Finding this second card screamed loud and clear that the first card had not been a coincidence. What had Quinn always told her? There are no coincidences in law enforcement.
She had to tell Jake. These cards could lead to the capture of the copycat killer. The task force had precious little to go on right now.
If she told him, she could still keep her other secret. She could claim she had no idea why someone, possibly this killer, was leaving playing cards for her.
She’d tell Jake...for the sake of the case, for the sake of those victims. She noted the time on the car’s clock and shifted into Drive. First she’d see her clients and touch base with Quinn. She hadn’t even told him about the first card.
She headed back toward the coast where a gray line of haze sat on the horizon. The Malibu Canyon fire still burned, but the firefighters had contained it, which meant no more nonstop news coverage—until the next wildfire blazed forth. The Santa Ana winds worried the tops of the palm trees and sucked the moisture out of the air, but no new fires had popped up.
When would that body from last night have been discovered had the fire not whipped through the canyon? The copycat may have been more content to wait if it hadn’t. He wouldn’t have put himself at risk with that phone call.
The copycat had exposed himself in a way The Player never would’ve done. That meant law enforcement could count on more mistakes from him. Like leaving two playing cards for her? A number of other people could be responsible for that, including a few of the miscreants she’d stumbled across in the foster care system.
By the time she reached her office in Santa Monica, the sun had started dipping into the ocean, its rays filtering through the smoke from the fire to create an orange streak across the sky.
She cruised down Wilshire and pulled into the parking lot of a two-story office building that she and another therapist shared with a realty office, an aesthetician, a pizza place and a hairstylist.
She and her office roomie, as she called Candace, shared the space, which consisted of a waiting room where they could conduct groups and an inner office for private sessions. They scheduled their clients at different times and used the same space. Saved a lot of money, especially in this area, and Kyra spent a lot of her time at various police stations.
She jogged up the stairs and used her key to unlock the office. She left the door unlocked and retreated to what she and Candace called the treatment room.
A small desk neither of them used huddled in the corner while comfortable chairs with colorful cushions took up the space in the middle of the room.
She knew which chair her next client would take. He always sat in the same one—they all did.
The door clicked in the outer office, and Kyra smoothed back her hair and relaxed the muscles of her face. After the day she’d had, she needed therapy probably more than her clients did. Not that she hadn’t already had plenty of it.
The red light above the door flashed, and Kyra answered the call—a cop who, like so many before him, had let the job and alcohol destroy his marriage.
An hour later, Kyra folded her hands in her lap. “We’re out of time, Evan.”
He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “That went by fast. It always does.”
“I’ll see you next time.” Kyra rose to her feet and opened the door to the outer office. She accepted all payments online now, which cut out the awkwardness of taking a check or cash after a session.
Evan stopped at the door, close enough for her to smell the faded mint from the chewing gum he used as a substitute for alcohol. “I heard about a third body in this copycat case. I also heard you’re on the task force.”
She nodded once, hoping to end the conversation before it started.
“How do you like working with J-Mac?” Evan’s stocky frame filled the door.
“Excuse me?” Her fingers twisted the handle. She never talked about her personal life with clients. After six months of treatment, Evan should know that rule by now, especially as he’d tried to get too friendly before and she’d put him in his place.
He seemed to flinch at her cold tone. Good.
“Just wondering what the guy was like. Heard he was a great detective but not easy to work with.” Evan lifted a square shoulder.
“Yeah, I really wouldn’t know. I work with the victims.”
“Next time then.” Evan thrust out his hand and she shook it.
“Next time.” Many clients went in for the hug at the end of a session, but not usually cops. Kyra generally let the clients dictate the level of closeness they needed at the end of an appointment, and guys like Evan preferred the firm handshake to show that they were back in control, even after an emotional hour that sometimes included tears.
When the door to the outside closed, Kyra returned to the office to turn off the lights. During her session with Evan, her next client had canceled, which gave Kyra a chance to get to Quinn’s place earlier.
She perched on the edge of the desk and called him.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong.” The lie sounded thin. “Just a few things I want to run past you. Do you want me to pick up dinner?”
“No need. Rose across the channel dropped off a lasagna. I can’t eat the whole thing myself.”
“Perfect.” She smiled into the phone. “Rose, huh? Didn’t she just lose her husband the movie producer last year?”
“She did, but don’t get any ideas.” He coughed. “And you’d better be prepared to tell me what’s wrong when you get here. You’re an expert at keeping secrets, but not from me.”
“I have no intention of keeping any secrets from you, and I also don’t need to worry you over the phone.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath. “Do I need to worry?”
“See what I mean?” She hopped off the desk. “Heat up that lasagna. You got stuff for salad?”
“Yes, hurry up.”
Kyra ended the call and sucked in her bottom lip. She didn’t want Quinn to be concerned about her, but she wanted to bounce this off him before she went to Jake—and she had to go to Jake.
She locked up the office and made the short drive from Santa Monica to Venice—short in distance. The traffic made the journey crawl.
By the time she knocked on Quinn’s door, the sun had set and her stomach was grumbling. She reached for the door handle in case Quinn wasn’t up to the trek across his living room floor.
He flung it open before she could tell if it was locked or not. He’d slicked back his gray hair and even trimmed his wild eyebrows.
She kissed his worn cheek. “You look nice. Did you make an effort for Rose?”
“Stop.” He waved his hand. “Tell me what’s going on before you scurry off to the kitchen. The food can wait.”
She sniffed the garlic-scented air. “Apparently not.”
She followed him to his chair and sat across from him on the love seat. She pulled the queen of diamonds from her purse. “Found this by my car this afternoon, on the ground.”
“And put your prints all over it.” He snapped his fingers, and she placed the card on his outstretched palm.
“There won’t be any prints.”
“And how do you know that? People make mistakes.” He turned the card over.
“Because that’s not the first one I found, and the queen of hearts didn’t have prints.” She held her breath and watched the lines on his craggy face deepen, a needle of guilt pricking the back of her neck.
“Where and when did you find the other card?”
“On the ground, near the dumpster behind my apartment building—queen of hearts that time.” She raised her finger. “I did scoop that one up and had the fingerprint tech at the Northeast Division test it. You remember Clive? He’s still there.”
“So, you turned i
t in to McAllister and the task force.” He sank back in his chair, tapping the edge of the card on his knee.
“Not exactly.”
“Keeping secrets again, Kyra? You don’t belong on the task force if you’re keeping secrets. That could put someone’s life in danger. They need every clue right now, and this is a clue. They both are.”
“I know that now after finding the second card.” She spread her hands. “I thought the one at my apartment was a coincidence.”
“You know what I told you about coincidences in investigations.”
She repeated with him. “There are no coincidences in law enforcement.”
She brushed a hand across her slacks. “I didn’t want to raise any alarms with that first card. Clive didn’t find any prints on it and there are no cameras at my place, so I figured it didn’t matter.”
A spark lit Quinn’s faded blue eyes as his gaze drilled into her.
She rose from the love seat and circled around it. “Then when I found the second card, I knew it had meaning. But what? This copycat killer can’t know who I am.”
“Who says the copycat killer left the cards?”
She linked her hands in front of her and twisted her fingers. “You mean it could be someone else taking advantage of the situation to torture me?”
“Anyone come to mind?” He snapped the card on the coffee table.
Kyra folded her arms and dug her fingers into her biceps. “You’re not talking about Matt, are you?”
“Just throwing it out there. He saw the news and thought he’d poke at you. You know he’s capable.”
“I know Matt is capable of just about anything, but he’d also like nothing more than for me to reach out to him to find out if he’s playing tricks.” She whipped her head back and forth. “I’m not going to do that.”
“And you shouldn’t.” Quinn prodded the card with his finger. “Where’s the other one? You said there were two cards.”
“Jake has the other one.” She shoved one hand in the pocket of her slacks in a nonchalant pose.
“I thought you said he didn’t know about the cards.”
“The queen of hearts fell out of my purse when we were at lunch, so I had to tell him about it.”
Quinn grimaced with one side of his mouth. “That must’ve gone over well.”
“He wasn’t happy, if that’s what you mean.” Kyra marched into the kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving and that lasagna smells good.”
“He accused you of keeping it from him, being deceptive.”
Kyra bent forward and peered at the lasagna heating up on the middle rack, the heat from the oven warming her face. “Of course, he did, but I explained that I brought it in for prints and that I believed it was just a coincidence. I did believe that.”
“You don’t toy with a man like McAllister. I’m sure you heard about his run-in with that therapist. You must’ve heard about it. You were working with her.”
“Not on that, I wasn’t. I never would’ve tried to get a lighter sentence for that guy. Jake was right to be angry. I was there when it happened.” She banged through Quinn’s cupboard to retrieve a colander, a large bowl, a knife and a cutting board.
By the time she’d chopped the salad veggies, the oven timer had dinged, signaling the lasagna was heated through. Kyra pulled the dish out of the oven, and Quinn joined her and grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard.
He said, “I’ll set the table.”
A few minutes later, they sat across from each other, and Kyra smiled, her eyes misty. “Just like old times.”
“The only thing missing is Charlotte.” Quinn rested a hand on the empty place mat beside him.
“Charlotte and my bad attitude.” Kyra stabbed her fork into her salad.
“Oh, you still have plenty of attitude.” Quinn shook his own fork at her. “When are you going to tell Jake about the second card and why you hid it from him?”
“Soon.” She studied a dripping tomato skewered on the end of her fork. “And I’ll think of something to tell him—anything but the truth.”
“You think you’ll get away with that with him?” Quinn’s thin lips twisted. “You won’t have to tell him the truth because he’ll figure it out one of these days...all on his own.”
* * *
JAKE HUNCHED OVER his computer, his third Diet Coke of the afternoon pumping caffeine through his system. A search of Kyra Chase didn’t get him very far. She’d graduated from UCLA with a degree in psychology, and then went to Cal State LA part-time to get her master’s in clinical psychology while she worked full-time. Her work ethic and ambition didn’t surprise him. Something was driving her, but her background didn’t give any hints what that was.
She avoided social media, which was probably a good idea given her line of work. He avoided it, too. He needed suspects tracking him down about as much as Kyra needed clients tracking her down.
He did see where Charlotte Quinn had dedicated one of her books to K.C., her favorite therapist. The connection between Kyra and the Quinns was real, but why had she lied about working with him on a case? And why did Quinn back her up?
Kyra could’ve lied about that for his benefit, trying to make herself more professionally acceptable in his eyes.
Jake growled to the empty war room. “Nah. That woman doesn’t care what you think of her.”
He sat back in his chair, rubbed his burning eyes and tossed back the rest of his drink. Propping his feet onto his desk, he dragged one of The Player files into his lap.
People had started calling this killer The Copycat or The Copycat Player. Despite a few unique touches, he did have The Player’s MO down.
Why that killer? Why now? There were many cold cases in LA. Why did he choose that one? Jake refused to believe The Player had come out of retirement, even though he could still be young enough to hunt.
He opened the thick file in his lap and scanned the familiar contents. As scant as it was, most of this stuff—the autopsies and the evidence—was online. Roger Quinn appeared older than his age. Caring for his wife before she died must’ve taken its toll, but Jake could guarantee The Player took a whole other kind of toll on the old detective.
He flipped toward the back of the file, perusing notes about the victims and their families. He smoothed his hand over a crumpled page with a black, angry scrawl at the bottom. Squinting, he made out the word Denied.
His gaze tracked to the top of the page. One of The Player’s victims, Jennifer Lake, had left a young daughter behind, no father on the scene. Roger Quinn had gotten involved and had been advocating for this girl to the point where he and his wife wanted to adopt her instead of sending her into LA’s foster care system. Ultimately, their request had been rejected.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Jake scrambled through the additional pages in the file, searching for information on Jennifer Lake’s daughter. He dropped the file on the floor and dug into the stack on the corner of his desk.
He flipped open the one on Jennifer and stared at the picture of the pretty blonde. It was one of those cheesy modeling photos for an acting portfolio—ruby-red lips, heavily made-up eyes, styled hair. Jennifer had been an aspiring actress and part-time call girl. It had been the latter profession that had gotten her into trouble. She’d been twenty-five years old at the time of her murder, with an eight-year old daughter in tow. That daughter—he skimmed down the page with his finger—was named Marilyn Monroe Lake.
He slumped in his chair. Who the hell named their kid Marilyn Monroe? At least she’d given the kid a nickname.
He thumbed through a few more pages and froze as another photo spilled out of the pile—this one a natural pose of a fresh-faced young woman, her blond hair in a ponytail, her wide aquamarine blue eyes startling in her pale face.
Jake grabbed his bag and slung it over his should
er. He waved to the guys on the night shift and climbed into his car. The adrenaline in his body weighted his foot on the gas pedal and he sped down the freeway to the coast in record time. He buzzed down his window to gulp in the sea-scented air that caressed his hot face.
Apartments lined the streets in this area of Santa Monica, about two miles up from the beach. Crime came at you here from the transients and the tweakers looking for some quick cash. Jake hugged the side of the street, looking for a gap in the row of cars parked for the night.
He squeezed into a spot and exited his vehicle. The older apartment complexes on this street didn’t boast any security except for the lock on your front door. He breezed into the small courtyard, two stories of apartments on either side of him for a total of eight places.
A quick glance at the apartment numbers on the side of the building told him her place occupied the worst possible spot for safety—in the back, near the carport. As he strode toward the rear of the complex, he cocked his head at the sound of jingling keys. As he rounded the corner to her front door, his leg brushed the spiky fronds of a sago palm. After he moved past it, the frond snapped back into place.
The slight noise was enough. Kyra jerked her head to the side, her hand reaching for her gun pouch, her eyes widening at the sight of him, registering recognition and then suspicion.
Jake stopped several feet from her, planting his wing tips on the cement walkway. “Hello, Mimi.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kyra dropped her key chain. Despite her weak knees, she did a quick dip to retrieve it. Her brain whirred for several seconds as she gathered herself. She knew it was pointless to deny it, but years of self-preservation kicked in.
She faced him, one side of her mouth quirking into a smile. “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m Kyra, not Mimi.”
“You’re Kyra Chase now...” He squared his shoulders as if ready to do battle. “Twenty years ago, you were Marilyn Monroe Lake, a frightened eight-year-old girl who’d just lost her mother to a killer.”
“So sad for Marilyn Monroe Lake.” Turning her back on him, she shoved her key into the dead bolt and clicked it. What else had he discovered about her? Quinn had been right about J-Mac. She shouldn’t have tried to play him.
Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 10