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 shoulder. 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
