Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Carol Ericson (short books to read TXT) 📖

Jake gritted his teeth. What the hell was she lying about this time?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kyra clutched the queen of diamonds in her hand and smeared her thumb across the glossy surface to sweep off the particles of dirt clinging to it. Fingerprints didn’t concern her this time. He’d left none on the other card, and she couldn’t run to Clive with another playing card, anyway.

Could she run to Jake?

She glanced at the white expanse of the station. Would CCTV help to identify who’d dropped the playing card next to her car? If she’d parked in the station’s lot, there would’ve been footage for sure. That would be less likely out here in the street.

She dropped the card onto her console and gripped the steering wheel, resting her forehead on her bunched knuckles. How did the killer know who she was, where she lived, what car she drove? It didn’t make sense.

Finding this second card screamed loud and clear that the first card had not been a coincidence. What had Quinn always told her? There are no coincidences in law enforcement.

She had to tell Jake. These cards could lead to the capture of the copycat killer. The task force had precious little to go on right now.

If she told him, she could still keep her other secret. She could claim she had no idea why someone, possibly this killer, was leaving playing cards for her.

She’d tell Jake...for the sake of the case, for the sake of those victims. She noted the time on the car’s clock and shifted into Drive. First she’d see her clients and touch base with Quinn. She hadn’t even told him about the first card.

She headed back toward the coast where a gray line of haze sat on the horizon. The Malibu Canyon fire still burned, but the firefighters had contained it, which meant no more nonstop news coverage—until the next wildfire blazed forth. The Santa Ana winds worried the tops of the palm trees and sucked the moisture out of the air, but no new fires had popped up.

When would that body from last night have been discovered had the fire not whipped through the canyon? The copycat may have been more content to wait if it hadn’t. He wouldn’t have put himself at risk with that phone call.

The copycat had exposed himself in a way The Player never would’ve done. That meant law enforcement could count on more mistakes from him. Like leaving two playing cards for her? A number of other people could be responsible for that, including a few of the miscreants she’d stumbled across in the foster care system.

By the time she reached her office in Santa Monica, the sun had started dipping into the ocean, its rays filtering through the smoke from the fire to create an orange streak across the sky.

She cruised down Wilshire and pulled into the parking lot of a two-story office building that she and another therapist shared with a realty office, an aesthetician, a pizza place and a hairstylist.

She and her office roomie, as she called Candace, shared the space, which consisted of a waiting room where they could conduct groups and an inner office for private sessions. They scheduled their clients at different times and used the same space. Saved a lot of money, especially in this area, and Kyra spent a lot of her time at various police stations.

She jogged up the stairs and used her key to unlock the office. She left the door unlocked and retreated to what she and Candace called the treatment room.

A small desk neither of them used huddled in the corner while comfortable chairs with colorful cushions took up the space in the middle of the room.

She knew which chair her next client would take. He always sat in the same one—they all did.

The door clicked in the outer office, and Kyra smoothed back her hair and relaxed the muscles of her face. After the day she’d had, she needed therapy probably more than her clients did. Not that she hadn’t already had plenty of it.

The red light above the door flashed, and Kyra answered the call—a cop who, like so many before him, had let the job and alcohol destroy his marriage.

An hour later, Kyra folded her hands in her lap. “We’re out of time, Evan.”

He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “That went by fast. It always does.”

“I’ll see you next time.” Kyra rose to her feet and opened the door to the outer office. She accepted all payments online now, which cut out the awkwardness of taking a check or cash after a session.

Evan stopped at the door, close enough for her to smell the faded mint from the chewing gum he used as a substitute for alcohol. “I heard about a third body in this copycat case. I also heard you’re on the task force.”

She nodded once, hoping to end the conversation before it started.

“How do you like working with J-Mac?” Evan’s stocky frame filled the door.

“Excuse me?” Her fingers twisted the handle. She never talked about her personal life with clients. After six months of treatment, Evan should know that rule by now, especially as he’d tried to get too friendly before and she’d put him in his place.

He seemed to flinch at her cold tone. Good.

“Just wondering what the guy was like. Heard he was a great detective but not easy to work with.” Evan lifted a square shoulder.

“Yeah, I really wouldn’t know. I work with the victims.”

“Next time then.” Evan thrust out his hand and she shook it.

“Next time.” Many clients went in for the hug at the end of a session, but not usually cops. Kyra generally let the clients dictate the level of closeness they needed at the end of an appointment, and guys like Evan preferred the firm handshake to show that they were back in control, even after an emotional hour that sometimes included tears.

When the door to the outside