“Tells us he’s not going to stop.” Billy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Did someone call the victims’ rights lady? She’s hanging out by the road.”
“I, uh... She came over with me.” Jake surveyed the ground around the body.
“My man.” Billy punched his shoulder. “What’s up with that? I thought she was enemy number one.”
“This guy is enemy number one.” Jake jabbed his finger toward the young woman on the ground. “Kyra Chase is just an...annoyance.”
“A good-looking annoyance. Not your usual type—cool, stuck-up, blonde—but worth the exception.”
“C’mon, man. I ran into her at Detective Roger Quinn’s house. I was there when I got the call about the body, so it made sense to have her tag along. Probably couldn’t have stopped her, anyway.”
“She knows Detective Quinn? How?”
“Worked a case with him or something.”
“She looks great for her age.”
Jake whistled. “Hang on, what’s this?”
He took two steps toward a bush trembling in the dry furnace and crouched down. He pinched a card between his fingers and rescued it from some of the spiny branches of the bush.
“Not that there was any doubt, but look what I found?” He held up the playing card to Billy, the queen of spades facing outward.
“Sorry we missed that, Detective.”
Jake waved the card at one of the officers. “No worries. You were here to protect the body, not conduct a search.”
A firefighter crashed through the bushes and flipped up his mask, his eyes ringed with black soot. “I know it’s not the best of circumstances, but you guys are gonna have to get out of here and let the coroner load the body. The winds haven’t died down yet, and that fire’s going to leap into this area in the next thirty minutes, if not sooner.”
Jake tucked the playing card into a plastic baggie. “The coroner’s van is here?”
“Yeah, being kept at bay by a bulldog of a woman out there. Is she really with you?”
“She’s part of our task force, and I asked her to buy me some time.” Jake patted the cell phone in his pocket. “I took pictures and did a search of the area. It has to be good enough.”
Jake followed Billy back to the road, which now included a TV van, several more sheriff’s deputies and the medical examiner’s truck.
His eyes met Kyra’s through the glare of the lights and activity, and he dropped his chin to his chest. She nodded back.
He peeled off his glove and shook the coroner’s hand. “Same killer. I want to go back in there with you while you move the body so I can take a look underneath.”
The reporter shouted over the noise of the helicopters that were now circling in to dump water. “Is this the same killer of Marissa and Kelsey, Detective? Who found the body? Did the firefighters find the body? Did he leave a playing card this time?”
“No comment.” Jake tugged on the coroner’s sleeve. “We’d better get going. We have less than thirty minutes to get her.”
Jake and Billy searched the area some more as the coroner lifted the woman’s dead body and zipped her into a bag. Like the other dump sites, this one was clean—no cigarette butts, no gum wrappers, no footprints, no tire tracks. Time and the coroner would tell if the killer had left any fingerprints or DNA on the body.
They needed to identify this woman as soon as possible to start their investigation. If this was the copycat’s first victim, he may have made other mistakes—and Jake planned to pounce on every one of them.
He gave the scene one last look before retreating to the road. Flames had started creeping over the ridge, and they’d be racing down the hillside in a matter of minutes.
When he got clear of the trees and bushes, he returned to a calmer scene. The cops and reporters had heeded the advice of the firefighters and fled the area.
Billy waved at him from the front seat of his car. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow morning. Hoping for some good news on that phone.”
“Me, too.” Jake swiveled his head from side to side, his pulse ratcheting up a few notches.
“Oh, yeah.” Billy stuck his head out the window as he made a U-turn. “Kyra told me to tell you she got a ride home.”
“A ride? With who?”
“That reporter.” Billy’s fingers formed a gun. “Watch yourself with that one, brother.”
Jake swore as he watched Billy’s taillights fade into the rolling smoke. Kyra was friendly with reporters, too? That was a bad sign.
He slid into his own car, his tongue sweeping across his lips. Felt like he’d just smoked a pack of cigarettes without a filter.
At least the drive back to his house in the Hollywood Hills was closer than making the trek back and forth to Santa Monica. He cruised downhill and escaped from the canyon that had turned into a hellhole.
When he reached his house and climbed from the car, he sniffed the air. Despite the smell of Hades and the ominous glow to the west, you’d never know there was a fire raging out of control.
Jake undressed, tossed his soot-flecked pants in the corner and stepped into the shower. He let the lukewarm water stream down his back as he scrubbed the grime of the day from his body. He didn’t even have to land in the middle of a wildfire to feel dirty. His job left a coat of filth on his skin almost daily.
After his shower, he pulled on a pair of gym shorts and a white T-shirt. He scooped some rocky road ice cream into a bowl and carried it, along with his laptop, to his couch in the living room. He clicked on the TV and watched footage of the fire in Malibu Canyon—no mention of a body yet.
He spooned a hunk of ice cream into his mouth and let the cold sweetness melt down his scorched throat. When he’d finished half the bowl, he muted the TV and logged in to an LAPD database. It didn’t take him long to bring up Detective Roger Quinn’s homicide cases. One jumped out at him in glaring red typeface—The Player—six unsolved murders. A cold case, the bane of every detective’s existence, the stuff of nightmares.
Jake wasn’t interested in looking at that case. He had the files and was prepared to study them in more depth. He scrolled down to Quinn’s more recent cases, the ones toward the end of his career, the ones where he must’ve worked with Kyra.
Quinn had wrapped up his last homicide case a few months before he retired, ten years ago. Billy’s words at the fire had been niggling at the corners of his mind on the ride home. Billy had said something about Kyra looking great for her age.
Jake didn’t know Kyra’s age, but she couldn’t be older than thirty, could she? Even if she’d worked with Quinn on his last case for the department, that would mean she would’ve been twenty at the time. What twenty-year-old had a degree in psychology and enough hours under her belt to get assigned to a homicide task force?
He did a quick search of Kyra Chase. One of those people finder sites had her age at twenty-eight, and he discovered she’d gotten a master’s degree from Cal State LA in psychology four years ago. That meshed with her age and meant she’d been eighteen years old when Quinn worked his last case for LAPD.
The sweet ice cream on his tongue turned bitter. She’d been lying about how she knew Quinn. Quinn had been lying about how he knew Kyra.
And he was going to find out why.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Thanks for the ride, Megan. I knew you lived in the Marina or I wouldn’t have asked.” Kyra rubbed at a smudge of ash on her denim skirt.
“No problem, as long as you don’t mind the ostentatious ride.” Megan Wright patted the dashboard of the news van. “I’m on the job, so I take the van home with me.”
“Don’t mind a bit. I didn’t want to bother the detective for a lift back, and I didn’t want to stay in the middle of that inferno any longer than I had to.” Kyra took a gulp of water from the bottle Megan had dug out of her cooler in the back.
She closed her eyes as it slid down her parched throat.
“Can’t give me anything about what McAllister and those cops were doing out there?” Megan flashed her white teeth in her best news reporter smile.
“Wooded area, lead detective on serial killer task force, coroner’s van. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Kyra put her finger to her lips. “But I’m not giving you anything official.”
“You are on the task force, though, aren’t you?” Megan scooted forward in her seat, barely able to see over the steering wheel of the big van.
“I am.” Kyra tipped the water bottle at Megan. “And if I’m ever cleared to release any information, you know I’ll hit you up first. Now’s not the time. We don’t want to compromise anything.”
“What’s he like?”
“Who?” Kyra’s heart thumped too loudly in her chest.
“Oh, come on. You know who. J-Mac. He’s hot in that brooding kind of way cops have. Just makes you want to get under their skin, and I mean that in every possible way.” Megan puckered her lips.
“He’s as you would expect—rude, curt, arrogant.” Also, gentle and respectful to Quinn and helpful in the kitchen. Kyra lifted her shoulders. “Typical cop.”
“Is he married?” Megan lifted one eyebrow in expert fashion.
“No.”
“So, you are interested enough to know his marital status.”
“Oh, please. I’m around that station a lot. You tend to learn things about people. I think I had heard he’s not married.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?” Megan lodged the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth, as she maneuvered the van around a sharp turn.
Did he? Kyra pressed a hand flat against her stomach. “Does the station realize you don’t know how to drive this thing?”
“It’s a battering ram, practically indestructible.” She squinted at the road. “Tell me where I’m going. Venice is creepy this time of night.”
“You can make a U-turn at the end of the block and then pull over to the right. I’m going to stop in to see my friend first.”
Megan slapped both hands against the steering wheel. “You’re going to go traipsing around the canals by yourself with a serial killer on the loose?”
“I’m packing heat, girl, I’ll be fine. None of the women were from this area or were taken from this area. I have a better chance of tripping over a homeless guy.”
“That’s no picnic, either.” Megan bit her lip as she cranked the wheel for the U-turn. She had to back up and give it another try.
“Neither is being in this van with you.” Kyra rapped one knuckle against the window. “Here, here.”
Megan rolled to a stop and watched two joggers run past the van. “At least it’s not completely deserted.”
“It’s not deserted at all. It’s a warm night. There will be people on the canals, outside their homes. Don’t worry about me.”
As she reached for the door handle, Megan grabbed her wrist. “You think because you carry that gun, you’re invincible. At least text me when you get to your friend’s house so I know you made it inside okay.”
“I will. Thanks again for the ride and, for heaven’s sake, get yourself a pillow to sit on so you can at least see over the steering wheel.” Kyra slammed the door and waved to Megan, who stayed idling at the curb until she made it to the bridge that would take her to Quinn’s side of the water.
Quinn’s neighbors were in their front yard in lawn chairs, drinking beers. Kyra had never officially met them, but she waved anyway and they returned her greeting. Before reaching Quinn’s door, she sent a quick text to Megan to assure her she’d reached her destination.
She didn’t want Quinn to get out of his chair if he didn’t have to so she used her key to open the door and slipped inside his house. The blue light from the TV cast an eerie glow in the dark living room. Quinn often fell asleep in front of the TV.
She tiptoed to his favorite chair, which he’d already abandoned for his bed, and placed her hand against the warm back.
“Kyra, that you? If not, I’ve got a .45 pointing at the bedroom door.”
“Don’t shoot.” She crept to his bedroom and wedged her shoulder against the doorjamb. “Sorry to show up so late. I thought you might still be up.”
“I just hit the sack.” He dropped his gun on the nightstand with a clatter. He hadn’t been kidding about his .45. “I drank a second beer and it did me in. What did you find out?”
“Not much. McAllister wouldn’t let me near the crime scene.”
“You can’t blame him for that. He’s been burned before by a helpful psychologist.”
“You would stick up for him.”
“He’s a good cop. Did he tell you anything?”
“We didn’t talk, but when he emerged from the bushes I saw it on his face. The call wasn’t a hoax. We do have another victim.” She folded her arms, shoving her fists under her armpits.
“You didn’t talk? You mean he didn’t drive you home?” Quinn struggled to sit up against the headboard of his bed.
“Settle down. I took off before he had the chance.” She took a step into the room, which still smelled like Charlotte’s perfume. “He went back in with the coroner, and the scene was getting too hot to handle—literally. The fire was raging closer and the firefighters advised us to clear out. A friend of mine, a reporter, was there so I asked her for a ride back. She lives in Marina del Rey.”
“All right, and you’ve got your car here.” Quinn yawned and tossed back the covers.
“Where do you think you’re going?” She loomed over his bed and twitched the blanket back into place.
“I’ll walk you out to your car.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Your neighbors are outside, partying, and you’re not the only one who’s armed and dangerous.” She patted his pillow. “Relax.”
As Quinn burrowed his head against the pillow, his tired eyes narrowed to slits. “That gun is not a magic shield.”
“I know, but it helps. Get back to sleep.” She squeezed his arm under the covers. “We’ll talk later.”
“You do realize Jake was suspicious about our relationship, don’t you?”
She made a half-turn at the bedroom door. “I know that.”
“You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later, sooner being better. The man has trust issues.”
“I know that, too. Let me do this my way, Quinn.”
“You always do, Mimi.”
Her nose stung as the nickname floated toward her in the dark. She left the bedroom door open, turned off the TV and locked up.
As she stepped onto Quinn’s porch, a warm breeze ruffled the ends of her hair and she sniffed the air. The firefighters were still out there doing battle with the forces of nature...and maybe the forces of man.
Had the killer set the fire in the hope that the body would be discovered? To give him an excuse to call it in? She hoisted her purse on her shoulder and huffed out a breath. She’d be giving him credit for the Santa Ana winds if she kept on this path.
He probably wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. They never were—except for The Player.
She ground her teeth together and marched toward the bridge. Quinn’s neighbors had called it a night. The water lapped against the man-made shores, and the wooden bridge whispered and sighed as she crossed it.
When she reached the other side, she walked at a fast pace toward the street, her head held high, her arms swinging at her sides, her blood pumping. Both Quinn and Megan had her pegged. Ever since she’d gotten her conceal and carry permit, with the help of Quinn, she felt invincible.
Had she been courting danger? She had dismissed that accusation from Quinn. Going about your business didn’t count as inviting danger—at least it shouldn’t.
A shadowy figure shuffled toward her when she reache
d the corner, and her hand hovered over the weapon in her purse.
“Spare some change, lady?” The homeless guy peered at her through a curtain of shaggy, sun-bleached hair.
“No, sorry.” She marched past him as he called after her.
“God bless you.”
Her heart rate returned to normal when she hit the street and a few cars whizzed by. Unlike Jake, she didn’t have the perks of a city-issued vehicle and always parked in the public lot when she visited Quinn. The lot still contained several cars. People could be down at the beach or hitting the bars and restaurants on Washington. She was not taking undue risks by walking to her car at night.
The murdered women probably didn’t believe they were taking risks, either, but they didn’t have a gun—the great equalizer. On the ride home, she checked her rearview mirror often. Just because she had that gun didn’t mean she wanted anyone following her to her apartment.
She pulled into her parking spot behind the apartment building and slid out of the car. She held her breath as she walked past the garbage bins and shoved her key into the gate. Management had replaced the swinging wooden door out here with a solid gate with a lock after thieves had targeted several of the units. Hers had escaped, but then she’d secured additional locks on her doors and windows a few years ago.
As she unlocked her front door, the stray cat she occasionally fed rubbed against her ankles. Her neighbors didn’t appreciate her efforts on behalf of Spot, but she’d won him a reprieve by convincing them he was keeping the rats away.
“Hope you’ve been doing your job, Spot. Wait here and I’ll give you some milk and food.”
He meowed in response, knowing full well his flea-riddled body wasn’t welcome inside her apartment.
She’d left a lamp burning earlier, and smacked her purse down on the kitchen table to rustle up some grub for Spot. She shook a little dry cat food into one bowl and filled the other with milk, noticing her full trash can when she threw away the milk carton.
She placed the bowls on the cement outside her front door and returned to the kitchen to grab her trash. When she walked out the door, swinging the plastic bag, Spot flattened his ears against his head.
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