Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2, Carol Ericson [good book recommendations TXT] 📗

With those ominous words ringing in his ears, Jake packed up and hit the road in his police-issued black Crown Vic. He’d shed his suit jacket and tossed it into the back seat.

Now, even with the AC blasting, he pulled his tie over his head, threw it into the back with the jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The news on the radio warned of a small brushfire in the canyons of Malibu, but as Jake peered west over his steering wheel, he let out a sigh. The fire department could contain a small fire as long as the winds subsided.

As he cruised off the freeway onto Lincoln, Jake joined the line of traffic crawling along the busy boulevard. He edged from Santa Monica into Venice and buzzed down his window. He preferred fresh air to AC and gulped in the salty breeze from the Pacific.

As he approached Quinn’s walk-street on the canals, Jake kept an eye out for a parking place, even an illegal one. Police business afforded certain perks.

Who would’ve thought someone would get the bright idea of recreating the canals of Venice, Italy, on a Southern California beach? Tobacco tycoon Abbot Kinney had been so taken with that Italian town, he’d replicated it on the shores of California and dubbed it “Venice, America.”

While the area surrounding the canals of Venice left a lot to be desired in terms of crime, gangs and homelessness, the walk-streets along the water, graced with arching bridges, provided a well-heeled oasis for the homes lining the canals.

Jake knew enough of Roger Quinn to know the retired detective hadn’t purchased a million-dollar home on the canals several years ago on his cop’s salary—any more than Jake had purchased his home with his cop’s salary. Quinn’s wife, Charlotte, had been a best-selling author of crime fiction before she passed, no doubt culling ideas from her husband’s storied career as a homicide detective.

Jake left his car parked on a red curb and traipsed down Canal, entering a different world as he turned onto one of the walk-streets. He checked the numbers on the houses and loped over a low bridge to the other side of the water.

A smooth jazz instrumental floated out the open window of Quinn’s modest house. Newcomers to the area had replaced many of the beach cottages with modern monstrosities that loomed over the canal. Quinn’s house crouched between two of those, daring them to encroach on its space.

Jake parked himself on the porch in front of the red door with a flower box, sporting geraniums to match, and knocked hard. Could the old guy even hear over the noise in there?

The music abruptly ended, and before Jake could absorb the stillness the door swung open. Quinn hung on to the door handle, his body blocking the entrance to his home as he gave Jake the once-over from head to toe.

Damn. Maybe he should’ve kept his jacket and tie on.

The man had once been as tall as Jake, but age had robbed his bones of their fortitude. His wild gray eyebrows collided over his hawklike nose as he thrust a gnarled hand toward Jake. “Roger Quinn. Everyone calls me Quinn.”

What his spine may have lacked in strength, the bones of his large spatulate hands more than made up for. Jake gave as good as he got. Quinn wouldn’t be the type of man who’d appreciate coddling because of his age.

“Detective Jake McAllister. You can call me Jake.”

One of those eyebrows twitched as if it had a mind of its own. “Not J-Mac?”

“You know how nicknames get around at the department, sir.”

“Sir? Just Quinn.” He widened the door and stepped away from it, leaving Jake to shut it.

“You like jazz, Jake?” Quinn held up an old album cover with a gleaming sax on it.

“I’m more of a classic rock guy.” Jake lifted his shoulders apologetically.

“You can have a look at my collection before you leave.” Quinn aimed a sandaled toe at a row of albums on the bottom of a shelf that supported an old turntable setup.

“I’d like that.”

“But you didn’t come here to talk about an old man’s record collection, did you?” Quinn waved Jake toward a love seat as he eased into a recliner that had formed to its owner’s body and welcomed him home.

Jake perched on the edge of the love seat. “You’ve seen the news about the two murders, both bodies dumped in Griffith Park.”

“I have.” Quinn dropped his chin to his chest. “A playing card between their lips, and their pinky fingers missing.”

Jake’s pulse jumped. “We didn’t release the information about the fingers.”

“You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for those missing fingers, would you?” Quinn’s faded blue eyes sharpened for a second as his nostrils flared. “You think this might be The Player back in action again.”

“Do you think that’s a possibility, sir... Quinn?” Jake’s gaze shifted around the room, searching for the wall of honor that would boast the commendations and plaques and pictures with the various mayors and governors. Instead, he scanned a collection of watercolors that depicted the canals outside Quinn’s front door.

“Do I think The Player killed these two young women?” Quinn rubbed a hand, suffering from a slight palsy, across his chin. “That might be the best scenario.”

“Sir?” Jake shifted forward in his seat, his knees bumping the rough-hewn coffee table and causing a cup of tea to rattle in its saucer.

Quinn’s fingers balled into misshapen fists on his knees. “It’s my shame. I never brought him in. I never caught him. It’s not enough for me to imagine him dead and gone. I wanted him to end his reign of terror on my terms, not his.”

Jake made an involuntary noise in the back of his throat and clenched his teeth. He felt the old detective’s rage flow into him. He bathed in it.

Quinn closed his eyes. “You know.”

“You wish it were The Player killing these women, but you don’t think it is?” Jake cleared his