Harlequin Intrigue May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Carol Ericson

  Quinn’s hands froze in midsweep. “She was. Rented a small house in Hollywood.”

  “And Kyra was home.”

  “She was home—sound asleep. Never woke up. The killer probably didn’t even know she was there.”

  Jake doubted that. If The Player had stalked Jennifer Lake, just like Andrea had been stalked, he would’ve known about a child. He wasn’t that careless. Still, he’d be damned if he’d correct the old detective. That would be close to sacrilege. He clamped his lips shut.

  Quinn pointed to a cupboard to the right of Jake’s head. “Why don’t we surprise Kyra tonight and set the table.”

  “I can do that.” Jake pivoted to his right and opened the cupboard door. He grabbed a stack of three plates. “What was Kyra like when you first met her?”

  “Traumatized. She’d lost her mother, her world. Jennifer Lake maybe didn’t make all the right choices as a mother, but she loved her daughter. Kyra cried for her often.” Quinn’s faded blue eyes shimmered with the memory.

  “And after?” Jake skirted around Quinn’s sagging body and put a plate on each of the three place mats on the table. “What was she like when the shock...wore off?”

  “I don’t know that it ever did.” Quinn took his turn in the kitchen and gathered silverware and napkins. “The murder affected her, of course. As a child, she was tough and unafraid, sassy, assertive. Then she learned to submerge all that beneath a sheet of ice—her layer of protection.”

  “Yeah, I’m familiar with that ice.”

  Quinn poked him in the arm with a fork. “Keep trying, boy—there’s a vibrant, caring woman beneath that veneer.”

  “You love her like a daughter, don’t you?” Jake rubbed his arm where the tines had pricked him.

  “I do, even though she was never officially ours. I blame myself for that. If it hadn’t been for my abuse of the booze at that time, we might’ve gotten her.”

  “Maybe that played a role, but your age and the fact that you were the detective on her mother’s murder case probably also had something to do with it. Shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “But that’s what we fathers do, isn’t it?”

  Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “You know I’m a father?”

  Quinn nudged his arm with his pointy elbow. “You didn’t think I’d let my girl fall for someone without doing my own investigating, do you?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kyra banged on Quinn’s door louder than she intended after seeing Jake’s sedan parked illegally on the street and discovering the front door was locked. So, he had beaten her there and then locked her out.

  “Hello, it’s me.”

  As she scrabbled in the bottom of her purse for the key to Quinn’s house, the door flew open and Jake filled the frame like he owned the place.

  “It’s about time.” He swept his arm to the side to gesture her through the door as if she hadn’t been here a hundred times before.

  Bustling into the house, she said, “About time? I’m right on time. You’re early.”

  She tripped to a stop as she took in the table, set for three, a vase of flowers pulled from Quinn’s front yard in the center.

  It looked a little bit more like a date in here than to-go containers balanced on their laps in the living room as they discussed serial killers. She approved. “Nice.”

  “We were just talking about...Andrea.” Quinn pulled out a chair at the table and waved her into it.

  Kyra shifted a quick glance from Quinn to Jake, suppressing a comment with a pursing of his lips.

  Jake nodded, instead. “Getting him up to speed.”

  “Any insight, Quinn?” Kyra took the proffered chair, nose in the air sniffing the spicy aroma of the food steaming on her plate.

  “Just that he’s still mimicking The Player with the stalking of a victim and killing her in her home.”

  “Just like my mom.” Kyra sniffed and it wasn’t the food.

  Quinn joined her at the table and squeezed her hand. “Just like Jennifer.”

  Jake put a beer in front of each of them, along with a basket of pita bread. “Quinn thinks this guy probably took a trophy from Andrea, even though we haven’t found what it could be yet.”

  “You mean in addition to the severed finger?” Kyra ran a thumb down her bottle of beer without taking a sip. “Just because the Copycat Player did? You think it’s jewelry again?”

  “The way Quinn explained it to me is that the killer would want a trophy for himself, just like the Copycat Player took the jewelry. That was for him.”

  “And the finger was for...?” She jabbed at a piece of lettuce on her plate, skewering a small crumble of feta cheese with it.

  “For the...game.” Quinn took a small sip of his beer, and Kyra knew it wasn’t his first. His first drink always resembled that of a man slaking his thirst after a long drought. She and his doctor always cautioned him about the wisdom of an alcoholic testing himself every day with just one or two beers.

  “You think the killers are playing some kind of game? Wait.” She suspended her fork halfway to her mouth, and the cheese rolled off and fell to her plate. “Do you think Jordy Cannon and Andrea’s killer are or were in touch somehow?”

  Jake dropped his fork with a clatter. “Is that what you think, Quinn? Is that what you meant by taking his own trophy?”

  “Think about it.” As if he were taking tea with the queen, he held up his own pinkie finger from the hand wrapped around his bottle. “These killers leave the playing card and then cut off the fingers because they’re following the game plan of The Player, twenty years ago. But what do they get out of it? The Player had his own sick reasons for severing the fingers and taking them as trophies—reasons we never sorted out. Jordy and this guy don’t have those same compulsions, but they’re following the same playbook. That’s not a coincidence. They know each other, or are part of some sick club.”

  “They do have different compulsions.” Jake scooped up a glob of chicken and rice with a triangle of pita bread and shoved it in his mouth, his appetite clearly not inhibited by the talk of killers and their trophies.

  Why would it be? He ate this stuff for breakfast and she, unfortunately, snacked on it.

  Quinn shrugged. “Different compulsions, different trophies, different victims.”

  “But the same MO, copied from The Player. Why would they know each other? The Player’s MO is available to anyone with a computer and internet access.” She grabbed her bottle. Maybe she needed the booze after all.

  “Except the detail about the severed finger is not on the internet. It was kept out of the news.” Jake’s hazel eyes glowed green around the edges of his irises, as if the ideas behind those eyes were sparking like electrical circuits.

  “Quinn, and even you, said those details had a way of leaking out.”

  “To two different people who both happen to be killers?” Jake planted his elbows on either side of his plate, his appetite on hold.

  “If you’re buying into Quinn’s theory that these killers know each other, you’d better start looking more closely into Jordy’s friends.”

  “That’s just it.” Taking a swig of beer, Jake settled back in his chair. “Jordy Lee Cannon had no friends.”

  Quinn steepled his fingers, their crookedness making for a dilapidated church spire. “What’s a friend these days? People fall in love online without ever meeting each other in person. I’ve seen those shows.”

  Kyra let her mouth drop open in mock outrage. “You watch reality TV dating shows?”

  Quinn chuckled. “Only while channel surfing.”

  “Quinn’s right. I’m going to order the full forensics report on Jordy’s computer.” Jake raised his bottle to Quinn. “I knew it was a good idea coming here.”

  They finished their dinner in a more normal fashion—discussing the Dodgers’ chances
of making it to the World Series next month and wondering if they’d have another blast of heat and high winds before SoCal settled down to cooler fall temps.

  Kyra offered to clean the kitchen, knowing she could get it done faster than Jake and with the key to Matt’s storage container burning a hole in her purse. She had to get out there before Matt’s parole officer or roommate or even Jake. She didn’t put it past him to get more info from the parole officer and not share it with her. Just like she had no intention of sharing this with Jake.

  “Do you two want to take a walk on the canals? I can run the dishwasher, Kyra, and I promise I won’t crack open another beer.”

  She emerged from the kitchen and patted Quinn on the arm, her heart softening. She got it. He wanted to play matchmaker just like on those reality TV shows he claimed not to watch.

  Another time and she’d jump at the chance to cozy up to Jake while walking the bridges of Venice, but tonight she had a mission.

  “I’m down for that. I could use some fresh air.” Jake rose from his chair and stretched, his sage-green T-shirt clinging to the shifting muscles of his chest, giving her a tantalizing look at what she was turning down.

  “You know, I’d like that, but I have some work waiting for me at home.” She twisted her lips, not even feigning the regret. “Patient files.”

  Jake shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his eyes narrowing to slits, giving her the same look as her stray cat when she shooed it outside.

  “I’ve got farther to travel than you, so I’ll hit the road.” He grasped Quinn’s hand. “Thanks for the insight, sir.”

  “Thanks for the food...and the beer.” Quinn winked.

  Kyra waved a dish towel at them. “You guys don’t fool me one bit. I know you had a beer before I got here.”

  “Busted.” Jake grabbed his weapon and slung the holster over his shoulder, looking like a gunslinger from the Old West—all steely-eyed determination and set jaw.

  He didn’t look happy that she’d shut him down. He’d be even less happy if he knew why.

  Raising his hand, Jake said, “Good night, you two.”

  The door shut, and an unaccustomed silence hung between her and Quinn for several seconds.

  Quinn broke it with a cough. “He’s a good guy, Kyra, and he already knows about your mother. No need to shy away like you usually do.”

  “It’s not that. I really do have work to do. Besides, the last stroll we had around the canals ended with a phone call about a dead body.”

  “Superstitious?”

  “Perhaps, and I know he’s a good guy. Maybe that’s why it’s best we don’t go down this road. You know he has an ex-wife.”

  “And a daughter, so why are you selling yourself short? You deserve someone in your life, Kyra. Someone good.”

  “Do I?” She stooped to kiss him on the cheek. “I have to run. Don’t fall asleep in your chair.”

  Back in her car, she picked up her phone, punched in the address of Matt’s storage facility and took off. Forty minutes later, she pulled up to the closed gate. The card in the envelope must be for after-hours access, and Kyra let out a breath as she shoved the card in the slot and the gate rolled open.

  Matt had even written the number of the storage unit on the envelope. He must’ve been expecting a return visit to the slammer to rent this space.

  Following the signs posted at each corner, she navigated to Matt’s unit, nestled along a row of the smaller containers. These had silver rolltop doors with a keyhole on the right-hand panel on the outside.

  She parked perpendicular to the door of the unit and scrambled from the car, her heart tapping out a staccato beat. She’d left her headlights on to augment the yellow light that spilled from a bulb every four containers.

  With unsteady hands, she inserted the key in the lock and clicked it to the right. The door rattled as if to say, Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.

  She bent over, grasped the handle and yanked up, a muscle in her back jumping in protest. The door squealed as she raised it, and she held her breath, expecting some sort of sick joke from Matt to pop out at her. The only joke was that the unit didn’t have lighting, but she did have her cell phone.

  Standing at the entrance, panting slightly, she scanned the contents of the storage unit with the beam of light from her phone, her gaze tripping over boxes, a few old suitcases and motorcycle parts. If he had anything in here about payment from someone to leave cards for her or anything like that, she’d turn it over to Jake, but she doubted Matt would’ve stored something so recent. These looked like the past, not the present.

  She took a tentative step into the space and sneezed. Did he have more photos in those boxes? Who knew Matt Dugan had been so sentimental about his messed-up foster families?

  She practically stumbled over the first row of boxes and dropped into a crouch. She lifted the lid from one of the boxes and shone her light inside, picking out a mass of papers.

  She shuffled through the drawings and sketches, her heart lodged in her throat. She’d forgotten about Matt’s artistic talent, which had been submerged beneath his fear and resentment and hate. She’d had those same feelings being shuffled among families who’d regarded her with a mixture of pity, horror and greed.

  She capped the box and plunged into the next one. This one contained a sort of jumbled filing system with Matt’s court dates and releases, and communications with his court-appointed attorneys.

  She picked her way through some bike parts, probably stolen, and settled in front of another couple of boxes. She tipped the lid off the first one, which contained more items Matt had probably stolen from the garage. Kyra choked on the oily fumes that rose from the rags wrapped around gadgets and parts that must have been of some use on a motorcycle at one point. She felt behind a greasy carburetor where the box lid had fallen, and then froze as she read the black-scrawled label on the box next to this one. Mimi Lake. Her nickname when she was a child, her real last name, the last name tied to a murdered woman.

  With dread thrumming through her veins, she tipped up the lid of the box bearing her name. Her hands clawed through the newspaper clippings and candid photos of her long after she’d become Kyra Chase. Her stomach heaved and she pressed a fist against her mouth. Why?

  A metal scraping sound at the door of the storage unit caused her to spin on her heels and topple to the side. She frantically reached for the gun tucked in the purse that was slung around her body.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Jake’s voice reverberated in the metal container.

  Desperation and rage had her reaching past her gun for another item in her purse. Without thinking, she flicked the lighter and dropped it on top of the open box. Fueled by the old paper, the flames shot up past the rim of the box, the heat instant on her cheeks.

  “Look out!” Jake shouted from the entrance and took a step into the unit.

  As Kyra scrambled to her feet, the fire jumped into the second box—the one full of oily rags.

  The explosion threw her off her feet.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The boom reverberated in Jake’s ears, bouncing off the metal walls of the storage unit. He stumbled back from the searing heat that blasted his face. The flames raced to the ceiling of the storage unit, and black smoke billowed toward him in a noxious cloud.

  The explosion had thrown Kyra away from the fire. She was crabbing backward to escape it, but the flames chased her, licking at her shoes.

  Jake lunged forward and grabbed Kyra under the arms. He yanked her once, her legs flying off the ground, and then he dragged her out of the container to the cool air and her car.

  Her car. If the fire reached her car, that explosion in the storage unit would seem like a firecracker in comparison.

  Smoke abrading his throat, he choked out, “The keys.”

&nb
sp; In an equally strangled voice, she answered, “In the ignition.”

  He gave her a hard shove. “Get away and call 911.”

  He watched her stumble away before jumping into the car and cranking on the engine. He threw it into gear and stomped on the accelerator. The car leaped backward, and he propelled it away from the blazing storage unit.

  As he exited the vehicle, he heard sirens. He swiveled his head, the smoke stinging his eyes and invading his nostrils, but he couldn’t see Kyra. His head jerked back to the unit, now belching orange flames and black smoke in some kind of Halloween extravaganza.

  She hadn’t foolishly gone back inside to save something, had she?

  He had taken one step in the direction of the inferno when someone grabbed his arm.

  “Where are you going?” Kyra stared at him through soot-ringed eyes that a Goth teen princess would envy.

  Before he had a chance to sheepishly admit that he was going back for her, fire engines blared their warning, and he and Kyra moved out of the way.

  She held up a card. “I was going to let them through the gate, but the owner had already gotten a fire warning and remotely released the gates for the fire trucks.”

  Jake peered back at the fire being fueled by Matt Dugan’s only earthly possessions. “The corrugated metal should keep the fire from spreading to other units.”

  “I hope so.” She shoved back strands of hair from her loosened ponytail, smearing more soot across her face.

  Turning his back on the busy firefighters, Jake took her by the shoulders, and she swayed toward him. “Are you all right? I smelled gasoline as soon as I walked in there, but never expected a fire or an explosion.”

  “I’m all right, but I think my—” she looked down and held up one foot “—shoes melted or something.”

  He rubbed her arms. “If all you lost was a pair of shoes, this is your lucky day. What happened in there?”

  “It was that box of rags.” She shivered despite the warmth emanating from the fire and the cinders wafting through the air like fireflies.