Copy Cat Read online

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I can help with that,” Kitt said. “I had Mr. Zuba check your time card. You did.”

  “How about Saturday, February 11?”

  “I don’t remember. Probably.”

  “You did,” Kitt offered, cheerfully.

  “So?”

  He tried for his earlier confident attitude, but came off scared and queasy instead.

  “Both those girls had birthday parties at the Fun Zone. Julie Entzel in January. Marianne Vest in February. That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? A convicted sex offender working at the place two murdered girls had their birthday parties?”

  He went white. Sweat beaded his upper lips. “I want a lawyer.”

  “I’ll just bet you do, Mr. Todd.” M.C. straightened. “Come on, Kitt, let’s get Mr. Innocence here an attorney. Obviously, he needs one.”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  Kitt took the motherly role. “Derrick, this looks bad. You know that. I want to help you. I want to catch whoever is hurting these girls. If you didn’t do this-”

  “I didn’t, I swear! I never even saw those girls at the Fun Zone. There are birthdays there all the time!”

  “So, why are you working at the Fun Zone? What are we supposed to think?”

  “I needed a job!” he cried. “Dale owed me. That’s all!”

  “Dale owed you? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I know my rights! I’m not saying another fucking word until-”

  “You get your lawyer,” M.C. finished for him, and stood.

  24

  Sunday, March 12, 2006

  9:20 a.m.

  Out of breath and sweating, Kitt slowed her pace. She had kept the promise she’d made to herself to get back in shape. On the couple of days she had wanted to sleep in, she pictured the much younger Mary Catherine Riggio and suddenly found the energy to get her forty-eight-year-old butt up and moving.

  She knew it was ridiculous to try to compete with the other woman, but she couldn’t help herself. She looked at Riggio and saw the detective she had been twenty years ago. Confident. Her entire career ahead of her. Her entire life ahead of her.

  Kitt had been acutely aware of the differences between them during their interrogation of Todd. M.C. had insisted on charging forward. Taking control. Kitt had wanted to go slower, not push too hard.

  Was that because it would have been the better approach? Or because she had been afraid of making a mistake?

  Would she ever not feel as if she was groping around in the dark?

  After their interrogation of Todd, the investigation had ground to a halt. He had been booked for violating the state’s sex offender registration law. The search of his apartment and vehicle had turned up nothing to connect him to the Entzel and Vest murders.

  She hadn’t been totally surprised by that. On paper the kid looked like a good suspect, but her instincts, such as they were, told her he wasn’t their guy.

  For one, he hadn’t gone for the bait. And two, if he had been guilty, he would have been on better behavior from the get-go.

  Besides, the kid had been convicted of exposing himself to a minor. Fondling himself while he did. A logical next step might be sexually assaulting a child. But the SAK and Copycat victims hadn’t been molested.

  Her bungalow came into view. Someone sat on the front porch, waiting. As she drew closer, she saw it was Danny. Reading the paper and sipping from a Starbucks Venti-size cup.

  “Hey you,” she said when she reached him.

  He looked up and smiled. “I was just about to give up. Thirty minutes was my limit.”

  She sat next to him. “I’m glad you didn’t. Is that for me?” She indicated a second Starbucks cup.

  “It is. Vanilla latte.” He handed it to her. “I guess I should have made it a sugar-free skinny?”

  “I would have been pissed if you had. I’m exercising to keep up with the competition, not to lose weight.”

  She sipped, making a sound of pleasure as the sweet, barely warm beverage flowed over her tongue.

  “Your partner?”

  “Mmm. Mary Catherine Riggio.”

  “You say the name like she’s a snake you’re afraid is going to bite you.”

  Kitt leaned back on her elbows. “I think she already has.”

  He pursed his lips. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe. That for me, too?”

  He handed her the pastry bag. “What’s left of it. I got hungry waiting.”

  She peered into the bag at the half-eaten muffin. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, Danny, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “No problemo.” He grinned and helped himself to the last of the muffin.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked, eyeing him.

  “Wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing.”

  “I haven’t melted down, if that’s what you’re asking.” She winced at the defensive edge that had crept into her voice.

  “I’m not waiting for you to fail, Kitt. I’m not expecting you to.”

  “Just want to be here when I do, right?”

  “No,” he chided gently at her sarcasm, “just want to be here if you need me. You know me better than that.”

  She did. Damn. “Sorry. So I guess the stress is getting to me.”

  “Or the partner.”

  The partner. Right. Kitt took a swallow of the coffee. “She’s young. And smart.”

  “Attractive?”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  “And this bothers you why?”

  “I would think the reasons are quite obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Be serious.”

  “You’re smart, Kitt. And, if I may say so, damn attractive.”

  “You’re my friend, you have to say that. And-” She held up a hand, stopping him. “I’m not young.”

  “But you are wise.”

  He delivered that with a grin. She groaned. Great. The wise, grandmotherly one. “I’m a screwup.”

  “Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Kitt was quiet a moment, acknowledging that he was right. “I suppose the thing is, she makes it look effortless.”

  “The work?”

  “No. Believing in herself.”

  He didn’t comment, simply gave her a quick hug. “I need to go.”

  She followed him to his feet. “So soon?”

  “I promised a friend I’d help him move.”

  She watched him walk away, then turned and crossed to her door. And found it unlocked.

  She frowned. Surely she hadn’t left it that way.

  Had she?

  She searched her memory, retracing her steps. She couldn’t clearly remember locking it-but it was one of those things she did automatically. She was a cop, after all.

  She examined the door and casing. There weren’t any signs of the lock being jimmied or forced. Could she have been so distracted she’d forgotten?

  She could have, Kitt realized, dismayed. She had better pull herself together.

  She let herself in, pointedly locking the door behind her. A shower, then a good breakfast, she decided. The latte would hold her until then.

  She peeled off her damp T-shirt as she entered the bedroom. She tossed it at the hamper, then froze, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end.

  Her nightstand drawer stood partly open. The drawer she kept her gun in.

  The blood began to pound in her head. An officer always carried a weapon. When she ran, she wore a fanny pack or an ankle holster. Today it was a fanny pack.

  Still, she knew she had not left that drawer open.

  Kitt crossed to the nightstand and slid the drawer the rest of the way open. Her journal. A pen. Several favorite photos of Sadie. The empty space where her Glock usually rested.

  Someone had been in her house. Who? She pictured Danny, waiting on the front porch. Surely, not-

  Peanut.


  He knew where she lived. He was, obviously, adept at breaking and entering. He had decided to take his toying with her to a new level.

  He could still be there.

  She unzipped the fanny pack, removed the Glock and began a systematic search. In the end, she found nothing out of place save for the original drawer and her unlocked front door.

  Was she imagining things? Had she left both the door unlocked and the nightstand drawer open?

  Was she losing it? Again?

  The hell of it was, she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t trust herself, her instincts. Which left her more uneasy than knowing a dozen monsters like the SAK had been in her home.

  25

  Monday, March 13, 2006

  8:00 a.m.

  Kitt sipped the just-brewed coffee. The rest of the day before had slipped by without incident. She had spent a good part of it wrangling with herself over whether the SAK had been in her house or not and whether she should share her suspicions with M.C. or Sal.

  She had decided against sharing. The last thing she needed was anything that made her look overwrought or would shake their confidence in her state of mind.

  She was shaken enough, thank you very much. M.C. arrived then, looking slightly bleary-eyed.

  “How was your day off?” Kitt asked.

  “Frankly, it sucked. I spent it doing laundry, cleaning and paying bills.”

  “The fun never stops for us cops. The kid’s lawyer left a message.”

  “Yeah? What’d he have to say?”

  “That Todd’s innocent, of course.”

  “I like the kid for this. He’s the best we’ve got.”

  “Actually, I think the Fun Zone’s the best lead we’ve got. It links the victims, something we were never able to do with the original SAK murders. By the way, Sal authorized an undercover officer working the place. He thought you’d be the perfect choice.”

  That brought M.C. fully awake. “The perfect choice? I scare the crap out of most kids. Plus, if I have to spend another ten minutes in that place, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  “That’s what I told him. Reminded him, too, that both of us have been on TV in regards to the case.”

  “And?”

  “He’s putting Schmidt on it.”

  “Lucky Schmidt. So he gets the previous security tapes, too?” When Kitt nodded, she added, “I suppose I owe you for that one.”

  “What’re partners for?”

  Before M.C. could comment, Kitt’s desk phone rang. “Detective Lundgren.”

  “Are you running in circles, dear one?”

  Him. Kitt signaled M.C. The other woman was immediately on the phone to CRU, initiating the trace.

  “Who is this?”

  “You know who this is. Your beloved Peanut.”

  Kitt gritted her teeth at his sly tone. “I wondered when you’d call. Thought maybe you were welching on our deal.”

  “I don’t welch on my deals.”

  “Good. We gave you what you wanted, now it’s your turn. Give us the Copycat.”

  M.C., still on with CRU, bent and jotted cell phone on the folder on the desk in front of her.

  Dammit. She had to keep him on five minutes to get the trace.

  “How does it feel having another girl’s death on your hands?” she asked.

  “Not on mine. Yours, Kitten.” He laughed. “Besides, I don’t care if my hands have blood on them. A child’s blood. But you care.”

  “My conscience is clear.”

  “Is it? What of your daughter? Is her blood on your hands?”

  It took everything she had to stay focused. He wanted her to lose it. He got off on being in control. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

  “This isn’t about me,” she said. “You promised information, I expect you to keep that promise.”

  He laughed again, the sound somehow reptilian. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “We’re following some very strong leads.”

  “Who? That kid from the Fun Zone?”

  That blindsided her. She fought to keep from revealing it. “How do you know about Todd?”

  “I know everything. I’m omnipotent.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say you’re impotent?”

  She darted a glance at M.C. who put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  Kitt supposed it wasn’t a very good idea to piss him off, but she wanted to test his limits. Locate his buttons, see how he responded to her challenging his authority.

  In the process, she learned what made him tick.

  “Don’t do that again,” he told her, voice shaking slightly.

  He was angry.

  He took himself very seriously.

  She glanced at M.C. and pointed at her watch. The other woman held up three fingers.

  Two more to go.

  Piece of cake, she told herself, though the truth was, two minutes seemed an eternity right now.

  “Sorry. My sense of humor gets away from me sometimes.”

  “Just see that it doesn’t again.”

  Word had spread through the bureau and a group of her colleagues gathered around. Kitt gave them little more than a glance. “We could meet, you and I. Get to know each other better.”

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea, Kitten.”

  “I’d come alone. We could have a drink or two. Talk.”

  “I’m worried about your health, Kitten. Not mine. I know you’re trying to trace this, so don’t play games. Loves Park Self-Storage. Unit seven.”

  He ended the call. Kitt jumped to her feet. “Did we get it?” M.C. held up a hand, then swore. “No. You were just shy of five.”

  “Dammit!” Kitt grabbed her jacket. “I want a search warrant for that self-storage unit.”

  “Under way.”

  “Get me two cruisers, minimum. Call ID. Have them meet us there.”

  26

  Monday, March 13, 2006

  9:40 a.m.

  Loves Park was a small community that sat adjacent to Rockford, on the north side. The running joke held that women from Loves Park all had big hair, and the men, big pickup trucks.

  Kitt wasn’t certain how the gag had gotten started, the trip from one community into the other was seamless save for a small sign announcing the change. Simply, Rockford held itself in higher esteem than its neighbor; it had been that way as long as she could remember.

  Loves Park Self-Storage, it turned out, was located between a Chinese restaurant and a burger joint. As Kitt climbed out of her vehicle, the smell of grease hit her hard. Not even ten in the morning and somebody was frying something. She had no doubt that a number of the guys they’d brought with them-three patrol units and most of the ID Bureau-were already wondering about lunch: Chinese or burgers?

  If they were still here at noon. Who knew? The locker could be empty. The tip could be a ruse. Obviously “Peanut” got his jollies from making her jump through hoops.

  But the storage unit could contain anything. The key to the investigation. A direct lead to the Copycat. Or one back to the SAK.

  “Hoping Santa brings you everything you’re wishing for?” M.C. said from the other side of the car.

  “You know it’s true. Shall we?”

  They made their way around the vehicles and fell into step together. Behind them, she heard the rest of the team arriving.

  Delivering a search warrant was a mixed bag. It could be an exhilarating moment. Triumphant. Because, as a cop, you knew this was it. That this scumbag, who had done whatever, was about to get nailed. You just knew it. A cop’s instincts.

  Other times, it made you feel lousy to be the law. Because of the innocent bystanders. Family members or loved ones who either had no clue what kind of creep they had been living with or were too young to have a clue.

  She had experienced everything in between as well. Suspects who pulled weapons or tried to run, ambivalence, lawsuits.

  They stepped into the leasing offi
ce. It wasn’t much more than a desk, file cabinet and sitting area. Very small. Barely serviceable.

  “Good morning,” Kitt said to the woman behind the desk, who not only did not have big hair, but sported a sleek little bob.

  So much for stereotypes.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.

  “Afraid so.” She crossed to her and handed her the warrant. “I’m Detective Lundgren from the Rockford Police Department. This is Detective Riggio. I have a warrant to search unit seven.”

  The young woman looked confused, then flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “A search warrant. For the contents of unit seven and that unit’s renter information. It’s all there on the warrant.”

  “I’ll have to call my boss and get his okay.”

  She reached for the phone; Kitt noticed her hand was shaking. “Call him if you like,” Kitt said, “but a judge already gave me permission. By the way, the law requires you or the owner be present during the search. If you think that’s going to present a problem, you might want to call someone else in.”

  “Wait! I don’t have a key to that padlock. How are you going to get in?”

  Kitt stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.”

  By the time she made it to number seven, one of her colleagues had already cut the lock and rolled back the metal door. The interior was dim, even with sunlight pouring through the open door. The three uniforms snapped on their flashlights.

  “We’re going to need scene lights,” Kitt said.

  M.C. nodded. “I’ll call.”

  The unit, Kitt discovered, was very full. She shone her flashlight beam over the interior. The contents ran the gamut from furniture to bikes, boxes to books, even a dressmaker’s mannequin.

  For the next two hours, Kitt and the rest of the team carefully picked through the items, opening boxes, leafing through folded garments, books. Looking for the obvious. Photos. A family Bible or other inscribed items. Weapons. Body parts. A recognizable trophy.

  There was something here. She felt it.

  Or were those her shot instincts talking to her?

  She crossed to Snowe. “What do you think?” she asked.