Kyra swallowed before loudly clanking the plates on the tile counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. Quinn needed to hear this, too. “Quinn and I go way back. I helped out on one of his cases—just like I’m helping you. Isn’t that right, Quinn?”
“That’s right.” Quinn twisted his head to the side. “One of my cases. Kyra’s a sharp cookie, and she’s compassionate. She adds a lot of value to a task force like this.”
“I saw her in action today with the Lindquists.” Jake popped the lid from one of the containers of fish and chips, and the aroma of fresh cod filled the kitchen. “Seems like she’s a natural.”
Kyra almost dropped the forks. A compliment from Jake McAllister? “I was able to help Marie. David’s still in too much shock to take in anything right now.”
“Two each?” The tines of Jake’s fork hovered over a piece of fish. “I can do with one. I don’t want to ruin your dinner party.”
“It wasn’t a dinner party. Sometimes I show up on Quinn’s doorstep bearing food. If he’s home and hungry, we’ll eat together. If not, I leave it for him.” Kyra sealed her lips and dumped some coleslaw on an empty plate. She was giving Jake the impression that she and Quinn had a deeper relationship than a working one. They did, but Jake didn’t need to know about it, and Quinn was playing along.
With a frown between his eyebrows, Jake speared a piece of fish and plopped it on the plate next to the coleslaw. “You’re a good coworker.”
“What’s taking you two so long?” Quinn drove his cane into the floor and rose to his feet a little unsteadily. “A man could starve while you stand in there blabbing. And where’s my beer?”
Kyra rolled her eyes at Jake. “Kind of demanding, isn’t he?”
“Last time I checked, this was my house and you were the intruders.” Quinn bellied up to the counter and rapped his knuckles on it. “Beer, no glass, and make sure you drizzle some of that malt vinegar on my fish.”
“Yes, sir.” Kyra arranged the last of the coleslaw, split three ways, on the plates and spun toward the fridge to grab the beers. Cranking her head over her shoulder, she asked, “Do you want a beer, Jake?”
“I’ll take one, thanks.”
She held one bottle out to him. “Twist off the cap and give this one to Quinn so he’ll take a seat and get out of our hair.”
Jake took off the cap with a crack and shoved the beer across the counter to Quinn. “Take a seat, sir. We’ll bring your food out to you.”
Quinn grabbed the bottle by the neck and walked back to his chair with a little more spring in his step.
Kyra handed a second bottle to Jake. “I’ll take his plate out.”
From the to-go cup, she poured a line of vinegar up and down Quinn’s fish and spooned some tartar sauce on the plate. “I’ve got you covered, Quinn.”
Two minutes later, they were sitting around Quinn’s coffee table, plates of food in their laps and beers in their hands.
“I’m proposing a toast.” Quinn raised his bottle. “Let’s get the SOB this time.”
Jake lowered the bottle from his lips, which were still puckered. “This time? Didn’t you just tell me you didn’t believe The Player was responsible for these murders?”
Quinn took a long pull from his bottle. When he lowered it, his misty blue eyes had sharpened—either from the booze or the subject matter. “I meant in general. We always want to nail them, and we usually do.”
Kyra twirled her fork in the coleslaw. “Don’t you agree with Quinn, Jake? At the task force meeting, you didn’t seem to put much stock in the theory that The Player had come back online.”
“Yeah, I’m leaning that way.” Jake picked up a piece of battered fish with his fingers and dredged it in the mound of tartar sauce on his plate. “It’s the missing finger that gets me.”
“Don’t dwell on that, Jake. You and I both know that stuff gets out, whether we want it to or not.” Quinn spread out a piece of paper towel on his lap.
“A lot of times it’s leaked from law enforcement.” Jake picked up his beer and ran a fingernail through the damp label. “Did you ever suspect a cop as The Player?”
Quinn dropped his fork and it pinged against his plate, flicking a strand of cabbage onto their makeshift dining table. “That’s quite a charge.”
Jake’s gaze shifted to Kyra’s face, and then he tipped some beer down his throat. “Not one I make lightly, but it must’ve crossed your mind. Think about it. If this guy stopped the killing twenty years ago because of advances in law enforcement, he must’ve been well versed in those advances.”
“Or he made it his business to know. The Player wasn’t a stupid or clumsy man.” Quinn dabbed at the rogue shred of cabbage on the coffee table with his finger.
“Maybe our current killer knows about the severed fingers because he knows about The Player’s cold cases. He’s seen the files, knows the evidence.” Jake lifted and dropped his shoulders. “Just a thought.”
Kyra tilted her head and curled one leg beneath her, which brought her closer to Jake on the love seat—close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes that gave them their hazel appearance in the sunlight. She took a deep breath and said, “If this guy is law enforcement, he also knows about CCTV, cell phone tracking, DNA. All of that is not stopping him if, in fact, that knowledge was what halted The Player’s killing spree.”
“Not all sociopaths are as careful as The Player. We still have serial killers, despite technology. Some may not know we can track their movements through their cell phones, some may not know which bodily fluids contain DNA, some may not be aware of cameras.” Quinn waved a French fry at her. “Some don’t care.”
A little chill zipped
