Lethal Confessions (52 page)

“I see,” Amy said. Kozak had been lucky, after all. “Can we talk about Rita Ramirez for a moment? That one seems so different, which is why we didn’t initially connect it to the other murders.”

“Fucking Rita, queen of the bitches,” he spat. “God, I hated that cow. But I didn’t mean to kill her. I just went there that night to talk. Well, to try to talk, anyway. I thought maybe I could persuade her to stop screwing Eddie over. But the dumb bitch wouldn’t listen so I had to beat on her ass.”

Amy wanted to puke, but she managed a nod. “I understand. You took care of your friend. Did that give you the idea to help more players? Help them like you helped Eddie?”

He grinned, looking almost like a smug teenager. “I saw what happened to Eddie after I got Rita out of his life, and right then I knew I could help out a lot of other players, too. The bitches fuck with the guys’ heads, but the guys never seem to connect the dots between their screw-ups on the field and their screwed-up marriages.
I
do, though.”

How far back did Joey’s delusions go? She might as well take a chance and hope he’d keep talking. Garneau seemed to be almost anxious to explain himself.

“Were you a baseball player yourself? I think you must have been, simply because you care so much.”

Garneau wriggled back in the recliner, relaxing a little. He looked like he might even be enjoying their little talk. “Yeah, baseball was my whole life when I was a kid. You wouldn’t believe how good I was. I had a whole room full of trophies, and I owed it all to my dad. He worked hard with me, and always said I could make it to the big leagues some day if I worked hard, too. I believed him.”

“Really? You were that good?”

He seemed to retreat into the past for a few moments.
Take all the time you want.

“Dad coached me every day. Every day he was home, at least. Dad knew what he was talking about, because he made it to the majors himself.”

She feigned admiration. “Wow, no kidding?”

“He played ten games for the Red Sox,” Garneau said with evident pride. “I was only five that season, but I still remember what it felt like when he came up to bat the first time at Fenway Park. I watched it on TV. All I could think about for a long time was how much I wanted to stand in that batter’s box someday, just like he had.”

“But you didn’t get the chance, did you, Joey?”

The fingers of his left hand tightened on the arm of his chair and hatred seemed to take him once more. “My goddamn mother fucked it all up. She hated baseball, and was always yapping at Dad that he was never going to be good enough to make it in the majors. She nagged him all the time to quit playing and get a real job. Called him a loser because he never made much money. And she hated that we had to move around, following him from team to team. When I was ten, she went back to Ville Platte for good and dragged me with her even though I didn’t want to go. After that, we only saw Dad in the off-season.”

“That must have been hard for you.” Surprisingly, her sympathy sounded genuine to her ears. And it was—for the kid Joey Garneau had once been.

He almost looked like he was going to cry. “Jesus, yeah. Her bitching was why Dad drank so much. And when he drank, they’d fight even more. I’d have to lock myself in my room and pull the fucking blankets over my head.”

“Your parents are both dead, right? What happened?” Amy knew but wanted him to tell her, and take his time doing so.

He grimaced again. “One night they were going at it really loud, and the next thing I knew my mother was yelling at Dad that she was leaving him.” His words came out clipped, dripping with a lifetime of hate. “Maybe he smacked her then, because I heard her cry out, and then the yelling and swearing started again. And then running. Then I heard a gun go off and I ran out to the living room and found Dad on the floor. There was blood all over his shirt. She’d shot him in the chest.”

His lips pulled back into an agonized snarl. “The bitch was standing there with the gun in her hand, just watching as I got down on my knees, hugging Dad and crying and yelling and calling her a fucking murderer. I told her I hoped she’d fucking die in the electric chair. Then she put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.” He inhaled deeply and shook his head. “Ever seen brains splattered all over a wall, Detective?”

Amy swallowed hard. In fact, she had. “I’m sorry, Joey. To see what you saw, and to be orphaned so young...”

He seemed to shake off the surge of emotions, quickly morphing back into the pitiless killer. “The state made me go live with my grandmother in Maine, because I was still a minor. She said she wanted me, but she was a bitch, too. Just like her fucking daughter.”

So you tried to murder her by burning down the house
.

He started to get up. “So, that’s my sad little story, Robitaille. And now it’s time now for
you
to start talking.”

“I understand,” she said, not moving.

She’d fight him now if she had no other choice, but she sure didn’t want to. She needed Beckett. Needed him to distract the killer, even for a second. Anything to give her a real chance. Beckett had to be close by now.

“Can you just explain one more thing for me first?” she said quickly.

“Jesus Christ, Robitaille. I’ve been nice, but you’re really starting to piss me off.”

She let her head sag forward. “Please. I’m about to die, for God’s sake.”

He gave a frustrated sigh. “Make it quick.”

Amy looked back up at him, smiling as she cleared her throat. “Thanks. We came to the conclusion that you were trying to plant evidence to make us believe Johnny Franks had murdered at least some of those women,” she said slowly. “But I can’t figure out why you would try to frame him. You must have known that it wouldn’t work.”

When he laughed, the sound was cold and cruel. “I was just having a little fun with that. Franks is such a prick. He treats everybody else on the field like shit. And, hell, it was easy to point a finger or two in his direction since I knew what he’d been up to. I figured it would confuse you for a few days. Keep you looking in the wrong direction.”

“It sure did,” Amy said, injecting an admiring tone into her voice. “Look, I’m sorry, Joey, but there’s one more thing I have to know. Just one. Then you can do what you want.”

Her deferential manner seemed to work. “One more,” he said.

She nodded. “Are you going to kill me because I found out you were the murderer? Or, are you doing it to save Luke Beckett from me?”

“Both,” he said, without a second of hesitation. “But don’t flatter yourself. It’s mainly because somebody has to pay for stopping me before I could complete this mission. Helping Luke out is a bonus, but I figure he would have tossed you aside sooner or later, anyway. He’s always had his head screwed on straight.”

God forgive her, she had thought the same only a few days ago. But now she knew that Beckett wasn’t like that. In a space of less than two weeks, she’d come to believe Luke Beckett was the finest man she had ever known. She just prayed she would have the chance to tell him that.

Garneau got up and motioned for her to rise, too. “I know you’re going to tell me you were just doing your job, but fuck that. And fuck you if you can’t you see that what I do is important. The men I save are special, Robitaille. They have a talent God has given to only a few guys on the planet. If they aren’t allowed to be great, like they’re supposed to be, it’s a sin. An absolute sin.”

Amy nodded as if she understood his sick logic.

“And you want me to confess. Yeah, I think I get it now.”

“That’s right.” He gave her a pleased smile. “Good for you, Detective. I’m impressed.”

Nut job
.

“And now that we’re done with the little show and tell, it’s time to make your confession. A full and complete one, because you’ve seen what happens to bitches who don’t comply.”

She sensed she couldn’t push him to answer any more questions.
Beckett, where the hell are you?

“I understand, but please, I need to use the bathroom first. I haven’t gone since way before I left West Palm hours ago, and I’m absolutely bursting. I don’t want to embarrass myself or make a mess, but honest to God that’s going to happen in about thirty seconds. I’m not kidding, Joey.”

Garneau laughed. “Fuck that. You really do think I’m stupid. Every fucking time I start to think you have a little respect for me, you say something shitty like that.”

“Please. You’ve got the gun. What can I do?”

“You can piss yourself if you have to. I don’t care.” He waved the gun at her. “Now, take off all your clothes.”

Sunday, August 8

1:35 a.m.

The GPS indicated Garneau’s vehicle had stopped in the town of Buckhead Ridge. Expelling a hard breath, Luke gave a silent prayer of thanks to every saint he could think of. He sped up as much as he dared and hoped the gas remaining his tank would get him there.

He’d kept Cramer well behind his true position. Deputies from Martin and Okeechobee had already set up roadblocks, but thanks to Luke’s misinformation they were miles behind. When Cramer demanded to know why Garneau hadn’t run into the roadblocks, Luke had been forced to pretend he’d temporarily lost cell phone contact. He hated to do it, but Garneau would kill Robitaille if they encountered any cops.

Cramer had already mustered two trucks full of SWAT team cops who were blasting toward Luke’s position. Along with Sergeant Knight, Cramer had boarded a helicopter with SWAT officers and a pair of medics.

A handful of minutes later, Luke turned off the highway into Buckhead Ridge. He made two quick turns, then cut his lights and crawled down the residential street where the tracker indicated Garneau had stopped. He peered into the distance and determined that it had to be the small house straight ahead. The one at the bend in the road—a bungalow separated from its neighbor on the east side by an empty lot. The L-shaped road had only two dim streetlights. Neither one was close to that house, and Luke muttered a silent thanks.

Darkness suited him just fine.

He called Cramer and gave him the exact coordinates.

“God dammit, Beckett,” his friend spluttered. “Don’t you go making one fucking move—”

Luke hung up. He’d be lucky if Cramer didn’t slap his ass in jail when this was all over.

He couldn’t spot Garneau’s car, but the target bungalow had an attached garage. The bastard must have pulled his car inside. Luke grabbed his nine-millimeter off the seat, got out, and rushed across a rain-slick lawn into the cover of the first house on the other side of the street. He moved quickly and silently across the neighboring yards, his eyes glued to a light that shone dimly in the target house.

Would Garneau be on the lookout? Or would he be confident he’d shaken any pursuit that might have been out there?

Luke stopped before traversing the empty lot. Even though it was totally dark, when he crossed that lot he’d be without a scrap of cover. If Garneau was watching, he’d probably be dead and so would Robitaille.

No choice.
Approaching from the other side would require a retracement of his steps, then a long loop back and around. A rear approach was impossible. A canal ran behind the house, effectively cutting off that means of access. He pressed the SIG Sauer against his thigh and scrambled across the lot, his head low. The footing was slick, a muddy combination of sand and dirt.

He swiped the rain from his eyes as he reached the side of the garage and listened. Nothing except the pelting of the rain on rooftops.

Sliding along the garage wall, he scanned the rear yard and back door. A concrete patio full of cracks was all that separated him and the door. When he saw no movement, he hit the ground and crawled his way forward along the rough, wet surface until he reached the door. Easing himself to his feet, he kept his head down and strained to hear.

Nothing.

On his left, a crude cover had been hammered into place over what must have been a bedroom window. A layer of Styrofoam had been sandwiched between two thin sheets of plywood. Ugly, but utilitarian. If that was what passed for soundproofing, that could definitely be his kill room.

Where he had Robitaille.

Luke’s body vibrated with rage, but he took a deep breath and tried to push his emotions aside. Easing back to his right, he raised his head enough to look through a window. The curtains were closed, but not all the way.

Kitchen cupboards. So, kitchen to the right of the door, probably bedroom to the left. Hallway in between. The living room, with its big window facing the street, was obviously in front of the kitchen. Likely another bedroom in front on the other side of the hall, with the bathroom beside it.

He fixed the probable layout in his mind and swung his eyes left again. Garneau and Robitaille would be in the room with the insulation barrier. The killer might already be playing his sick games in there, but that was something Luke couldn’t allow himself to think about. Robitaille would still be all right. She
had
to still be all right.

Luke didn’t like the odds one damn bit, but they were going to get worse if he didn’t get moving. He had to trust that Robitaille was alive, and doing everything she could to fight back.

Time to roll
.

Sunday, August 8

1:50 a.m.

Naked. And cold. So cold
.

Working hard to mask her fear, Amy tried to quell her shivering as she stood in front of Garneau and glared at him. He had always stripped his victims, even though he didn’t rape them. The bastard knew how vulnerable a naked woman felt, and how that vulnerability ramped up her fear.

She searched his murky eyes for lust but found none. In fact, he stared straight back at her face, mostly ignoring her naked body.

Now would be a good time, Beckett.

Plan B had called for her to seize the first realistic opportunity to attack Garneau once M.L. and Cooper were safe. But he’d given her no opportunity at Pahokee, or since. Now, she prayed for the deafening crack of the flashbang Beckett had in his arsenal. If she hadn’t been able to overpower or escape from Garneau, Beckett’s job was to be a one-man assault squad, distracting the killer long enough for Amy to take him down.