by Sharon Sala
Through the slits of his eyes, he could almost imagine Kelsey smiling at him. That was better than the last look she gave him. He smiled back.
A rustling noise from the trailhead wiped the smile off his face and made his heart pound—not in a good way, not the way it had raced the first time he’d put his hands on Kelsey. He held his breath until he saw the flash of a squirrel’s tail as it hopped out of a tree. The animal turned its head in his direction and pierced him with its beady eyes. He stomped his foot in the squirrel’s direction, sending the creature up another tree.
He hooked his arms beneath Kelsey’s and dragged her out of the car, the heels of her boots hitting the soft ground. He’d place her off the trail but not too far off. Someone needed to discover his handiwork before the animals got to her. Seemed like he’d made that mistake with Shelby. He’d already scoped out this location, had visited it a few times.
His running shoes scuffed through the dry debris that littered the trail as he pulled her deadweight several feet. He stopped and wiped a bead of sweat from his face with his arm. Kelsey was a lot heavier in death, but he’d discovered this with the others. This wasn’t his first rodeo. It was his third rodeo. He giggled at his pun.
Another ten feet, and he located his spot—her spot now—and let Kelsey’s upper body drop with a huffing sound on the comfy cushion of leaves, twigs and berries beneath the tree, one arm crossing her body. The scent of pine and citrus tingled in his nose, and he inhaled the clean smell. Maybe he should take up hiking. Being out here made him feel good. He glanced at Kelsey—or maybe this was what made him feel good.
Now the annoying work part started. He crouched beside the body and plucked at the sleeve of her shirt to move her arm to her side. He lined up her legs, straight and together, the toes of her boots pointing skyward. He brushed some dirt from the leg of her jeans.
The bruises ringing her throat created an unfortunate purple necklace, but he didn’t have a gun, and a knife would’ve left a mess of blood in his car. He liked blood, but not if he had to get rid of it.
When he’d killed those little animals, the blood didn’t matter. Nobody was running around investigating the deaths of possums. He snorted and a wisp of Kelsey’s blond hair fluttered against her cheek. With one gloved finger, he flicked the hair back into place.
On her back, with her arms and legs straight, she looked like one of those mannequins in the store—not that he was a poser. He didn’t need to pose his victims in grotesque and disrespectful positions, but now Kelsey looked as perfect and untouchable in death as she’d looked alive.
He twisted his head over his shoulder and peered into the darkness, swallowing against his dry throat. He’d done his research and this part of the park didn’t have cameras, but you never knew who could be watching.
He jumped back and surveyed his handiwork, a flicker of lust stirring in his belly. He’d wanted to have sex with her, but he didn’t want to leave his DNA. He didn’t want to get caught. He had many more dates in mind. Besides, Kelsey was a nice girl. He could go pick up a hooker on Hollywood Boulevard to satisfy his needs, just as he’d done after his dates with Shelby and Marissa.
Two more steps—the most important ones. He pulled a playing card from his back pocket, leaned over Kelsey’s body and stuck it between her lips—the queen of hearts. Then he dug into the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew the box cutter. He knelt beside Kelsey and sliced off the pinkie finger of her left hand.
The souvenir.
CHAPTER ONE
“Good thing she was already dead when he took her finger.” Detective Jake McAllister lifted the victim’s wrist and grimaced. He called over his shoulder, “Tire tracks at the trailhead? We know this isn’t the kill site.”
“Too many to identify just one.” His partner, Billy Crouch, impressive in a dark gray tailored suit, purple pocket square and wing tips, strode down the trail to join Jake where he crouched beside the body. “No tire tracks, no cameras. I had one of the officers check with the park rangers.”
“No cameras at the other dump site, either. He’s being careful.” Jake rose to his feet, inhaling the scent of pine from the trees and locking eyes with an ambitious squirrel who’d been busy scurrying up and down the large oak that provided a canopy over the body.
Griffith Park was an oasis of rugged, untamed land in the middle of the urban sprawl of LA. It housed the zoo, the observatory, a concert venue, a carousel, pony rides and acres of wilderness crisscrossed with hiking trails. It had also hosted several dead bodies in its day, including the Hillside Strangler’s first victim.
Jake pointed at the card inserted between the victim’s lips. “Queen of hearts, missing finger—looks like we have a pattern here.”
Billy whistled as he pushed his sunglasses to the end of his nose. “It’s The Player all over again.”
“Copycat.” Jake raised his hand to the crime scene investigators who had just arrived at the park and waved. “The Player was working twenty years ago and abruptly stopped. He’s gotta be dead or in prison.”
“Maybe he just got paroled.” Billy picked an imaginary speck of lint from the arm of his jacket. “He could’ve been twenty when he was operating before, spent twenty years behind bars for armed robbery, assault, rape. Now he’s forty, tanned, ready and rested.”
“Could be. They never got his DNA back then. Never left any—just like these two murders.”
Billy whipped the handkerchief, which Jake had believed was just for show, out of his front pocket and dashed it across the shiny tip of one of his shoes. “Damn, it’s dirty out here.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “It’s the great outdoors. Most people don’t take hikes in Italian suits and shoes.”
Shaking his head, Billy clicked his tongue. “Only the shoes are Italian, man. The suit’s from England.”
“Excuse me, Cool Breeze.” Jake bowed to his partner. He’d given Billy the nickname Cool Breeze, and it had stuck. The man knew his fashion, his fine wines and his women.
Jake had warned him about the women because Billy already had a fine woman, Simone, at home. They needed only one divorce in the partnership, and Jake had that covered—not that he had run around on his wife, unless you counted the job as the other woman…and a lot of cops’ wives did.
Someone cleared his throat behind him. “Fingerprints?”
Jake jerked his head toward Clive Stewart, their fingerprint guy in Forensics, his shaved head already sporting a sheen. “Yeah, you can check, Clive. He didn’t leave the knife or box cutter behind that he used to slice off the finger. You might try the playing card, her neck. You know your job, man. I’ll let you and the others do it.”
As CSI got to work, Jake shuffled away from the body on the ground and eyed the crunch of people beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Although still morning, the air possessed that quiet, suffocating feel that heralded a heat wave, and the tape hung limply, already conceding defeat.
Jake pulled out his phone. Holding it up, he snapped some pictures of the looky-loos leaning in, hoping to catch a glimpse of…what? What did they hope to see? Did they want to ogle the lifeless body of this poor woman dumped on the ground?
Maybe one of them was already familiar with the position of the victim. Killers had been known to return to the scene of the crime and relive the thrill.
He swung his phone to the right to take a few more pictures from the other side of the trail. As he tipped up his sunglasses and peered into the viewfinder to zero in on his subjects, he swore under his breath.
What the hell was she doing here?”
Billy stepped into his line of fire. “He wanted someone to discover her quickly. She’s not that far off the trail, but no purse or ID, so he doesn’t want us to identify her right away.”
“You’re blocking my view.” Jake nudged Billy’s shoulder and framed the crowd at the edge of the tape again…but she was gone.
Jake took a few more pictures, and then cranked his head from side to side lookin
g for that unmistakable flash of blond hair, surprised she hadn’t ducked under the tape by now to nose around.
“Trying to find the killer?” Billy raised an eyebrow.
“Could be watching right now.”
“The Player never did that.”
“Not that they know of. Would be interesting to see some photos of those crime scenes from twenty years ago.”
“I’m sure that’s in our near future.” Billy patted the top of his short Afro. “Two murders, same MO, both bodies found in our jurisdiction, copycat of a previous serial killer—I smell a task force.”
Jake’s phone buzzed in his hand, and he glanced at the text from Captain Castillo. “You’re downright clairvoyant, Cool Breeze. Castillo wants everyone in Robbery-Homicide at the station at four o’clock. He wants me there at three thirty.”
“Uh-oh. Hope you weren’t planning on getting a life for the next several months.”
“Getting a life? I have a life.” Jake dropped the phone into the pocket of his non-English suit jacket and turned away from the body.
Billy gave a short laugh behind him. “If you say so, J-Mac.”
* * *
AT 3:28 P.M., Jake propped up the wall outside Captain Castillo’s office in the Northeast Division with one shoulder. Castillo hated tardiness almost as much as he hated the press.
Jake hadn’t bothered knocking on the office door because he could hear Castillo’s voice on the other side. He’d end the phone call at precisely three thirty and open that door, expecting Jake to be standing right where he was. And if he weren’t there? He didn’t know. He’d never tempted fate like that. He had to play by certain rules so that he could break others.
The low drone of Castillo’s voice stopped, and Jake stood at attention.
The door swung open, framing Castillo, navy suit slightly rumpled, salt-and-pepper hair already escaping from the pomade Castillo slathered on his head. The captain nodded once. “McAllister.”
Jake followed the captain into the room, taking the lone chair on the other side of the functional desk, and dove right in. “I’m assuming this is about the two murders.”
“It is. We’ve identified the second victim, Kelsey Lindquist.” Castillo shoved a picture of a pretty blonde across his desk. “No connection to Marissa Perez that we can see. They didn’t know each other, live in the same neighborhood, work together or in the same industry.”
“That’s first glance. They’re not working girls, so how is he finding them? Marissa did some online dating. Do we have Kelsey’s phone?” Jake glanced at the thick file on Castillo’s desk. “Looks like Billy’s been doing some work while I was in court. How’d you ID the latest victim so quickly?”
“Parents, unfortunately. Kelsey missed work today. Her boyfriend located Kelsey’s car in the parking lot of a shopping center this afternoon, purse and phone on the floor of the car. He called the police. The officers took one look at her driver’s license and called us.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Not a suspect…yet.”
“Tough.” Jake’s gut rolled. If anything ever happened to Fiona, he’d be ready to do murder himself. “Have her parents identified the body?”
“Not yet.” Castillo shoved the folder toward Jake. “This is yours now. We’re forming a task force, and I want you to lead it for us.”
“For us?” Jake drummed his fingers on top of the file. “You expect more bodies in other jurisdictions?”
“You and I both know that’s a possibility. He’s gotten away with this twice. Do you really think he’s going to stop now?”
“The Player did.”
“The Player stopped after six.” Castillo mopped his brow with a tissue he’d plucked from a box on his desk. “You’ve already noticed the similarities.”
“Copycat.”
Castillo shrugged, his suit crumpling even more around his shoulders. He needed Billy’s tailor—they all needed Billy’s tailor.
“Most likely. Would be rare for The Player to come out of retirement.” Castillo steepled his fingers. “I know you’re already thinking about The Player’s murder book.”
“Thinking about the murder book and Quinn. Does he still live in Venice, near the beach?”
“Ned Verona would know for sure. Hit him up after the meeting.” Castillo splayed his hands on the desk, thumbs touching. “I’ll take everyone through the slideshow of what we have now on both murders. You and Crouch can chime in whenever you feel the urge. Then I’m going to turn the show over to you for an intro to the task force.”
Jake slid the file folder from Castillo’s desk and tucked it under his arm. Resisting the urge to flip through the pages, he followed the captain into the conference room, already packed with Robbery-Homicide detectives, several uniformed officers and a few civilians.
The lights dimmed, and for the next hour Castillo briefed them on the two murders. Jake picked up where the captain left off, discussing the formation of the task force and how it would operate.
Blinking his eyes as the lights went up, Jake asked, “Any questions?”
Someone yelled from the back of the room. “Are we gonna call this task force The Player 2.0?”
“Not unless you want to send the public into panic mode. Maybe we’ll have a contest. Winner gets extra duty.” As the officers and detectives peppered him with questions, Jake scanned the room, his gaze tripping over the blonde in the back.
Oh, hell, no. Had Castillo invited her?
She’d noticed his attention and had taken a step back, folding her arms over a snowy-white blouse, a half smile curling her lip, exuding a confidence born of being connected.
Jake rushed through the rest of the questions, and as the meeting adjourned he elbowed his way toward Castillo, who was talking to Lieutenant Alicia Fields. He waited until Alicia took a breath before butting in. “I need to talk to you, Captain.”
Alicia held up her finger. “Do you mind, J-Mac? Give me a minute.”
Someone tugged on his sleeve and he jerked his head over his shoulder, meeting the amused blue eyes of Kyra Chase, the quack.
“Get used to it, McAllister. I’m part of this task force—whether you like it or not.”
Don’t miss The Setup by Carol Ericson, available April 2021 wherever Harlequin Intrigue books and ebooks are sold.
www.Harlequin.com
Copyright © 2021 by Carol Ericson
ISBN-13: 9780369705730
King’s Ransom
First published in 1992. This edition published in 2020.
Copyright © 1992 by Sharon Sala
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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