The Trap

by Carol Ericson

  “Something else tripped you up.” Kyra placed her thumb on her phone’s home button. She had to wander away from him to give herself more time on the phone. “You left your prints on that glass, didn’t you?”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that? Did that nosy Lori Del Valle tell you something?”

  A pulse throbbed in her throat. Did Lori suspect something about Clive? “Lori told me nothing about you. I figured it out myself when I was at Quinn’s place. What happened to that glass?”

  “I bagged it for processing, but alas—” he threw up his hands “—there were no prints on it.”

  “I’m sure you saw to that, just like all the other prints in this case. What happened with Fisher’s print on the tape? How did that one slip through?”

  The nostrils of his long, thin nose flared. “J-Mac found it at the crime scene. It was a patent print the idiot left. J-Mac saw the print with his bare eyes. I had to process it.”

  “You killed Yolanda, the homeless lady who helped you send those emails to me and Sean Hughes, the blogger who was communicating with Copycat Three.”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved his hand with the gun in the air. “I took care of all of them, and no, those were not satisfying kills. I did those out of necessity.”

  “What makes it satisfying for you? What made Clive Stewart a serial killer? Don’t you all blame it on your mothers? You called your mother a whore. Is that why other women deserve to die?” She licked her lips. The adrenaline from the knowledge that she finally faced The Player had counteracted the drug in her system, but she still wasn’t ready to fight...and he had the gun. She knew he didn’t want to shoot her. He wanted to strangle her...just like he did her mother.

  “It’s a boring tale.”

  “I doubt that. Why the playing cards? Why the severed fingers? If you’re going to kill me, I think I deserve to know. We’ve been at this game for twenty years, you and I. Before it ends for me, I’d like to know the rules.” She meandered toward the window and gazed at the lights below. Too far to jump.

  Clive chuckled again and moved toward the door, the gun still clutched in his hand, as if he feared she’d make a run for it now that she’d recovered her faculties. Could she?

  “I guess you have a point there, Kyra. I do feel...close to you. You were the only one alive who knew who I was, who I really was, even though you couldn’t remember.”

  “Who was your mother?”

  His gaze locked on to her face from across the room, his own a pale oval against the door. “She was a blackjack dealer in Vegas, part-time hooker. Kind of like your mother.”

  Kyra nodded in encouragement. She’d always known her mother had traded certain favors for money. Had Clive targeted women like that? Not quite prostitutes but working on the fringes of the sex trade—independent contractors?

  “You know what they called her, Mimi?”

  “What did they call her, Clive?”

  “Pinky.” He held up his hand and wiggled his little finger, the one he’d severed from all his victims. “She’d worked in a cannery when she was a teenager and lost her finger. It didn’t stop her from dealing, and they all called her Pinky.”

  The playing cards, the trophy finger—all formed from his messed-up childhood. Her foster brother, Matt, had been abused as a child, shuffled around in foster homes, and had wound up a junkie, in and out of jail. Her own childhood had gone horribly off the rails, and if it hadn’t been for Quinn and Charlotte, she could’ve ended up like Matt. But they hadn’t launched a career as a killer.

  “Wh-where are all the fingers? You had the copycats take the fingers for you. Did it give you the same thrill?”

  “Sadly, it didn’t, and now I’m bored with all this. I have one more kill on my list, and then I’m going to retire. I’m retiring from the LAPD, and I’m retiring from killing.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  His head jerked up. “Excuse me?”

  “You won’t give it up. You can’t. You’re driven, and eventually you’ll get caught. You don’t even seek the fame, do you? You get satisfaction from the perfection of the crime, but you had an unfair advantage. You’re not that special, Clive. Once you’re no longer the fingerprint guy, others will be able to track you down.”

  “Shut up. I’m tired of hearing you talk. You should be almost comatose by now, but no. You just keep going and going.” His face sported red flags and his cheeks puffed out as if he were ready to explode.

  She had to make a move. In a loud voice, she said, “I should text Jake.”

  She shouted the last two words as she pressed her home button and dragged her pocket close to her face. The phone responded in an automated voice, “What do you want to say?”

  Clive sputtered and launched forward, shouting something unintelligible.

  She brought the phone from her pocket and said the first thing that came to her head. “Twenty, twenty-one, building off...”

  Clive tackled her, and they both hit the window hard, the phone flipping out of her hand and spinning across the floor. He smacked her hard across the face, and she kneed him in the groin.

  Grunting, he staggered back, but kept the gun pointed in her direction. If he squeezed off a shot, he’d hit her somewhere.

  She kicked the telescope, and it topped over on him. She dropped to the ground as he fired the gun. The ear-splitting noise buffeted her eardrums. The window beside him cracked, spider webs rippling along the glass.

  She crawled toward his legs beneath a table. If she could wrap her arms around them, she could push him toward the damaged window. They might both go over and fall twenty floors—one for each year of their acquaintance—but she’d put an end to The Player.

  Clive steadied himself, bracing one hand against the shattered glass and spotting her under the table. He swung the gun downward.

  Kyra coiled her muscles, getting ready to spring, when a loud commotion came through the front door.

  Miraculously, Jake’s voice bellowed across the room. “Drop it, Clive.”

  Clive took a step toward Jake, but he wanted her more. He aimed the gun at her between the table legs. She heaved up, lifting the table on her back, ready to rush him.

  Another shot rang out, and Clive’s eyes widened. He squeezed the trigger of his gun, and the bullet splintered the wood next to her face.

  A volley of three, four shots blasted from across the room, and Clive’s body danced with the bullets, the window cracking behind him even more. With the gun still in his hand, he staggered back and fell through the window—twenty floors to his certain death.

  Epilogue

  “I don’t get it, Daddy. How’d you know where The Player was holding Kyra? She only gave you the apartment number.” Fiona tucked a leg beneath her on the couch and pulled a pillow into her lap.

  Jake crossed the room to the plate glass window overlooking the city, the lights even more brilliant in Christmas finery, and crooked his finger at his daughter. “Come here.”

  She handed the pillow to Kyra seated next to her on the couch and skipped to her father.

  Slinging one arm across her shoulders, he pointed out the window, his finger smudging the glass. “You see that building across the way?”

  “The tallest one with all the windows?”

  “That was the building.”

  Fiona’s mouth dropped open, and she twisted her head to look at Kyra. “For reals? But how’d you know it was that one?”

  “I thought Clive was still married and living in Studio City. We all did. But when I got to his house, his ex-wife told me her friend had seen him recently walking into a high-rise on Sunset. I knew right away it had to be that building.”

  Kyra called from the couch, just to remind Jake. “I always felt something creepy about that window being exposed to the world.”

  Fiona turned wide eye
s back to the view. “So you went straight to that building from The Player’s house?”

  “I did, and called backup on the way, but when I got there, I didn’t know where to go or where to look. I got the building manager to let me look through the tenants, but Clive didn’t live there under his own identity. I was ready to search floor by floor, unit by unit, pull a fire alarm, bring the whole building down if I had to. Then I got Kyra’s text. I knew the building had over twenty floors, so I had the manager check the tenant for 2021, and who do you think I found?”

  Fiona breathed out with awe of her father. “Clive Stewart? No, wait, The Player?”

  Jake tapped on the glass. “Jack Spade.”

  “Jack Spade, like in the jack of spades card?”

  “That’s right. When I saw that, I knew. The manager gave me the key. I came up with a SWAT team and listened at the door for a few seconds. When I heard the gunshot, I barreled into the room and uh...stopped him.”

  Fiona nodded and flicked back her ombré-tinted hair. “You shot him and he fell through the window.”

  “He had a gun in his hand. He was threatening Kyra.”

  “Oh, I know you wouldn’t have shot him unless you had to, but it’s still badass.”

  Jake cleared his throat. “It’s late. If you’re going to spend the weekend at Lyric’s, you’d better get to bed.”

  “Mrs. Becker promised to keep an eye on us all weekend, so I won’t get kidnapped again.”

  Jake pulled his daughter close and kissed the side of her head. “I have it all worked out with Mrs. Becker.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Fiona kissed her father on the cheek and sauntered back to the couch, where she leaned over and hugged Kyra from behind. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Kyra. Were you scared when you figured out Clive was The Player?”

  Kyra brushed the girl’s smooth skin with her fingers. “Remember how scared you were when your cute internet boyfriend turned out to be Copycat Three and kidnapped you?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “I was that scared.”

  Fiona dropped a kiss on top of Kyra’s head, which made Kyra’s heart melt. “I’m glad you’re safe, and I’m glad you’re gonna marry Dad and be my stepmom.”

  “Me, too.” Kyra squeezed Fiona’s hands.

  Fiona stepped back and ran up the stairs. She stopped midway, clutching the banister, looking down at them shyly through her lowered lashes. “Are you guys gonna give me some siblings? Mom and Brock refuse. Brock has his two kids from his first marriage, and Mom has me, and that’s it for them.”

  Laughing at Jake’s stuttering, Kyra stood up and stretched. “I think we can manage that. Now, go to bed before you give your father a heart attack.”

  When Fiona traipsed up the stairs with a flourish, Kyra joined Jake at the window. “You really should get some drapes.”

  “That would ruin the whole dramatic effect.” He curled an arm around her waist. “Are you going to start making changes when you move in here?”

  “You still have time for your bachelor life before the wedding, and I still need to do some work on the Venice house before I rent it out.”

  “Quinn’s memorial was fitting, wasn’t it? Was it everything you wanted?”

  “And more. Terrence did a spectacular job.”

  “And you. Your touches made it special.”

  “In the end, Quinn did help catch The Player. If Clive hadn’t left his prints on that glass at his house and Lori hadn’t noticed the irregularities in Clive’s behavior, you never would’ve suspected Clive.”

  “And if Quinn hadn’t raised you to be the...badass you are, I never would’ve found you.” He rubbed a circle on her back. “Do you really want to finish your sessions with Shai?”

  “As soon as he’s a hundred percent. I owe it to my mom to remember, really remember those last moments of her life. I’m not afraid.”

  “I know you’re not. That’s one of the many things I love about you. You’re fearless in everything you do.”

  “Not so fearless in love.” She cupped his strong jaw in her hand. “Not until I met you.”

  He bent his head to press his lips against hers, and his kiss scorched her, took possession of her very soul. He murmured against her mouth. “I suppose making love against this window is out now.”

  “Um, yeah, especially with your daughter upstairs.” She flattened her hands against his chest. “Besides, you have a perfectly good bed with just about the same view, minus the potential for peepers. I think that will work just as well to get going on Fiona’s request.”

  “Let me put a ring on it first.” He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the staircase. “But I’m not opposed to giving you a preview of things to come.”

  As he held her in his arms going up the stairs, she dropped her head to his shoulder and took in the view of the city lights. From here, the beauty outweighed the evil. Somewhere out there were young women just like her mother, with hopes and dreams. People cared. They helped each other heal and recover. They struggled. They trusted each other. They fell in love.

  LA was the city of angels, and she’d finally found hers.

  * * *

  Don’t miss the previous titles in

  A Kyra and Jake Investigation series:

  The Setup

  The Decoy

  The Bait

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from Profiling a Killer by Nichole Severn.

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  Profiling a Killer

  by Nichole Severn

  Prologue

  Absolutely perfect.

  Short brown hair, slender through the hips, with honey-brown eyes he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since the moment he’d met her. Yes. If he had to narrow down his type, Kara Flood ticked all the boxes.

  The kindergarten teacher strengthened her grip on her dog’s leash, and a prickling raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he pressed back into the shadows. Her footsteps in those ridiculous platform sandals echoed off the apartment building at his back. She was getting closer, close enough he noted the streetlamp’s reflection off the sweat beading along her flawless neck. It was hot out tonight, humid. Hot enough hints of her perfume tickled the back of his throat as a breeze swept off the inlet. A frenzy coiled in his gut, and he breathed the combination of orange, patchouli and Turkish rose deeper. It was the only perfume she wore.

  The dog, an intrusive white shepherd who’d kept him from getting to know Kara on a more intimate level, glanced his way, but he didn’t move.

  Nothing would stop him from having her. Nothing would stop him from showing them what he was capable of. This was his time. He left the cover of the alley and cut off her escape, curling gloved fingers into fists. Hesitation combined with a slight hint of fear in her expression, and a wave of anticipation flooded through him. The dog pulled back on the leash, trying to convince Kara to leave, but there was nowhere for her to run. Not from him.

  “Hello, Kara. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Chapter One

  “Seattle PD received a hand-drawn map early this morning from a witness who hasn’t been able to reach her sister for over twenty-four hours.” Supervisory Special Agent Miguel Peters tossed a thick manila folder onto the conference table, the scrape of card stock and wood cutting off conversation. A thick five-o’clock shadow stood stark against his white button-down shirt and showcased the exhaustion under his eyes. The supervising director of the Behavioral Analysis Unit pointed to the
head of the conference room. “Now we know why.”

  The projector flashed to life at the direction of their tech guru—Liam McDare—at the opposite end of the table. A single image filled the screen. The bright seal of the evidence bag cut off the top two inches of a crude, torn piece of lined paper with penned outlines of vague, unlabeled buildings, sidewalks, a park and a large red X off to one side. SSA Peters hit the remote in his hand, and the image on the projector changed. A woman—no older than twenty-five or twenty-six—sat on a commercial steel bench outside what looked like a wall of windows leading into the main floor of an apartment building. One leg crossed over the other, the victim looked as though she’d sat down to take in the sunrise from across Puget Sound to start her morning. Aside from the angry purple-and-blue strangulation marks around her neck and the red X carved into her right cheekbone, she’d been a strikingly beautiful woman.

  “The map designated where the victim’s sister could find the body.” Hell. Special Agent Nicholas James leaned forward in his chair, a knot of dread knifing through him. No. It wasn’t possible. Reaching for the folder SSA Peters had tossed in his direction, he pried it open and compared the crime scene photos to those taking up nearly an entire wall in the BAU’s high-rise conference room. All the signs were there, right down to the positioning of the body. He locked his back teeth against the denial clawing up his throat without looking up. “Who is she?”

  “Victim’s name is Kara Flood, a kindergarten teacher who lives in the building you see behind her, and, in case you can’t tell from the crime scene photos, she resembles a few victims we’ve come across before.” SSA Peters pressed his palms onto the edge of the long conference table. “Director Branson wants this handled as quickly and as quietly as possible. We can’t have the public panic. Agents James and Striker, meet your next assignment.”