The Trap Page 8

  “Kyra, is that you? It’s Rose.” Rose Bernstein, one of Quinn’s neighbors and friends, poked her fluffy blond head into the house.

  Patting her chest, where her heart thumped back to normal, Kyra called out, “Yes, Rose. I’m in the kitchen.”

  She closed the cupboard and returned to the living room, where Rose had one tentative foot over the threshold.

  “When I saw the open door, I was hoping it was you.” Rose tugged her sweater around her thin frame, slightly stooped with osteoporosis. “May I?”

  “Of course.” She waved Rose into the room. “Come in.”

  Rose floated forward, stretching out her hands, the blue veins running crisscross on the backs under thin skin. “My dear girl, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Kyra met her halfway, and the older woman wrapped her in a hug, patting her back, enveloping her in a scent of faded lilacs. When Rose finally released her, Kyra had to grab a tissue from her purse. She’d never met any of her grandparents, but Rose smelled exactly how she’d always imagined a grandma to smell.

  “Quinn was your friend, too. I know you’re going to miss him.”

  “Who am I going to cook for now? My son and the grandkids live in New York.” She shrugged a set of narrow shoulders. “But now I feel guilty about all those meals I sent to Quinn. He probably shouldn’t have been eating lasagna with four different cheeses.”

  “He loved your cooking.” Kyra squeezed her arm, sealing her own lips. It could be the lasagna had nothing to do with Quinn’s death. “When was the last time you saw Quinn?”

  Rose shook her head. “That’s the sad thing. I had been away in Palm Springs, visiting my sister for a few days. I heard about his death from the neighbors when I got back. I wasn’t even here. Didn’t even see him before he died.”

  Kyra sucked in her bottom lip. No use asking Rose if she’d seen or heard anything unusual. She wouldn’t bother questioning Quinn’s nearest neighbor, the drummer next door. She’d leave that up to Jake or Billy once they started investigating Quinn’s death as a homicide.

  Had Quinn really known The Player all these years and not felt something from him? Some vibe? Some connection?

  The Player obviously was very good at appearing human. He’d lived among normal people for years, maybe even had a wife and children. You always had to wonder if the families of serial killers were telling the truth when they proclaimed dear old dad was just like any other father on the block. The BTK killer had walked his daughter down the aisle.

  A little shiver crept over Kyra’s flesh, and she squared her shoulders, recalibrating. “I’m sorry you missed saying goodbye to Quinn, but none of us knew our last time was a goodbye. Do you want to have a seat? I was just going through Quinn’s kitchen to...see what I could throw out.”

  “I can’t stay long, but don’t worry about that kitchen. I can clean it up for you. Unless you want any of the food, I can dispose of it and donate the nonperishables to a shelter I work with here in Venice.” Rose dangled a single key from a ring. “Quinn and I had keys to each other’s places. I can give it to you now, or I can hang on to it and see about that kitchen.”

  “You’re so kind. That would be helpful, but can you hold off on doing anything in the kitchen until I tell you to move ahead?”

  “Of course, whatever you need.” Rose reached out and patted Kyra’s hand. “I’m glad I saw you today. When I noticed the door open, I thought it might be you and I had missed you yesterday, and then you didn’t come back with Jake—Detective McAllister.”

  “Come back?” Kyra tilted her head to the side. Had someone been in the house after she and Jake left last night? “We didn’t come back. Did you see someone in the house?”

  “I know you didn’t come back, but your young man returned later.”

  Kyra’s cheeks warmed at the thought of Jake being her young man, but Rose had it wrong and maybe she saw the killer. “Jake and I went back to my place, and then he went home. He didn’t go to Quinn’s house.”

  “Oh.” Rose fluffed her perm. “Maybe he forgot something and didn’t mention it to you, but it was definitely Jake I saw last night. Poco, my Chihuahua, had to take a potty break around midnight, so I walked him outside. I saw Jake coming across the bridge. I almost called out because I thought you might be with him, but he was alone.”

  “H-he went into the house?” And then Kyra remembered Jake handing over Quinn’s key chain at lunch. He claimed he’d forgotten he had it in his pants pocket.

  “He let himself into the house with a key and turned on a light in the living room.” Rose knitted her eyebrows. “That’s all right, isn’t it? He was a friend of Quinn’s. In fact, Quinn adored that man, and, well, he’s a police officer.”

  Kyra blinked rapidly. “Of course it’s okay. He probably stopped here on the way back to his place because he forgot something when we were here earlier.”

  “Well, I’m glad I got to see you.” Rose made a move for the front door. “Let me know when I can get into that kitchen. I want to help you in any way I can. Quinn would want that.”

  Kyra walked Rose to the door and watched the birdlike woman cross the wooden bridge to her own side of the neighborhood, her house across from Quinn’s.

  Even after Rose disappeared into her house with a wave, Kyra stayed on the porch, watching the seawater lap against the concrete barrier that formed the canal. Jake might have forgotten something at Quinn’s earlier, but he had all that time during lunch to tell her and a perfect opportunity to mention it when he returned Quinn’s key chain to her.

  She clenched her teeth and stepped back inside her house, slamming the door behind her. Jake didn’t tell her because he’d come sneaking back here on his own.

  Because Jake had a secret.

  Chapter Eight

  Captain Carlos Castillo had a secret, had kept it for twenty years.

  Jake watched Castillo through narrowed eyes as the captain leaned over Billy’s computer to study the stills of Erica’s killer. Why had Castillo agreed to change that report? He’d put his career on the line by agreeing to appease Detective Roger Quinn.

  Castillo’s actions ever since the copycat killers had surfaced several months ago had been suspect. The captain had been jumpy, stressed out, overly curious about Jake’s budding relationship with both Kyra and Quinn.

  Had he been the one searching Quinn’s place after the old detective’s death? Had he been searching for that report to squelch it? Castillo had to know that Jake would have the same concerns about that report going public. Kyra’s safety had to be Jake’s priority, just as it had been Quinn’s.

  Had Castillo gone even further than breaking and entering? Had he gone to Quinn’s that day demanding that he destroy the original report? When Quinn refused, had he hit him over the head? No. If Dr. Ellis was correct about the injection between Quinn’s toes, his murder had been deliberate and planned—not a moment of fury.

  That didn’t mean Castillo and Quinn hadn’t argued about this before. Castillo could’ve planned to take out Quinn once he realized the detective wouldn’t come around to his way of thinking and destroy that report.

  Why hadn’t Quinn burned the original report? Maybe he knew deep down, as Jake did, that Kyra had a right to know the truth about the night of her mother’s murder. She’d want to know.

  “Something to add, J-Mac?” Castillo must’ve felt Jake’s stare and now met Jake’s eyes with his own, dark and unfathomable.

  Jake twitched his head. “Just wondering if you guys had any luck with the zooming, but it doesn’t sound like it.”

  “This guy—” Billy flicked his finger at the screen “—looks like thousands of other white guys in LA. He’s too smart to smile at the camera.”

  “Not too smart to go after a witness and then wind up killing the wrong person.” Jake glanced up at the door of the war room for the hundredth time tha
t morning.

  Kyra had gone off and done her own thing yesterday afternoon when they’d been scrambling to notify Ashley’s family and questioning her brother. She’d sent him a terse text last night and hadn’t answered his texts so far today. He hoped Quinn’s death wasn’t hitting her particularly hard right now, especially as that death might be a murder.

  Billy replied, “He didn’t want to violate one of The Player’s rules—don’t leave any witnesses—but he went overboard. Maybe he’ll stop at Ashley, seeing how he messed up so much.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Castillo rapped his knuckles on the desk and made a quick exit.

  Jake drilled the captain’s back with his gaze as he left the room. Castillo had gotten that sheen on his forehead when Billy had mentioned witnesses. If Jake wanted the whole story about Jennifer Lake’s murder, he had to confront Castillo. But first, he needed some proof or at least some ammunition.

  He ducked his head and tapped the keyboard to bring up the personnel database. He didn’t have access to go into anyone’s individual files, but he could view their progress through the LAPD—time on the job, promotions, accolades, that kind of thing.

  He clicked on the link for the Northeast Division, where Castillo had spent his entire career. After looking left and right, Jake pulled the laptop closer to him and scrolled down the alphabet to find Castillo’s name. He selected it.

  Captain Carlos Castillo’s glorious career with the LAPD tumbled down the screen. Jake scanned the very beginning of Castillo’s positions, and then zeroed in on the few years The Player was active.

  Castillo had been working patrol during that time, and that’s why he’d been the first to respond to a child’s 911 call that her mother was dead. The year before that, Castillo had supported a drug task force. Jake hunched forward, clicking through the cases that the task force had solved.

  He’d read about this before. Armando Sandoval, a drug kingpin from the Sinaloa cartel, had controlled the streets of LA during this period, and the LAPD had formed a task force, LA Impact, to bring him down. The team had been mostly successful, reeling in the small fish first, the pushers on the corners and in the playgrounds. They’d squealed on the bigger fish and so on and so on, until the task force reached Sandoval, the big whale—or shark would be a better term. The DEA had ended up killing Sandoval in a gun battle at the border, but LA Impact had had a hand in the confrontation.

  He scrolled through some of the cases, and his hand jerked when Quinn’s name popped up. He’d been investigating the murder of a young woman who’d been shot in her car while her son wailed in his car seat in the back. Quinn had discovered that the woman’s boyfriend, and the father of her baby, was one of Sandoval’s dealers.

  Jake drilled down further into the report. Tony Galecki had graduated from selling on the corner to distributing and managing a team of dealers. But something had gone wrong. Tony double-crossed the cartel by cutting the original product, selling more of it and pocketing what he thought the cartel would never notice. He was wrong. The cartel noticed everything. Tony’s girlfriend paid the price.

  The report didn’t end with the girlfriend’s death and Tony’s arrest, though. The stacks of cash Tony had accumulated had gone missing. Looked like Internal Affairs had been called in for a hot minute, but the issue had been resolved. Tony had recanted his story about the missing money, and the investigation went away.

  Jake dug some more, and his fingertips buzzed. Much of IA’s suspicions had been directed at Carlos Castillo. He’d done a search of Tony’s place, including a storage unit. He found packets of the diluted product but never found Tony’s money.

  Jake’s heart skipped a beat when he saw some of the personal evidence IA had started to investigate about the hotshot patrolman. Castillo had been going through a divorce at the time. Jake had seen the happy family pictures in Castillo’s office, which had come after the first marriage. Divorces were expensive—he knew all about that even though he’d gotten off easily. Tess had just wanted their marriage over so she could start again with Brock. His ex had gotten a friend of hers from law school to handle their divorce and it had been as painless and inexpensive as possible. But Jake realized what it could’ve been—something more like Castillo’s.

  IA was about to look into some of Castillo’s finances at the time, but that ended when Tony admitted he’d lied about the money being missing. Claimed he and his girlfriend had already spent most of it or had given it away.

  Steepling his fingers, Jake minimized the screen and leaned back in his chair. Quinn had been involved in a murder case that had found its way onto the LA Impact task force, a task force that Castillo had worked. This had occurred just prior to the formation of The Player task force.

  Jake drummed his fingers on the desk. What had happened to Tony Galecki’s money? The cartels didn’t tolerate lying or stealing, ironically enough, but the sums had to be high for them to take out a woman with her baby. Had Tony and his girlfriend been able to spend that much and that fast? Why had Tony changed his mind at the last minute?

  He planned to find out.

  He jumped when Billy nudged his arm. “Earth to Jake. Are you down for some lunch?”

  “Lunch already?” Jake rubbed his eyes. “That went fast.”

  “Did you find anything worth reporting?” Billy jabbed his finger at Jake’s laptop, the LAPD screensaver innocuously bouncing from one edge to the other.

  “Nah. You?”

  “Nothing on the videos, nothing at the crime scene in the Angeles National Forest. Copycat Four must’ve followed The Player’s other rules, even though he messed up the witness one.”

  The Player had messed up that rule himself.

  Jake tapped his keyboard to wake up his computer. “You go ahead and get the car started. I’m gonna check one more thing and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  Jake watched Billy leave the room before bringing up the database for prisoners in LA County. Would Galecki still be inside for the drug charge?

  He looked him up and discovered he’d served less than ten years on that conviction, his sentence reduced for cooperation. Had he survived in prison after collaborating against the cartel? A few more searches indicated he had survived prison life and currently resided in Boyle Heights. Jake jotted down the address. It was his lucky day. He’d rather see Tony in person than try to question him over the phone.

  After his lunch with Billy, he dropped his partner at the station and took the car to East LA. He found Tony’s address not too far off the freeway and above an office for a moving company—LA Movers and Shakers. Clever.

  He parked his sedan next to a moving truck, open in the back, and checked in at the small office. Obviously just a place to direct traffic and schedule moves, the office sported a desk stacked with invoices and littered with paper cups and soda cans. Several metal filing cabinets hunched behind the desk, a bulletin board with a Laker Girls calendar hanging from it at an angle graced one wall and a few dollies were shoved into the corner.

  Jake had taken a few steps into the office and turned his head at the sound of footsteps on the gravel in the parking lot behind him.

  A young man with dark brown hair and several tattoos marching up his arms clenched his fists at his sides and said, “What do you want?”

  Jake stepped aside to let the man bump past him into the office. “Customer service not a requirement in the moving business?”

  A blush rose to the young man’s tawny cheeks. “You’re not here to schedule a move. You’re a cop.”

  “What gave me away?” Jake’s lips twisted up on one side.

  “The suit, the car out there.” The man tilted his chin in an aggressive manner, his beard practically bristling. “I seen enough of you over the years. He’s not here.”

  “You know I’m looking for Tony Galecki?”

  “Aren’t you always? He done his time.
He built this business when he got out. He hasn’t done nothing since.”

  “I believe you.” Jake held up his hands, realizing that this young man was most likely Galecki’s son—the one who’d been in the car with his murdered mother. Jake swallowed. This boy had been younger than Kyra when his mother had been murdered, but he must’ve experienced some of the same trauma as she had.

  “I’m not here to harass your father. I just have a few questions to ask him about that time—when your mother was killed.”

  The son blinked. “He ain’t got nothing to say about that anymore.”

  “AJ, let me be the judge of that.”

  Jake spun around to find Tony Galecki hovering in the doorway, his arms crossed over his wiry frame, his head cocked to the side. Although Galecki had a receding hairline, he’d gathered what hair he did have in a ponytail that hung down his back.

  Jake thrust out his hand. “Mr. Galecki, I’m Detective McAllister with LAPD Homicide. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your arrest twenty years ago.”

  Galecki hesitated before grabbing Jake’s hand. “This is my son, AJ.”

  Jake shook Galecki’s hand and then extended it to AJ, who’d stuffed his own hands in his pockets.

  “Son, show the man respect.”

  AJ pulled a hand from his pocket and gripped Jake’s briefly before hiding it in his pocket again.

  “Do you have a minute, Mr. Galecki?”

  “Call me Tony.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “AJ, prep that moving van. A crew’s taking it out tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” AJ squeezed between his father and Jake and left them in the small office.

  “Who raised him? Seems like a good kid.”

  Galecki circled the desk and plopped down on the wheeled chair. “My parents. Lucinda’s parents couldn’t deal. They blamed me for her death. They’re not wrong. What do you want after all this time, Detective? It wasn’t a cold case. We all know who did it and why.”

  Jake grabbed a stool, the only other place to sit, and straddled it. “I was looking at your case recently and noticed you’d made a claim that money had been stolen from you.”