The Trap

by Carol Ericson

  Jake stroked her hair. “I’m so sorry. I know Quinn was everything to you, as you were to him. He was so proud of the woman you’d become. You couldn’t have made him any happier.”

  She raised her head from the shirt she’d stained with her tears and took in the small house with a watery gaze. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  “Nothing ever is.”

  She balled her fist against her stomach. “What am I going to do?”

  “What are you going to do?” He swept his thumb across her cheek, catching several tears. “You’re going to carry on, just like Quinn would expect you to do. You’re going to do your job, you’re going to enjoy your life, you’re going to honor Quinn.”

  Honor Quinn. Kyra curled her hands around Jake’s shirt. “I’m going to find The Player. He’s still out there spreading evil, tormenting me.”

  THE TRAP

  Carol Ericson

  Carol Ericson is a bestselling, award-winning author of more than forty books. She has an eerie fascination for true-crime stories, a love of film noir and a weakness for reality TV, all of which fuel her imagination to create her own tales of murder, mayhem and mystery. To find out more about Carol and her current projects, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com, “where romance flirts with danger.”

  Books by Carol Ericson

  Harlequin Intrigue

  A Kyra and Jake Investigation

  The Setup

  The Decoy

  The Bait

  The Trap

  Holding the Line

  Evasive Action

  Chain of Custody

  Unraveling Jane Doe

  Buried Secrets

  Red, White and Built: Delta Force Deliverance

  Enemy Infiltration

  Undercover Accomplice

  Code Conspiracy

  Red, White and Built: Pumped Up

  Delta Force Defender

  Delta Force Daddy

  Delta Force Die Hard

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jake McAllister—This LAPD homicide detective is not only on the trail of a fourth copycat killer, he’s close to unmasking the original serial killer, The Player, but to do so means risking the life of the woman he loves.

  Kyra Chase—A victims’ rights advocate with a traumatic past, she’s eager to put that past behind her but she must face her biggest fear first—a confrontation with the man who murdered her mother twenty years ago and who now wants to kill her.

  Roger Quinn—The retired LAPD homicide detective kept a secret for twenty years and now that he’s dead, his secret has been exposed...putting his surrogate daughter in danger.

  Carlos Castillo—An LAPD captain, he shared Quinn’s secret for years; revealing it might blow the lid off The Player case, but it could also end his career.

  Dr. Shai Gellman—This hypnotherapist is trying to help Kyra recover her traumatic memories, but he’s putting them both in danger the closer they get to the truth.

  The Player—This serial killer was able to avoid detection for years and even command his own cadre of copycats, but the witness he left behind is about to bring him down—unless he gets to her first.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Profiling a Killer by Nichole Severn

  Prologue

  Rule number one. Leave no witnesses.

  Their eyes locked. He dropped the dead woman from his arms and took a tentative step toward the onlooker peering from behind the bush. The eyes glowing at him from the darkness widened and looked like a deer’s in the crosshairs. The owner of those eyes took flight.

  He glanced at the prey crumpled at his feet, and with rule number one pounding in his head, he took off after the witness, the plastic garbage bag encasing his body crackling with each step. He loped through the trees, gun dangling at his side. He’d needed the gun to force Ashley into his car, but he’d strangled her with gloved hands according to the playbook.

  As he ran, twigs snapped back in his face, needling into his flesh. He thrashed about for several minutes, but he couldn’t find a trail, or any clues as to which direction the person had run.

  Had he...or she...even seen him? The body? Tipping his head back, he surveyed the moonless sky between the treetops. Threatening clouds had been hovering over LA all day, even squeezing out a few drops of rain here and there. He’d been using a flashlight to dispose of Ashley’s body and had switched it off when he heard the crack of a branch.

  Maybe this person was no witness at all. He tugged the cap lower over his face. And maybe he was leaving evidence by chasing this person through the trees. He bent over, hands on his knees, his sweaty palms sticking to the plastic, his breath heaving in his chest.

  At the sound of a car engine, he jerked his head up. Too late. Whoever it was had gotten away and might be calling the police right now.

  He swung around and stumbled back to the clearing near the trail where he’d left Ashley. Less time now to complete his mission. He’d totally messed up his first kill, but he was determined to finish the job.

  Ashley lay where he’d left her, undisturbed. He rolled her onto her back and swept the dark hair from her face. The previous copycat, Mitchell Reed, had selected his victims based on their appearance—brunettes with long hair who looked like some chick who’d jilted him in college. Pathetic loser.

  He didn’t care what they looked like. All women were whores, just like his mother. He never got jilted. He was the one who did the jilting. He used them, took their money and left. But he never killed them. That would be breaking rule number four. Don’t ever murder someone you know. The first copycat, Jordy Lee Cannon, had broken that rule. Pathetic loser.

  As the past deeds of the previous copycats ran through his head, he’d been arranging Ashley’s body into a position that would facilitate the rest of his tasks. He swept aside the plastic bag and pulled the playing card from his jacket and placed it between her lips. Eyes open or closed? He couldn’t remember, so he left hers staring into the cloudy sky.

  He fished the box cutter from the front pocket of his jeans and circled to Ashley’s left side. Holding her wrist down with one hand, he used the box cutter to slice off her pinky finger. Blood spurted into the carpet of leaves beneath her hand. He dropped the finger in a baggie and sealed it.

  A trophy for The Player.

  They’d all done it. Severing the little finger of the victims’ left hand had not only sent a message to law enforcement that The Player was back—if only by proxy—but also afforded The Player his trophy of choice. He’d be mailing Ashley’s finger to a PO box. The other copycats had probably used a different PO box.

  He shrugged. A small price to pay. He already had his souvenir of the kill, so he turned from the body to start his climb back to his car.

  As he pivoted, he caught sight of the bush where he’d spotted someone hiding. What had that person been doing here at this time of night and alone?

  He crept behind the bush
and crouched, poking his head to the side to get a view of Ashley. Couldn’t even tell that it was a body of a human. And where were the cops? Where was the outcry? The person had seen nothing of consequence.

  He put his hands on the ground to hoist himself up, and his palm dug into something hard. He felt around the damp bed of twigs and leaves, and his fingers curled around a small bottle.

  He picked up the clean prescription pill bottle and brought it close to his face. As he read the name on the bottle, his mouth stretched into a smile.

  He now knew the identity of the witness—and now he could follow rule number one.

  Chapter One

  Kyra perched on the edge of Quinn’s love seat, the one she’d helped Charlotte pick out when she remodeled the Venice house, her hands clasped, her legs bouncing up and down, her face stiff. If Jake kept rubbing a circle on her back, he’d rub a hole right through to her spine.

  When the coroner hitched the gurney onto its wheels, something broke inside her. She flung herself off the cushion and dropped to her knees next to Quinn’s lifeless body ready to be transported away forever. “He can’t be dead. Are you sure? Are you sure he’s dead?”

  Even as the words left her lips in a strained, high-pitched tone, she knew the truth. Quinn was gone, the only father she’d ever known.

  “Kyra, let me take you away. You’ve been here long enough. You can’t do anything for Quinn now. You gave him everything at the end. He’s with Charlotte.”

  Kyra hadn’t shed a tear yet—not when they walked into Quinn’s house and found him on the floor, not when she cradled his head in her lap as Jake told her Quinn had no pulse, not when Jake called 911, not when the EMTs pronounced him dead of a suspected coronary. Now her throat closed and her eyes ached, and when Jake pulled her up and crushed her to his chest with one arm, she buried her head against his shoulder and the floodgates opened.

  She sagged against Jake as the wheels of the gurney spun out of the house. Quinn would never return to this house he’d shared with Charlotte, the house that had been her refuge when she’d been a mixed-up foster kid.

  With the emergency personnel gone, the house creaked and sighed. The seawater lapped against concrete barriers that kept it away from the houses that hugged the banks of the canal. It seemed to whisper, “Charlotte, Charlotte.” Is that what Quinn heard when he sat on his porch alone?

  Jake stroked her hair. “I’m so sorry. I know Quinn was everything to you, as you were to him. He was so proud of the woman you’ve become. You couldn’t have made him any happier.”

  She raised her head from the shirt she’d stained with her tears and took in the small house with a watery gaze. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  “Nothing ever is.”

  She balled her fist against her stomach. “What am I going to do?”

  “What are you going to do?” He swept his thumb across her cheek, catching several tears. “You’re going to carry on, just like Quinn would expect you to do. You’re going to do your job. You’re going to enjoy your life. You’re going to honor Quinn.”

  Honor Quinn. Kyra curled her hands around Jake’s shirt. “I’m going to find The Player.”

  Jake’s body stiffened. “I don’t think Quinn would want you to go down that path.”

  “Really?” She released her hold on Jake’s shirt and paced to the sliding glass door that led from Quinn’s kitchen to a deck over the canal. She stared at the moonlight cascading across the water.

  “The Player was Quinn’s one failure as a homicide detective. The Player murdered my mother, along with four other women, he encouraged and inspired three copycat killers—that we know of—and he’s still alive. He’s still out there spreading evil, tormenting me, and Quinn learned that truth a few weeks ago.” She whipped around, a steely resolve replacing the sorrow that had sapped her strength over an hour ago. “That’s exactly what Quinn would want me to do.”

  Jake opened his mouth, snapped it shut, took a step toward her, stopped. “Before we get out of here, do you know if Quinn had an attorney?”

  “Terrence Hicks. Why?”

  “I know Hicks. He specializes in financial planning for cops. Used to be a cop.” Jake spread his hands as if to encompass the house. “You should contact him to let him know about Quinn’s death, although when a giant in law enforcement like Quinn passes, everyone knows.”

  “I think I have Hicks’s card.” Her gaze darted around the room. “I—I can’t go through any of Quinn’s stuff right now.”

  “Of course not.” Jake crossed to the front door and removed the keys Kyra had left there when they first entered Quinn’s house and saw his body. “Let’s lock up and get something to eat.”

  She widened her eyes and crossed her arms over her midsection. “There’s no way I can eat anything.”

  “Do you want me to take you home? Do you want to be alone?”

  The old Kyra would’ve given an emphatic yes to that question, but the new and improved Kyra heard something in Jake’s voice. She peered at him through her lashes, still wet with tears.

  He bobbled her key chain in one hand while holding on to the doorjamb with the other, his neck stiff and his jaw tight. He’d lost Quinn, too. The two of them had gotten close, shared a bond as homicide detectives. Jake revered the old detective, but had a soft spot for him, too. He’d miss Quinn almost as much as she would.

  Taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine and walked toward Jake. She wrapped her arms around his waist and said, “I want to be with you.”

  He dropped his head and kissed the top of hers. “I was hoping you’d say that. I don’t want to go home alone. I want to talk about Quinn.”

  They wound up at her apartment in Santa Monica, much closer to Quinn’s Venice house than Jake’s place high in the Hollywood Hills. Jake ordered a pizza on the way, and by the time they and the food got to her place and Jake had opened a bottle of wine for her, she managed a few bites.

  She brushed the crumbs from her fingertips over a paper plate. “The coroner will do an autopsy, right?”

  “Yeah, but we know he had heart disease, already had two stents, and the EMTs indicated a coronary was likely.” He pinged the side of her wineglass with his fingernail. “More wine?”

  “Yes, please.” As she watched the ruby-red liquid swirl into her glass, she asked, “Did anyone check for signs of forced entry?”

  She felt Jake’s eyes on her, probing, so she grabbed the slice of pizza on her plate and forced herself to take another bite.

  “I did—everything locked up tight from the inside, not even a window cracked open. He probably closed up against the rain earlier in the day.” He toyed with the crust on his plate. “No signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds on his hands. I did my due diligence as a detective before the first responders got there. What are you suggesting?”

  The bite of pizza felt like sawdust in her mouth, so she washed it down with another gulp of wine. “I’m suggesting what any good detective might suggest, given Quinn’s status at the LAPD. A retired detective with one cold case on his record, a cold case that has gotten hot in the past several months due to the copycats emulating The Player, and an admission by Quinn that The Player was still alive and directing the copycats.”

  “We think that’s the case, or at least some of us do.” He held up his hands in defense. “I believe he is, but it can’t be verified.”

  “Quinn told us about information the copycats’ puppet master passed along to them, information only The Player could’ve known. Then we have Mitchell Reed, Copycat Three, who kidnapped your daughter and was willing to exchange her for me—to please The Player.”

  Jake squeezed his eyes closed for a second, most likely remembering the moment he realized a serial killer had snatched his daughter. “We think that’s why he wanted to make the trade, but The Player never showed up to claim you, did h
e?”

  “I don’t think you gave him enough time. You tracked Copycat Three down through Fiona’s burner phone and rushed in there to save my life.” She wiped her fingers on a crumpled napkin, and then took his hand. “I think that’s about the third or fourth time you’ve come to my rescue.”

  “You saved my daughter. I’m never going to forget that.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

  “I’d do it all over again, but I couldn’t save Quinn, could I?”

  “From a heart attack? No, although you tried your best. You did more than his own doctor did, monitoring his diet—” he lifted his beer “—his alcohol.”

  “I shouldn’t have allowed him to have any.” Her bottom lip quivered and she tossed back some more wine.

  “Quinn was a grown man. He did what he wanted, lived life on his own terms. Can’t ask for more than that.” He raised his bottle. “To Quinn.”

  “To Quinn.” Her nose stung, and she glugged down the remainder of the wine.

  Jake tipped the neck of his beer bottle at her. “You’d better slow down yourself or you’re gonna end up in a world of hurt. You’re not fooling me with those little nibbles of pizza. You have nothing in your stomach but red wine sloshing around in there. So eat up, or back away from the booze.”

  Sniffling, she surveyed him through watery eyes. “Oh, God. Is that how I sounded with Quinn? Because it’s really annoying.”

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “That’s exactly how you sounded with Quinn, but it must’ve sounded more lovable coming from you because he complained, but he didn’t mind—he didn’t mind anything about you.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “He was my savior. Do you know, he’s the one who personally took me to the Department of Children and Family Services when my mother had been murdered? I was covered in blood and...”

  “Wait. I thought your mother had been strangled like all the rest.”

  “She had been, but during the struggle, because my mom fought like hell, she grabbed a vase and it broke on the floor. She cut herself on it, and I cut myself on it when I discovered her body the next morning. When the police showed up after I called 911, I was hiding in my bedroom. Then Quinn showed up, and I just knew everything was going to be okay.”