The Bait

by Carol Ericson

  Eventually people started coming in from the field, looks of hardened determination on their faces. Billy always got the job of ID’ing the victim. He had insisted on it ever since his own sister disappeared. It had become a compulsion for him.

  When Billy walked into the task force room, he didn’t look left or right on his way to his desk. The task would absorb him for hours until he got a break.

  Jake followed closely on Billy’s heels, talking to three different people and trying to text on his phone. She knew Jake would want to craft another response to Copycat Three, and she’d already started working on it in her head.

  They’d want to challenge Copycat Three to break more rules while stoking his belief that he’d outgrown his mentor, whoever that was. They had to walk a fine line between taunting him and encouraging him to commit more murders. But, honestly, the guy didn’t need encouragement. The urge had gotten in his blood.

  As the day wound down, Kyra texted Jake from across the room, asking if they were still on for Quinn’s.

  Instead of texting her back, Jake stood up and stretched and then sauntered to her desk.

  Wedging a hip on her desk, he said, “I’m good for Quinn’s, but I need to go home first. I want to see Fiona before she takes off for Lyric’s house and make sure she gets into a car with an actual adult driving and not a teenager. Lyric’s older brother is picking her up. Then I’ll head down to Venice. Who’s cooking?”

  “I’ll pick up something. Any requests?”

  “Whatever Quinn wants.” He leaned in close. “We got a break today. When the coroner moved the body, there was a swizzle stick stuck to the victim’s back where her shirt was pulled up.”

  “A swizzle stick? You mean one of those stirrers from a drink?”

  “Yeah, kind of unique looking—a rainbow color. We’re going to start checking the clubs, starting with Hollywood. It could just be from the victim’s location before she got snatched, and if her car’s in the same area, it’s no mystery. But it seems odd that she’d have something like that stuck to her body from a club where she’d been drinking or dancing.”

  “You mean, it’s more likely that it was in the car that transported her dead body to Topanga?”

  “Right.” He shrugged. “Unless it was on the ground already and the killer dropped her on top of it.”

  “That’s promising. The footage of the clubs where Juliana and Carmella were before their murders hasn’t shown anything yet? Nobody approaching the women? Leaving with them?”

  “Nothing like that. Just shows they left alone, which is on my list of don’ts for Fiona when she’s old enough to go out to clubs.” Jake squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced, as if the thought of Fiona in a club caused him physical pain. “Young women should never leave a bar or club alone—or with a stranger, especially when intoxicated.”

  “That’s the trouble with booze though, isn’t it? It makes you do things you normally wouldn’t.”

  “So does hubris.” Jake winked. “And I think we have Copycat Three all ginned up on that.”

  Kyra left before Jake, although she didn’t have any clients to see at her Santa Monica office. When she got home, she cleaned up—just in case Jake made an appearance at her apartment after dinner. Then she hopped in the shower, put on some fancy underwear—her hopes still high—and fed Spot.

  She ordered and picked up Chinese food on the way to Quinn’s place on the Venice Canals. He’d heard the news about the third killing today, and Kyra had told him about Copycat Three’s note to Jake.

  He’d seemed thoughtful and worried when she’d told him about the reference to rules again. He and Jake could analyze it tonight at dinner. She’d enjoy watching two great detectives bounce ideas off each other.

  She parked outside of the walk streets that comprised the neighborhood of Venice lining the canals. Beyond the bridges and canals where Quinn’s house was located, Venice could be a rough area. Gentrification had never taken root here, despite the city’s proximity to the beach.

  Two gangs, Venice 13 and the Venice Shoreline Crips, still had a stranglehold on the drug trade here, but the violence and drive-by shootings that characterized other areas of LA inhabited by gangs didn’t manifest by the ocean. Venice still bowed down to its hippie roots, and artists had taken a firm hold of the area along the canals.

  She always got a kick out of the tough, old LAPD detective hanging out with the artsy crowd of Venice, but all the neighbors had loved Charlotte and had accepted Quinn as part of the deal.

  With the bags of food swinging from her wrists, Kyra knocked on Quinn’s red door. At the same time, she called out, “It’s Kyra.”

  His strong voice boomed from the other side of the door, “C’mon in.”

  Must be a good day. She used her key to let herself in and waved at Quinn coming from the rear of the house. His backyard consisted of a little square where he had installed a patio and a section where he tried to grow some vegetables.

  “Don’t tell me you’re gardening out there.” She lifted the bags. “I have everything we need right here.”

  “Just cleaning up some leaves.”

  “Don’t overdo it.” She placed the bags on the counter and picked up a bottle of wine. “Ooh, what’s this?”

  “I did a little shopping and picked up a bottle for you.”

  She blew him a kiss. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Quinn stopped short and almost tripped. “You haven’t called me that in a while.”

  “I haven’t, have I?”

  “You usually call me Dad when you’re feeling...insecure.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay? Jake treating you all right?”

  Was she feeling insecure? She sensed a storm brewing but couldn’t put her finger on its origin. The developments in the Copycat Three case had instilled her with confidence, and they were even getting close to identifying her nemesis, Laprey. She and Jake were on shaky ground due to his ex’s objection to her being around Fiona, but Jake was working on that.

  “Jake’s taking care of his daughter, as he should. We’re fine.” She pulled a container from the bag and plopped it on the counter. “So fine, in fact, he gave me a detail about the murder scene today.”

  “Evidence?” Quinn crowded into the kitchen next to her and washed his hands at the sink.

  “A swizzle stick from a bar stuck to the victim’s back. Could’ve been a bar she was at...or it could be from the killer or his car.”

  “That’s good news.”

  Before they could say more, a knock on the door had Kyra patting Quinn on the shoulder and saying, “I’ll get that. Not expecting anyone else, are you?”

  “I still have a few friends, you know, even though Charlotte was the social butterfly. Ned Verona still drops by.”

  Captain Castillo’s name came to her lips, but she shoved it aside for later as she opened the door to Jake.

  He held up a six-pack of beer. “For Quinn—so don’t get on his case.”

  “I guess everyone felt we needed alcohol tonight. Quinn even bought a bottle of wine.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Jake’s jaw. “I told Quinn about the swizzle stick. Any progress on that, yet?”

  “We briefed several patrol officers, gave them a picture of the stir stick and told them to keep an eye out at the bars and clubs. No DNA or prints on it, though.”

  “No ID of the victim?” Quinn had been listening intently from across the room and came forward with his arm outstretched.

  The two men shook hands, and Jake said, “Not yet.”

  Kyra moved into the kitchen and called over her shoulder, “You can get Quinn a beer, but just one.”

  Quinn growled. “Tyrant.”

  Kyra smiled to herself. Quinn loved it when she ordered him around. She’d just taken up Charlotte’s mantle. “I hope nobody minds if we serve ourselves out of the cartons. I’m trying
to save us some dishwashing.”

  “Fine by me, but don’t force me to eat my food with chopsticks or we’ll be here all night.” Quinn took a seat at the table, cold beer in hand.

  “Forks, it is.” Kyra handed a stack of plates to Jake and grabbed a handful of silverware. She carried the food to the table and went back for the bottle of wine unopened on the counter. She rummaged in a drawer for a corkscrew and carried the items to the table.

  “I’ll do that.” Jake took the wine and the corkscrew from her and peeled the foil off the top of the bottle. As he twisted the corkscrew into the cork, his phone rang. “That’s work. I hope I get to finish my dinner.”

  He shoved the bottle toward Kyra and picked up his phone. “McAllister.”

  Kyra clutched the wine bottle by the neck and watched Jake’s face.

  Noticing her scrutiny, he gave her a thumbs-up. “That’s great news and good work, Brandon. Do you think he’ll call tonight?”

  Quinn took the bottle from her and poured the ruby red liquid into her glass. “Drink.”

  Jake said, “That works, yeah. Thanks.” He ended the call and grabbed his beer for a toast. “Here’s to the brains behind IT. Brandon tracked down Toby Dog from Websleuths and sent him a message, explaining the situation. The guy’s name is Bret Harrison and he lives in Connecticut. He’s anxious to talk to me and will be giving me a call later.”

  Kyra clinked her glass with the two bottles. “Perfect. I wonder if he was surprised to hear from Brandon.”

  “If he’s a fan of Websleuths, I’m sure he’s excited to be part of a real-life investigation. I just hope he’s not a poser.”

  “Poser?” Quinn took a sip of beer and plunged a spoon into the sticky rice.

  Jake answered, “Someone who’s lying to get in on the action. I’m sure you dealt with plenty of phonies giving you fake information just to be involved.”

  “We sure did—just never from a website.”

  As the three of them ate, Jake filled in Quinn about the case. They’d almost finished eating when Jake’s phone rang again.

  He glanced at the display. “This is Bret. I’m going to put him on speaker.”

  Jake took a swig of beer and answered the phone. “Detective Jake McAllister, LAPD Homicide.”

  A voice a lot younger than Kyra expected replied. “Detective McAllister, this is Bret Harrison. I was contacted by Brandon Nguyen about some messages I received on Websleuths.”

  “I’ve been expecting your call, Bret. When did you start receiving those messages?”

  Jake took Bret through several questions and had him go through all the usernames he believed belonged to the same man.

  Bret was thorough, had a good memory and didn’t seem to be playing Jake. Of course, he hadn’t saved any of the communications so it was just his word, but with all the usernames IT should be able to track an IP address.

  Jake cleared his throat. “What other rules did this guy mention?”

  “Standard stuff that you’d expect anyone with any common sense to know about, but he always let stories drop about how he’d done this or that. Claimed he’d murdered a few people in different parts of the country. It was creepy.”

  “Could be someone bragging, but we’ll look into him. Can you remember any of his stories?”

  Bret huffed out a breath. “Let’s see. He cautioned against taking any personal trophies. He said if you were going to take jewelry, make sure it couldn’t be tied directly to the victim. He said he once took someone’s unique engraved wedding ring that had a yellow diamond, and for some reason the cops never knew about that. But he panicked and tossed it, anyway.”

  Quinn’s bottle of beer landed on its side, and Kyra pulled the napkin from her lap to soak up the fizzy spill.

  Jake finished up his conversation with Bret and cupped the phone in his hand. “Interesting stuff.”

  Kyra glanced at Quinn’s face, drained of color, the lines etched deeply in his flesh, and jumped up from her chair. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  He shifted his blue eyes to hers, and she’d never seen such fear reflected there, not even on the day Charlotte got her cancer diagnosis.

  “Quinn?” Jake pushed back from the table.

  Quinn closed his eyes and said, “He’s back. The Player is back.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Kyra swayed and gripped the back of Quinn’s chair. The call had upset him. She and Jake should stop making him relive his one professional failure.

  “What makes you say that, Quinn?” Jake narrowed his eyes. “What part of Bret’s narration brought you to that conclusion?”

  Kyra’s heart slammed against her chest. Jake was taking Quinn seriously. Her greatest fear was materializing before her eyes, and Jake was asking rational questions. She felt like screaming.

  Quinn opened his eyes slowly, lashes fluttering as if coming out of a trance. “It was what he said about the engraved wedding ring with the yellow diamond.”

  “But you said The Player never took any trophies except for the severed finger.” Her high-pitched voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else, some hysterical person in a melodrama.

  Jake must’ve heard the tone, too. He circled the table and put a hand on her back. “Sit down, Kyra. Have some wine.”

  With a little nudge from Jake, she plopped down in her chair and grabbed her wineglass by the stem, her grip practically snapping it off. She took a gulp, hardly tasting the wine as it ran down her throat.

  Reaching over and cinching her wrist with his gnarled fingers, Quinn said, “He never did take any other trophies. That’s why I was never sure about the ring.”

  Jake had dragged the chair at the end of the table around to Quinn and now sat next to him, elbows braced on his knees. “The engraved wedding ring?”

  “That’s right.” Quinn released Kyra’s wrist and patted her hand. “One of the victims, Delia Hopkins, had a slight indentation on her left ring finger. I naturally assumed it had been a wedding ring, although there were no tan lines and the indentation was very faint.”

  Jake asked, “Did her family report the ring missing?”

  “That’s the thing.” Quinn scratched his chin. “Delia was divorced, and her ex-husband reported that she’d tossed the ring in the ocean. Nobody at her office ever reported seeing her wear a ring on that finger after her divorce.”

  “And the description of that wedding ring?”

  Quinn locked eyes with Jake, his mouth grim. “The ex-husband described it as a yellow diamond with an engraving. Nobody—and I mean nobody—today would know about that ring. We didn’t put it in the reports as missing because the family claimed she didn’t have it at the time of her murder.”

  Blowing out a long breath, Jake glanced at Kyra. “That’s it. Laprey is The Player, and The Player is the one encouraging and guiding these copycats, living vicariously through the murders he’s no longer willing or able to commit.”

  “That means The Player, the man who murdered my mother twenty years ago knows who I am, where I live, where I work, what I drive.” Kyra knotted her fingers in front of her and whispered, “What kind of game is he playing?”

  Quinn covered his eyes with a slightly trembling hand. “I’m sorry. I never should’ve confirmed this to you, Kyra. I could still be wrong. Maybe this Laprey is related to The Player. Maybe The Player is dead, as we expected.”

  “You don’t believe that, Quinn—not anymore.” She massaged her temples. “I think in the back of my mind I always suspected he was out there watching me, responsible for these...pranks since the copycats started. Do you think he’s doing the same thing with the family members of his other victims? Why would I be special among all those people? My mother wasn’t even his first or his last victim.”

  Quinn had a ready answer. “It’s because you’re involved with the current cases. I kept in
touch with a few of the families over the years. Some of them don’t even live in LA anymore. You’re right in the heart of it. You’re on the task force. Anyone could find that out—and he did. Right, Jake?”

  Jake nodded, and a muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. “The Player must’ve been tracking Kyra before the task force, though. He may have known her as Marilyn Lake, but to know she’d changed her name to Kyra Chase he must’ve been looking into her life before he launched his squad of killers.”

  The shock Kyra had been trying to keep at bay seized her. Her leg bounced beneath the table and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  Quinn scowled at Jake. “Maybe not. You found out who she was.”

  “I’m a detective with resources at my fingertips. Look—” Jake leaned forward and gripped Quinn’s shoulder “—I know you’re trying to protect Kyra, but she needs to face the truth to deal with it.”

  Had she come across as that strong to Jake? Why in the world did he think she could handle the knowledge that the man who’d murdered her mother had been keeping tabs on her for twenty years and was now the same person directing a cadre of killers?

  She took another slug of wine and dashed at the dribble it left on her chin. “Jake’s right. This is also good news for catching Copycat Three. Bring. It. On.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow at her and continued talking to Quinn. “The Player has been on this Websleuths site. He’s shown his hand. We can find him just like we found Bret Harrison. Our IT guy, Brandon is working on it, as we speak. We’re gonna nail him, Quinn. Your nightmare’s over.”

  Quinn aimed a shaky smile at Kyra. “I just want Mimi’s nightmare to be over.”

  Kyra left Quinn and Jake to hash through the implications of The Player being the person behind the copycat killers. She’d had enough for one night. She robotically cleaned Quinn’s kitchen and put away the leftover food, wondering if she’d ever feel safe again.