The Trap

by Carol Ericson

  “He’s shown himself.” She stopped as the waitress appeared with two bowls of pho, steam curling from the surface. When the server left, Kyra continued. “You have tools at your disposal that Quinn could only dream of twenty years ago. He had faith in you...and so do I. You can do this, Jake, you and Billy and the whole task force.”

  “Damn, I miss Quinn.” He sniffed, and it wasn’t because he’d just dumped some jalapeño in his soup. “He was my sounding board. He was my friend.”

  Kyra smoothed the pad of her thumb along the inside of his wrist. “He felt the same way about you.”

  Jake blinked and sipped from his spoon, his nose tingling. That was the pho—maybe. “I didn’t see you earlier in the morning. Were you able to get Quinn’s suit to the funeral home?”

  “Not yet, but I did get the name of the mortuary from Terrence.” She sprinkled some cilantro on top of her soup and glanced up. “The coroner hasn’t released Quinn, umm, Quinn’s body yet. Is that normal?”

  “Haven’t heard from him yet—I mean, her. Dr. Ellis is doing the autopsy. Her husband is a cop, and I know she’ll take special care to do a thorough job.”

  “That’s good to hear.” She plunged her spoon into her pho. “Hey, I meant to ask you. You did take the keys to Quinn’s house, didn’t you? Tell me you did.”

  He gulped the spicy soup too fast and choked. “I discovered this morning that I had them in my pocket. I probably forgot to give them back to you after I locked up last night.”

  “Okay, that’s a relief. I thought I lost them. I mean, I still have my own key to the house, but I wouldn’t want to lose Quinn’s set.”

  He asked, “Are you still convinced someone broke into Quinn’s place after he was killed to search it?”

  “Convinced?” She waved her hand in front of her puckered lips and took a sip of her drink. “As we didn’t notice anything missing, I’m not so sure. But I swear, certain items seemed...placed, as if someone wanted to put everything back just as he’d found it.”

  Jake jerked his head. “Did Castillo have a key to Quinn’s place?”

  “Captain Castillo?” Kyra narrowed her eyes. “Why would you ask that? What would the captain want from Quinn’s house?”

  Jake shoved a spoonful of soup, chock-full of veggies and chicken, into his mouth to give himself time to think. Just because the thought came to him in a flash, he didn’t have to give voice to it.

  “Not that he’d want anything—” besides the police report he and Quinn had eighty-sixed in favor of a revised version “—but maybe he went in there to pay his respects, look around. You said yourself, nothing was missing.”

  “That’s a thought. I’m not sure if Captain Castillo had a key, though. Not sure why he would.”

  Because they were partners in a cover-up.

  “Just thinking outside the box.” Jake swiped a napkin across his mouth. “Speaking of thinking outside the box, do you think it would be worth it to hypnotize Piper?”

  Kyra dropped her spoon. “Hypnotize her? You mean to see if she remembers anything more about the killer?”

  “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

  “I absolutely do, and I think we have one of the best hypnotherapists in the business right here in LA. I’m not sure it would help Piper, though. It’s not like she can’t remember him. She does, but she saw him in the dark at a distance, and he was wearing a hoodie and a hat—just like when he killed Erica. I don’t believe a hypnotherapist could get anything else out of her. She hasn’t buried the memory. She just didn’t get a good look at him.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “I’m impressed. You’ve come a long way, from a guy who didn’t trust therapists several months ago to someone who’s suggesting hypnosis for a witness.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve been schooled by the best.” He dabbed at several cilantro leaves on the table and crushed them between his fingers. “But you do believe hypnosis can uncover blocked memories.”

  “I do. I’ve seen it work. Why? Do you have some memories you want unlocked?” She winked at him.

  “Me? I have a few I’d rather forget.” Pushing his bowl away, he changed the subject. “Fiona wants to know if she can do a video chat with you later. She wants to interview you about your job for a class assignment.”

  Kyra turned pink. She and his daughter had gotten off to a rocky start, probably because they were too similar, but ever since Kyra risked her life to save Fiona’s, his daughter had become Kyra’s biggest fan—next to him.

  “Have her text me. I’d be more than happy to help out.”

  “At least she doesn’t want to interview me. I couldn’t tell her half the stuff I do.” He held up his cup and shook it, rattling the ice. “Do you want a refill before we head back? I haven’t heard from Cool Breeze, so I don’t think they ID’d the victim yet. He probably needs my help.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that.” She handed him her cup. “Diet, lots of ice.”

  When he got back to the table after topping up their drinks, Kyra shoved his phone at him. “Can you call Dr. Ellis before we leave and ask about Quinn’s autopsy, please?”

  “I’ll do it in the car. That way, I can put it on speaker so you can hear.”

  They grabbed their drinks and headed back to the car. Once inside, Jake pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts and placed a call to the coroner’s office.

  Someone at the front desk of the ME’s office picked up on the second ring, and Jake put his phone on speaker for Kyra. “This is Detective Jake McAllister. I’m calling for Dr. Ellis regarding an autopsy.”

  “Oh, Detective McAllister, Dr. Ellis has a note to call you. I’m looking at it right here. She had a meeting, but I think they just broke up. I’ll let her know you’re on the phone.”

  “Thanks.” Jake nodded at Kyra and said, “She’s probably done. You can let Terrence know.”

  A woman’s breathless voice came over the line. “Jake? I’m glad you called. Your ears must’ve been burning, as I was going to call you right after my meeting.”

  “Perfect, Deirdre. Are you finished with Quinn’s autopsy? We have a big funeral to plan.”

  Deirdre paused. “Uh, not so fast, Jake.”

  Jake’s heart skipped a beat. Licking his lips, he shot a glance at Kyra. Maybe putting the doc on speaker wasn’t the best idea.

  “Does that mean you’re not finished?”

  “I have to do some toxicology follow-up, and that could take a few days.” He heard some papers shuffling across the line, and then Deirdre cleared her throat. “I found a needle puncture on Quinn’s body.”

  Kyra’s hand had been creeping toward his leg, and now she grabbed his thigh.

  Jake’s nostrils flared with a snort. “Are you suggesting Quinn was using drugs?”

  “No evidence of that. One pinprick between his first and second toe on his left foot.” Deirdre paused again, this one causing the hair on Quinn’s arms to stand on end.

  “What are you saying, Deirdre?”

  “I’m suggesting Detective Roger Quinn may have been murdered.”

  Chapter Seven

  Kyra dug her fingernails into Jake’s leg. The sound of Dr. Ellis’s words still echoed in the car. She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch the dashboard. She wanted to know more.

  “I can’t tell you much other than that right now, Jake.”

  Kyra tugged on Jake’s sleeve. She didn’t want to say anything that might get him in trouble for allowing her to listen in, so she kept silent, but Dr. Ellis had to spill more details after making that shocking pronouncement.

  Jake dipped his chin to his chest. “You can tell me what led you to that suspicion, Deirdre. You have to give me more than that.”

  She sighed but delivered. “When I started Quinn’s examination, I vowed to do my very best for him. Sure, I had his medical records and knew
about the heart disease, saw the stents for myself, but those stents were doing their job. His arteries were clear enough that if he’d had an angiograph the day he died, it wouldn’t have shown enough closure for another stent or bypass surgery. He was managing, so I looked elsewhere. I’d noticed two things when we removed his clothing—his right shoe was tied differently from his left and his right sock was on inside-out. Would I have bothered with those details if I’d seen atherosclerosis in his arteries? Nope. But it got me thinking. May have even learned a thing or two from you, J-Mac.”

  Kyra pressed a hand to her heart, which was in danger of galloping out of her chest. She knew it. Deep down she’d known it all along.

  Dr. Ellis took a sip of something and continued. “So, I took a look at that foot, examined the area between the toes where addicts often shoot up—not that I believed for a minute Quinn was using. He didn’t have any of the signs of addiction or habitual use. Lo and behold, I discovered a pinprick. Looked a helluva lot to me like a syringe. So I ordered another set of toxicology reports.”

  Jake asked, “What are you looking for, Deirdre?”

  She clicked her tongue. “You know, Jake. I’m looking for a drug that can simulate a heart attack, some kind of stimulant.”

  Jake talked to the doctor for a few more minutes about timing and schedules, but the roaring in Kyra’s ears had blocked their conversation.

  As soon as Jake ended the call, Kyra turned to him and grabbed his arm. “I knew it. He killed him.”

  Jake sat with his head down, the phone cupped between his hands. “The Player? You think The Player killed Quinn?”

  “Who else?” She rubbed her arms. “I just don’t know how he could’ve gotten into Quinn’s house. How did he manage to shoot him up between his toes?”

  Lifting his head, Jake scratched his jaw. “You remember Quinn had the bump on the back of his head.”

  She froze, pressing her hands against her bouncing knees. “The first responders, and even you, figured he got that when he fell, hitting his head on the coffee table. He was in the right position for that.”

  “What if that was a setup? What if someone hit Quinn on the head to knock him out, and then pulled off his shoe and sock to shoot him up, put the shoe and sock back on—incorrectly—and then positioned him to make it look like the heart attack, which was induced, caused him to fall and hit his head?”

  Kyra covered her mouth and she rocked forward.

  “Death by heart attack instead of a fall because it would be expected, given his condition.” Jake gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “It’s just speculation.”

  She shot back in her seat, adrenaline rushing through her body, the wheels in her brain clicking. “Damn good speculation, Detective. Quinn would be proud, but how?”

  “How what?”

  “Quinn never would’ve allowed a stranger into his house. Never would’ve turned his back on one.”

  “Maybe The Player is no stranger to Quinn.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.” Kyra massaged her temples, now throbbing. “You think Quinn knew who The Player was?”

  “Listen.” Jake squeezed the back her neck. “What if The Player is one of Quinn’s acquaintances? This person comes to Quinn’s house and Quinn lets him in because he knows him. Quinn turns his back on him, the guy hits him with something and then arranges the heart attack, never imagining a sharp ME like Dr. Ellis would think to look between his toes.”

  Kyra ground her teeth together, her jaw tight. “If it happened that way, I will never let this rest. I won’t be satisfied until the man who murdered my mother and my father is brought to justice.”

  * * *

  AS SOON AS they got back to the station, Billy swooped in on Jake and carried him away. An hour later, they made public the name of the first victim of the fourth copycat killer.

  Ashley Russell had been a young woman struggling to make it in LA. Her brother had told Billy that she’d been attending AA meetings, and had been at one the evening she disappeared. The task force would send someone to question people at the AA meeting, but they probably wouldn’t get too far with the people there who wanted to maintain their anonymity and the anonymity of others.

  Kyra glanced around the room and shut down her laptop. The team would give her more information on Ashley and her family and friends tomorrow. She had a brother in the picture, so Kyra would most likely start with him if he requested assistance. Nobody would miss her now, and her only patient of the afternoon had canceled.

  She had a little of her own detective work to do. Neither Dr. Ellis nor Jake would be releasing any news about Quinn’s autopsy until the ME office completed it and the second set of toxicology tests came back. That gave her time to do some amateur sleuthing.

  She slipped out of the war room without a second glance and drove straight to Quinn’s house in Venice. Quinn didn’t have security cameras at his house. Venice contained several dodgy areas, but the neighborhood in the canals wasn’t among them. Thieves would have to lug anything they stole out of the neighborhood on foot, which must be a deterrent.

  Quinn’s car still claimed his parking spot outside of the canals, so Kyra parked along the street. She always kept her key to Quinn’s house on her key chain, but now she had Quinn’s key chain, as well—the one Jake had forgotten to leave at her place last night.

  She pulled it from her purse now, and gripped it in her hand as she crossed the bridge to his house. She let herself in and stood on the threshold for a minute, surveying the room. It did have an air of being tidied. She hadn’t imagined that last night, and Dr. Ellis’s bombshell today gave her more proof.

  Perhaps the killer himself had returned to the scene of his crime to gather evidence or make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. If he were a friend of Quinn’s, he could explain his presence if caught.

  She released the breath she’d been holding and stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind her. If Quinn’s toxicology results came back positive for some type of amphetamine in his system and his death was declared a homicide, the CSIs would descend on this house with a fury. But what would they find?

  Quinn’s prints, hers and Jake’s would be all over the place. If Clive Stewart, their fingerprint tech, picked up others, those people would have to provide alibis. There’s no way Quinn’s friend-turned-killer came in wearing gloves. Of course, he could’ve wiped his prints after the murder. Even though the end of fall was near, nobody was wearing gloves in LA at this time of the year.

  She covered her mouth with one hand. How could The Player have befriended Quinn? Quinn didn’t make friends easily, didn’t socialize much and was highly suspicious of new acquaintances. That tiny speculation that The Player could be a cop tickled the edges of her mind. Was that what they were looking at?

  She took a turn around the room, examining the areas that had caught her attention last night—the bookcase with the two pictures straightened instead of facing the room at an angle, the pillows on the couch neatly tucked into the corners instead of shoved against the back cushion, the throw rug...

  She tripped to a stop. Last night, the corner of the rug had been turned back. Now it was straight. She or Jake must’ve flicked it into position.

  She crouched beside the place where they’d discovered Quinn’s body and peered at the corner of the coffee table. The EMTs had noted the fresh lump on the back of Quinn’s head, and Jake and the other cops on the scene had assumed he’d hit it on his way down, collapsing from the heart attack.

  Jake had even spotted a smear of blood on the wood, but that would be easy to arrange. From her position on the floor, Kyra tilted back her head, imagining the scene. Quinn had fallen a few steps from the kitchen. Had he and his guest gone into the kitchen for something to drink?

  She and Jake had figured Quinn had been coming out of the kitchen with a glass of water in his ha
nd. The glass hadn’t broken when Quinn went down but had rolled onto the area rug in front of the fireplace, spilling its contents along the way.

  But what if someone had gone into the kitchen with him? What if Quinn had been bringing that water for someone else? She’d always been after Quinn to drink more water. He didn’t like it and preferred soda or iced tea. Maybe that water had been for someone else.

  If his fake friend were behind Quinn, though, he might’ve had his own drink. They hadn’t found a second glass, of course, but the killer could’ve left it on the counter while he went after Quinn to knock him down. Once he had him on the floor, unconscious or disoriented, he pulled off his shoe and sock and shot him up between the toes, never believing someone would be looking for needle marks on retired detective Roger Quinn.

  Kyra sprang up from the floor and barreled into the kitchen. She’d left the glass Quinn dropped in the sink, and it still sat there, undisturbed. She yanked open the dishwasher. When Quinn ate alone, he preferred to wash his dishes by hand, and his dishwasher reflected this. A handful of utensils stuck up from the basket on the side, a few plates nestled neatly in a row and one glass commanded the entire top tray.

  She eyed the glass. Could that be the one? She’d ask Jake to collect it as evidence and have Clive run it for prints. Quinn’s should be the only prints on the glass. Would the killer be careless enough to leave a glass in the dishwasher?

  She sidestepped to the cupboard where Quinn kept his dishes and pulled open the cabinet door. Similar glasses to the one in the sink and the dishwasher stood at attention in a row on the shelf. One stuck out from the others. Had the killer rinsed out his glass, dried it, wiped it clean and put it back in the cupboard? She’d mention this one to Jake, too.

  If Quinn’s death had been a murder, and she had to keep telling herself that wasn’t a forgone conclusion yet, enough people had trudged through the crime scene to render it useless.

  A light tap on the open front door had Kyra clutching her throat and spinning around.