Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  Snowe turned his ball cap backward on his head. “It’s going to take days, even weeks, to get through everything in here.”

  She had thought the same thing but had hoped for better.

  “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “We can’t give you a miracle. Wish we could.”

  “What about an inventory?”

  “No analysis? Less time. A few days.”

  Civilians watched television shows like CSI and figured every case got that kind of attention. If only it were so.

  At any given time, an urban PD had hundreds of ongoing investigations, new crimes being committed continually and limited manpower and budget. Even cases as high profile as the SAK and Copycat killings faced time-and-money constraints.

  “Do your thing,” she said. “I’m going to follow up on the renter.” Kitt motioned one of the uniforms over. “Get the renter’s information and run it through the databases. I want to know who this guy is, where he lives and if he has any priors.”

  Each patrol unit traveled with an MDT, or Mobile Data Terminal. It allowed them to access pretty much everything about a suspect but the size of his morning dump.

  The man nodded. “You got it, Detective.”

  M.C. sidled up to her. “We need to talk.”

  Kitt felt herself stiffen. “That so?”

  “I’m thinking this is a setup. Another hoop for you to jump through.”

  Kitt fought the defensiveness that rose up in her. “Why?”

  “It has the feel of a stage set to me. It’s too perfect.”

  Kitt moved her gaze over the contents, the picture they made. The dressmaker’s mannequin, the two old Schwinn bikes, propped up against the far wall. The steamer trunk and cracked mirror.

  Like a movie set.

  One working hard to be part of a story.

  “He’s dicking with you, Kitt.”

  “But there’s something here. I feel it. He’s planted it.”

  “If he did, he buried it. To tie you up. Keep you chasing shadows.”

  Chasing shadows. Sadie. Joe. The Sleeping Angels.

  “You gotta ask yourself, why?” M.C. said.

  Kitt resisted the idea. “Are you suggesting, Detective, that I not pursue this?”

  “No. Just-” M.C. looked away, then back. Kitt had the sense that she struggled with something. Or that she was stepping into an arena not only foreign to her, but uncomfortable as well.

  “Just be careful,” she finished.

  The other woman had surprised her. Concern was the last thing Kitt had expected her to want to communicate. “Thanks for caring,” she said gruffly, “but I don’t think I have anything to worry about from either the SAK or his copycat. I’m not ten years old anymore. And these days I’m only blond because my hairdresser’s a genius.”

  M.C. didn’t smile. “You can lose a lot more than your life, Kitt.”

  They both knew many things could be taken from a victim besides her life.

  What M.C. didn’t realize was, Kitt had already lost most of them.

  “Detective Lundgren? I’ve got him.”

  The two women hurried out to the patrol car. “Andrew Stevens. Twenty-eight. Engineer with Sundstrand. Lives on Boulder Ridge Drive. Record’s clean. Not even a traffic violation.”

  “Great.” Kitt looked at M.C. “You in the mood to ride shotgun?”

  “Absolutely.”

  As they hoped they would, they caught Stevens at work. He possessed one of those broad, honest-looking faces that didn’t mean squat.

  “Is this about my wallet?” he asked, after they had introduced themselves.

  “Your wallet?” Kitt asked.

  He looked frustrated. “Was stolen. The day after Christmas. I reported it. Never heard a thing back.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stevens. We’re here about your storage locker.”

  “What storage locker?”

  “Loves Park Self-Storage. Unit seven. You rented it on January 3.”

  He stared at them a moment, frowning. “I didn’t rent a storage facility, my wallet was stolen. Can’t you guys get anything right?”

  Nice. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir.” Kitt handed him a copy of the rental agreement. “But according to this, you did.”

  He scanned the document, frowning, then handed it back. “This isn’t me. It can’t be.”

  “And why’s that?” M.C. asked.

  “I was in San Francisco on January 3. On my honeymoon.”

  27

  Monday, March 13, 2006

  3:00 p.m.

  By three that afternoon, Kitt was mighty pissed off. M.C. watched the woman as she paced. “At this rate, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor. Or your shoes.”

  “Screw ’ em both. Another dead end. Dammit!”

  “Apple?” M.C. asked.

  Kitt stopped pacing. “I’d rather have snack crackers.”

  “No junk food.” M.C. tossed her the apple. “You’re already on edge.”

  Kitt caught it. “He’s screwing with me. And it’s starting to piss me off.”

  “I told you so.”

  “Don’t you start with me now. One is most definitely enough.”

  “You’ve got things backward,” M.C. said. “I’m the young, brash hothead. You’re the mature, seasoned veteran who’s counseling me. Remember? Lighten up? Go with the flow?”

  Kitt took a bite of the apple. It was crunchy and tart, just the way she liked them. “I never said go with the flow.”

  “Let’s pretend, then. Now, take your own advice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  M.C. stood. “Yeah, he’s screwing with you. And doing a damn fine job of it, don’t you think? Stop letting him get to you. Stop running in circles and being pissed off about it.”

  “You irritate the hell out of me.” M.C. smiled, perversely pleased. “Better me than him.”

  Kitt took another bite of her apple, never taking her gaze from M.C. “I still think there’s something there.”

  “But what? It’s not Stevens. His story checked out. He reported his wallet stolen. He canceled all his credit cards and changed the locks on his doors. The airline confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Stevens traveled with them, the hotel confirmed the couple stayed at their San Francisco property for six nights, beginning January 2 and checking out January 8.”

  “So our guy steals a wallet. Uses the ID to rent a storage locker. Pays a year in advance.”

  “But which guy? The Copycat? Or Peanut?”

  M.C. saw Kitt’s involuntary cringe at the nickname. This guy knew how to get to Kitt, no doubt about it. She made a mental note not to refer to him by the name again.

  “I don’t know.” Kitt drew her eyebrows together in thought. “He didn’t tell me whose storage locker it was, so I assumed-”

  “It was the Copycat’s. As he knew you would.”

  “But instead, it’s part of his game.”

  “It looked like a stage set, because it was one. He’s sent you on a kind of scavenger hunt.”

  Kitt perched on the edge of the desk. M.C. could see that she had forgotten she was pissed off. “So, it’s up to me to find the clue hidden there.”

  “Buried, you mean. Like a needle in a haystack. If there’s anything at all.”

  “There is, I’m certain.” She tossed the apple core into the trash can under her desk. “Because if there wasn’t a clue, he’d be cheating. What fun is that?”

  M.C. arched her eyebrows, unconvinced.

  “Think about it. He’s playing with me. He’s enjoying the game. He’s called it ‘fun.’ Cheating isn’t fun, there’s no satisfaction in winning an unfair game.”

  “To you. You’re talking about a killer.” She took a bite of her own apple, chewed a moment before speaking again. “That’s a stretch, Lundgren. Sorry.”

  “I know it is. But I have a feeling about this.”

  “Do you really think you’re in a place to trust your gut right now?”

 
Kitt looked momentarily stricken. The moment offered M.C. a glimpse of how vulnerable her partner really was. How hesitant.

  A very bad place for a cop to be.

  M.C. let out a long breath, working to help herself make sense of all the pieces. “You have to question everything he says. Because it’s a game, you have to look at each statement through that filter. Ask yourself why. First question, why you, Kitt?”

  “Because I was lead on the original SAK case,” she said quickly. “He thinks I’m a worthy opponent, a pushover or whatever. I don’t think that’s important.”

  M.C. didn’t buy Kitt’s glib reasoning and she disagreed that targeting Kitt was insignificant. The reason the SAK was calling Kitt was of paramount importance.

  “There’s a specific reason he’s involved you,” she insisted. “Think about it, he could have called me or anyone else on the force. But he chose you.”

  Kitt made a sound of frustration. “What difference does it make why he chose me? I’m more interested in how he and the Copycat know each other.”

  “Maybe they don’t. Or maybe they’re one and the same person. Or in cahoots with each other. Maybe this is a game they’re playing with each other?”

  “And I’m simply a pawn?” Kitt brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Which brings us back to square one. Seven days and another girl dead, and we’re no closer to an answer than before.”

  They both fell silent, M.C. lost in her own thoughts. After a moment, Kitt looked at her. “How do you think he knew about Derrick Todd?”

  A good question. And one they hadn’t spent much time considering.

  Yet.

  “He could be following us,” M.C. offered. “He could be involved with the case.”

  “A cop?”

  “Unlikely. But we can’t rule anything out.” M.C. pursed her lips in thought. “Who knew about Todd?”

  “For certain? You and me. The chief. ZZ. His wife. And Sydney Dale.”

  M.C. nodded. “We both felt Dale was being evasive. The man recommended Todd, hired him without instituting the normal safeguards. Todd said Dale ‘owed’ him. Why?”

  “I suggest we put the answer to that at the top of our list.”

  “Speaking of lists,” Kitt murmured, motioning behind M.C. “Could we be so lucky?”

  M.C. looked over her shoulder. Detective Snowe was striding toward them, a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

  “Got your inventory,” he said when he reached them. He laid it carefully on the desk. “Sorenstein and I worked most of the night. We were as detailed as we could be, considering.”

  M.C. thumbed through the list. Fifteen single-spaced, typed pages. “We owe you.”

  “You sure as hell do. Buy me a drink some night.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  He started off, then stopped and glanced back at her. “Remember that comic from Buster’s?”

  “Lance Castrogiovanni. What about him?”

  “I saw him downstairs a few minutes ago. He was asking for you at the information desk. I’m thinking you have an admirer.”

  Detective Allen peeked around his cubicle at them. “A boyfriend, Riggio? And here I thought you and Lundgren were an item.”

  M.C. made a sound of disgust. “Grow up, boys.”

  She exited the VCB and, five minutes later, crossed the lobby to where Lance sat, looking every bit the fish out of water.

  “Are you lost?” she asked when she reached him.

  He stood and smiled. “I was. Not anymore.”

  Something in his tone left her feeling as if she had done something wonderful. “What brings you into the belly of the beast?” she asked.

  “I was in the neighborhood…well, the general vicinity, and decided to look you up. Figured it’d be harder to turn me down in person.”

  “Turn you down for what?” she asked, though she had a pretty good idea.

  “A date.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You and me, food and drink. A few laughs. Hopefully more than a few, considering.”

  She laughed at that. “When?”

  “I’ve got a gig every night this week but Wednesday.”

  She would have to miss the family dinner. Her mother’s interrogation.

  Lance Castrogiovanni had an excellent sense of timing. M.C. smiled. “Unless I get hung up here, you’re on.”

  28

  Tuesday, March 14, 2006

  7:30 a.m.

  The sounds of the busy coffeehouse swirled around him. He liked being out among people. Blending in, interacting.

  No one had a clue. Who he was. What he was capable of.

  No one suspected his secrets.

  Even his Kitten. Or maybe, especially her.

  He leaned back in his chair and sipped his espresso, smiling at a woman who glanced his way.

  He often played this game: studying people-like that woman-and then imagining what she would do if he revealed himself to her. Imagined the fear creeping into her eyes, the noise she might make-a small squeak, like a terrified mouse.

  He almost got hard just thinking about it.

  The word Lundgren had called him-impotent-flew into his head, sucking the pleasure from the moment.

  She had made him very angry.

  But worse, she had known it. Until he had regained control, she’d had all the power.

  He had been powerless.

  It’d been a smart move on her part. She had surprised him and earned his admiration. But also his ire.

  He couldn’t let her get away with it. She would have to pay. A small price this time, as it was her first offense. But not so small she didn’t feel its sting. A warning, of sorts, he decided, pleased with himself.

  But what?

  The woman at the next table caught his eyes and smiled again. Maybe he should ask her? “I need to scare the shit out of someone. A woman. As a warning. A punishment for bad behavior. What do you suggest?”

  No, he didn’t suppose that would do at all, but it was fun to imagine. Taking his espresso with him, he crossed to the woman and introduced himself.

  29

  Tuesday, March 14, 2006

  4:30 p.m.

  Every spring, the local chapter of the Leukemia Society of America held a fair to benefit children stricken with the disease. Held at Rockford’s Discovery Center Museum, the fair included food and games, performances and a silent auction. Though it hurt, Kitt always attended. If she could help someone else’s child beat this disease, it was worth any amount of distress she might experience.

  This year, for the first time, she was attending alone. The past two, although they had been divorced, she and Joe had gone together. They had clung to each other despite their personal differences.

  This year, she supposed, he would be clinging to his fiancée.

  She wondered if she would see him there. And if Valerie would be with him.

  If he bothered to come. Maybe this was another piece of his past he’d chosen to let go.

  Kitt strolled through the fair. She bought tickets for games she had no intention of playing, bid on several items she didn’t want and ate a piece of pizza she wasn’t hungry for.

  Lastly, she purchased a luminaria for Sadie. Every year, the fair created a memorial garden to honor those who had been stricken by the disease. The luminarias consisted of a plain white paper bag-on which you wrote your loved one’s name, then decorated with markers-and a tea light to be placed inside.

  Kitt scrawled Sadie Marie Lundgren in purple, Sadie’s favorite color, across the bag. She couldn’t bring herself to do more, it hurt too much.

  The memorial garden was located at the very center of the main hall, cordoned off by a white picket fence. She found the location appropriate-for weren’t the victims of the disease at the heart of the drive to find a cure?

  Kitt handed the attendant Sadie’s bag and watched as the woman placed it, then lit the candle.

  She wasn’t the first to place a li
ght for Sadie.

  Joe was there.

  A lump in her throat, Kitt stared at a second luminaria with her daughter’s name on it.

  Our Peanut. Sadie Marie.

  The lump became tears. They burned her eyes. God, she missed Sadie. And Joe. Being a mom.

  She missed her family.

  “Kitt?”

  Joe. She didn’t want him to catch her crying. Especially if he wasn’t alone. Blinking to clear her eyes, she turned.

  “Joe,” she said stiffly. “Hello.”

  She shifted her gaze to the woman with him. She looked to be a good ten years younger than he was, with soft brown hair and eyes.

  Joe’s fiancée looked nothing like her. Even their builds were different-Kitt was tall and angular, Valerie petite and curvy. She wasn’t sure why that was such a surprise-or why it upset her so much. Perhaps she had imagined he’d picked a clone of her. A sort of stand-in because he still pined for her.

  “I’m Kitt,” she managed to say, and held out her hand.

  “Valerie.” The woman smiled and took it. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  She sounded nice. She looked sincere. Kitt wished she could hate her, but that only made her feel worse.

  A pretty, fair-haired girl rushed up to Valerie, face aglow with excitement. She held up a plastic zipper bag, half-filled with water. A pitiful-looking goldfish swam inside.

  Kitt stared at the child, guessing her age to be nine or ten. Her fingers went numb. A rushing sound filled her head.

  Valerie had a child.

  Joe was going to be a father again.

  “This is my daughter, Tami. Tami, this is Detective Lundgren.”

  The child peeked at her, then turned her face into her mother’s side.

  “I’m sorry,” Valerie said. “She’s extremely shy. It’s partly because of her-”

  Kitt didn’t let the woman finish. Blinded by tears, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the exit.

  Valerie had a child. A daughter.

  Joe was replacing Sadie.

  “Kitt, wait!”

  She began to run, wanting nothing more than to be away from him. And the girl with the soft brown eyes and shy smile.