Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Carol Ericson

  Knowing it would take him at least forty-five minutes to traverse the 405 freeway on the cusp of rush hour, Jake stuck his head in Castillo’s office at three o’clock. “I got a summons from Quinn for a meeting at four o’clock.”

  Castillo glanced at the cell phone on his desk. “Better get going then. You should be fine, J-Mac. Quinn doesn’t suffer fools...and you’re no fool. In fact, you remind me of a younger Quinn. Should be a good lesson—you could be looking into your future.”

  With those ominous words ringing in his ears, Jake packed up and hit the road in his police-issued black Crown Vic. He’d shed his suit jacket and tossed it into the back seat.

  Now, even with the AC blasting, he pulled his tie over his head, threw it into the back with the jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The news on the radio warned of a small brushfire in the canyons of Malibu, but as Jake peered west over his steering wheel, he let out a sigh. The fire department could contain a small fire as long as the winds subsided.

  As he cruised off the freeway onto Lincoln, Jake joined the line of traffic crawling along the busy boulevard. He edged from Santa Monica into Venice and buzzed down his window. He preferred fresh air to AC and gulped in the salty breeze from the Pacific.

  As he approached Quinn’s walk-street on the canals, Jake kept an eye out for a parking place, even an illegal one. Police business afforded certain perks.

  Who would’ve thought someone would get the bright idea of recreating the canals of Venice, Italy, on a Southern California beach? Tobacco tycoon Abbot Kinney had been so taken with that Italian town, he’d replicated it on the shores of California and dubbed it “Venice, America.”

  While the area surrounding the canals of Venice left a lot to be desired in terms of crime, gangs and homelessness, the walk-streets along the water, graced with arching bridges, provided a well-heeled oasis for the homes lining the canals.

  Jake knew enough of Roger Quinn to know the retired detective hadn’t purchased a million-dollar home on the canals several years ago on his cop’s salary—any more than Jake had purchased his home with his cop’s salary. Quinn’s wife, Charlotte, had been a best-selling author of crime fiction before she passed, no doubt culling ideas from her husband’s storied career as a homicide detective.

  Jake left his car parked on a red curb and traipsed down Canal, entering a different world as he turned onto one of the walk-streets. He checked the numbers on the houses and loped over a low bridge to the other side of the water.

  A smooth jazz instrumental floated out the open window of Quinn’s modest house. Newcomers to the area had replaced many of the beach cottages with modern monstrosities that loomed over the canal. Quinn’s house crouched between two of those, daring them to encroach on its space.

  Jake parked himself on the porch in front of the red door with a flower box, sporting geraniums to match, and knocked hard. Could the old guy even hear over the noise in there?

  The music abruptly ended, and before Jake could absorb the stillness the door swung open. Quinn hung on to the door handle, his body blocking the entrance to his home as he gave Jake the once-over from head to toe.

  Damn. Maybe he should’ve kept his jacket and tie on.

  The man had once been as tall as Jake, but age had robbed his bones of their fortitude. His wild gray eyebrows collided over his hawklike nose as he thrust a gnarled hand toward Jake. “Roger Quinn. Everyone calls me Quinn.”

  What his spine may have lacked in strength, the bones of his large spatulate hands more than made up for. Jake gave as good as he got. Quinn wouldn’t be the type of man who’d appreciate coddling because of his age.

  “Detective Jake McAllister. You can call me Jake.”

  One of those eyebrows twitched as if it had a mind of its own. “Not J-Mac?”

  “You know how nicknames get around at the department, sir.”

  “Sir? Just Quinn.” He widened the door and stepped away from it, leaving Jake to shut it.

  “You like jazz, Jake?” Quinn held up an old album cover with a gleaming sax on it.

  “I’m more of a classic rock guy.” Jake lifted his shoulders apologetically.

  “You can have a look at my collection before you leave.” Quinn aimed a sandaled toe at a row of albums on the bottom of a shelf that supported an old turntable setup.

  “I’d like that.”

  “But you didn’t come here to talk about an old man’s record collection, did you?” Quinn waved Jake toward a love seat as he eased into a recliner that had formed to its owner’s body and welcomed him home.

  Jake perched on the edge of the love seat. “You’ve seen the news about the two murders, both bodies dumped in Griffith Park.”

  “I have.” Quinn dropped his chin to his chest. “A playing card between their lips, and their pinky fingers missing.”

  Jake’s pulse jumped. “We didn’t release the information about the fingers.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for those missing fingers, would you?” Quinn’s faded blue eyes sharpened for a second as his nostrils flared. “You think this might be The Player back in action again.”

  “Do you think that’s a possibility, sir... Quinn?” Jake’s gaze shifted around the room, searching for the wall of honor that would boast the commendations and plaques and pictures with the various mayors and governors. Instead, he scanned a collection of watercolors that depicted the canals outside Quinn’s front door.

  “Do I think The Player killed these two young women?” Quinn rubbed a hand, suffering from a slight palsy, across his chin. “That might be the best scenario.”

  “Sir?” Jake shifted forward in his seat, his knees bumping the rough-hewn coffee table and causing a cup of tea to rattle in its saucer.

  Quinn’s fingers balled into misshapen fists on his knees. “It’s my shame. I never brought him in. I never caught him. It’s not enough for me to imagine him dead and gone. I wanted him to end his reign of terror on my terms, not his.”

  Jake made an involuntary noise in the back of his throat and clenched his teeth. He felt the old detective’s rage flow into him. He bathed in it.

  Quinn closed his eyes. “You know.”

  “You wish it were The Player killing these women, but you don’t think it is?” Jake cleared his throat. “Why is that? I don’t have them with me, but I can bring the files later if you want to have a look at them. Captain Castillo would be more than happy to hand them over to you if you’re interested.”

  “I don’t need to look at the files to know it’s not The Player operating again on the streets of LA.” Quinn’s sparse lashes flew open. “Why would he start up again? I always had the theory that he stopped because of all the advancements in law enforcement—DNA primarily, but CCTV, cell phones... You young guys have it easy.”

  “What about the theory that he’s been locked up all this time?”

  “Even more reason for him not to come out of retirement. If he’s been in prison for twenty years it’s on a felony, and his DNA will be in CODIS now. He’s even more at risk today of getting caught than when he was active.”

  “So, copycat?”

  “Most likely.”

  “I get the playing card, but you guys kept the finger trophies a secret. How would a random copycat know about the fingers?” Jake hunched forward, his forearms on his knees.

  “You know how that goes, Jake.” Quinn spread his hands. “These things get out, despite our best efforts. You have a task force now, not your first. Cops talk. Their wives talk. The victims’ families talk—even when you ask them not to. You can’t blame them.”

  “Anything we should be looking out for?”

  “You’re asking me? I failed.” Quinn picked up the teacup and stared into the brown liquid, looking for answers.

  “That time, but you never failed before. We still study your cases and methods at the ac
ademy.”

  Quinn laughed, a rusty bark that seemed to startle some birds outside his window. “Are you buttering me up, Jake? I didn’t think you were that kind of cop.”

  Detective Roger Quinn knew what kind of cop he was? “I’m not. I’m stating a fact. If you don’t want to help out, that’s okay. Hell, if I were in your shoes, I don’t know that I’d want to dip my toes back into the muck.”

  “The muck. That it is.”

  A knock at the door caused Jake’s elbow to slip off his knee, and he cranked his head around. Quinn was supposed to be a recluse. “Do you want me to get that?”

  “I can get my own damned door.” Quinn used a cane at the side of the chair to push himself up and then left it behind as he took measured steps to the front door.

  Jake’s body tensed as Quinn opened the door without even asking who was there or looking out the window.

  A woman’s voice, low and lilting, filtered into the house on a breeze. “Hello, Quinn. I brought food.”

  As Jake half rose from the love seat, his brain ping-ponging in different directions, Kyra swept into the room, a plastic bag swinging from her fingers.

  He growled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She tripped to a stop, the bag swaying back and forth. “Oh, it’s you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kyra pasted a smile on her face, a pleasant mask to conceal her emotions. She’d done it a million times. Why hadn’t Quinn warned her he’d be having a visitor...and this visitor in particular?

  She shot Quinn a look over her shoulder. She couldn’t put her finger to her lips, but she could wink—and she did.

  Jake jumped to his feet, his gaze darting between her and Quinn, a flush staining his throat. He couldn’t blame that on the heat, not in the cool confines of Quinn’s house, a breeze from the water stirring the white curtains at the front window.

  “Didn’t mean to overreact.” Jake coughed. “You surprised me. I didn’t realize you knew Detective Quinn.”

  Quinn erupted into that hacking laugh of his and slammed the door. “Face it, Jake. You thought Kyra had followed you over here to horn in on your territory.”

  “I was worried you’d think the two of us were trying to ambush you or something.” Jake shrugged.

  “The hell you were.” Quinn patted Kyra on the back and nudged the bag with his knee. “Smells like fish and chips from the pub.”

  “It is.” Kyra lifted the plastic bag. “I didn’t know you had company or I would’ve picked up another order.”

  “That’s okay. I was just leaving. We were finished.” Jake skirted around the love seat and planted his shoes on the wood floor in a wide stance.

  “No, we weren’t. I know you had more questions, and since Kyra’s on your task force there’s no reason we can’t discuss this together.” Quinn snatched the bag of food from her hand. “Besides, that place always gives you way more fish and chips than you can eat. We’ll share.”

  Jake narrowed his eyes as they shifted between her and Quinn. He obviously suspected a setup. “How’d you know Kyra was on the task force?”

  “I still have my sources, J-Mac.” Quinn raised a finger, his lips twitching.

  Kyra curled her hand around the loop of the bag. “Oh, no, you don’t. Sit down, and I’ll get you a plate of food.”

  “Only if you grab a couple of those IPAs in the fridge.”

  “Did Dr. Wong okay you for beer?”

  “I don’t need Dr. Wong’s approval to live my life.” Quinn relinquished his hold on the plastic bag and sank into his recliner. “Jake can help you.”

  To her surprise, Jake joined her in Quinn’s small kitchen, his large presence dwarfing everything even more. She’d figured two strong, obstinate personalities like Jake’s and Quinn’s would butt heads; instead, Jake showed a gentle deference to the older man that granted him a few more notches in her estimation of him.

  She grabbed three plates from the cupboard as Jake reached into the bag for the containers of food.

  He turned from the counter, and she almost plowed into him with the plates. She clutched them to her chest. “It’s a little crowded in here.”

  Jake folded his arms, wedging his fists into his bunching biceps. He’d lost the tie, and a dusting of dark hair peeked from the V of his open shirt collar. “How do you know Detective Quinn?”

  Kyra swallowed before loudly clanking the plates on the tile counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. Quinn needed to hear this, too. “Quinn and I go way back. I helped out on one of his cases—just like I’m helping you. Isn’t that right, Quinn?”

  “That’s right.” Quinn twisted his head to the side. “One of my cases. Kyra’s a sharp cookie, and she’s compassionate. She adds a lot of value to a task force like this.”

  “I saw her in action today with the Lindquists.” Jake popped the lid from one of the containers of fish and chips, and the aroma of fresh cod filled the kitchen. “Seems like she’s a natural.”

  Kyra almost dropped the forks. A compliment from Jake McAllister? “I was able to help Marie. David’s still in too much shock to take in anything right now.”

  “Two each?” The tines of Jake’s fork hovered over a piece of fish. “I can do with one. I don’t want to ruin your dinner party.”

  “It wasn’t a dinner party. Sometimes I show up on Quinn’s doorstep bearing food. If he’s home and hungry, we’ll eat together. If not, I leave it for him.” Kyra sealed her lips and dumped some coleslaw on an empty plate. She was giving Jake the impression that she and Quinn had a deeper relationship than a working one. They did, but Jake didn’t need to know about it, and Quinn was playing along.

  With a frown between his eyebrows, Jake speared a piece of fish and plopped it on the plate next to the coleslaw. “You’re a good coworker.”

  “What’s taking you two so long?” Quinn drove his cane into the floor and rose to his feet a little unsteadily. “A man could starve while you stand in there blabbing. And where’s my beer?”

  Kyra rolled her eyes at Jake. “Kind of demanding, isn’t he?”

  “Last time I checked, this was my house and you were the intruders.” Quinn bellied up to the counter and rapped his knuckles on it. “Beer, no glass, and make sure you drizzle some of that malt vinegar on my fish.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kyra arranged the last of the coleslaw, split three ways, on the plates and spun toward the fridge to grab the beers. Cranking her head over her shoulder, she asked, “Do you want a beer, Jake?”

  “I’ll take one, thanks.”

  She held one bottle out to him. “Twist off the cap and give this one to Quinn so he’ll take a seat and get out of our hair.”

  Jake took off the cap with a crack and shoved the beer across the counter to Quinn. “Take a seat, sir. We’ll bring your food out to you.”

  Quinn grabbed the bottle by the neck and walked back to his chair with a little more spring in his step.

  Kyra handed a second bottle to Jake. “I’ll take his plate out.”

  From the to-go cup, she poured a line of vinegar up and down Quinn’s fish and spooned some tartar sauce on the plate. “I’ve got you covered, Quinn.”

  Two minutes later, they were sitting around Quinn’s coffee table, plates of food in their laps and beers in their hands.

  “I’m proposing a toast.” Quinn raised his bottle. “Let’s get the SOB this time.”

  Jake lowered the bottle from his lips, which were still puckered. “This time? Didn’t you just tell me you didn’t believe The Player was responsible for these murders?”

  Quinn took a long pull from his bottle. When he lowered it, his misty blue eyes had sharpened—either from the booze or the subject matter. “I meant in general. We always want to nail them, and we usually do.”

  Kyra twirled her fork in the coleslaw. “Don’t you agree wit
h Quinn, Jake? At the task force meeting, you didn’t seem to put much stock in the theory that The Player had come back online.”

  “Yeah, I’m leaning that way.” Jake picked up a piece of battered fish with his fingers and dredged it in the mound of tartar sauce on his plate. “It’s the missing finger that gets me.”

  “Don’t dwell on that, Jake. You and I both know that stuff gets out, whether we want it to or not.” Quinn spread out a piece of paper towel on his lap.

  “A lot of times it’s leaked from law enforcement.” Jake picked up his beer and ran a fingernail through the damp label. “Did you ever suspect a cop as The Player?”

  Quinn dropped his fork and it pinged against his plate, flicking a strand of cabbage onto their makeshift dining table. “That’s quite a charge.”

  Jake’s gaze shifted to Kyra’s face, and then he tipped some beer down his throat. “Not one I make lightly, but it must’ve crossed your mind. Think about it. If this guy stopped the killing twenty years ago because of advances in law enforcement, he must’ve been well versed in those advances.”

  “Or he made it his business to know. The Player wasn’t a stupid or clumsy man.” Quinn dabbed at the rogue shred of cabbage on the coffee table with his finger.

  “Maybe our current killer knows about the severed fingers because he knows about The Player’s cold cases. He’s seen the files, knows the evidence.” Jake lifted and dropped his shoulders. “Just a thought.”

  Kyra tilted her head and curled one leg beneath her, which brought her closer to Jake on the love seat—close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes that gave them their hazel appearance in the sunlight. She took a deep breath and said, “If this guy is law enforcement, he also knows about CCTV, cell phone tracking, DNA. All of that is not stopping him if, in fact, that knowledge was what halted The Player’s killing spree.”

  “Not all sociopaths are as careful as The Player. We still have serial killers, despite technology. Some may not know we can track their movements through their cell phones, some may not know which bodily fluids contain DNA, some may not be aware of cameras.” Quinn waved a French fry at her. “Some don’t care.”