Kyra’s gaze dipped to his chest, as if following the trickle of sweat making its way to his belly. “Santa Ana winds kicking up since yesterday. Hope that doesn’t mean the start of fire season.”
He must look as miserably hot as he felt. “Hope not. Keep me posted on anything you find out from Marissa’s friends or Kelsey’s mom. You established quite a rapport with her in such a short period of time.”
“You sound surprised.” She smoothed one hand across her already-smooth hair, making him feel more rumpled than ever. “That is my job.”
What she had with Marie was more than a job to her. Why was she trying to brush it off? Jake cocked his head. “I suppose it is.”
Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it from the side pocket of her purse, giving it a quick glance. “You, too?”
He stopped struggling out of his jacket for a second. “Me, too, what?”
She aimed her phone at him. “You keep me posted, too.”
She sauntered off while Jake stared after her, yanking on the sleeve of his jacket. He opened his mouth and snapped it shut.
He couldn’t very well yell at that swinging ponytail that they had different jobs and he didn’t have to inform her of anything if he didn’t want to, which wasn’t quite true as long as she was on the task force.
He finally struggled out of his jacket and stalked to his car. As long as Castillo said so, Kyra would stay on the task force.
Jake would have to accept it, but he didn’t have to like it.
An hour later, back at the station, Jake stopped by Billy’s desk, picked up the file on Marissa Perez and shuffled through it while Billy finished a phone call with the dry cleaner.
When he hung up, he said, “Did you do the ID with the Lindquists at the morgue?”
“They ID’d their daughter.” Jake wiped the back of his hand across his dry mouth. “They said Kelsey’s diamond nose stud is missing. That didn’t turn up anywhere, did it?”
Billy sat back in his chair and wedged one expensive shoe on the desk. “No, are you thinking a second trophy? That wouldn’t jive with The Player’s MO.”
“Maybe she lost it in the struggle to subdue her. Did Jenkins and Washington have any luck with cameras in the area where Kelsey’s car was found, catching a car coming and going?”
“They’re going through some footage now.” Billy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Do you want to send some people over to Griffith Park and do a search for the nose stud? How about the parking lot where her car was found?”
“Let’s do both.” Jake waved the file still clutched in his hands in the air. “Nobody mentioned any missing jewelry for Marissa?”
“Not yet.” Billy raised his eyebrows. “How’d it go with Kyra Chase, the victims’ rights advocate? I heard she met you at the morgue.”
“She was there.” Jake’s mouth tightened. “Have to admit, she was good with the mom, Marie.”
Billy whistled through his teeth. “That’s high praise from you, brother. Better watch out, she’ll want to shrink your head.”
“No chance.” Jake snorted and smacked Marissa’s file on Billy’s desk. “I’m going to look at some reports that have come in since yesterday, and then I’m calling Roger Quinn.”
“Going old-school for this one, huh?”
“He does know more about The Player than any other detective, including the FBI guys.”
“Speaking of which, the fibbies are looking at our case.” Billy swirled the leftover coffee in his cup from a new coffee house down the street. Station blend wasn’t fine enough for his palate.
“Let ’em. They play ball with us, we’ll play ball with them.” Jake rapped on Billy’s desk. “Let’s nail this guy and save the FBI the trouble.”
After skimming through the reports on Kelsey’s car and surrounding area, Jake placed a call to Kelsey’s boyfriend to set up an interview. The guy had an ironclad alibi for the time of Kelsey’s abduction and murder, but he’d be able to shed some light on Kelsey’s habits, schedules, exes—not that Jake believed this was personal, unless Marissa had the same acquaintances.
Then he pulled an index card from the top drawer of his desk and flicked the corner of it. Castillo had given him Roger Quinn’s phone number. Although the retired detective had become even more reclusive than he’d been before the death of his wife a few years ago, if he’d been following the news, he would be expecting Jake’s call.
He punched in the number and waited through two rings before voice mail picked up, an impersonal automated message intoning in his ear. At the beep, Jake said, “Detective Quinn, this is Detective Jake McAllister, LAPD Homicide. I’m leading a task force—”
A gruff voice interrupted him on what must’ve been an answering machine connected to a landline. “I know who you are. You can come by at four o’clock today.”
Without waiting for Jake’s reply, Quinn rattled off his address in Venice and hung up.
His mouth hanging open, Jake eyed the telephone receiver until the buzz signaled that the old detective had really just hung up on him. The rumors about Quinn were no exaggeration. Jake would have to bring his A game.
Knowing it would take him at least forty-five minutes to traverse the 405 freeway on the cusp of rush hour, Jake stuck his head in Castillo’s office at three o’clock. “I got a summons from Quinn for a meeting at four o’clock.”
Castillo glanced at the cell phone on his desk. “Better get going then. You should be fine, J-Mac. Quinn doesn’t suffer fools...and you’re no fool. In fact, you remind me of a younger Quinn. Should be a good
