The Trap

by Carol Ericson

  She hitched her bag over her shoulder and strode out of the room to meet Clive. If she and the fingerprint tech could solve this thing, they’d all be singing a different tune—including Jake.

  * * *

  JAKE SAID GOOD-NIGHT to his partner in the parking lot of the station and then made his way to the task force war room. He half expected Kyra to be there, as she hadn’t answered his last text, which could mean she was hard at work. He burst through the door and glanced at her empty desk. His gaze shifted to the few task force members still at their desks.

  One of the cops called out over his computer. “You just missed her.”

  Jake smiled to himself. He and Kyra hadn’t done a very good job keeping their relationship a secret from the rest of the task force. But he didn’t care anymore. She’d be off the task force soon enough. He had to keep her away from the investigation into The Player for her own safety.

  She probably hadn’t texted him back because she was driving home to pack some clothes for their weekend—but what he had planned for her this rainy weekend didn’t require much clothing.

  As he sat at his desk and logged in to his computer, he appreciated the quiet of the room. He and Billy had done some discreet inquiries this morning into the locations of the task force members the past few weeks, and they’d started a spreadsheet listing comparisons between those locations and some pivotal dates in The Player’s timeline. He wanted to enter some of that data before he left for the weekend.

  Fifteen minutes later, he studied the columns, and data for three task force members jumped out at him. Brandon Nguyen had several absences, but the tech guru was a little young to be The Player. He’d have been about Kyra’s age at the time of her mother’s murder. Still, he had the computer smarts to connect with the copycats. Detective Ned Verona was the right age and had been friends with Quinn. Quinn would’ve let Verona into his house without a moment’s hesitation. Verona had a lot of absences—due to medical. The guy was getting ready to retire. The third person...

  “Detective McAllister?”

  He glanced up and realized the room had cleared, except for one cop on the phone and Lori Del Valle, the fingerprint tech, standing at the door. “C’mon in and call me Jake. I’m still working for about another fifteen minutes.”

  “Just wanted to let you know, all the processing from Detective Quinn’s house is complete.” She held up her hand, her fingers curled into an okay sign, but she said, “Zero. We didn’t get anything of substance, nothing to point to a killer.”

  “I wasn’t really expecting anything, Lori.” He waved. “Have a good weekend.”

  He hunched over his laptop again, but he heard tentative clicks across the floor. When he looked up this time, Lori was planted in front of his desk. “Something else?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I just... I wanted to tell you something, but I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.”

  He shoved his laptop away. He hoped this didn’t have to do with his boorish assumption earlier that she didn’t have the same level of expertise as Clive. He’d hoped they’d put that behind them. “I’m not going to take it any way. What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s Clive.” She held up her hands. “I don’t want you to think I’m throwing him under the bus or anything because I want his job. He’s supposed to retire anyway.”

  “Clive?” Jake’s pulse ticked up a notch, as he glanced at the third name in the spreadsheet with all the X’s in the columns. “What about Clive?”

  Lori blew out a breath. “He’s been doing some weird things with the evidence on these copycat cases, and even Detective Quinn’s crime scene.”

  A rash of tingles spread across the back of his neck. “What kind of weird things?”

  “Well, for one, there was a glass from Quinn’s place, and Billy asked us particularly to process it for prints.”

  “And? From what I understood, there were no prints on the glass.”

  “That’s what Clive put in the report, but that’s not altogether true. He never dusted that glass for prints.”

  Jake’s fingertips were buzzing now. “Did you question him about it?”

  “I—I didn’t.” Lori twisted her fingers in front of her. “I wanted to, but that was just after I discovered Walker’s prints on Tina’s wallet. Clive put me on his blacklist for that.”

  “For discovering the prints of a killer on a victim’s wallet?”

  “He told me I shouldn’t have done it in the field. I should’ve brought it back here and let him do it.”

  “Why would he be upset? It all worked out.”

  “Did it all work out for him?” She squared her shoulders. “This is what I almost told you at the scene of Tina’s car that day. He’s been playing fast and loose with these fingerprints. I think he’s destroying evidence.”

  There it was. Lori’s words punched him in the gut.

  “There’s something else. He bagged a GPS device the other day in the lab, but when I looked for a record of it later, I couldn’t find it. He never logged it.”

  “GPS device?” Jake could barely hear his own voice over the roaring in his ears. He’d left the box at Kyra’s. “Where’d he get it?”

  “Kyra dropped it off for him.”

  Jake had pushed back from his desk and was out of his chair before he even knew he was standing. He called to the cop on the phone. “Holt, Holt.”

  Officer Holt jerked his head up and put the phone down. “Yes, sir?”

  “You said I just missed Kyra. Did you see her when she left? Did she leave alone?”

  “Yeah, she did. She left by herself—after she talked to someone, all hush-hush.”

  Jake’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Who was she talking to?”

  “The fingerprint guy—Clive Stewart.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jake turned down Clive’s street in Studio City. On his way out of the station’s parking lot, he noticed Kyra’s car, which he hadn’t seen when Billy dropped him off. Had she actually gone with Clive in his car? To his home? Why would she do that?

  His hands gripped the steering wheel. Why not? She knew Clive. Clive had done a favor for her in the past. Had he lured her with the GPS?

  He’d called a patrol car on his way, and one sat across the street from Clive’s house now. He’d break down the door himself if he had to get Kyra out of there.

  He knew Clive was married. Was his wife out of town? A dark blue compact sat in the driveway of the tidy house. He thought he’d seen Clive get into a white Prius at the station.

  The officers got out of their car, and Jake held up his hand. If Clive had Kyra in this house, he didn’t want to spook him.

  He stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell. Maybe Clive hadn’t tried anything yet, and Jake could just walk Kyra out of there with the pretense that he had important news for her and knew she had left with Clive. His thoughts stumbled to a stop when a middle-aged woman with blond, chin-length hair opened the door, her eyebrows arched into question marks.

  “I’m Detective Jake McAllister. Is your husband at home?”

  “My husband?” She drew her sweater around her body in a protective gesture.

  Jake showed her his badge. “Clive. I, uh, work with him at the department.”

  “That bald-headed piece of...” Her hoarse laugh ended in a smoker’s cough. “He’s not my husband.”

  Jake stuffed his badge back into his pocket. “You’re not Mrs. Stewart? Isn’t this Clive’s house?”

  “Technically, it’s still his house, still in his name, but we’re divorced. Have been for years. The guy’s a creep with mommy issues.” She shrugged her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t a work call, is it? Did he finally snap?”

  Although he was sure the ex-Mrs. Stewart could tell him stories about Clive to curl his hair, he didn’t have time to listen. “W
here is he? Where does he live now?”

  “He lives somewhere in Hollywood. I can’t give you the exact address because I don’t know it.”

  Jake slumped. How would he find him? They’d have to ping his phone, Kyra’s phone. That could take hours when he probably had minutes. “Do you have anything that might have his address on it? Old mail? Paperwork?”

  “No, and he moved recently.”

  “He moved to Hollywood or he was living in Hollywood and moved?” He’d have to wrap up this conversation that was going nowhere for a chance to ping those phones.

  “He moved to Hollywood, and no, I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell me. A friend told me.”

  “Does this friend have his address?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Thanks, Mrs...” He turned away and waved off the cops.

  As he headed toward the sidewalk, his phone already in his hand, Mrs. Stewart called after him. “My friend doesn’t have the exact address, but she did see him walking into a fancy high-rise in Hollywood. You know, that one that has a view of the Hollywood Hills, if you’re on the right side. I wondered how the hell he afforded that. You know the one I mean?”

  Jake knew exactly which one she meant. The plate glass window in his house looked out onto it every night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kyra blinked as Clive pulled into a subterranean garage off of Sunset Boulevard. The darkness was a sharp contrast to the bright lights of the boulevard, where the neon of the flashing signs did battle with the headlights and taillights streaming below them. Those lights had blurred before her eyes, and she swallowed against her dry throat.

  She’d thought her throat was improving, but it felt like sandpaper now, and she grabbed the bottle in the cup holder, downing another few sips of the water Clive had offered her when she climbed into his silent electric car. The action of tipping her head back caused the dizziness she’d felt earlier to come crashing down on her in waves. She put her fingers to her temples.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I feel a little...strange. Is this where we’re going? This building?”

  “Yes, someone from the station lives here, someone who’s been showing too much interest in the fingerprints we’ve been processing from Quinn’s house.” He reached into the back seat and patted his black bag. “I’m going to lift some prints, and then we’re going to compare them against what I found on the GPS that was attached to your car. If they don’t match, no harm, no foul, right?”

  “Right.” She rubbed her head. “Who lives here?”

  “I don’t want to say just yet.” He parked the car in a slot, and she peered at the number painted on the wall in front of them.

  She read the numbers aloud. “2021. Are you parking in someone’s space?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve scoped out this place already. I know what I’m doing.”

  Kyra shook her head. What were they doing here? Fingerprints. Fingers. All those missing fingers. Her mother’s missing finger.

  Clive patted her shoulder. “Are you up for this, Kyra? If you’re not feeling well, I can leave you in the car. I just thought you’d want to be a part of this...after all you’ve been through.”

  “I do. I do.” All those missing fingers.

  Clive grabbed his bag and slipped out the driver’s side door.

  Kyra grabbed the door handle on her side but continued to sit. She wasn’t afraid, just...tired.

  Clive opened the door for her and helped her out, as if she were ancient, older than Quinn. She stumbled, and he steadied her.

  “It’s all right. At least we don’t have to walk up all those stairs.”

  He chuckled, and the sound made her feel nauseous for some reason. She’d never heard Clive laugh before. In fact, she’d never heard Clive speak so many words before in all the time she’d known him. And she’d known him...twenty, no, two years. Two years.

  He held her arm as he steered her to the back of the parking garage, away from the glass doors.

  She pulled against him. “Shouldn’t we go that way?”

  His grip on her arm tightened, his strong fingers digging into the flesh of her arm beneath her jacket. “I told you. I did reconnaissance first. If we go up the back way and use the freight elevator, nobody will see us. I’m good at reconnaissance.”

  He marched her silently to a large, dark elevator that smelled like oil. The doors squealed as they opened and shut, and it lumbered up and up. Nineteen, twenty. When it settled, he steered her out of the car, pushed open a fire door and led her to a solid door. When he pulled out a key, she twisted away from him. But when he opened the door, he shoved her inside.

  The fog in her brain parted for a few seconds and she grasped at the truth, but it slithered away from her, and she stood in the middle of the sparsely furnished room with her head tilted to one side. “Who lives here? Why are we here?”

  Clive clicked his tongue. “I’ll tell you later, and we’ll gather the prints and run to McAllister with our proof. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded, dropping her chin to her chest. She’d tell Jake tonight as he cooked dinner for them—steaks and red wine again.

  “But first I want to show you something.”

  His voice startled her, and she lifted up her head with a Herculean effort, noticing for the first time the telescope positioned at a large window that looked out on the lights of Hollywood—and the hills beyond.

  Clive hunched over the telescope, and the recessed lighting in the ceiling glowed on his bald dome, creating a white circle like a cap on his head. Turn around. Turn around. The words found their way to her lips. “Turn around.”

  Clive turned his head, and Kyra was staring into the dark eyes of her mother’s killer...again.

  “Oh, I see you finally figured it out, little Mimi. Kyra’s a big improvement over Mimi and for sure a big improvement over Marilyn Monroe Lake. Who the hell names their kid Marilyn Monroe? But then, your mother, Jennifer, was a dumb bitch. And a whore. Like my mother. Like my ex-wife. Like you.”

  She reached for her purse with her gun and realized she’d left it in the car—along with the drugged water.

  Instead, Clive pulled out his own weapon and crooked his finger. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

  Kyra peeled her feet from the carpet and lumbered toward him. Could she push him through the glass? Wrestle the gun away from him? Throw something through the window to attract attention?

  Stepping aside, he tapped the telescope. “Have a look. I think you might be interested in what I can see from up here.”

  She approached the telescope as he adjusted it for her height. When she put her eye to the eyepiece, the view took in the Hollywood Hills across Sunset Boulevard, and as Clive turned a knob on the lens, Jake’s house came into focus.

  She gasped and staggered back, sinking to the floor, the phone in her jacket pocket digging into her hip.

  Clive chuckled, causing her to heave. He’d chuckled the night he turned around and met her eyes after murdering her mother. “Do you know how I know you’re a whore, Kyra? I’ve seen you—all of you. I’ve watched as J-Mac took you against that window, in full view of everyone, your naked body pushed up against the glass. That’s how much he cares about you. He knows you’re a whore, too.”

  She couldn’t dwell on that right now, couldn’t think of Jake, who had no idea where she was. She might be able to watch him from here, pacing his living room floor, calling her, wondering where she’d gone. Wondering if she’d given up on him after he told her he was taking her off the task force. The old Kyra would’ve done that. But she wasn’t the old Kyra. She was the Kyra Quinn always deserved. The Kyra Jake deserved.

  She cleared her throat. “You killed Quinn.”

  “I did.” He almost sounded disappointed in himself. “I always liked Q
uinn, but he was a loose end. His obsession with you is what got him killed. Same with your foster brother, Matt. That’s how I was able to keep track of you all those years—first through Quinn and then through Matt.”

  She had to keep him talking, keep herself active. If she curled up in a corner, she’d die here. The drugs had made her stupid, fuzzy, slow, but she could fight against their effects.

  “Why did you stop killing twenty years ago?” Kyra struggled to her feet, stuffing her hand in her pocket and tracing the phone with her fingers. Clive probably thought the phone was still in her purse, along with her gun.

  “Technology and new advancements in law enforcement.” He flicked his finger against the telescope, where it pinged. “Improvements in DNA testing, mitochondrial DNA testing, genetic databases with idiots sending their DNA in to trace ancestors, cameras everywhere, cell phones, GPS tracking. It’s tough being a serial killer today.”

  “You’ll excuse me if I save my pity for the victims.”

  Clive’s lips stretched into a smile. “I admire your...tenacity, Kyra. There were plenty of forces to beat you down, but they never defeated you—until now. I suppose you have Quinn to thank for that. He rescued you, didn’t he? He and Charlotte.”

  “He let you into his house?” She smoothed her thumb across the face of her phone, feeling the imprint of the home button. She had voice activation on her phone and could call or text Jake, but what could she say in the few seconds allotted before Clive stopped her? Maybe just a simple I love you.

  “Of course. Quinn knew me from the old days. Just like Jake and Billy, Quinn never suspected me. Oh, he may have suspected a cop or two or someone on the inside, but not me.” He spread his hands, and for the first time, Kyra noticed their wiry strength. “He let me in, and I avoided witnesses and cameras like I always do. Told him I had something I wanted him to look at regarding The Player case, my case. He got us water. I followed him back to the living room and whacked him on the side of the head to make him go down. Then I shot him up with a stimulant. I guess something about how I replaced his shoe and sock tripped me up.”