by B. J Daniels
“He didn’t rape his first victim. These copycats haven’t raped any of their victims.” Castillo put his hands together as if in prayer. “They’re very careful, aren’t they?”
“Just like The Player was, but they always make a mistake.”
“The Player didn’t.”
“I’m convinced he did. The detectives never discovered what it was.” Jake set his jaw, feeling disloyal to Quinn, the lead detective on The Player case twenty years ago. Retired now, Quinn still felt the crushing disappointment of letting one get away.
Castillo’s face screwed up as if he’d just tasted something sour. “Have you told Quinn that?”
“I don’t have to tell him. He knows. He’s said it himself. They missed something twenty years ago.”
“Whatever they missed is long gone. We had two different cold case units go through the evidence on The Player’s five victims, and they didn’t have any better luck than Quinn did twenty years ago. Careful man.”
“So careful he stopped killing rather than get caught.” Jake hunched forward in his chair, ready to launch into his own obsession. “And I’m convinced these present-day murders are going to lead us to identifying The Player.”
Resting his chin on the steeple of his fingers, Castillo closed his heavy-lidded eyes. “Are you working with Quinn to prove that?”
“No. I mean, not really. I keep him apprised, I ask him questions, but he’s not as convinced as I am that the murderers are linked.” Jake paused, studying the dark circles beneath Castillo’s eyes. “Is that a problem?”
Castillo’s lids flew open as if coming out of a trance. “Of course not. I’m the one who gave you Quinn’s contact info, if I recall. I didn’t realize you’d get so close to him...and Kyra.”
“Is that a problem?” Jake’s muscles tightened, and his fingers dug into the arm of the leather chair. He didn’t know what he’d do if it was a problem. He and Kyra had barely scratched the surface of their relationship, one he sensed could be deeper than any he’d experienced before.
“Not a problem.” Castillo waved his hand. “She doesn’t report to you directly. She’s in a different position than most of the people on the task force. But you’ve seen some of the difficulties that come along with a workplace romance. Look at Billy and his wife.”
“Simone left the force when they had their first kid and still wasn’t working at the time of the separation.”
“What if Simone wanted to come back?” Castillo spread his hands. “Could be awkward for everyone.”
“Yeah, well, divorce is often awkward for everyone.” Jake’s gaze tripped over Castillo’s shoulder to the happy-family pictures on the wall. “You wouldn’t know.”
Castillo’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline, and a pink tinge formed beneath his brown skin. “This is actually my second marriage. The first one ended in divorce—not pretty.”
“Never is.” Jake smacked a hand on the desk. “We’re having a task force meeting this afternoon at four. You’re invited.”
“Keep up the good work, Jake. You’ll nail this guy just like the other two.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain.” Jake exited the office on a phone call, Castillo’s tired voice following him down the hallway. The captain either needed a good night’s sleep or a look into retirement.
When Jake returned to the task force war room, buzzing with activity, he automatically looked in the corner, and Kyra raised her hand with a grimace on her face.
He took a detour to her desk on the way to his and crouched beside her chair.
“You heard the news, huh? A second killing, just like the first.”
“And just like the two killers before him—copying The Player.” She jerked her shoulders in a shiver.
Kyra Chase had good reason to dread another Player copycat. Her mother had been one of the original’s victims.
“I can hardly believe it, but that’s what we’ve got.” Jake touched her knee. “Are you okay?”
“Are you kidding? I’m getting used to it now. It’s like Groundhog Day for me. I have to keep reliving these gruesome crimes with every new copycat.” She clasped her hands between her knees. “But my feelings right now are nothing compared to the families’. I had a meeting with Juliana French’s mother this morning, which broke my heart. She was a single mom and raised Juliana herself—just to have her cruelly ripped away like this.”
Kyra’s voice broke as her words ended, and Jake did everything in his power to restrain himself from taking her in his arms. Kyra was a professional all the way, and wouldn’t want his desire to protect and comfort her to compromise her position on the task force as the victims’ rights advocate. Castillo was correct. Things could get awkward.
“I’m sure you did everything in your power to help Juliana’s mother cope.” Jake cleared his throat and leaned in closer. “We’re still on for Quinn’s place tonight for dinner?”
“More than ever. Quinn’s going to want to know all about this second murder.” Kyra’s gaze shifted to the side. “Have you heard anything from Brandon and the rest of the computer team about the connection Jordy Cannon and Cyrus Fisher shared online?”
“It has something to do with online message boards. They had the same message boards in their browsing history. Brandon’s going to give me a report soon, and when I have a minute to breathe, I’ll go through the boards to see if anything clicks.”
“Wanna bet the monster who killed Juliana and the woman found today is on one of those message boards?” The lips he knew from experience to be soft and luscious formed a thin, straight line.
“I know they’re all connected. I just have to prove it.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS later when Jake had wrapped up the task force briefing and logged off his computer, he watched Kyra leave the war room without even a backward glance. They weren’t fooling anyone with their coolness toward each other at the station, but they didn’t have to feed the gossip mill by leaving together.
He wanted to stop off at his house in the Hollywood Hills first to change, anyway, and Kyra, who lived closer to Quinn, would pick up dinner for them unless Quinn’s neighbor had dropped off another meal for him.
Could Quinn help him tie these copycats to the original killer and end up solving the twenty-year-old case? Consulting with the legendary detective couldn’t hurt, and getting in the old man’s good graces hadn’t hurt Jake’s chances with Kyra, either.
Detective Roger Quinn had taken a protective interest in the girl left behind by her mother’s murder. While Quinn and his wife hadn’t been allowed to adopt Kyra, who used to be known as Marilyn Lake, they’d taken a keen interest in her well-being—nurtured her along a horrific path through several foster families, including one where the teenage Kyra had to kill a foster father to protect a younger child in the home, and had sent her to college. Quinn’s wife, Charlotte, had passed away a few years ago, but Kyra saw Quinn as the father she never had and checked up on him frequently.
Jake had passed muster with Quinn, which had elevated him in Kyra’s estimation, not that he’d faked anything. Detective Roger Quinn had amazing stories to tell and solid advice to give, even though he had that one big failure on his record. Jake had no intention of following those footsteps.
After a quick stop at home, Jake reached the Venice Canals, a beachy Southern California replica of the real thing in Italy. The sun had just set, and the spiky palm trees reached into a sky hovering between day and night, awash in a faint orange glow. The glow had faded by the time he crossed the wooden bridge to Quinn’s house and knocked on the red door. For a retired LAPD homicide detective, Quinn lived in an unlikely neighborhood, filled with movie industry people, successful artists and a few sports figures. Quinn’s wife had bought the house with the proceeds from her best-selling thrillers. Quinn had lost his wife to cancer, but held on to their beach c
ottage and his memories.
Kyra flung open the door at his knock, the spicy smells of curry wafting behind her. She winked. “I know you like it hot, so I got some extra spicy vindaloo and tikka masala.”
With Quinn looking on from the comfort of his favorite chair, Jake touched Kyra’s lips with a chaste kiss and murmured, “Oh, you know I like it spicy.”
“Stop whispering over there, you two. I’m starving.” Quinn banged his cane on the floor for effect. Jake had seen the old man move fast enough without it.
Jake skirted around Kyra as she closed the front door. “Starving for information or food?”
“Both. Kyra didn’t want to get into the second murder too much without you—just enough to let me know you have a third copycat on your hands.” Quinn eyed him from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows.
“As crazy as it sounds, that’s where we are.” Jake crossed the room and shook hands with Quinn. “How are you doing, sir?”
“I’d be doing a lot better if these new killers would stop popping up every month to remind me of my biggest failure—and to stop murdering young women, of course. This isn’t about me.”
Kyra walked past them and squeezed Quinn’s shoulder. “We know you care about the victims more than anything, Quinn, but your success is tied to their justice.”
He patted her hand, which still rested on his shoulder. “I know you understand, Mimi.”
Quinn sometimes slipped into calling Kyra by her childhood nickname, especially now that Jake knew her background.
“We can talk while we eat. I almost have everything ready.” Kyra proceeded to the kitchen and Jake followed her.
“I’ll set the table.” Jake delved into the cupboards and drawers, grabbing plates and silverware, as Kyra finished opening the cartons of Indian food.
Quinn shuffled to the table, leaning heavily on his cane, and Jake raised his eyebrows at Kyra, who shrugged.
When they got to the table, Jake pulled out Kyra’s chair before taking his own seat.
Quinn grunted as he peeled back the foil from the naan and picked up a piece of the flat bread with his gnarled fingers. “Is he always gallant like that, or is he just trying to impress me?”
Kyra choked on her beer. “Both. Jake’s a perfect gentleman.”
“No cop I know is a perfect anything.” Quinn ripped the bread in his hands. “Now, tell me about this second victim.”
The gory details of a murder might be strange dinnertime conversation for most social gatherings, but for two homicide detectives and a victims’ rights advocate who happened to be a survivor herself, it made sense.
As he helped himself to rice, Jake launched into a description of the crime scene and the victim, and Quinn listened intently, the faded blue eyes in perfect focus.
Jake dropped a dollop of yogurt on his plate. “Long, brown hair just like Juliana’s. I think he has a type.”
“You also thought that about Copycat 2.0, Fisher, when his first two victims were African American. You were wrong.”
“We were. They must’ve fit his other criteria—living alone, poor security habits.” Finding those two young Black women murdered had sent Billy into a tailspin, reminding him of his own missing sister and prompting him to hire a PI to find her.
“I hope we don’t find out if that’s his type or not.” Kyra had perched her fork on the edge of her plate and crossed her arms. “You need to stop him before he kills again.”
“I hope we do.” Jake rubbed his knuckles on her arm.
He jerked his head at the sound of his work phone, sitting on Quinn’s counter. He jumped from the table. “Maybe we ID’d the second victim.”
He swept the phone toward him, and his heart bumped against his chest when he saw his ex-wife’s name on the display. Tess usually reserved calls to his work cell for urgent matters.
He tapped the phone to answer the call. “What is it, Tess?”
A shaky breath rattled over the line and then she said, “It’s Fiona. She’s missing.”
Copyright © 2021 by Carol Ericson
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ISBN-13: 9781488072895
Trouble in Big Timber
Copyright © 2021 by Barbara Heinlein
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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