. Jesus, I still can’t believe I had the killer right there beside me. Shaking my damn hand.”
Starbucks was crowded, but Luke was able to grab a small table by the door before following Robitaille to the counter. When they gave their orders for lunch, she made a point of including a venti dark roast, her eyes challenging him to make a fuss. No point, since it was a battle he couldn’t win. They took the food and settled at their table.
“Tell me about your morning,” she said before biting off a chunk of her vegetarian panini. For someone who wasn’t going to eat lunch, she seemed to be
attacking it with gusto.
He grinned as he remembered. “I started out by asking Alicia how she’d feel about me adopting her.”
With the sandwich halfway to her mouth, Robitaille’s hand froze. She put her sandwich back down on the plate and stared at him. “You did?”
“Yeah, I asked her if she’d be okay if I became her dad,” he repeated patiently.
She swallowed, looking flushed, and Luke suddenly realized he hadn’t been specific enough with her about his plans.
“I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I thought I’d told you I’ve been thinking about adoption.”
“Uh, no.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “That was a bit of a surprise.” She took a quick swallow of her coffee. “Actually, a pretty big surprise.”
Shit. Seeing her reaction, he felt deflated. “Well, it’s not a lock. At least not yet. But after meeting with the social workers, I’m feeling pretty confident. Alicia was over-the-moon happy.”
“I can imagine,” Robitaille said with little enthusiasm.
His mood skated even lower. He had counted on her being at least okay with his plan. “You don’t sound all that happy for us.”
She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “No, no—it’s not that. Not at all. It’s just that… I mean…are you sure you’re ready for that? It’s huge to assume responsibility for a healthy child, much less one who—”
“Might die soon,” he interrupted, not hiding his disappointment. “Believe me, I’ve thought about that long and hard.”
“Actually, I was going to say one who faces so many challenges.” Her face had drained of its remaining color, leaving her looking both exhausted and troubled. She inhaled a deep breath. “But I’m sorry I didn’t sound more enthusiastic, because you’re doing a really good thing, Beckett. Not many people would be willing to take on that kind of challenge.”
“And that’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” Luke said.
She didn’t answer.
Obviously he’d been an idiot to hope for an enthusiastic response from her. After all, it’s not like they really knew each other. Still, he’d been hoping she’d be at least supportive, and if they had any kind of future together, she had to be right with his decision.
She changed the subject back to the murder cases, but both the rest of their brief lunch and the drive back to HQ were awkward as hell.
*
Amy had to get out of the station, fast. She couldn’t be around Beckett a minute longer. She couldn’t pretend that a shift hadn’t occurred between them.
On her way out, she told Poushinsky she’d call Heath Harrison and then drop by his place to interview him on her own. After a long, steady look at her face, her partner simply nodded and turned back to his work.
Now, alone in her car, Amy cursed herself in two languages for her tepid, pathetic response to Beckett’s news. Objectively, the man deserved more than just congratulations—he probably deserved a medal.
She felt some anger with him, but mostly she felt ashamed of her behavior. She hadn’t thought about Beckett and the little girl he’d obviously grown to love. She’d thought only about herself and what he might expect from her in this new…situation.
And she couldn’t seem to get past that.
The problem was that she’d actually allowed herself to start thinking about a relationship with Beckett. A relationship that encompassed more than just the crazy physical desire they shared for each other. Now all she knew was that she wasn’t ready for whatever it was Beckett seemed to want. And, damn him, if he did expect them to have a chance at a real relationship, then he should have discussed his adoption plans with her before plunging into end-game discussions with the social workers.
Amy stopped at a red light, depression leaching into her tissues. No. it wasn’t Beckett’s fault. It was hers. She was the one who’d maintained that all they were doing was scratching a mutual itch. Now, the brutal ache in her heart gave the lie to that piece of fiction.
She should have known better than to ever let herself get involved, especially with someone as wonderful as Luke Beckett. Now the damage was done.
Chapter Sixty-One
Friday, August 6
1:25 p.m.
Amy eased her foot off the gas, slowing quickly to seventy-five as she raced up the interstate toward Jupiter. She always turned into Danica Patrick at the wheel when something yanked hard at her emotions.
Like Beckett’s revelation. Did the big-hearted jock really understand what he was letting himself in for? That he was likely going to have to face the agonizing loss of his child, a loss that would haunt him forever? How could he sign on for more tragedy when he’d faced so much already?
Amy knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t let that child into her life and start to love her, only to lose her all too soon. One fist-sized hole in her heart was enough. Another one might be the end of her.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to push Beckett from her mind and focus on Heath Harrison. Solving the murders came first. She’d deal with Beckett and her screwed-up emotions when Gardner was behind bars or in a body bag.
Amy was almost to Juno Beach when her cell phone buzzed. M.L. was finally returning her phone call from earlier in the day. “Jesus, Amy, what’s wrong?” her sister blurted. “You sounded pretty bent in that message you left.”
“Forget me. It’s you I’m worried about. Is Justin still away?”
“Yeah, of course. The team’s playing in Dunedin tonight and tomorrow.”
“Right, I knew that.” Amy chided herself silently. She couldn’t let even the smallest details start to slip through the cracks. “Chère, the good news is we’re closing in on this serial killer. You’ve probably seen the artist’s composite in the paper and on TV.”
“I saw it. Do you know who he is yet?”
“We’re working on it,” she hedged. She wasn’t about to give that kind of information out, not even to her sister. “We’re sure the guy killed at least one more woman, up in Maine. Another wife of a baseball player.”
M.L. remained silent for a few seconds. “But won’t the guy run now, Amy? Now that his face is out there?”
“Maybe. But you can’t afford to let your guard down. That’s why I called. I want you to be even more careful until we find this guy.” Amy paused for a moment as she pulled to a stop in front of Harrison’s home. “The killer targets wives whose husbands are playing on the road. All four murders have followed that pattern.”
“Amy, you’ve already given me enough lectures about being careful,” M.L. huffed.
“Well, I’m giving you another. I’m your big sister, and you’re going to listen to me,” she snapped. “Whenever Justin’s away, you make damn sure your house is locked up tight every single minute. And, for God’s sake, don’t let anyone with a penis inside the house. Not unless he’s your priest or your doctor. The killer worms his way inside by fooling women. He’s been putting on team gear and flashing a team ID card, but who knows what the hell else he might come up with. So, you can’t afford to take any chances. I mean that, M.L. You’ve got a little kid.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” M.L. said crisply. “I’d never let anything happen to Cooper. You know that.”
“Of course, but humor me. I just want you to be extra careful until we nail this son of a bitch. Especially with Justin away. Promise me, Chère.”
M.L. sighed. “I promise. But I have to go out tonight. My friend Jamie and I are going to a party at our fitness club. She’s bringing her son over, and my sitter is going to take care of him and Cooper.”
Amy smacked the steering wheel in frustration. “Bad idea. Really bad idea.”
“No. I really want to do this, and I’m not going to let Jamie down. But I’ll be home by ten o’clock. And Jamie will be with me the whole time. She has to come home with me since she’ll be picking up Morgan.”
“Calice,” Amy muttered, knowing the battle was hopelessly lost. “Please just be extra careful. No da
rk parking lots. Keep your car locked when you’re in it, and make sure you’ve got a clear path to the door before getting out.”
“I’m not stupid, Amy,” M.L. said testily before hanging up.
*
Heath Harrison looked like he’d been hit by a bus. In a way, Amy supposed he had. He’d faced the ultimate horror, staring with unbelieving eyes at his dead wife’s battered corpse.
“Are you sure you’re up to this, Mr. Harrison?” she asked, studying his bleary eyes and drawn face. Maybe she should wait another day to question him. He probably wouldn’t have anything to tell her that would help track down Gardner any faster.
“Come in,” he said dully, not answering her question.
He led her into a sparsely-furnished kitchen/great room and pointed to an easy chair next to a gas fireplace. The giant TV was tuned to ESPN, but had been muted. She didn’t sit.
“You’ll want this.” Harrison picked something up off the granite kitchen counter and walked slowly toward her, his hand extended. “It came in the mail this morning. Megan must have had it in her handbag.”
Bingo. A very small snapshot with maybe forty per cent of the photo cut away.
She glanced at Harrison. His flat eyes and slightly slurred speech had to be the product of tranquilizers or booze, or both. She sighed, reaching deep for the patience she needed to question him.
“Mr. Harrison, please put it back on the counter. I’ll bag it later after I put on gloves.”
“Fine,” Harrison said. His eyes darkened, finally showing some sign of life. “I just wish I could get my hands on the fucker who sent this.”
“I understand, sir.”
He pretty much sneered at her. “Do you, Detective?”
Amy wished she could scream it out. Yes, I know exactly what it’s like to have the bottom fall out of your life. And I know it won’t go away, no matter what. But she would never say that, no matter how much she wanted to. “May I ask you just a few questions, sir?”
