The Bait

by Carol Ericson

  “I didn’t see her, but I heard her.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “Dad, she was so brave. She got into Mike’s car, and she told me that everything was going to be okay. That you were all looking for me, and I would be safe now. But, what about her, Dad?”

  “We’ll find her.” He choked. “We’ll get her back.”

  The EMT approached them and said, “She’s fine, sir. A little shaken up. We put some ice on her jaw and gave her some ibuprofen for the swelling and pain.”

  “Thanks. Do you need the thermal blanket back?”

  “She can keep that.”

  A patrol officer approached. “Detective? We’re canvassing the area for cameras. We have a description of his car from the club and we’ll try to find it on the footage.”

  “Perfect.”

  Before he got another word out of his mouth, a second officer approached him. “Sir, we found Ms. Chase’s car.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath. “Anything?”

  “Nothing—no purse, no phone, no ID...no blood.”

  Jake massaged the back of his neck. “Okay, I’ll be over in a minute.” He turned back to Fiona.

  “I’m not sending you back to my place alone. I think it might be best if I had someone take you to the station. You can wait for me there until I’m done with this scene. I’m so glad to have you back.” He pulled her into a hug. “You never told me whose phone you used to call me. Can you point them out? I’d like to thank him or her, personally.”

  “I didn’t use someone else’s phone.” Fiona looked down at the ground and kicked at a rock with the toe of her shoe.

  “I know he didn’t give you your phone back. You called me from a number I didn’t recognize.”

  She held up one finger and then dug into her purse. She pulled out a flip phone. “I called you from this phone. I’m sorry. I bought a second phone that you and Mom didn’t know about.”

  A surge of adrenaline flooded his body. “Did Mike know you had this phone?”

  Shrugging, she said, “I don’t think so. I had my other phone in my hand when he...picked me up. I turned it off myself, but he made me throw it out the window. This other phone was at the bottom of my purse. He didn’t ask, and I never told him.”

  Jake’s mouth dropped open. “You had this phone with you the whole time and it was turned on?”

  “Well, yeah. Nobody ever uses it to call me—except Nico, who isn’t really Nico.”

  Jake grabbed her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. “I’d forgive you ten burner phones right now.”

  * * *

  KYRA CLEARED HER THROAT. “When is he coming?”

  Mike glanced up from his phone, a shock of hair hanging in his eyes. “I’m not sure. We’ll figure it out. I turn you over to him, and I can go on with my plans.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “What do you mean?” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the grease left over from the fast-food tacos.

  She lifted a stiff shoulder. “Maybe he won’t let you continue. You’ve broken the rules. You’ve jeopardized yourself and him.”

  “He doesn’t have a say in whether or not I continue. I’m good at this. I haven’t gotten caught yet, have I?”

  “Haven’t you? Once you snatched Detective McAllister’s daughter, you entered a whole other realm of being public enemy number one. Do you understand how many people are working to find you now? The Player isn’t going to like that.”

  He bit into his taco and answered with his mouth full of food. “Who cares?”

  “I think you should care. Look at what happened to Jordy Cannon. Look at what happened to Cyrus Fisher.” She tapped her temple. “Do you have one of those cyanide tablets, too?”

  “What if I do?” He dropped the taco, which fell to pieces on his plate right next to a .45. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll make you take it.”

  “Where is he?” Kyra caught sight of a light blinking outside behind Mike. Her breath hitched in her throat. Was that The Player now? Would she finally get a look at the man who had murdered her mother?

  “He does things in his own way.” Mike cranked his head over his shoulder, but the blinking light had stopped. He returned to his taco, picking up chunks of meat and cheese with his fingers and stuffing them into his mouth. “He was happy I brought you in. You were right about that.”

  As soon as Mike turned back around, she saw the light flash again. Then a red beam lasered into the window. Would Mike see it against the wall behind her? Where had it stopped? Was it aimed at her forehead?

  She tentatively rocked her chair to the side while Mike scooped up the rest of the contents of his taco. As his face dipped to his plate, she rocked harder until the chair tipped on its legs. She threw all her weight toward the floor.

  On her way down, she saw Mike jump up and grab his gun.

  She crashed to the floor, her cheekbone hitting one of the table legs. At the same time, the front door of the house burst open.

  “Drop your weapon!”

  From her vantage point, she saw Mike’s feet pivot toward the other room. He screamed out at the cops, “Did he send you?”

  He must’ve raised his gun because, in an instant, a hail of gunfire erupted in the room and Mike toppled against the blood-spattered wall.

  One second later, before Kyra had time to process what had happened, Jake was crouched beside her, snipping the zip ties away and pulling her into his arms. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  She looked into his face, her fingertips lightly resting on his chin. “How’d you know where I was?”

  Capturing her hand, he kissed her raw wrists. “We owe it all to my sneaky, rebellious daughter.”

  Epilogue

  “I don’t know why he’s your favorite person. He doesn’t even feed you.” She shuffled her feet against Spot to move him away from the door.

  “It’s male bonding.” Jake scratched the cat under his chin to lessen his ire at being denied entry into Kyra’s apartment.

  Jake placed his hand on the small of her back as they walked to his car, parked on the street. Ever since he’d rescued her from Mike’s house, he’d been hovering over her like a mother hen—a hot mother hen.

  Mike turned out to be Mitchell Reed, a twenty-six-year-old security guard and former college football player. His story about Jenna had proved to be true. He’d been using his security guard credentials to lure slightly tipsy women into his car as they stumbled out of bars and clubs by themselves.

  Whether or not The Player ever had any intention of collecting her from Mitchell’s house, they couldn’t know for sure. They traced Mitchell’s IP address to an account on Websleuths. Like the others, all private messages between him and The Player had been erased. Brandon was never able to track any of The Player’s IP addresses to one location.

  As Jake opened the passenger door for her, he said, “Are we picking up food for Quinn tonight or did Rose cook something for him?”

  “Neither. I’m ordering delivery.” When Jake came around and slid behind the steering wheel, she squeezed his forearm. “Fiona get off okay?”

  “She did.”

  “It’s a good thing she had that burner phone. She even tricked Mitchell.”

  “I don’t think she was trying to. He tossed her real phone, and she sort of forgot about the other phone at the bottom of her purse. She was accustomed to hiding it in the lining of her bag.” Jake shook his head. “How did she get to that point?”

  “Don’t start blaming yourself. Even Brandon Nguyen told me he had fake social media accounts to trick his parents.”

  “Brandon?” Jake grinned. “I gotta give him a hard time about that.”

  “Are you still allowing Fiona back here for Christmas?”

  “Are you kidding? She’s demanding it now because s
he wants to hang out with you.”

  Kyra’s nose tingled. “The feeling is mutual. Maybe this taught her a lesson, and she’ll be better behaved from here on out.”

  They looked at each other at the same time and said, “Nah.”

  “She’s going to suffer her mother’s wrath for a while. Tess is beating herself up for not monitoring her social media access better.” Jake brushed her cheek with his fingertip. “You have a new fan there, too. Tess is so grateful to you for trading yourself for Fiona.”

  “I knew Mitchell would go for it. These guys have an almost slavish devotion to The Player. Cannon and Fisher literally died for him. Mitchell definitely went rogue in that respect. I don’t think he was willing to lose his life for The Player.”

  “Quinn is so rattled by the idea that The Player is still alive.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell him anything about your abduction until it was all over.” Jake drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “There are still people on the task force who don’t believe this guy is The Player, even if he does have information known only to him.”

  “Are they aware of the information about Delia’s ring?”

  “Only Brandon. We’re keeping that close to the vest, so maybe that’s why.”

  They rode in silence for several seconds, each lost in their own thoughts until Jake broke it.

  “The last time we talked on the phone, you already knew you were going to traipse off to meet Mitchell, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know for sure it would work out, but that was my plan. Why?”

  He traced his finger around the curve of her ear and she shivered. “You told me you loved me. Did you say that because you thought it might be the last time we talked?”

  “I said it because it’s true.” She closed her eyes. “The circumstances made it easier to say. Before, I didn’t feel as if I had a right to declare my feelings while Fiona hated me and your ex didn’t trust me.”

  “Neither of those things is the case anymore.” He kissed his thumb and dragged it down the side of her throat. “I love you, too. When I thought I had lost you to Copycat Three, I felt dead inside.”

  Her throat closed and tears pricked the back of her eyes. “You’ve killed twice now to save me. You don’t even have to tell me you love me. I’ll take actions, any day.”

  “And I’ll do it again, if necessary, but there are easier ways to show my love for you.”

  Several minutes later, they pulled into the public parking lot across from the Venice Canals and the walk streets that meandered through them. As they walked over the bridge to Quinn’s house, clasped hands swinging, Kyra said, “Let’s not talk too much about The Player tonight. Fill him in on the case, because he’ll demand it, and then let’s go easy. He’s really upset at the thought of The Player still among the living.”

  “That’s a deal. I’m burned out, myself.”

  They reached Quinn’s red door, and Kyra knocked and called out at the same time, “We’re here.”

  She cocked her head, listening for Quinn’s response or footfall. On his better days, he answered the door himself. On other days, he invited her in and she used her key. Only silence answered this time.

  “Quinn?” She dragged her keys from her purse and shoved the one to his house in the lock. She clicked open the door and hit it with her hip. “Quinn?”

  She stepped inside with Jake close on her heels. Then she saw an arm splayed on the floor and a shock of silver hair. She charged forward and dropped to her knees beside Quinn’s body.

  “Quinn? Quinn?” She put her fingers at his throat, avoiding his blue eyes that had lost all their spark.

  As Jake crouched beside her, she grabbed his arm. “He’s dead, Jake. Quinn’s dead.”

  * * *

  Look for the final installment of Carol Ericson’s

  A Jake and Kyra Investigation series when

  The Trap goes on sale in July 2021!

  And don’t miss the previous books in the series:

  The Setup

  The Decoy

  Available now wherever Harlequin Intrigue

  books are sold!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Spring at Saddle Run by Delores Fossen.

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  Spring at Saddle Run

  by Delores Fossen

  CHAPTER ONE

  MILLIE PARKMAN DAYTON muttered a single word of profanity when she looked at the name on the sliver of paper that she’d just drawn from the bowl.

  A really bad word.

  One that would have gotten her mouth washed out with soap had she still been a kid. Because it’d been a while since anyone had crammed a bar of Dial Antibacterial into her mouth, Millie steeled herself for a mouth washing of a whole different kind.

  Sitting in the front row in the town hall of Last Ride, Texas, Millie’s mother, Laurie Jean Parkman, gasped and then lost nearly every drop of color in her face. No easy feat, considering she was wearing her usual full coverage makeup. After the color drained, her mom pulled out the mountain-size emotional guns.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  Narrowed eyes that had also gotten the full makeup treatment. Laurie Jean’s now hot baby blues warned Millie she’d better think fast and figure out a way to erase everyone’s memory of what she’d just said.

  Making waves brings shame—that was Laurie Jean’s motto. It wasn’t exactly needlepointed on pillows around the Parkman house, but it’d been served up verbally and often enough with morning oatmeal and the occasional mouthful of Dial Antibacterial.

  Shocked chatter rippled through the town hall. There’d be gossip. Then, pity and forgiveness. Millie knew the folks of her hometown of Last Ride would cut her enough slack to overlook the f-bomb. More slack than she would ever deserve.

  Because she was a twenty-nine-year-old widow.

  And because everyone in the room knew why she’d cursed. With the name she’d just drawn, life had just given Millie a big f-bomb poke in the eye.

  Twenty Minutes Earlier

  THE GLASS BOWLS filled with names sat like giant judging eyeballs on the table in front of the Last Ride town hall. Someone on the Last Ride Society Committee—obviously, someone with an inappropriate sense of humor—had put labels on them.

  “Bowl o’ Names” on the left.

  Not to be confused with bag o’ salad or Bowl o’ Tombstones on the judgy glass “eyeball” on the right.

  Millie’s stomach fluttered because she knew her name was in the left bowl, a place it’d been for eight and a half years since her twenty-first birthday. She was in good, and also bad, company since the name of every living adult Parkman relative in Last Ride was in that mix with her.

  At last count there were about three hundred and eighty, and names were added as her cousins, nieces, nephews, etc. came of age. Names were subtracted when cousins, nieces, nephews, Parkman spouses, etc. passed. Or fulfilled their assignments.

  The right bowl was jammed with folded slivers of paper with names, as well. No more coming of age for these folks though. These were names taken from the tombstones in all the local cemeteries. Millie didn’t find it comforting that the Bowl o’ Tombstones was stuffed to the brim.

  And that her husband’s name was in there.

  It had been for twenty-two months since Royce had been killed, and his name had been crammed in the mix shortly thereafter. Millie hoped it stayed there until she was part of the whole “ashes to ashes/dust to dust” deal. Then, some unlucky Parkman kin could have a go at doing their duty and do the research that would almost certainly stir up more gossi
p than it already had.

  The memories came. Of Royce’s fatal car wreck. Of the fact that Millie could no longer remember his taste. His scent. Or the last time Royce had told her he loved her. But there was something she could recall in perfect detail.

  That what she’d had with Royce had been a big fat lie.

  Millie felt the memories and the lies roll into a hot ball, one that would surely spiral her into a panic attack if she didn’t stop it. She needed fresh air, but bolting now would cause every eye in the room to turn and look at her.

  To pity her.

  To whisper about her behind her back.

  Millie didn’t want the pity any more than the gossip or the memories so she started silently repeating the mantra that she’d latched on to shortly after the panic attacks had started.

  Beyond this place, there be dragons.

  It was something she’d seen written on an antique map, a way to warn travelers of dangers ahead. A beautiful map of golden land and teal green waters. The image of it soothed her and sometimes—sometimes—it reminded her not to go beyond the gold and teal. That if she crossed over into the dragon pit of grief, she might never come back.

  Beyond this place, there be dragons.

  The back door opened, bringing in yet more heat and a spear of the May sun that would warm things up even more before it set in a couple of hours. The trio of overhead fans whirled, scattering the heat, some dust motes and the clashing scents of perfumes that the majority of attendees had splashed on.

  “I volunteer as tribute,” the newcomer called out.

  The newcomer, Frankie McCann, was decked out in a full Hunger Games/Katniss Everdeen costume, the cool leather one from the scenes in the last movie. She’d even braided her hair, but unlike Katniss, Frankie’s locks were a blend of pink, peach and canary yellow.

  Frankie’s announcement caused a few giggles, including a hoot, holler and a knee slap from Alma Parkman, the president of the Last Ride Society. There were also some scowls as the “eyes” turned toward the back of the hall. Millie tried to poker up her face and show nothing. Because pretty much any kind of reaction from her would spur more of that pity and gossip. Millie also kept that blank face when Frankie sank down beside her.