Harlequin Intrigue May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2
Harlequin Intrigue May 2021 Box Set 2 of 2
The Decoy
Summer Stalker
Cold Case Flashbacks
Carol Ericson
Nicole Helm
Janice Kay Johnson
Table of Contents
The Decoy
By Carol Ericson
Summer Stalker
By Nicole Helm
Cold Case Flashbacks
By Janice Kay Johnson
“I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I hid things from you.”
Jake held up a hand. “It’s understandable.”
“I realized how important it was to tell you everything. But it was more than that.” She peeled her hand from the counter and ran it along the tail of his tattoo snaking out of the arm of his T-shirt onto his left forearm. “I knew if I ever hoped to have some kind of relationship with you, I’d have to tell you all about my past.”
His arm tensed and corded beneath her fingertips. “Do you hope to have some kind of relationship with me?”
His voice, all rough around the edges, sent a thrill to her core, and Kyra dug her fingertips into his flesh. “I do, if I haven’t scared you off.”
Keeping his arm in her grip, he hunched forward across the island and wedged a finger beneath her chin. “Do I look like the kind of man who scares easily?”
The Decoy
Carol Ericson
Carol Ericson is a bestselling, award-winning author of more than forty books. She has an eerie fascination for true-crime stories, a love of film noir and a weakness for reality TV, all of which fuel her imagination to create her own tales of murder, mayhem and mystery. To find out more about Carol and her current projects, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com, “where romance flirts with danger.”
Books by Carol Ericson
Harlequin Intrigue
A Kyra and Jake Investigation
The Setup
The Decoy
Holding the Line
Evasive Action
Chain of Custody
Unraveling Jane Doe
Buried Secrets
Red, White and Built: Delta Force Deliverance
Enemy Infiltration
Undercover Accomplice
Code Conspiracy
Red, White and Built: Pumped Up
Delta Force Defender
Delta Force Daddy
Delta Force Die Hard
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jake McAllister—This LAPD homicide detective has stopped one copycat killer and is on the trail of a second who is mimicking the MO of a murderer from twenty years ago. But the entanglements of the case are nothing compared to the mystery of the woman who’s beginning to capture his heart.
Kyra Chase—Her work on the serial killer task force as a victims’ rights advocate keeps her close to The Copycat Player case and even closer to its lead detective, and she can’t decide which is more important.
Roger Quinn—A retired LAPD homicide detective with one failure on his record—his inability to catch the serial killer known as The Player. But he’s tried to make up for it by protecting one of The Player’s victims for twenty years.
Billy Crouch—Jake’s partner is the levelheaded one of the duo, but he has his own traumas to overcome to be able to do his job.
La Prey—A mysterious stalker who is taunting Kyra with her secrets and seems to know everything about her...and the copycat killers.
The Copycat Player 2.0—A precise serial killer who follows all the rules of the game—except one.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Rule number three. Never leave fingerprints or DNA.
He didn’t have to worry about that. He was careful and clean. Besides, he’d much rather do the deed in the comfort of their own homes, among their own possessions. It might give them a bit of solace. He was no monster. He was a...facilitator, a conduit, if you will.
Who wanted to traipse all over LA looking for a dump site with a dead body in your car? You could never tell who was watching. Whether a place had cameras or not. Cameras tracked your every move these days. With a little surveillance, you could take care of any electronic witnesses yourself. That was what he did.
And rape? His stomach lurched. Sex was filthy. He would never leave his bodily fluids inside another person.
The woman beneath him gurgled, and he blinked. Time to get back to business.
As he choked the last bit of life out of Andrea with his gloved hands, he watched the light die from her wide eyes. The force of the power that surged through his body made him hard. He closed his eyes to relish the sensation...just for a few seconds of indulgence.
He would never tell anyone about that part—about the sexual arousal. He didn’t know why it happened. He didn’t ask for it. It wasn’t his raison d’être. It made him feel slightly ashamed.
He removed his hands from Andrea’s neck and flexed his fingers. It took strength to squeeze the life out of someone. He’d forgotten how much. That other time had been so long ago.
He left Andrea in her bed. She’d been there when he’d pounced, and it had really been more of a creep than a pounce. By the time she realized he was in her house, at the foot of her bed, she had zero time to react or escape.
No, actually, she had reacted—a gaping-mouthed silent scream. The wisps of sleep still clinging to her mind, she hadn’t been able to process the sight of a strange man in her bedroom.
The mattress huffed when he pushed off the bed, the same sound Andrea had made when he first took her by the throat. He smoothed a gloved hand over the cap covering his head. He wouldn’t be leaving any of his hair behind. No prints. No bodily fluids. He’d taken care to avoid neighborhood cameras. He certainly didn’t know Andrea.
That wasn’t completely true. He brushed a knuckle across her smooth dark skin. He’d stalked her long enough to know her habits, some of her likes and dislikes, a few of her friends. Long enough to know she’d broken up with a boyfriend and lived alone in this small, neat house. That was as close as he’d gotten—as close as he’d wanted to get.
He wrapped some double-sided tape around his hands and patted the covers around Andrea’s body. Who knew what he’d dragged into this room on his person? There could be fibers from his clothing, bits of seed or dirt that could be identified from his area. He’d watched enough forensic crime shows to know anything could be analyzed these days.
He studied the minuscule debris on the tape, peeled it from his hands and shoved it into his pocket. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a playing card.
Hovering over Andrea, he placed the card between her parted lips. Then he snipped off one of her dark curls and dropped it into a plastic bag. Eyeing his handiwork, he sighed. Now he’d have to create a mess. He hated leaving a mess.
The blade of the box cutter winked at him as it caught the lig
ht from the lamp next to Andrea’s bed. Holding his breath, he sliced the pinkie finger from her left hand.
The souvenir.
CHAPTER ONE
Kyra clutched her throat with one hand. “I don’t understand. The Copycat Player is dead. I was there. I saw Jordy Lee Cannon die. You found all the evidence you needed at his mother’s house. The jewelry, the box cutter, playing cards.”
“But no severed fingers.” The phone call announcing another homicide had already propelled Jake to his feet. “We got the right guy, Kyra. This is someone else. Slightly different MO.”
“Slightly different?” She scrambled to a crouching position, grabbing the handrail of the bridge that crossed the canal to Quinn’s house for support to hoist herself up. “Then maybe it’s not a copycat of the...er...Copycat.”
Shaking his head, Jake grabbed her hand. He hated that she had to go through all this again. They’d just ended the horrific reign of a murderer who’d been mimicking the MO of a killer from twenty years ago—a killer who’d slaughtered Kyra’s mother and never been caught. Now she’d have to face the constant reminders from another sick bastard.
“A playing card in the woman’s mouth and a severed little finger. This guy’s following the same pattern, except he murdered the victim in her home and left her body there.”
Jake’s muscles tensed as he looked into Kyra’s eyes. Her mother had also been murdered in their home while Kyra slept in the bedroom.
Kyra squared her shoulders. “Then the crime scene should be rich with evidence and you’ll catch this guy before he does it again. Because he’ll do it again. Jordy managed four victims because he strangled them in his car and dumped their bodies. This guy has already made a big mistake.”
Blowing out a breath, he tugged on her hand. “I’m heading over there now. I’ll walk you back to Quinn’s. Can you get a ride home?”
“Of course, but you should come inside and tell Quinn yourself. I’m sure he’d rather hear this from you.”
They walked back across the wooden bridge over the canal where Abbot Kinney had tried to re-create Venice in the middle of a Southern California beach town. The charm of the location and evening was spoiled by the news of another homicide. No wonder he couldn’t get to second base with Kyra.
After a few bumps in the road, they’d gotten close working together on the case of the Copycat Player. Her position as victims’ advocate on that task force and her tragic ties to the original killer, dubbed The Player, had proved invaluable to the investigation.
Jake hesitated at retired detective Roger Quinn’s red door. Quinn, who had never solved The Player murders twenty years ago, had taken solace in the fact that they’d stopped The Player’s copycat. Now they had to go through it again, and Quinn would be asked to relive the case that still haunted him.
Kyra stepped through first, and Quinn glanced up from the flickering blue light of the TV. One look at their expressions, and the lines on Quinn’s craggy face seemed to deepen.
“What’s wrong with you two?”
Jake held up his phone. “You’re not going to believe this, but I just got a call about a homicide with the same MO as The Player—card between the lips and a missing finger.”
Quinn’s faded blue eyes narrowed. “Oh, I believe it. Seems like The Player has inspired a new generation of killers. It’s because I never caught him, never stopped him.”
Kyra rushed to Quinn’s side and crouched beside his chair. “He killed her in her home. He surely left something behind. They’ll get him, just like they got Jordy.”
Quinn placed his gnarled hand on Kyra’s head and met Jake’s eyes. “Hope you haven’t dismantled that task force, Detective.”
* * *
JAKE PULLED UP to the crime scene, where the revolving lights of the emergency vehicles bathed the street in an eerie, familiar glow. He double-parked in front of the modest, well-kept house that would never be the same again and flung open the door of his sedan.
A young man sat on the back of the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, his head down, legs swinging. Must’ve discovered the body.
Jake nodded at his partner, Billy Crouch, standing on the porch talking to a uniform. Their division didn’t cover this area of the San Fernando Valley, but he and Billy had led the Copycat Player task force and were the go-to guys now every time a playing card and severed finger figured in the crime scene. After Jordy Lee Cannon, he hadn’t thought there’d be another.
He took one big step over the yellow tape and strode toward the house. The cheery pot of flowers on top of the air-conditioning unit that jutted from the window made him falter, and he cursed under his breath at the injustice of a life cut short.
His glance took in Billy’s casual clothes that still looked runway ready, and he brushed a scuff of dirt from his own jeans. If he’d been home when he’d gotten the call, he would’ve put on a pair of slacks and an Oxford shirt, at least, but he’d gone casual himself for dinner with Quinn and Kyra. It was supposed to have been a dinner to celebrate the end of the Copycat Player, and now here they were again.
He joined Billy on the porch. “What do we have in there, partner?”
“Young African American woman strangled in her bed. Not much upset. He must’ve surprised her in her sleep.” Billy’s mouth flattened into a grimace. “Queen of hearts placed between her lips and left pinkie finger removed.”
“Anything else taken? Jordy had been snatching pieces of jewelry from his victims. Anything like that?” Jake pulled a pair of gloves from the black bag over his shoulder and slipped them on.
Billy raised one shoulder. “Too early to tell. Andrea Miles was in bed, pajamas on, makeup off, no jewelry.”
Jake crossed the threshold of the house, and his gaze darted around the neat room, framed pictures undisturbed, multicolored pillows propped up against the arms of the couch, a laptop computer charging on a table. “Lived alone?”
“Yeah. Boyfriend moved out recently. He’s the one who called in the murder. They were supposed to meet earlier today to sign some paperwork regarding the house, and she missed the meeting.”
“This murder didn’t happen tonight?” Jake poked his head into the bedroom where Andrea lay on her bed, covers pulled up to her waist. He could see the red face card in her mouth from here. “No sexual assault?”
“Just like the others, and yeah, looks like she’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours based on the fixed, dilated pupils, body temperature and lividity.” Billy gestured to the patrol officer standing guard over the body. “Can we have the room?”
“Yes, sir.” The officer squeezed past them at the door, leaving Billy and Jake alone with the victim.
Jake approached the bed, not touching anything. Billy had already done a preliminary examination of the body, and neither the photographer nor the fingerprint tech had gotten here yet, so he wanted to leave the scene intact for them.
The responding officer had given Billy the lowdown, and Jake continued to pick his partner’s brain. “No forced entry?”
“Not that they can see at the windows or doors.”
“Boyfriend just moved out. Does he still have a key?”
“He does.” Billy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s how he got in to discover Andrea had been murdered. He used his key.”
“We’ll bring him in for questioning.” Jake picked up Andrea’s left hand—the one now missing a finger. “I mean, he could’ve staged this to look like a copycat.”
“Anything’s possible, man.” Billy jerked his head up at the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door. “You need any more time before we invite the hordes in here?”
“I’ll take a look around the rest of the house.” Jake skimmed his hand across the bedspread, his glove sticking in a couple of areas. “Have you spoken to the boyfriend yet?”
“Not really. He was in shock. That�
�s why I sent him to the ambulance.” Billy nudged Jake’s arm as he studied his fingertips. “What’s wrong? Find something?”
Jake whipped out two tags from a plastic bag and stuck them on the bedspread in two spots. “I felt something here and here. It felt sticky. It could be saliva, semen. Make sure these are preserved and tested.”
Billy turned to the door and invited the crime scene investigators hovering there into the room. “Do your thing. Jake, I’ll hit up the boyfriend. See if he can form a coherent sentence now.”
Jake gave up his spot next to the victim to the techs and backed out of the room. He did an about-face in the hallway and entered another bedroom. This one contained a daybed and a small dresser and looked unused—for the guests Andrea would never have.
He checked the window and the screen on the outside and popped his head into the small closet. Could the killer have hidden here waiting for Andrea to come home? Possible, but how’d he get in to ambush her?
He took a few steps across the living room to another bedroom, which had been converted into an office. This room didn’t have a closet, just a desk, filing cabinet and a bookshelf. Crouching down, he read the titles—mostly self-help, yoga and exercise books, and a volume of Langston Hughes poetry. Jake swallowed. A dream deferred, indeed.
A cursory check of the window offered him nothing, and he entered the kitchen. He tried the door next to the pantry, and it opened onto a one-car garage where Andrea’s compact waited.
He flicked the switch to his right and light flooded the garage. Andrea’s organization skills didn’t extend to the garage. Although she’d left enough room to pull her car inside, she’d crammed boxes and bikes and snowboards into the remaining spaces.
He took one step down and felt the hood of the car with his hand. He opened the car door and looked for a garage door opener on the visor. Instead, Andrea’s new-model car had buttons that could be programmed to open a garage door.
He punched one, and the garage door started its journey along the tracks. Another stab at the button stopped the door’s progress and another brought it back down. The garage door wasn’t locked, but it would’ve made a lot of noise opening. Andrea probably would’ve heard that.