Lethal Confessions (26 page)

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. And I want to grab some of your players, too, if you don’t mind.”

Rondon’s expression turned wary. “Look, those murders have hit everybody hard. Every married guy on the damn team is jumpy, and a lot of the women are freaked out. Can’t say as I blame them, either. But I don’t want the cops hassling my players.”

“Carlos, you know your guys are under suspicion. The team was in Lakeland when the first murder happened, and here when the last two women were killed.”

“So what?” Rondon shifted his eyes toward the outfield and yelled at one of the players for diving at a ball. “I know these guys. Trust me, I’d know if one of them was a fucking serial killer.”

Carlos had a point. Players and coaches spent massive amounts of time together, and got to know each other closely. But Luke also knew that psychopaths could blend in and appear totally normal.

“You notice anything unusual? Anything at all that could help the investigation?” Luke asked.

Rondon gave a tight shake of his head. “Not a thing. Everything is normal. Or at least it was until this serial killer shit hit the news.”

“You mind if I chat with a few of the guys?”

Carlos shook his head grimly. “Yeah, I mind. I guess I owe you, though, Beckett, so go ahead. But if we lose tonight, you owe me dinner.”

“Done.” Luke grinned and trotted to the outfield.

Twenty minutes later, he’d gone through over a dozen players. It had been easy, since they huddled around him in groups of three or four, much to the displeasure of Carlos who kept yelling at them to get on with their warm-ups. Luke made a point of avoiding Johnny Franks and Colt Hansen. It wasn’t difficult since Franks hadn’t yet appeared from the dugout, and Hansen was doing some light tossing in the bullpen.

To a man, the players were both pissed off and worried about the murders. But none had a single useful bit of information to offer. No one would even entertain the possibility that the killer could be one of his teammates.

As the position players assembled near the dugout in preparation for batting practice, Luke grabbed Adam Creighton, the Cardinals’ regular closer, near the bullpen. Creighton’s troubled face told Luke he’d heard from the other guys what Luke was up to.

“Ready to go again tonight, Crater?” Luke asked, knowing Creighton had picked up the save in last night’s win.

Creighton glanced toward the dugout and shifted his feet nervously. “I know what you’re here for.”

“Okay, you want me to call you later?” Luke was sure the big pitcher wanted to tell him something. “Smile, Crater. Look like we’re just having a great time shooting the shit.”

Creighton took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm. Then he did a pretty good job of forcing a grin. “I think one of our guys was fooling around with one of those women —Carrie…”

“Noble.” Luke put his hands on his hips and laughed as if Creighton had just told him a joke. “Go on.”

“The guy would kill me if he knew I told you his name. He’s fucking crazy, Luke. So, this can’t come back on me, okay?”

“You can trust me,” Luke said.

“Johnny Franks,” Creighton said in a voice so low Luke could barely make it out. “His locker’s one over from mine. I overheard him saying the name Carrie a few times on his phone., and it was pretty clear to me what they were talking about.” Creighton glanced around again. “You’d better leave now.”

“Thanks, man.” Luke gave him a quick little slap on the ass and jogged down the edge of the field toward the gate behind home plate. Before he could get through it, two guys in St. Lucie uniforms hurried over to meet him.

They both wore baseball pants and shoes, but sported team tee shirts instead of jerseys.
Trainers
. One guy was in his late thirties and stocky, while the other looked a lot younger. Probably the older guy’s assistant.

“Hey, Luke. I’m Chuck Figgins.” The stocky guy shoved out a callused hand that Luke grasped and shook. “I’m the Mets’ trainer. This here’s our equipment manager, Jason Gardner.”

“Hi, guys,” Luke said as he shook Gardner’s hand.

“You mind autographing some stuff?” Figgins asked. “It’s not every day we get to meet a future Hall of Famer.”

Luke wasn’t one of those guys who only signed autographs for money, especially when it was a baseball man asking. “Sure. Be glad to.”

Figgins and Gardner took off their caps and shoved them into his hand. Figgins handed him a thick blue marking pen.

Luke looked closely at the two trainers. Both seemed familiar, but he hadn’t seen the St. Lucie team this year. Maybe he’d noticed the men last year, or at spring training. The St. Louis and Florida spring training games at Roger Dean were always jammed.

After he’d signed both caps, Figgins shoved a pristine baseball at him. Luke scribbled his name between the seams.

He figured he might as well question these guys, too, since they’d approached him. “While I’ve got you, fellas, can I ask how the guys in your clubhouse are handling this whole thing with the murders?” He figured they must be aware that he was involved in the investigation.

Figgins’ eyes widened, obviously surprised by the abrupt question. He looked down at his feet and kicked some dirt.

“They’re all kind of freaked,” Gardner said, jumping in. “Especially after that press conference you were at yesterday, Mr. Beckett. Some guys were saying they were going to take their wives with them on road trips until the killer is caught.”

“Think the killer might be a ballplayer, Chuck?” Luke asked, wondering why the head trainer was looking so uncomfortable.

His eyes still cast down, Figgins scowled and kicked some more dirt before finally raising his gaze. “How the hell should I know? He’d have to be crazy, but there’s more than one crazy fucker in this league.” He turned his head toward the Cardinals’ dugout.

Luke and Gardner followed Figgins’ gaze. Leaning back lazily against the side of the dugout, a cocky grin on his face, shortstop Johnny Franks basked in the gushing admiration of a trio of twenty-something fan girls.

“One thing I can say for certain, Mr. Beckett,” Gardner said as he stared at Franks. “Chuck’s sure got that right.”

Sunday, August 1

5:50 p.m.

Even in the full throes of her infatuation with Gabe Labrash, Amy had never been a baseball fan. The last time she’d taken in a game had been on that final trip to spring training in Tampa. Was it already nine years ago? She and her friends had lustily booed Labrash for one last go-round before calling it quits.

The game between the Palm Beach Cardinals and the St. Lucie Mets was in the bottom of the tenth inning, with Palm Beach trailing by one run. Amy had assumed the game would be over by the time she and Poushinsky got there, and they’d catch Johnny Franks as he left the clubhouse. But she hadn’t counted on extra innings. As they stood in the shade of the upper tier, she uttered a silent prayer that the Cardinals wouldn’t score a run in the bottom of the tenth and prolong the agony.

Almost two hours ago, Beckett had called her to relate what he’d learned from the Cardinal players during their pre-game warm-up. When he’d told her one of them had named Johnny Franks as Carrie Noble’s possible lover, her heart rate zinged into overdrive. An hour or so later, Ryan had called her after reaching Allegra Karenes. Karenes had confirmed Franks as the man Carrie had been seeing while her husband was on the road.

Right away, Amy had grabbed Poushinsky and headed straight for Roger Dean Stadium. But now the waiting was making her crawl out of her skin.

“Robitaille,” Poushinsky said as he leaned against the metal rail that separated the central walkway from the stands below, “it’s just not right to be watching a ball game on a hot Sunday afternoon without a beer in my hand.” He shook his head sadly as a beer vendor passed them.

Amy ignored him as a crack of a bat grabbed her attention. She almost groaned aloud as the Cardinal batter drilled a long, high fly ball toward the right field foul pole. If it stayed fair, the game would be tied. At what seemed like the last minute, though, the ball curved to the right of the post and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Too bad they don’t serve daiquiris here,” Amy deadpanned.

“Piss off,” Poushinsky answered in a genial tone. A moment later he straightened. “Take a look at the Cardinals’ dugout. Check out what Franks is doing.”

She shifted her gaze to the home team dugout. Johnny Franks had moved down to the end of the bench and was bending to tie his shoes. After he straightened up, he swaggered the length of the dugout and back again. Then he slid his bat out of the rack, inspected it, and pushed it back in. A few seconds later, he repeated the bat inspection. Finally, he took out a couple of pieces of gum and popped them into his mouth.

Poushinsky chuckled. “Franks is kind of notorious for going through the exact same rituals before he steps out into the on-deck circle. Real superstitious.”

“He reminds me of a little rooster,” Amy said scornfully. “Or maybe a peacock. You can tell he thinks the sun shines out his ass.”

She kept her eyes glued on the muscular shortstop. Franks looked like a man playing against boys. The program listed him as twenty-six, but he looked at least five years older. His dark features—heavy black eyebrows, thick stubble on his cheeks and chin, and buzz-cut black hair that did little to disguise his receding hairline—gave him a hard, even dangerous, air. “A tough guy,” she said. “At least he thinks so.”

“He’s aggressive as hell,” Poushinsky said. “The guy’s a little short on talent, so he tries to make it up with hustle and grit.”

Amy glanced down at the Cardinals roster listed in the program. As she ran her finger down the players’ birth dates, she noted that almost all of them were between twenty-one and twenty-four. Franks was the senior citizen on the team.

The batter hit the ball hard, but right at the second baseman who caught it for the out. Two out, now. Scowling, Franks took two more hard swings with a weighted bat and strode to the plate. The way he pawed the dirt in the batter’s box made Amy think of a bad-tempered bull.

“Think the man’s got anger management issues?” she asked. “Beckett described him as a grenade with the pin pulled.”

Amy had never much liked Carrie’s mystery lover for the murders, but she couldn’t deny that Franks seemed to have quite a few of the ingredients to bake the cake.

Swinging at the first pitch, Franks cracked a hit over the shortstop’s head into left field and rounded the corner at first base before jamming on the brakes.

“Damn,” Amy muttered under her breath. “Bastard would get a hit, wouldn’t he?”

“Relax,” Poushinsky said lazily. “It’s a great game.”

She glared at him but he ignored her.

Franks took a big lead off first, looking ready to tear up the dirt. The pitcher glanced over at him twice, then delivered the ball to the plate. Franks took off. The batter fanned on the pitch and the catcher fired the ball to the second baseman. Franks slid head-first under the tag. A stolen base.

Amy sighed. If guy at the plate wound up getting a hit, Franks would score and the stupid game would keep going.

She didn’t have long to wait. On the next pitch, the batter hammered a ground ball past the shortstop’s reach into left field. Franks took off at the crack of the bat, and was rounding third base as the Mets’ fielder scooped up the ball and fired it toward home plate. His throw was hard and deadly accurate, and even Amy could see the ball was going to beat Franks to the plate. But Franks charged home anyway, making no attempt to slide under the tag but instead lowering his shoulder. In a horrifying crash, he slammed into the catcher’s chest, bowling him over. Franks rolled several feet and jumped back up.

The burly catcher rose slowly and held out his glove to the umpire. Seeing the ball was still in the glove, the umpire punched the air to signal the out. Instantly, the catcher launched himself at Franks, who seemed to be waiting for the assault, bouncing on his toes. Franks took a quick step to the side and threw a punch as the catcher tackled him around the waist. Both men went down in a tangle of limbs. The two dugouts emptied immediately, and at least a dozen players began mixing it up around home plate as the umpiring crew rushed into the fray to pull people apart.

“Franks—what a colossal asshole,” Poushinsky growled.

Amy nodded her agreement with his assessment, but was just thankful the catcher had held onto the ball to finally end the game.

Poushinsky hammered on the door of the Cardinals’ clubhouse. When a tee-shirted guy let them in—Amy presumed he was some kind of clubhouse attendant—they pointed to their badges and stepped inside.

“Where’s Johnny Franks?” Amy said.

“You’d better speak to the manager,” the young guy said, desperately looking toward the rear of the room.

Most of the players seemed to be in the showers, though some were still at their lockers, taking their time getting undressed. More than a few players shot frowns Amy’s way, including the handful that stood around a food table in the middle of the room, wolfing down chicken wings, greasy pizza and various other unhealthy snacks.

A portly man, also frowning, sauntered up to them. “What’s this about, Officers?”

“Detectives Robitaille and Poushinsky,” Poushinsky said acidly. “And you are?”

“The manager. Carlos Rondon.”

“Well, Carlos, since I don’t see Johnny Franks, I assume he must be in the shower. So, we’d appreciate it if you could tell him to towel himself off and get his ass out here to answer some questions.”

Carlos grunted. “Johnny’s already dressed. He raced in and out of the shower like his tail was on fire.” He pointed to an area off the main clubhouse room. “He’s in there.”

Amy and Poushinsky stepped through an open door and found Franks primping in front of a wall mirror. He didn’t notice them as he intently raked his hands through his still-damp hair. Obviously satisfied with his image, he picked up a bottle of cologne and sprayed bursts on his neck and wrists.