The Trap

by Carol Ericson

  While she packed up the items on the bed, Jake appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. “The house is locked up. Do you want some help with that?”

  “Yes, please.” Kyra zipped up the garment bag and hoisted a small overnight suitcase over her shoulder. “I suppose I bring this stuff to the mortuary. I don’t even have a mortuary.”

  Covering her face with her hands, she sank to the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  The bed dipped as Jake sat beside her and draped an arm over her shoulder. “You do know what to do. You’re doing it. You move ahead and think about and grieve for Quinn while you’re doing it.”

  With Jake’s help, she made it out of the house in one piece. As she walked past Quinn’s neighbors, who had a gathering of friends in their front yard, one of the guys raised his beer and called out. “To Quinn.”

  The rest followed his lead, and Quinn’s name echoed along the canal.

  Kyra raised her hand. The night of Quinn’s death, she’d resisted the urge to question his neighbors. The scene hadn’t looked suspicious to the responding officers, nor to Jake, so they didn’t canvass the neighborhood asking questions. The neighbors had known that Quinn passed, so if they’d had anything to report, they would’ve done so...right?

  By the time they reached her apartment just about five miles away from Quinn’s house, a lethargy had seeped into Kyra’s bones. She could barely brush her teeth and pull the covers back on her bed.

  As she drifted off, she could hear Jake putting away Quinn’s things in her spare bedroom, taking out the trash and feeding Spot.

  Kyra snuggled into her pillow, her eyes heavy.

  Jake hovered over her, his breath warm on her cheek, and she felt a stab of guilt that she didn’t want to make love. Maybe Jake thought she needed that closeness right now. Maybe she did.

  She rolled onto her back and reached for him. “Coming to bed?”

  “You looked so peaceful, I was going to let you sleep and then sneak out.”

  Her lashes fluttered, and she saw that he was still fully dressed. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. You can spend the night. I thought you would.”

  “It’s not that late, and I don’t have any work clothes here.” He brushed the hair from her eyes. “But I’ll stay if you want me to.”

  “You’re right.” She aimed a blurry-eyed squint at her digital alarm clock on her nightstand. “It’s not late at all—just feels like it. You can leave. Then you can go straight to work in the morning. I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m half asleep anyway.” She cupped his strong jaw with her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for everything.”

  He kissed her hungrily. “Everything’s locked up. Security systems are on.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He kissed her again and then slipped from her room like a thief in the night. The best kind of thief, as he’d completely stolen her heart.

  * * *

  JAKE GOT BEHIND the wheel of his car and tossed Quinn’s key chain in the cup holder. Quinn didn’t want Kyra to know about the second bequest, and that involved a little subterfuge. Kyra’s mood had made things a little easier for him. He’d have a hard time making love to Kyra knowing he planned to sneak to Quinn’s behind her back.

  He’d plotted ahead—leaving the safe in the closet unlocked to give himself an excuse to go back. But he hadn’t needed it. The events of the past few days had drained Kyra. His poor baby couldn’t even keep her eyes open.

  Jake took the route down Lincoln back to Quinn’s house. He parked on the street and launched into Quinn’s neighborhood on the Venice canals. He crossed the water lilting against its manmade barrier as the wooden bridge huffed and wheezed. Quinn’s rowdy neighbors had called it a night. Kyra had told him the guy next to Quinn was the drummer from an ’80s rock band that still did reunion tours. Nice work if you could get it.

  Jake reached Quinn’s red door and used the key to let himself in. He turned on a lamp and studied the neat room. Had Kyra’s sensitivity played tricks with her mind, or had someone really gotten in here after Quinn’s death for a search? What could they be searching for? Kyra had already confirmed nothing of value was missing, although a former homicide detective like Quinn could possess many more valuables than cash, jewelry and electronics—and Jake was about to uncover one of those items.

  He withdrew Quinn’s map from his pocket and shook it out. The old detective must’ve gotten a little melodramatic in his old age, as he probably could’ve described the location of the floorboard with words just as well as pictures.

  Kneeling by the fireplace, Jake flipped back the throw rug, which looked an awful lot like those pillows Kyra had on her couch. He checked the map in the light from his cell phone and counted the floorboards from the edge of the fireplace.

  He pressed on the edges of the wood slats until he felt a rim, and then pulled a knife from his pocket. He slid the blade along the edges and lifted.

  About ten minutes later, he had a pile of wood pieces at his elbow and a gaping hole in the floor. His nose twitched as he aimed his light into the crevasse, the odor of brine strong. Something gleamed when the beam of his light hit it. He reached in with one hand and curled his fingers around the hard edge of a metal box.

  With cobwebs clinging to his hand, he pulled it out. He balanced the slim container on his palms and blew dust from its surface. He sneezed. If someone had gotten into Quinn’s house, he or she hadn’t gotten this far.

  Clutching the metal container, Jake backed up to Quinn’s recliner. He sank into the chair and turned on the lamp next to it.

  The container looked like something you might use for classified documents. It had an actual locking device on it, but Quinn had provided Jake with the combination, just as he’d left the combination to the safe in the closet for Kyra.

  Jake held the piece of paper beneath the yellow glow of the lamp and memorized the numbers. His fingers played across the surface of the lockbox, entering the combination.

  When it clicked, he hesitated. Holding his breath, he opened the lid on the box. His gaze alighted on a plain manila envelope with no label on the outside.

  He used his fingernails to bend the clasp, still firm, still in place. He lifted the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers. His eyebrows collided over his nose.

  He held in his hands a crime scene report, yellowed at the corners. It resembled the ones the LAPD used today with a few alterations.

  His pulse jumped when he read the date and location at the top of the page. Why did Quinn have a copy of the crime scene report of Jennifer Lake’s murder holed up in his floor?

  He flipped through the pages at the top. He’d read the report of Kyra’s mother’s murder many times before. So many times, in fact, he practically had it memorized—that’s how he spotted some minor differences. Time, body condition and location were all the same, but there were slight changes from the original. Or was this the original?

  He continued shuffling through the pages until he got to the end with a description of the child, Kyra, at the scene. Jake skimmed down that page and then sat up, his heart beating erratically in his chest.

  He’d just spotted a huge difference from the original report. The child, Marilyn Lake, had not been in the bedroom when the officer, patrolman Carlos Castillo, arrived. She’d been sitting beside the dead body of her mother, the phone from the 911 call still clutched in her hand.

  Furthermore, the child hadn’t been asleep in her bed when The Player had killed her mother. She’d been peering at him from a crack in her bedroom door.

  Kyra Chase had witnessed her mother’s murder. She’d seen The Player with her own two eyes.

  Chapter Six

  A day later Jake stared at the stills from the condo’s security cameras with unseeing eyes.


  Kyra witnessed her mother’s murder. She’d seen The Player. Quinn knew all along. The words kept thrumming through his head on a nonstop loop.

  Did Kyra remember? No. That’s why Quinn had hidden the file under his floorboards. She didn’t remember what she saw as a child, and Quinn never told her she’d been a witness. Quinn never told anyone. The department never knew, the press never knew and The Player himself never knew. Or did he?

  Jake ran a hand across his mouth. Was that why The Player had kept tabs on Kyra all these years? He knew he’d left a witness and had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never had. Did he realize why his secret had been safe with Kyra? Did he know Quinn had done everything in his power to protect that eight-year-old girl, even if it meant ignoring an important lead?

  Quinn hadn’t included a description of the killer in that initial report. Maybe Kyra told him nothing more than that the killer had been a man. She’d been a traumatized child and clearly she’d forgotten whatever it was she saw.

  Jake’s gaze wandered from his computer screen to the back of Kyra’s head as she sat at her desk across the room, her blond ponytail swaying slightly as she typed on her keyboard. Quinn hadn’t wanted Kyra to know, hadn’t wanted her to remember, but Jake didn’t play those games. He was honest, almost to a fault. How could he keep this from Kyra?

  He bit the inside of his cheek so hard, he tasted the metallic flavor of blood on his tongue. How would it help her to know? How would it help the case? She didn’t remember that she’d seen The Player—Quinn had made sure of that—and she wouldn’t remember now.

  There had actually been a conspiracy of silence between Quinn and Castillo.

  Castillo had been the responding officer the night of Jennifer Lake’s murder. He had to have known Jennifer’s daughter saw the killer. But Castillo had kept quiet, too. Why?

  Falsifying a report like that could mean big trouble, but Quinn and Castillo had kept this pact for twenty years. Why would Castillo jeopardize his career like that? Quinn did it for Kyra, and he could’ve retired at any time if the brass found out what he did. Quinn didn’t care, but Castillo’s career was on the upswing.

  Jake drummed his thumbs against the keyboard. In fact, Castillo’s career took a steep trajectory upward around the time of The Player homicides. Quinn had added the young patrolman to the task force, and Castillo had made a name for himself.

  Was that the payoff? Silence for a career boost?

  He blinked, and it took him a few second to realize Kyra had twisted around in her chair and was trying to catch his attention. He lifted his eyebrows, and she tapped her phone.

  He swiped his personal cell from his desk and read Kyra’s text inviting him to lunch. He hadn’t talked to her all morning. He’d been true to his word last night and headed home after digging up his final bequest from Quinn. The report now was nestled securely in his own home safe.

  He responded in the affirmative to Kyra’s lunch invite and returned to the video from Erica’s condo, showing her killer skulking down her hallway minutes before he forced his way into her place to murder her—thinking she was the witness in the Angeles National Forest.

  A ripple of fear coursed down his spine. Had The Player instructed his minions to kill any witnesses because he had left one himself twenty years ago?

  Leaning forward, he studied the hunched-over form, obscuring the killer’s real height. The baggy hoodie concealed his body type, and the hat pulled low over his forehead hid his face. This guy could be a hundred men walking the streets of LA right now. Eyewitness accounts provided some of the weakest evidence for a case. Show five different people the same scene and ask them to recount it later, and those five people were very likely to give you five different accounts.

  “How long are you going to stare at that, brother?” Billy clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing to see.”

  “Did you catch him leaving, by any chance?”

  “As we suspected, he left through an unmonitored back door. He could’ve headed out to a car anywhere along there. No luck.”

  Jake pushed away from his desk and crossed his hands behind his head. “The sheriff’s department doesn’t have much evidence from inside the condo, either. He must’ve been wearing gloves, no prints anywhere. They’re looking for hair, fibers, but with no suspect, those could belong to anyone. There is a partial shoe print where he kicked open the door, but it’s a common sneaker, and we can’t tell the size because we don’t have the whole sole of the shoe.”

  Billy held up a finger. “One piece of good news, if you want to call it that. We got a call today about a young woman missing for a couple of days. Could be our victim. Description matches.”

  “I have lunch in a minute.” Jake shut down the video on his laptop. “Do you want me to stick around for the ID instead?”

  “No, I got it covered. The missing woman’s brother is coming in. I’ll let you know either way.” Billy plucked his cell phone from his pocket and paused. “I heard our man Quinn left you a couple of sweet pieces.”

  “Word gets around, doesn’t it?” Jake grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Yeah, Quinn left me some...interesting stuff.”

  Kyra had left the war room before him. It was a game they played to keep their interactions at the station professional, even though everyone knew they were in a relationship and often had lunch together. As Jake reached the door, he almost bumped into Captain Castillo charging into the room.

  Holding up his hands, Jake said, “Whoa, excuse me, Captain. You in a hurry?”

  “I was on my way to speak to Billy about the possible ID on the vic.”

  “He just told me. I hope we can give that poor girl on the slab a name.” As he squeezed past Castillo, the captain touched his arm.

  “Did you and Kyra have a chance to go out to Quinn’s to look for the items he left you?”

  Jake’s expression froze in place. Without a flick of his eye, he said, “I looked at the weapons he left me and decided to keep them in his safe for now, and Kyra picked out a suit for the burial. We’ll be back to clean up.”

  Castillo skimmed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You might need some help. Quinn has a lot of stuff in that house.”

  “Have you been there recently?”

  “N-no, not recently, not for several months.”

  “It’s not too bad. I can help Kyra get the house in shape, whether she wants to keep it, sell it or live in it. We’ll go through everything.”

  Jake stayed just long enough to see Castillo’s face pale under his brown skin. He wanted to talk over this development with Kyra, but like Castillo, he was keeping a secret. Damn, he hated secrets.

  As he exited the station, Kyra caught up with him, nudging him in the back with her purse. “Wait up.”

  He pretended to stumble and grabbed her arm. “I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me at the station.”

  “We’re coworkers having lunch. That’s allowed, isn’t it?” She tried to shake him off, but he tightened his grip.

  “So is this.” He leaned over and kissed her on her blushing cheek. “It’s not like I’m your boss or you’re mine. Hell, you don’t even technically work for the LAPD. You’re a contractor, and we’re paying you for your service. Besides, it’s too late for decorum now.”

  “Because everyone knows we’re an item.” She squeezed his hand before jerking free. “Doesn’t mean we have to feed the rumor mill.”

  He stabbed at his remote and unlocked the car. Then he beat Kyra to the passenger side and opened her door. “I like the sound of that—feeding the rumor mill. What would we have to do to get that going?”

  “Don’t—” she flattened her hand against his belly as she slid into the car “—even think about it.”

  Jake practically jogged to the driver’s side. Kyra’s mood seemed to be lifting. The visit to Quinn’s
last night had been tough for her to bear. How much tougher would it have been had she discovered she’d witnessed her mother’s murder and Quinn had been hiding it from her all these years?

  He couldn’t tell her just yet. He’d been thinking about breaking it to her over bowls of steaming pho, but he didn’t want to bring her down. Right now, he was more interested in finding out why Castillo had kept Quinn’s secret. They’d both colluded in changing a police report for a murder scene.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting across from each other at a small table crowded with their drinks and a tray filled with cilantro, jalapeños, bean sprouts and a variety of other condiments to enhance their pho.

  Kyra planted her elbows on the table and twirled the straw in her drink. “You seem preoccupied. Did you get anything more out of that video?”

  “His hoodie, hat and baggy clothes hid his identity well. He left via an unmonitored back door, so we have no footage at the front of the building.” He spread his hands on the table. “Not much to go on, but Billy may be identifying the victim today.”

  “That should help. Gives you another crime scene if you know where he abducted her.” She took a sip of her drink. “Something else?”

  He couldn’t discuss his suspicions about Castillo with her without telling her the truth about the night her mother died—and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  He shrugged. “Wondering when this is going to end. I want Fiona down here for Christmas, but not if I’m still working this case or, God help us, another copycat killer case.”

  She covered his hand, curled into a tight ball on the table. “You know when this is going to end. It’s going to end when you stop The Player.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. How can we catch The Player?” He shoved a hand into his hair. “Maybe Quinn and I will be alike in more ways than I want to count. Maybe The Player will outplay both of us.”