Chapter 2
Honey Traps
I walk into the coffee shop searching for Vaughn. I find him near the back, away from the windows, in the darkest corner. “Hey Vaughn,” I greet when I drop into the chair across from him.
“Hey Alyssa. Good to see you,” he replies, and I nod. “How’s your dad doing?”
“He’s fine. He’ll be out early next year,” I tell Vaughn, who’s sporting a full head of white hair these days.
He’s trim, and the white hair, coupled with the beard, kind of makes him look like The Most Interesting Man in the World.
With the stories Vaughn has about smuggling drugs from Mexico to Portland and Seattle back in the eighties, the comparison really isn’t a stretch.
“Time off for good behavior?” Vaughn asks.
“Yup.”
My dad was arrested when I was twelve. Our house was swarmed, my dad was handcuffed and thrown into the back of a cop car, and I was left standing in our front yard, crying.
It was a big thing—made the national news for months.
Before his arrest, we’d lived in a nice house in the Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle.
The sort of house that would list at over three million these days if it were to go up for sale.
Prior to the cops slapping handcuffs on my dad, I was under the impression that he was an entrepreneur—which wasn’t wrong, exactly. Every con man is an entrepreneur. Right up until they get caught. Then they’re a criminal.
So, my dad is a con man turned entrepreneur turned criminal, who’s currently serving a thirty-year sentence for convincing people with too much money and too little common sense to invest their excess wealth into his nonexistent real estate developments.
It was a good living while it lasted. After he was arrested and sentenced to spend the rest of my childhood in prison, I went to live with my aunt Jeanette, my uncle Craig, and my cousin Katie—who was nine—in Portland, Oregon.
Overnight, I was living in a new city with a new family and sharing a room with Katie, who more or less ended up becoming a little sister.
It could’ve been worse. They all loved me, and I loved all of them, even if I never quite fit in.
“What’ve you got for me?” I ask. Vaughn is an old family friend and business associate of my dad’s who used to provide my dad with whatever forged paperwork he needed to convince his marks that the real estate developments were legit.
When my dad went down for fraud, theft, and half a dozen other crimes, he never named names, which means Vaughn owes him—and by extension, me—in perpetuity.
Vaughn moved from Seattle to Portland not long after I did.
Ostensibly it was a fresh start for him, but really it was so that he could keep an eye on me.
Vaughn has always been an odd combination of an uncle meets surrogate father—even before my dad went to prison—never mind the fact that we’re not related.
After the verdict was read at Katie’s trial, Vaughn was the first person I called when we got back to Portland.
“I went through the entire team—excluding the five assholes who raped Katie—and all the supporting staff who work closely with them. You said you didn’t care if it was a man or a woman, so I looked into all of them, focusing on the ones who aren’t currently in any public relationships, which left fifteen people.
Of those, six appear to be in undisclosed relationships, so I ruled them out, dropping us down to nine—seven men and two women.
I know you said you don’t care, but as far as I can tell, both women are straight, which rules them out. Plus, women are harder anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“If you want to run a honey trap, which is what I’m assuming you’re aiming for, men are an easier mark. They’re less suspicious by nature, and they’re generally idiots. They’re usually so convinced that they’re smarter than everyone else that they never see it coming.”
“Okay, any luck with the remaining seven guys, then?”
“Well, two of them are gay. So we’re looking at these five,” Vaughn says, setting five folders in a stack on the table before me, opening the top one.
“First is Topher Anderson.” There’s a photo of the guy.
He’s in his mid-twenties, with longish dark blond hair that looks like it could stand to be washed.
“Originally, he’s from Connecticut, but he’s been living out here for the past two years.
He’s a forward for the Black Bears. You’re not his type, though. ”
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
“He likes large-breasted petite blonds who don’t seem to have a brain between their ears. Think Dolly Parton, but dumb. You fit absolutely none of those criteria.”
“Okay.”
Vaughn sets the first folder to the side and opens the next. “Then there’s Elliott Sinclair.” The photo in this folder is of a square-jawed, dark-haired guy. “Another forward. Rumor has it he’s looking to be traded, meaning he probably wouldn’t bite hard enough to make it worth the effort.”
I nod, trusting Vaughn’s assessment. Although I know a lot about cons theoretically—having read about them extensively after my dad’s arrest, while I was trying to make sense of things—I’ve never actually run one before. Vaughn has.
He moves this folder to the side as well. “The last three are all real contenders.” Vaughn pushes the remaining folders closer to me. “Take the folders, read about the guys, think it over, and let me know what you want to do.”
“Alright,” I agree, picking up the folders and sliding them into my bag without looking at their contents. “I’ll call you. Thanks Vaughn.”
He nods. “Anytime, Alyssa. Especially after what they did.”
Katie is sprawled across the living room couch when I step into my condo.
She’s been living here since we got back from Seattle three weeks ago.
She can’t stand to be alone knowing the scumbags who raped her are still out there, gallivanting around the same city we live in without a care in the world.
Jeanette’s hovering drives her nuts, and I just treat her like an annoying little sister who hasn’t quite overstayed her welcome.
So she’s here with me instead of at her mom’s.
“Hey Alyssa, you’re home late,” Katie says.
“Yeah, I had a coffee date with a friend. What are you up to?”
“A friend or a friend?” Katie asks, ignoring my question.
“Just a friend.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
I roll my eyes. “Sorry. Anyhow, what are you up to? Did you make it to therapy today?”
“We did it on Zoom.”
“Okay. Well. That’s something.”
Katie hasn’t been big on leaving the apartment alone recently. I don’t blame her. There are over six hundred thousand people in the city, so the chance of running into one of those rapist assholes at the grocery store or in a gas station might be low, but it’s not zero. Not yet, anyway.
“What are you watching?” I ask, tracking the antelope moving across the TV.
“Planet Earth.”
I nod. Katie’s been all about nature documentaries recently.
Less chance of being triggered by anything.
Or everything. She’s been putting on a brave face, but I know she’s struggling.
Sitcoms are out—you never know when a joke is going to land badly, or some intimate moment will pop up on screen.
Romcoms are out for the same reason. And dramas and reality TV?
Just no. So, nature documentaries are where it’s at.
“Want to join me?” she asks. “I can make some popcorn.”
“Sure, as long as you don’t mind if I’m working and not paying attention to the TV.”
“I always thought psychiatry seemed like it would be fun, but you work too much, Alyssa.”
I shrug. “Just some patient files I want to review before tomorrow’s sessions,” I lie, taking a seat on the couch as she gets up to stick a bag of popcorn in the microwave.
I pull the folders Vaughn gave me from my bag and open the top one.
It’s for Clark Thomas. According to Vaughn’s dossier, he’s an athletic trainer for the team and a Portland native.
He’s thirty-two. One year older than me.
The picture Vaughn included shows a thin man with light brown hair and a smattering of freckles staining his face.
It says he broke up with his last girlfriend nine months ago, so he’s probably ready to start dating again.
His interests are listed as the gym and Star Wars.
Not my favorite things, but still. He’s definitely a possibility.
Katie returns to the couch carrying a bowl of popcorn dusted with seasoned salt and sets it between us. I idly grab a handful, shoving it into my mouth with a distracted, “Thanks.”
“Mhmm,” Katie says, focusing back on Planet Earth, leaving me to my ‘work.’
I move to the next folder. Adam Klaussen.
He’s a goalie. The picture depicts a man with close-cropped black hair, dark eyes, and a five o’clock shadow.
He’s not unattractive. According to Vaughn’s notes, he’s twenty-eight.
He seems to have a tendency to date women for a couple of months before abruptly breaking things off.
Though it’s unclear if he’s the one ending things, I’m betting he is.
Most likely, every time one of his girlfriends lets the L-word slip, he panics and dumps them.
His interests are listed as classic cars and old movies. Also not my favorite things.
Physically, he’s more my type than Clark Thomas, but if he has a new relationship every few months and suffers from commitment issues, Clark is still the better choice. It’s not like I’m going to move in with any of these men anyway, so who cares? They’re all just a means to an end.
I go to the last folder. Mark Eriksson. A mark named Mark, I think, my lips curling upward.
It says he’s the Black Bears’ head coach.
Well. That’s promising. Mark Eriksson is thirty-six.
Apparently, this is his first year as the team’s head coach, although he served as their assistant coach the previous year.
Vaughn’s notes say he’s one of the youngest head coaches in the NHL.
He’s attractive with short, mahogany-colored hair, hazel eyes, a square jaw, and broad shoulders.
Yeah. I’d hit that, I muse as I continue reading.
The write-up says he’s dated casually since relocating to Portland from Louisiana a few years ago—do they even have hockey in Louisiana?
I wonder. He doesn’t appear to have been in any serious relationships since being here.
Before that, though, he was evidently in a long-term relationship, and I wonder if he moved here because the relationship ended or if the relationship ended because he moved here.
His interests are listed as blues music and kayaking, which is better than classic cars and Star Wars.
I think Mark Eriksson is my guy. My mark.
Go big or go home, right? I need access to the Black Bears—their players and their facilities—and of everyone, Mark seems like my best shot.
The fact that he hasn’t been dating much bodes well for me, too.
He’s probably looking for a serious relationship.
Most likely with someone who’s interested in him beyond his profession, which will work well for me, since I know fuck all about hockey.
I’ll talk to Vaughn again tomorrow. I’m pretty sure he’ll agree that Mark is the best choice, though.
Hopefully, Vaughn will be able to get me more info about Mark’s past relationships as well as his current routine.
Then all I have to do is become exactly who he’s looking for.
If I can pull that off, gaining access to the hockey-douchebags who hurt Katie will be easy.
And then I’ll make sure they never hurt anyone else.