“What can I get for you today?” The young man behind the counter smiled, which made his cheeks bunch up like apples.
He looked like a fish out of water among the other baristas and even some of the customers, with their piercings and tattoos and alternative hairstyles.
“Ma’am?”
Those apple cheeks flushed an appropriate red, and Kyra realized she was staring. “I’m sorry, yeah, I’ll have a peach iced tea.”
“And I’ll have an ice coffee, plain. I’ll add my own poison.”
As the barista rang up the order, Kyra said, “You look like an escapee from another store.”
“Ma’am?” A furrow formed between...Jordy’s eyes.
“I just mean, you look too—” she leaned in and whispered “—clean-cut for this store.”
He laughed. “It’s not my regular store. I also work at one of our stores in Studio City.”
“Not an aspiring actor, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” He handed her a receipt. “Have a nice day.”
They shuffled to the side to wait for their order, and Jake poked her in the ribs. “You just did it.”
“Did what?”
“You stereotyped Jordy, the barista, because he didn’t have tats or piercings. You didn’t think he fit in with the West Hollywood crowd.”
“And I was right.”
“And I’m probably right about the braids.”
“I wish spotting a killer was that easy.” She sighed.
“Me, too.” Jake rested an arm on the counter that lined up against the window with tall stools pulled up to it and USB ports in a row. “Rachel could’ve waited for her coffee here. She could’ve even plugged in her phone here to charge while she waited.”
“And left it here.” Kyra traced one of the ports with the tip of her finger. “Could’ve happened that way. She picked up her drink and forgot the phone.”
“The killer saw it unattended and took his chance.”
“This is a busy store.” She nodded toward the door. “One of the street cameras showed just how many people walked in and out of here.”
“Could’ve been any one of them.”
A barista called out from the pickup counter. “Order for Kyra.”
Jake shouldered his way through the clutch of people waiting for their drinks and grabbed theirs. He handed her the tea and then followed her to the sugar station.
Jake dumped a couple of packets of sugar into his drink, while she opted for the fake stuff.
They wended their way to a table outside, drinks in hand, and sat across from each other in the shade of a Ficus tree, its roots buckling the sidewalk.
Kyra popped the lid off her tea and dumped in the sweetener. She swirled her straw in the amber liquid until all the white crystals disappeared and took one long sip before replacing the lid. “So, what don’t I know about you, except just about everything?”
He shook his plastic cup, knocking the ice together. “You don’t know that I already wrote a screenplay.”
“What? No, you didn’t.”
“Do you remember the movie on Netflix called Shots Fired, starring Tito Valenti?”
“That wrestler?”
“The same. Did you see the movie?”
“I think I missed that one.” She sipped her tea and raised her eyebrows. “That was you?”
“I wrote that screenplay and a second one called Two Shots Fired.” He shrugged. “That one never got made, but they optioned it.”
“I’m impressed. Did they pay you well?”
“Well enough to buy a house in the Hollywood Hills, not too far from here, actually.”
“Super impressed.” Why hadn’t she heard that about him? Probably because she’d never asked. People knew she’d been working with Lizbeth at the time Lizbeth had double-crossed Jake and he’d gone after her in a rage. They probably figured she wouldn’t want to hear anything about McAllister—nothing good, anyway. And she hadn’t.
She toyed with her straw. “I will be waiting with bated breath for Two Shots Fired.”
He coughed and wiped his eyes. “Don’t wait too long. Tito could be a grandpa by then, all his muscles shriveled and sagging.”
Her mouth quirked up on one side, her snappy comeback stalled on her lips as she took in the sight of an attractive young woman on her phone at another table. The woman looked up as a man on his phone approached, but she kept talking, smiling and laughing. When the man reached the table, she ended the call, as did he. They’d obviously been talking to each other.
He leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and took the chair next to hers, not across, but next to.
“Hey, you.” Jake tapped her plastic cup with his finger. “What’s so fascinating over there when you have the screenwriter for Shots Fired sitting in front of you?”
“I was watching that couple at the table right next to the sidewalk.” As Jake shifted his head, she said, “Don’t be obvious.”
“I’m a detective.” He moved his chair, scraping it on the concrete. “Yeah? What about them?”
“Rachel told me that call girls work this block.”
“They do.”
“We, Rachel and I, were wondering about the woman found at the Malibu fire. You haven’t ID’d her yet, right? No missing persons reports match her description?”
“I wouldn’t say that. This is LA. It’s a vast area and a lot of people go missing here—some on purpose, just like Marilyn Lake.”
Her head snapped back. “Don’t say that name in public.”
“Sorry.” He drew a line across his mouth with his fingertip. “We did consider the idea that the third victim—or she would’ve been the first victim—was a sex worker, but I don’t think he’s targeting prostitutes. If he swept her up in his net, it wasn’t because he picked her up for business.”
“No, but it could’ve been because she’d been frequenting this area. We already have one of the women tied to Melrose Avenue and the killer himself because of Rachel’s phone.”
“We’ll ID her. Billy will.” He took a sip of coffee. “I had the queen of diamonds fingerprinted and—just like her sister, the queen of hearts—it’s clean. I also looked at the footage of the street in front of the station, taken yesterday when your car was parked there. A big, fat nothing again. If you had been in the lot, we would’ve gotten a look at the person who dropped that card next to your car. Couldn’t catch anything on the street.”
“I can guarantee you, if I’d parked my car in the lot there wouldn’t have been any card. Give the guy some credit.”
“You’re probably right.” Jake caught a bead of moisture running down the outside of his cup and smeared it away. He picked up the cup and studied the blue logo on the side. “Uncommon Grounds. I’ve seen a lot of these popping up.”
“I think it started in Portland. There are already a few in Santa Monica and once they get a foothold in Santa Monica and West Hollywood, you know they’re going to take off.”
He brought the cup closer to his face and traced over the zigzag on the logo that looked like mountains. “I’ve seen this before.”
“Yeah, it’s right behind you.” She pointed over his shoulder at the same logo painted on the window of the store they’d just left.
“No, I mean I’ve seen this before.” He grabbed the satchel at his feet and hauled it onto the table.
He unzipped it and dragged out a stack of files.
Kyra’s heart skipped a beat. “You’re not going to look at crime scene photos in the middle of a sidewalk patio, are you?”
“Not quite crime scene, but crime related.” He glanced up. “Don’t worry, nothing gruesome.”
Her leg jiggled up and down, rocking the table. “What is it?”
“The car.” He abandoned one file for another. “Pictures of the inside of Mar
issa’s car.”
Kyra hopped from her chair to the one next to Jake’s and hovered over the open file on the table.
He flipped through the photos quickly until he stopped at one of a red compact. “This is Marissa’s car. Just like with Kelsey’s car, we found her phone and purse inside. Also, like Kelsey’s car, there was no video of what occurred there when she was forced to abandon it.”
He thumbed through the next few photos and snatched one from the pile. He stabbed his finger at the picture, and Kyra leaned in closer for a better view.
She jerked up her head. “It’s a coffee cup—a coffee cup from Uncommon Grounds.”
“You know how we were just discussing connections to this area?” His lids fell over his hazel eyes half-mast, and he seemed to be studying every face coming and going on the sidewalk from beneath them. “Looks like we might be right in the middle of his hunting ground.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kyra craned her neck around to look at the coffee place behind them. “You think Marissa got her coffee at this Uncommon Grounds?”
“I know it could’ve been any of the other stores, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? Kelsey gets her nose pierced on this street. Rachel has her phone lifted on this street, most likely from Uncommon Grounds, and now Marissa is tied to this same area with an empty coffee cup in her car from the same place. It’s a long shot, but we have to start somewhere and this seems like a good place to do that.”
“I agree. What next?”
“As long as I’m here and as long as I have Marissa’s picture with me, I’m going to ask that manager if she remembers Marissa. They must have their regulars.”
“Should I go with you?”
“I’ll go in alone.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Save our spot.”
Kyra’s face fell just a little. As invaluable as she was to have on this task force, he already had a partner and he still didn’t trust Kyra completely.
Jake returned to Uncommon Grounds with Marissa’s picture in his pocket. When the manager saw him enter, he waved her over to the corner of the food display.
She stuffed a strand of brown hair beneath her cap. “Something else I can help you with, Detective?”
“You said you had regulars here.” He whipped out the picture of Marissa. “Was she one of them?”
The manager gave the picture a hard look. “I don’t think so. Pretty girl. Can I keep it?”
“The picture?”
“I want to show the staff. They’d know the regulars more than I would.”
“Sure, you can keep it. You have my card. Let me know if anyone recognizes her.”
Jake returned to the table outside and dropped into the uncomfortable metal chair. “That was a big nothing. She didn’t recognize her, but I let her keep the picture and she’s going to show the staff.”
“Something might come of it.” Kyra checked her phone. “I have an appointment. I’m also going to be talking to Marissa’s friends later in a group chat. If anything comes up from that, I’ll let you know. I’ll definitely ask them about any connections Marissa had to this area.”
“Thanks for your help with Rachel, and thanks for the coffee.”
“I think you’re right about her. She has good instincts and a calm demeanor. She’d work out great on Dispatch.”
“I usually am right about people...most people.” He stuffed the files back into his bag, wondering how many of them Kyra had gone through while he was inside. “Do you want me to walk you back to your car—in case you find any more cards?”
“I’m parked across the street, and with the number of cameras on this street I doubt I’ll find any cards by my car.” She stood up and tugged at her slim skirt, which hit just above the knees of her long legs. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”
“Sure you will.” He hitched the satchel over his shoulder and gave her a little salute. “Until next time.”
She put on her sunglasses and nodded. Picking up his cup, she asked, “Done? There’s a trash can on my way.”
“Go for it.” He watched her walk away, the sun glinting in the ponytail swaying against her back, which matched the gentle sway of her hips in the pencil skirt.
If Jennifer Lake possessed half the grace of her daughter, it’s not surprising she thought she could make it in Hollywood.
Jake turned and strode back to his car on the other side of the street from Kyra’s, keeping an eye on her as she walked. He stopped when she reached her car.
She disappeared for a second on the passenger side of the car and then popped up, waving her empty hands.
Grinning, he gave her a thumbs-up and proceeded to his own car. At least she knew he didn’t trust her.
That sort of eased his conscience over what he planned to do next.
* * *
A FEW HOURS LATER, Jake logged off his laptop and snapped the lid. Matt Dugan had made it easy for Jake to find him because he was a dirtbag with a record a mile long—and he still lived in LA.
Billy swept into the task force headquarters, tossed a balled-up bag into the trash and called out, “Baller.”
Jake snapped his fingers in the air. “Hey, baller, any luck tracking down which Uncommon Grounds Marissa’s coffee cup came from?”
Billy pulled up a chair and collapsed in it, stretching his legs in front of him. “They don’t track those serial numbers like that. Cups and other inventory travel between the stores so even if that cup was delivered to one store, there’s nothing that says it stopped there and didn’t travel to another store in the area.”
“Gotcha.” Jake rubbed his eyes. “Still no ID on the Malibu fire victim.”
“Nope, and the alibi checked out for Kelsey’s boyfriend, not that he was ever a prime candidate.” Billy drew in his legs to make room for Jake. “You heading out?”
“Checking on a few leads.”
“Mind if I sit these out?” Billy massaged the back of his neck. “I’ve got a headache coming on.”
“Didn’t expect you to join me.” Jake swung his bag at his desk drawer. “I’ve got some ibuprofen in there if you need it.”
“I’ve got my own stash. Hey, you’re not going to see our task force therapist, are you?”
“No, I told you I saw her earlier when Rachel Blackburn needed some help.”
“And did you happen to ask her about her friend, the TV reporter, for me?”
“What are you, in middle school? If you want to ask her out, do it. Do you need her friend to send her a note letting her know you like her?”
“A little introduction to smooth the way never hurt. You need to venture away from your blow-up doll now and then to see how it works in the real world.”
A few cops laughed as Jake threw a pen at Billy. He didn’t have a blow-up doll, but it had been a while since he’d had a real date. He’d dipped a toe in the online dating scene but had heard too many stories about scams and misrepresentations to be comfortable in that world.
Besides, who wanted to date a guy with trust issues?
Armed with information from Matt Dugan’s parole officer about his last known residence, Jake got behind the wheel of his Crown Vic and plugged the address into his GPS.
He knew the area, the shady side of Van Nuys.
The only problem with a sneak attack was that Dugan might not be home, but Jake didn’t want to give him a chance to concoct some story—or to contact Kyra.
Once off the freeway, Jake tooled down Van Nuys Boulevard, past the car dealerships, the free clinics, the methadone treatment centers, the churches and the working girls getting a jump on the competition. His GPS directed him to turn left at the next light.
After his turn, he slowed to crawl along the block, stucco apartment buildings in various hues standing rainbow sentry on either side of the street. He spotted Dugan’s place, a grimy ye
llow building going for a Spanish hacienda look that fell short with its chipped stucco, missing red roof tiles and battered arched entry leading to a messy courtyard containing a broken-down barbecue, a few dead potted plants and a unicycle.
He parked and exited the vehicle, staring hard at a clutch of men lounging on the steps of the apartment building next to Dugan’s. He grabbed his jacket from the back seat of the car and put it on slowly to give the vatos sizing him up a look at the weapon in his shoulder holster.
As he made his way to the yellow building, the guys meandered away in different directions. Probably parolees holding drugs or weapons or warrants. As he passed beneath the yellow arch, a baby wailed from one of the apartments and a man let loose with a sneeze from another. You’d be hard-pressed to keep anything a secret from your neighbors here.
A quick glance at the dull metal numbers affixed to the right of each front door led Jake upstairs to number twelve. He knocked and stood slightly to the side of the door but in clear view of the peephole. Shuffling sounds came from the other side of the paper-thin door, and Jake’s muscles tensed.
“Who is it?” A male voice, ragged from cigarettes and booze, boomed through the open window with the sagging screen to the left of the door.
“You’re in luck, Dugan. It’s not your parole officer. LAPD Homicide, open the door.” Jake banged his fist against it for good measure.
The door swung open, and a big man with a shaved head and a goatee loomed in the space. “Homicide? You bastards haven’t framed me for that one, yet.”
“The day is young, Dugan. Let me in.” Jake didn’t wait for the invite and pushed past him, stepping into a cluttered space with the skunky scent of weed hanging over it. He sniffed the air.
“It’s legal in homes.” Dugan waved at the bong on the coffee table. “And medicinal.”
“I don’t care about that. Did I say I was Vice?” Jake squinted at the deck of playing cards on the battered coffee table. He did care about that.
“Then what do you want, Mr. Homicide?” Dugan folded his pumped-up arms over his chest, and a vein stood out on his neck beneath the tattoo of letters curling into an AB, which proclaimed Dugan a member of the Aryan Brotherhood.
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