The Bait

by Carol Ericson

  “When do you think we’re going to hear from Copycat Three?”

  “I hate to say it, but I think he’ll communicate with me in the same way he did before.” He backed up and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “You mean, over someone’s dead body.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you don’t think he’s going to kill someone just for the opportunity to taunt you again?”

  “We already went through that possibility, didn’t we? He’s not going to stop, regardless. He already has the urge, and he’s going to keep satisfying it until we put an end to his craving. He gave us an opening by leaving that note for me. I’m not going to squander that chance.” Jake cranked up the AC, even though the sun had yet to make an appearance. “I thought you were on board with that.”

  “I am.” She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. “I just can’t help thinking about some woman going about her life today for maybe the last time.”

  THE BAIT

  Carol Ericson

  Carol Ericson is a bestselling, award-winning author of more than forty books. She has an eerie fascination for true-crime stories, a love of film noir and a weakness for reality TV, all of which fuel her imagination to create her own tales of murder, mayhem and mystery. To find out more about Carol and her current projects, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com, “where romance flirts with danger.”

  Books by Carol Ericson

  Harlequin Intrigue

  A Kyra and Jake Investigation

  The Setup

  The Decoy

  The Bait

  Holding the Line

  Evasive Action

  Chain of Custody

  Unraveling Jane Doe

  Buried Secrets

  Red, White and Built: Delta Force Deliverance

  Enemy Infiltration

  Undercover Accomplice

  Code Conspiracy

  Red, White and Built: Pumped Up

  Delta Force Defender

  Delta Force Daddy

  Delta Force Die Hard

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jake McAllister—This LAPD homicide detective is put to the test when a third copycat picks up where the other two left off, but the killer has a different mission—and it turns personal for Jake. Now he needs Kyra Chase more than ever.

  Kyra Chase—Her traumatic past keeps tormenting her as the copycat killers force her to relive her mother’s murder, but when the truth about who is behind the copycats is exposed, her greatest fear is realized and she turns to Jake for justice.

  Fiona McAllister—Jake’s daughter, who lives with her mother, shows up on her father’s doorstep, and her secrets not only complicate her father’s love life, they put her own life in grave danger.

  Roger Quinn—This retired LAPD homicide detective and Kyra’s surrogate father makes a shocking discovery that rekindles an old fear he has for the safety of the woman he loves like a daughter.

  Sean Hughes—A true crime blogger who’s riding a wave of popularity is playing with fire and doesn’t realize how badly he’ll get burned.

  Copycat Three—This serial killer has something to prove, and he does so in a way that has personal consequences for the lead detective on his case.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Spring at Saddle Run by Delores Fossen

  Excerpt from Conard County: Traces of Murder by Rachel Lee

  Prologue

  Rule number two. Don’t take any undue risks for fame or attention.

  He snorted, a little bit of spittle dribbling onto his chin. He swiped it off with the back of his hand. No guts, no glory. Isn’t that what Coach always used to say? Or was that no pain, no gain? Whatever.

  He slumped in the driver seat, the dome light spilling onto the computer tablet clutched in his hand. His finger trailed down the edge of the display as he greedily consumed the online article about a possible third serial killer copying The Player, a murderer who was active twenty years ago.

  The media had dubbed the first copycat, Jordy Lee Cannon, the Copycat Player. They called the second guy, Cyrus Fisher, Copycat 2.0. Now, after the discovery of a body dumped in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, the LAPD feared a third serial killer was at work, using The Player’s MO.

  The media had better come up with a more badass name than those stupid ones for him.

  Squinting at the text once more, he continued scanning the article for information he already knew by heart. After Cannon became a suspect in the slayings of four women, the lead detective on the case, Detective Jake McAllister shot and killed Cannon when he threatened another woman with a knife. Fisher took his own life by ingesting a cyanide tablet when cornered by Detective McAllister with evidence of his guilt in the murders of three women.

  He read aloud from the article, his voice booming in the car. “‘We identified and stopped the previous two killers, and I’m confident we’ll put an end to this one, too,’ said McAllister when questioned about this third killer. McAllister had no comment as to why these three killers decided to pick up the mantle of The Player, a serial killer who terrorized women in Los Angeles twenty years ago.”

  “Confident, are you?” He scrolled down the screen to the picture of McAllister, his large frame in a suit and tie, his square jaw set with determination, his eyes staring at the camera. He hated the bastard on sight.

  Drilling his finger into the cop’s forehead, he said, “You’re not dealing with that idiot coffee dude, Jordy, or that nerd, Cyrus, this time, McAllister.”

  Raucous laughter erupted from across the parking lot, and he jerked his head up to witness a bunch of drunk frat boys stumbling from the club, the pink neon from the Candy Girls sign highlighting their perfect hair and chiseled features. Probably got tossed out for harassing the dancers—losers.

  They couldn’t do what he did tonight. He flexed his fingers and felt the bones of the woman’s neck beneath his hands again. It would’ve been better without gloves. It would’ve been better with a knife. It would’ve been better if he could’ve had sex with her first.

  But rules were rules—even though a few of those rules were meant to be broken. Had Coach said that, too? Probably not. Coach had been a stickler for rules.

  His gaze tracked to the sign on the outside of the club, flashing different colors of lollipops, and his mouth watered. Maybe he’d reward himself with a lap dance tonight, but only if Barbi was working. He liked her long, straight brown hair—just like Carmela’s hair tonight.

  When Barbi gave him a lap dance, he could scrunch up his eyes and pretend it was Jenna, just like he pretended Carmela was Jenna and Juliana before her. He’d have to remember to keep his hands to himself though. He’d gotten carried away last time and had put his hands around Barbi’s neck.

  The bouncer had seen him, or maybe Barbi had pressed her panic button. Either way, the beefy security guy had put a stop to the dance and never even refunded his money. He gave Barbi a tip, anyway, just to say he was sorry, and she’d smiled at him.

 
; He started getting hard thinking about Barbi and Carmella and Juliana and even that bitch Jenna, and he dug the heels of his hands into his temples. He’d have time for that once he’d slipped into the dark confines of Candy Girls.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached into his back seat for the mini cooler, which contained a couple of ice packs. He dragged the cooler onto the passenger seat and flipped it open.

  He reached into the console with his fingertips and snatched up the pair of lacy panties he’d taken from Carmela’s body. Pressing them to his face, he inhaled her scent. As he dropped the underwear into the cooler, he said, “One souvenir for me.”

  Then he picked up the plastic bag that contained Carmela’s left pinky finger and placed it on top of one of the ice packs. Scowling at the bloody digit, he said, “And one souvenir for him.”

  Chapter One

  Crouching in the dirt, Detective Jake McAllister met his partner’s eyes over the dead body of a young woman, a queen of hearts between her lips, her long, brown hair placed over her shoulder, the lower half of her torso naked, her jeans tossed beside her.

  With a gloved finger, Jake traced the ring of bruises around her neck. “Maybe he raped this one.”

  Detective Billy Crouch shook his head. “He didn’t rape Juliana French, even though he removed her pants and underwear. No rape, no DNA. He’s sticking to the program.”

  Jake shifted, crunching the leaves beneath his shoes, an uneasy feeling knotting his gut.

  Raising his eyebrows, Billy said, “You know it’s true, J-Mac. We can’t ignore it. The three serial killers—Cannon, Fisher and now this sick SOB are all following some master plan. Our computer forensics uncovered an online link between Cannon and Fisher, and my guess is we’ll see the same connection to our current killer.”

  “I know you’re right.” Jake sat back on his heels and lifted the woman’s left hand, a bloody gouge in place of her pinky finger. “He’s taking their panties as his trophy. They each claimed their own trophy—Cannon stole a piece of jewelry and Fisher snipped a lock of hair—but they all made sure to sever the finger.”

  “Pulling off their pants and underwear indicates more ambition, greater risk taking.”

  “I’m counting on that to trip him up.” Jake lifted a lock of the woman’s silky hair, letting it slide through his fingers. “This one seems to have a type. Juliana had long, dark brown hair, too.”

  “That’s one thing he has in common with The Player when choosing victims. Cannon chose his based on young women coming to the coffeehouse. Fisher stalked women who lived alone and had poor security at their homes. This guy is using appearance to choose his victims, just like The Player did. Only The Player preferred blondes.”

  “I know he did.” Jake swallowed, thinking about Kyra’s mother, Jennifer Lake.

  “Are you guys finished?” Clive Stewart, their fingerprint tech, held up his black bag and indicated the waiting LAPD crime scene investigators.

  “It’s all yours.” Jake pushed to his feet and said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky again like we did with Fisher, and he’ll leave a print, Clive.”

  Clive surveyed the body on its bed of leaves and dirt and nodded. “Could be. He’s leaving a messier scene than either of the others.”

  Jake turned his back on the CSIs as they descended on the young woman. She didn’t look like a sex worker, but sometimes you couldn’t tell by appearances. Juliana French hadn’t been a prostitute. She hadn’t lived alone, either. She’d disappeared between a club and her car. There was some speculation on the task force that she’d hopped into a car, thinking it was an app ride.

  Peeling off his gloves, Jake strode away from the dump site back to the access road that bordered the trail. Too many cars had driven over the road to be able to make any sense of the tire tracks.

  He glanced up at the trees, some leaves crisping at the edges with the coming autumn, others as green as ever with plans to stay that way through the season. LA had its own fall colors that eluded the detection of transplants from the East but made their mark on natives. He could feel and smell the changing of the seasons despite the greenery around him.

  As he emerged from the foliage, the gathered press lit up, swinging their cameras and microphones in his direction.

  “Detective McAllister, is this the work of another serial killer?”

  “Is this the same guy who did Juliana?”

  “Another copycat, Detective McAllister?”

  He dropped his sunglasses from his head to the bridge of his nose and held up his hand. “No comment for now. Stay tuned for a press conference later in the week.”

  He ducked into his sedan. Waiting for Billy to join him, he took out his phone and tapped through the pictures he had taken of the crime scene—horrific pictures, indecent pictures. He said through gritted teeth, “What do you do with their panties, freak?”

  He jumped when Billy yanked open the car door. “Talking to yourself again, brother, or singing? I saw your lips moving.”

  “I’m talking to this piece of scum.” Jake flashed his phone at Billy.

  “Did you tell him we’re going to nail him, just like the other two?”

  “Something like that.” Jake cranked on the engine and pulled around a group of emergency vehicles, including the coroner’s van. “What took you so long? You weren’t giving an exclusive to your reporter girlfriend, were you?”

  “I did go over for a chat, but Megan Wright isn’t my girlfriend, and even if she were, she’s not getting any details and she knows it.”

  “Is that why she’s not your girlfriend?”

  Billy punched Jake’s arm. “Are you implying that’s the only reason she’s going out with me?”

  “So, you are still going out.”

  “We’re going out, but she’s not my girlfriend. I mean, we’re not exclusive...unlike you and Kyra.”

  “Kyra and I...” Jake shrugged. What he and Kyra had was complicated. “Did you finally meet with the PI?”

  Billy knew a subject change when he heard it, and he grinned. “Yeah, we met.”

  “Do you like him? Do you think he’s going to be able to help you find your sister?”

  “She. The PI is a lady.”

  “Questions remain the same.”

  “I like Dina. I think she can help, and yes, she is attractive.”

  “Uh-oh.” Jake glanced at Billy. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  “Moi?” Billy flicked his tie in front of him. “Not at all. She happens to be involved with Jansen, Narcotics. That’s how I got her name. The first guy I contacted fell through, and someone in Narcotics heard I was looking. Put me in touch with Jansen, who put me in touch with Dina.”

  “All joking aside, I hope she can help you find your sister.”

  “Me, too,” Billy said, and stared out the window.

  Their drive back to the station was unusually quiet, considering they’d just come from the dump site of a second body that looked like the work of a third copycat serial killer. How unusual was this? The only reason the Feds hadn’t moved in yet was due to the success of the LAPD task force in identifying and stopping the first two copycat killers.

  When they got back to the task force war room that had been functional for over three months now, Billy took it upon himself to start going through the files of missing women in LA to see if he could find a match to the body in the canyon.

  Ever since Billy’s sister, Sabrina, had gone missing, Billy had taken a special interest in the lost girls of LA. Jake left him alone with his sad obsession and trooped to Captain Carlos Castillo’s office to give him an update.

  The captain’s door stood open and he wasn’t on the phone, but Castillo favored a certain protocol so Jake tapped on the door as he hovered in the hallway.

  Castillo glanced up from his computer screen and waved him into the office
, his dark eyes flashing. “You don’t even have to tell me. I know it’s the same MO as Juliana French for our third copycat. I’m tired of this. What makes The Player so special that these sick guys are emulating him?”

  Jake dropped into the chair across from Castillo. “I’m hoping our computer forensics team can tell us that. They’re still looking into the online connection between Cannon and Fisher, the first two killers. It seems they both favored a certain online message board for crime.”

  “I’m not going to pretend I understand any of that.” Castillo held up his hand as if to ward off too much technical information, not that Jake had any to give him.

  “Bottom line—those message boards are a way for people to communicate without sending emails, but they usually require an email address to register. If we have email addresses, we can trace those to IP addresses and locate the person’s physical address where the computer resides.”

  “You lost me at IP address.” Castillo ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I trust Brandon Nguyen and the others to know what they’re doing. Tracing a link between Cannon and Fisher might help us ID this third killer?”

  “It might.” Jake rapped on the edge of the desk. “But so will solid detective work. Billy’s looking at missing women now. We’re running this victim’s prints, and the medical examiner is doing a rape kit on the body.”

  “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.”