Lethal Confessions (51 page)

He flicked another glance at the fuel gauge and cursed again. He was briefly tempted to floor it and close the gap with Garneau, maybe even try to force him off the road. But he knew her chances under that scenario were minimal.

Though he had to be patient for Robitaille’s sake, it was the hardest thing Luke had ever done.

A jarring series of metallic clangs dragged Amy back to consciousness. She forced her eyes open, blinking again and again to adjust to sudden bright light. Everything looked a little fuzzy, but she finally realized they were parked inside a small garage. The clanging must have been from the overhead door opening and closing.

Garneau pressed his gun into her side. “Shit, I didn’t expect you to come around so fast,” he said, clearly rankled. “That dose should have put you down for at least a couple of hours.” He poked the gun hard into her ribs. “I guess you really are one tough bitch.”

Amy suppressed a grunt of pain. She heard his words but was having trouble putting them together. It was almost as if he spoke through a fistful of gauze.

Tough?
Hardly. Amy’s head ached and her limbs seemed barely responsive. The tight plastic loop around her wrists had rubbed her skin almost raw.

Thank God he hadn’t been able to get her strapped down like the others before the sedative wore off. That had been the part of Plan B that had troubled her most. She knew she’d be in a world of trouble if she let him take her to his lair and tie her up like he’d done with the others. She’d be basically helpless, then, forced to hope that the cavalry—in the form of Luke Beckett—would arrive before Garneau shot screaming death into her veins.

The cavalry would eventually arrive—she had no doubt on that score. Beckett would find her, no matter what. But he’d have to take Garneau down on the killer’s own turf, and do it in the knowledge that any little mistake would mean her death. And maybe his own, too.

Beckett hadn’t wanted to listen, but she’d hammered away at him until he’d grudgingly admitted that there was no other way to make it work if they didn’t succeed at the initial rendezvous with Garneau. She’d told him that only two things mattered tonight—saving M.L. and Cooper, and capturing or killing Garneau. She’d made him promise he wouldn’t let any feelings for her lure him into making a stupid mistake that would let the serial killer go free or put Beckett himself in direct line of fire. After all, he now had a daughter to think about.

He’d mumbled that promise, but she wasn’t one bit sure she believed him.

At least M.L. and Cooper are safe now.

Amy glanced down at her bound hands as they rested in her lap. Garneau had tied them in front—a dumb mistake on his part. And the little GPS unit still felt hot on the delicate skin of her breasts. That comforting heat must mean it was still transmitting.

“This is where you brought them all,” she rasped, her throat as dry as sawdust. “So, where the hell are we?”

“My little house on the lake,” he drawled. “I sure don’t like having to say goodbye to this place. It’s served me real well, as you know.”

The FBI profile had been right in that regard. Garneau’s place was indeed central to his killing spree. Amy shuddered, not just for herself but for Krista Shannon, Carrie Noble, Ashley Rist, and Megan O’Neill. And for M.L., who could have ended up here instead of her.

Whatever the outcome, Amy knew she’d done the right thing.

Garneau had brought her here for a reason, just like he’d brought the others. Yes, to inflict physical pain, but more than that. She figured he had something to say to her, and maybe something to prove. If so, that should take some time, and time was on her side. Beckett had to be right behind them, and he’d never give up.

Garneau shuffled around the front of the car and opened her door, his gun now pointed at her head. “Get out. And if you decide to try anything, you’d better be goddamn sure it’s going to work, because if it doesn’t…” He gave her a sickening little grin. “Well, trust me, you’ll wish you’d played nice.”

Amy managed to slide her legs out until her shoes hit concrete, then carefully raised herself out of the compact sedan. Because he’d lowered the hood of his rain jacket, for the first time she was able to get a good look at Joey Garneau.

Young looking with short, spiky black hair and a slightly receding hairline, he had deep-set eyes that gave some maturity to an otherwise almost boyish face. His prominent nose had been broken. He’d shaved off the stubble Jodie Jamison had described and he looked a fair bit different from Orosco’s composite. The eyes the artist had inserted had definitely missed the mark. Though only a few inches taller than Amy, Garneau had an impressive, muscular body that was evident when she looked at the tight tee shirt beneath his open jacket.

It was time to get personal. Personal with Joey Garneau, serial killer.
Her
serial killer.

“Look, I’m not going to be stupid. Believe me, I know you can inflict an unimaginably painful death.”

He gave her a satisfied smile.

“Do you mind if I call you Joey?”

“That’s my name, isn’t it?” He pushed open the door connecting the garage to the house and waved her through.

Inside, she turned to face him again. “I really need to know why you killed those women, Joey. I don’t want to die never knowing why all this had to happen and why I ended up here.”

She played to his arrogance, and had reason to believe it would work. Garneau was a smug little bastard if there ever was one.

“I suppose that’s a reasonable enough request,” he said. “We’ll see.” He poked her with the big gun again. “Move your sweet little ass down the hall and take the second door on your right.”

Amy took a few tentative steps forward, then stumbled. “My legs are rubbery,” she said quickly as she bumped her shoulder against the wall.

It was a lie. Though her stomach felt a little nauseous, her strength was quickly returning. She had regained a lot more control of her legs and arms than she was indicating by her hesitant gait.

“Yeah, yeah, keep moving.”

She passed a small bathroom and then stopped at the open door of a bedroom. Inside, she could see a full-size bed with black metal head and foot boards. A fitted white sheet with multiple stains in the middle covered the mattress. Black leather straps dangled from the four corner posts. A recliner chair had been placed next to the bed, kind of like the ones they had in some hospital rooms. A bedpan and a kidney-shaped emesis tray sat atop an otherwise bare dresser.

Tabarnak
. Amy’s stomach heaved and she was forced to swallow bile.

Garneau had covered all four walls with rigid pink insulation, and filled the gaps with some sort of spray-on foam that had hardened into long white streaks. Even the back of the door was insulated. He’d obviously attempted to crudely soundproof the room, and had covered over whatever windows there would have once been.

Beckett would have trouble hearing or seeing anything from outside the house.

This might very well be the room where Amy would take her last breath before joining Ariane.

“Get in there and sit down on the bed,” Garneau said. Once she was inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.

Amy gingerly perched on the edge of the mattress and then Garneau sat down in the recliner, his gun never wavering and his eyes never leaving her.

She had to struggle to take deep breaths as her insides kept twisting. But she knew she had to try not to not show her fear.

Get him talking and keep him talking—that’s your only chance.
“Why did you bring me here, Joey? Why not just kill me at the pier?”

“Come on,” he said, pursing his lips. “You know damn well your SWAT boys would have nailed me one second after I pulled the trigger. I’m not into death by cop, Robitaille.”

She started to respond but he jumped in before she could. “But that’s not the whole reason. The other important thing is that I want to give you a chance to confess your sins. Just like I gave those other bitches their chances.”

She frowned, startled. “My sins?”

“Don’t be coy, Detective,” he sneered. “I’m sure you’ve got a good, long list.”

To hell with the guessing games. Amy wasn’t going to let him mess with her head. “You’ll have to help me out here a little, Joey.”

He shook his head, grimacing. “Don’t try to screw with me. It’s not in your best interests.” Bitterness coated every word. “You know something? You’re all self-righteous and judgmental, but you’re the one responsible for screwing up three other players. Fucking up their futures. That’s a pretty damn big sin, don’t you think? Three guys are going to go down the toilet—all because of you, Detective Amy Fucking Robitaille. I had a mission. I could have saved those guys. Saved their careers. But you went and fucked it all up, so now I’m going to make you pay the price.”

By the time he was finished, he was vibrating with anger.

Her heart was practically pounding out of her chest but Amy gave him a purposefully blank stare.
This guy is bat shit crazy
. “Sorry, Joey, but I’m afraid you’re way ahead of me. I’m not getting it.”

He seemed to pull himself back under control, giving her a quick nod. “Yeah, okay. We’ll get to that. But, first, we’re going to talk about Luke Beckett.”

Sunday, August 8

1:35 a.m.

Amy’s heart beat even faster as she struggled to school her expression. “Beckett?”

“You’re fucking him, Robitaille,” Garneau said. “Don’t even think about denying it.”

Despite her utter shock, she looked straight into his eyes and lied, a skill she’d honed in years of grilling criminals. “Beckett and I are just working together on this case.”

“Bullshit,” he spat.

Keeping his gun leveled on her, he got up and pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. “See in there?” he growled.

Amy leaned forward to peer into the drawer. What she saw inside made her stomach pitch again. Garneau had assembled a set of instruments—knives, pliers, a rotary cutter, a garrote, and a steel mallet. And a gleaming surgical scalpel. Earlier, she’d noted the baseball bat propped against the wall beside the dresser.

She got the message.

“I’ll hurt you if you make me,” he said, grinning. “You know I will.”

She had no interest in testing that assertion. “All right. Beckett and I have become close. How did you find out?”

He snorted. “Fuck, I knew there was something going on from the minute I saw you two at that press conference on TV.”

She forced a small smile. “Not much gets by you, does it, Joey?”

He preened a little at the compliment. “Luke Beckett’s been my favorite player since I was a kid, and it fucking near killed me when I saw him sitting at that table with the people that were trying to fuck up my mission.” A red flush mottled his face. “I was mad as hell at him for a little while, but then I calmed down and figured it out. You brainwashed him, Robitaille. You brainwashed him like all those other bitches brainwashed their men. Fucking Megan O’Neill and all the rest. You’re all alike.”

He was working himself into a rage, and that was the last thing she wanted. She needed him to stay calm and keep talking for as long as possible. “I certainly understand why you admire Beckett,” she said in a soft voice. “He was an incredible player, wasn’t he?”

“Hell, yeah,” Garneau said, nodding. “He was the best.”

“I saw the poster above your bed. That was a very special place for a very special player.”

“You got that right. And you know something else?” Garneau’s lips curved into a tight grin. “Luke was the smartest player, too.”

“I’m not surprised,” Amy said sincerely.

“Yeah, he was. Because he never let himself get tied down to a bitch that would make his life miserable and ruin his career.”

The grin vanished and cruelty pulled his features into an ugly mask. Hatred for women practically seeped from his pores. God, she wanted to rip his pathetic throat out.

Instead, Amy forced herself to appear deeply interested in whatever the wacko had to get off his chest. “I’m wondering, do you think all women are like that?”

He grimaced. “No, not all of them. Of course not. Don’t think I’m stupid, Detective.”

She shook her head. “Oh, you’re far from stupid, Joey. It was only by sheer luck that we managed to track you down.”

That pleased him, and the ugliness receded a bit. When he wasn’t snarling or grimacing, he looked so youthful. Where had this young man gone wrong? When had that cute boy in the baseball photo with his dad turned into a murderous monster?

She found herself wanting to find out. “Tell me about those women—Krista Shannon, Carrie Noble, Ashley Rist, Megan O’Neill. Were they all bitches that were ruining their husbands’ careers?”

“Damn right they were. And now they’re out, because I cut them out. I saved those guys, Robitaille. Kevin and Matt and Tyler and Heath—they’re all free men now. They’re going to go on and have great careers, every one of them. They’ll meet somebody nice, too. Somebody who’ll be good to them, and help them be the best they can be instead of dragging them down.”

Keep talking, because I’ll listen all night, asshole
.
Well, until Beckett gets here, that is.
“I think I’m beginning to understand, Joey. Is that what happened to Eddie Ramirez? After his wife’s death, he made it to the major leagues, didn’t he?”

Garneau’s jaw dropped and, for a split-second, the gun wavered. But he quickly reined in his surprise. “Fuck, you
are
good. How’d you connect me to Eddie?”

Amy smiled. “Your pal, Brett Kozak.”

Another surprised look. “Aw, fuck. I thought Kozak ran so far that nobody would ever hear from him again.” He shook his head ruefully. “I should have killed the fucker when I had the chance.”

“The FBI found him. It’s hard to get away from those guys. But why didn’t you kill Kozak?”

“Simple. I wanted to use him some more. Keep my supply up. But the stupid dickhead got himself caught. Then the son of a bitch lit out before I could get to him.”