Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Carol Ericson

  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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  He didn’t like it—not at all.

  His hazel eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, as if he’d just gotten juiced up with adrenaline and was debating between fight and flight. As if Jake McAllister would ever flee from conflict. Quite the contrary. He had a reputation for courting it.

  Castillo sliced his hand in the air to cut the tension vibrating between her and Jake. “McAllister, you know Kyra Chase, right? She did a great job on Verona’s case a few months ago. Put the department in a good light by assisting with the victims in those gang retaliation shootings, got some cooperation from family members we never expected.”

  “I know of her.” Jake thrust out his hand in an aggressive gesture. “Detective Jake McAllister, Ms. Chase.”

  She clasped his hand, and its warmth and strength rattled her even more than the gesture itself...and the fire in those eyes that had just turned green. “You can call me Kyra. Captain Castillo has assigned me to your task force as a liaison between the victims’ families and the investigation.”

  “You won’t be doing any profiling of the killer or coddling any suspects we bring in?” He released her hand abruptly.

  She tilted her chin in a challenge. She knew her meeting with McAllister would be adversarial—she just didn’t realize how much she would enjoy it. “That’s not my job and never has been.”

  “It shouldn’t have been your colleague’s job, either.”

  Castillo cleared his throat. “The Lindquists are going to the morgue tomorrow to identify their daughter. I want both of you there...and civil.”

  Jake rolled his shoulders. “I’m always civil.”

  Lieutenant Fields, who’d been quiet through the exchange, snorted and patted Kyra’s back. “If you want any tips on how to deal with the ogre, let me know.”

  Kyra let her eyes wander the length of Jake’s fit frame. She’d dealt with worse. “I know you’re a top-notch detective, and I look forward to working with you.”

  She could lie with the best of them, but those two statements were nothing but the truth. Of course, she’d be looking forward to working with Jack the Ripper for a chance to get on this task force.

  Jake nodded once. “I’ll get your number from the captain, so we can organize for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be ready.” She took her leave of Captain Castillo and Lieutenant Fields and strode from the conference room, which had mostly cleared. Although she could feel McAllister’s gaze following her, it would be foolish to turn and acknowledge it, acknowledge him.

  She didn’t like him any more than he liked her, but she’d face a blazing inferno to stay on this case—and that’s exactly what Jake McAllister might prove to be. She’d just have to avoid getting burned.

  * * *

  AFTER SITTING IN traffic for two hours, Kyra poured herself a glass of chilled chardonnay and curled up on her couch with a file folder in her lap. Some people settled in with a good book. She preferred files on murder cases.

  She took a sip of wine, the crisp, fruity flavor sliding down the back of her throat and creating a warm spot in her belly. Sometimes she needed something stronger to get through this stuff, but a glass of wine on an empty stomach would suffice for tonight.

  She flipped open the folder and shuffled through her notes. She didn’t have anything official from the LAPD yet, but she’d get her hands on everything despite Jake McAllister. She understood his distaste for her wasn’t personal. She didn’t even blame him, but he should do a better job of reining in his emotions. If he wanted lessons, she could oblige.

  She ran a finger down a page of notes, pausing at each bullet point where her pen had dug a small hole next to a fact she knew about the two murders. The police hadn’t yet released certain details about the homicides, but at the task force presentation Castillo and McAllister had confirmed what she’d already heard—the killer had stuck a playing card between the lips of each of his victims and had removed her left pinky finger.

  Kyra flicked her thumb against her own pinky finger and clamped down on a shiver that threatened to rampage through her body. She took another sip of wine, savoring it before swallowing.

  The task force would probably reveal one of the killer’s proclivities and keep the other one close to the vest to weed out the fakes, frauds and wannabes. Twenty years ago, Roger Quinn had disclosed the card, which was how The Player had gotten his name, but the public never knew about the severed fingers.

  That didn’t mean the information never got out. People talked.

  Had this killer heard the stories? Was he anxious to pick up where The Player had left off? There were cold cases in the annals of the LAPD, but not many serial killer cold cases. Usually, murderers got sloppy or arrogant or desperate for the recognition they felt was their due. But not The Player. She had no doubt he was arrogant, though he’d never been sloppy and he’d never contacted the press or the police to crow about his achievements.

  She slid the folder from her lap and rose from the couch, holding her wine in front of her. She placed the glass on the kitchen table and ducked into her bedroom. She swung open the door to her walk-in closet, a rarity in these older, rent-controlled apartment buildings in Santa Monica, and shoved aside some blouses hanging on a lower rod, not doing a great job of hiding her safe. She tapped in the code, her mother’s birth date, and waited for the green light to flash its welcome.

  She pushed aside her passport, birth certificate and the release papers from LA’s foster care system and curled her fingers around the soft, worn edges of a manila envelope. The sharp stub of the clasp, long since broken off, scratched her finger as she slid the envelope from the safe.

  Leaving the door of the safe open, she backed out of the closet, clutching the packet to her chest. She swung by the kitchen table on her way back to the couch and grabbed her wine.

  Tucking one leg beneath her, she slipped the paper clip, which had taken the place of the clasp, from the top of the envelope and plunged a slightly shaky hand inside.

  The sheaf of papers waiting for her fit comfortably in her grip, and she brought them into the light. These weren’t official documents, but they told the whole story of The Player’s killing spree twenty years ago.

  Six women. Six severed fingers. No connection between the victims, except for an age range in their twenties and a general appearance of long blond hair. Nothing unusual in that, hardly a pattern. Young women were more apt to be the target of serial killers, and most young women, then and now,
wore their hair long.

  The two current women didn’t even match The Player’s victims, as Marissa was a dark-haired Latina.

  Kyra flipped over the stack of papers and slapped them down on the coffee table. She didn’t need to look at the pictures again.

  She rolled her wineglass between her hands and raised it to her lips. She’d better slow down and get some food in her stomach if she hoped to carry out her plan tonight.

  She pushed up from the couch, poured the wine into the sink and grabbed a container of leftover pasta from the fridge. She ate it cold, standing up, one bare foot on top of the other.

  Then she changed from the slacks and blouse she’d worn to work and pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie. When she finished tying her running shoes, she reached into her satchel and grabbed her .22. It wasn’t easy to get a conceal-carry permit these days, but she had connections.

  She slung the strap of her purse across her body and secured her gun in the outside pouch. She closed the safe in the closet and locked up the apartment, its location on the first floor making it vulnerable to break-ins by petty thieves and junkies, but they didn’t scare her. She’d faced the devil himself—more than once. Then she hopped in her car, which was parked in the carport in the alley, and drove back the way she’d come earlier.

  It didn’t take two hours this time. Rush-hour traffic had thinned out, but the freeway still boasted enough cars to keep her speed below fifty most of the way.

  She took the turnoff for Griffith Park, leaving the other cars behind. She crawled down a road toward the trailhead where there’d been a mass of vehicles and people this morning. Now she had the place to herself—she hoped.

  This morning, she’d headed to the crime scene as soon as she’d heard a hiker had found a body, the second in two weeks, dumped in the rugged area that nestled in the heart of LA. She’d seen McAllister there, large and in charge, and he’d seen her. He’d been taking pictures of the onlookers, hoping to catch a killer with his camera.

  She’d been surveying the crowd herself, but nobody stuck out to her. McAllister’s pictures could be valuable further into the investigation once they tracked the movements and acquaintances of these women.

  It would’ve been easier for her if Verona had been tagged to lead the task force, but McAllister was the hotshot, despite certain issues with the department. She could wrap Verona around her little finger, and she could handle McAllister, too. She’d had lots of practice getting the jump on men who thought they ruled the world.

  She held her breath as she neared the trailhead. She didn’t need some patrol officer assigned to protect the crime scene asking her questions. Her late-night visit would surely get back to McAllister, and she didn’t need that, either.

  As the car slowed to a stop, she huffed out a breath. She had free rein without an audience. The cops and CSI had been working the crime scene since this morning. They must’ve squeezed it dry. No need to keep anyone away now.

  Darkness met her as she scrambled from her car, her hand firmly on the zippered pouch concealing her weapon. She didn’t expect the killer to be active two nights in a row or choose the same dump site, but this guy wasn’t the only evil that lurked in the shadows. She had plenty of experience with evil, and the only way to stop it in its tracks was with a well-placed bullet.

  The soles of her running shoes crunched the dried-out discards from the foliage that bordered the trail. A slight warm breeze feathered through the trees, sending another few leaves floating to the ground and lifting the ends of her hair. As summer wound down, it ushered in wildfire season and the debris beneath her feet would be its hapless fuel.

  She took several steps down the trail, her breathing shallow, her heart hammering in her chest. He must’ve parked in just about the same place as she did, his feet treading the same path as hers.

  The police had noted drag marks on the trail. Of course, he hadn’t killed Kelsey here. He’d brought her to this place, left her, dumped her. Kyra’s hands curled at her sides as a hot rage thrummed through her veins.

  The wind picked up and whispered down the trail. She whispered a response. “Is it you? Have you come back? If you have, I’m not going to let you get away this time. I’ll kill you myself.”

  A twig snapped behind her and she spun around, her hand plunging into her purse for her gun. A hulking figure took shape under the crescent moon, and she aimed her weapon at it—center mass.

  “Take one more step, and I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  He’d recognize that voice anywhere, even though he’d heard it live and in person just a few times and never so...forceful. He believed her, but he had no intention of letting her off the hook so easily.

  He raised his hands. “I’m LAPD Detective Jake McAllister. Are you all right?”

  A sudden gust of wind carried her sigh down the trail toward him.

  “I—it’s Kyra Chase. I’m sorry. I’m putting away my weapon.”

  Lowering his hands, he said, “Is it okay for me to move now?”

  “Of course. I didn’t realize, I thought you were...”

  “The killer coming back to his dump site?” He flicked on the flashlight in his hand and continued down the trail, his shoes scuffing over dirt and pebbles. “He wouldn’t do that—at least not so soon after the kill.”

  When he got within two feet of her, he skimmed the beam over her body, her dark clothing swallowing up the light until it reached her blond hair. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but what are you doing here?”

  “Probably the same thing you are.” She hung on to the strap of her purse, her hand inches from the gun pocket.

  “I’m the lead detective on the case, and I’m doing some follow-up investigation.”

  “Believe it or not, Detective, I have my own prep work that I like to do before meeting a victim’s family. I want to have as much information as possible when talking to them. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “Sure, I can. Call me Jake.” He pointed to her bag. “What kind of piece do you have?”

  “M&P 22 Compact.” She clutched the bag with one hand as if she expected him to go for it.

  “A Smith & Wesson—nice weapon.”

  “And before you ask, I do have a permit for it.” Her chin jutted forward. “Do you want to see it?”

  He raised his eyebrows, even though he’d been planning to ask her about the permit—just to mess with her. “The gun or the permit?”

  “Either. Both.” She widened her stance.

  “I’m good. I’ve seen the M&P 22 before, and I trust you...about that permit.”

  “I think I’ve seen enough.” She took a step in his direction and stuttered to a stop, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder, when he didn’t make a move.

  “Really? You’ve seen enough? Where’s your flashlight?”

  She dipped her hand into the pocket of her hoodie and held up her cell phone. “Phones have flashlights now. They even take pictures.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Did you discover anything we missed?”

  “That’s not why I was here.” She sniffed. “I have to get going. The Santa Ana winds are kicking up, and my allergies are already giving me trouble.”

  He stepped aside, and as she walked past him he joined her, matching her stride.

  She whipped her head around without slowing her pace. “Where are you going? You just got here.”

  “I’m going to walk you back to your car because it’s dangerous out in the middle of Griffith Park after dark.” He pulled up next to her on the narrow trail, bumping her shoulder.

  “You forgot I have a loaded pistol as my companion.” She patted her purse.

  His arm shot out. He grabbed her bag and yanked it quickly to the side. Not only could she not reach her gun, he had the strap of her purse around her
neck.

  She sputtered, knocking his arm with the heel of her hand. Not a bad response, but her blow made no impact on the grip he had on her purse.

  “Just sayin’.” He released the bag, and the heavy gun banged against her hip.

  “And I’m just sayin’ you’re an ass.” She repositioned her purse, kept her hand over the gun pouch and quickened her pace.

  “Having a weapon is better than not having one, but don’t let it give you a false sense of security. Just because you’re packing heat doesn’t mean you can waltz into any situation you please. Have a little common sense.”

  He followed her stiff back and swinging ponytail back to the road. It was clear she thought he’d been trying to get under her skin, but her appearance here on her own truly alarmed him. He wasn’t going to allow Kyra Chase or any other woman to walk back to her car alone under these circumstances. He didn’t mind ruffling her feathers.

  She hit her remote and her lights flashed once. “This is me. Thanks for the escort, Officer.”

  His lips twisted into smile. “My pleasure, and thanks for not shooting me back there. I’ve got your number.”

  She stopped, her hand on the car door. “What?”

  “Your phone number. I got it from Carlos... Captain Castillo. I’ll text you the time for our meeting at the coroner’s office downtown.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.” She slammed her car door, cranked on her engine and made a dusty U-turn in the road.

  Jake stared after the red taillights until his eyes watered. What the hell had Kyra Chase been doing out here? And who the hell had she been talking to in the darkness?

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Jake parked his sedan in the parking structure of the USC Medical Center downtown. The old building that housed the coroner’s office for the county was attached to the med center. He slid from the car and reached into the back seat for his suit jacket. He’d wait for the comfort of the building’s AC before putting it on. The summer in LA had been mild, but September had brought the heat, and the Santa Anas were gusting in the canyons.