Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  He nodded, looking ill.

  As they left his office, Kitt stopped and turned back to him. “By the way, Mr. Dale, where were you the nights of the sixth and the ninth of this month.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know for certain. Nancy keeps my calendar. Let’s go see.”

  He led them back out to the waiting area. The receptionist produced his day planner. On the sixth he had been out of town on business. An overnight stay. On the ninth he and his wife had attended a Burpee Museum fund-raiser, then had gone home to bed.

  “I suppose you can produce documentation and witnesses to confirm both?”

  For the first time, he looked shaken. “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dale. Bring that item in before day’s end.”

  Kitt and M.C. walked to the car in silence. When they’d reached the Explorer, climbed in and buckled up, Kitt turned to the other woman. “Do you believe Dale’s story?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Puts Todd in a whole new light, doesn’t it?”

  “And puts us back to square one.”

  “Thanks for mentioning that,” Kitt muttered, then shook her head. “No, not square one. The Fun Zone’s still a connection.”

  M.C. started the car. “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Could be. But I’m not buying that. Not yet, anyway.”

  They drove in silence for several blocks. As they slid through the light at Riverside and Mulford, Kitt murmured, “Your date last night, how was it?”

  “That’s sort of personal.”

  “It must have been very good, then.”

  M.C. shot her an irritated glance. “Whatever.”

  “Who was he? That Lance guy who came to the PSB to see you?”

  “Yes. Satisfied?”

  Clearly, she didn’t want to talk about it. Which, perversely, made Kitt want her to. “You went to bed with him, didn’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Kitt smiled. “I’m multitalented. Both nosy and psychic.”

  “More like multi-pain-in-the-ass.”

  “Whatever,” she said, tossing M.C.’s indifferent word back at her.

  They drove for several minutes in silence. Then, as they neared the PSB, M.C. made a sound of exasperation. “Okay, how did you know I slept with him?”

  “Simple. When I walked into the squad room this morning, you were staring dreamily into space and smiling to yourself.”

  “I was not!”

  “It was one of those satisfied little grins that speaks volumes.”

  M.C. opened her mouth as if to argue, then shut it.

  Kitt laughed. “I think it’s sweet.”

  “I’ve never aspired to sweet.”

  “You like this guy.”

  It wasn’t a question; M.C. answered her, anyway. “Yeah, I like this guy. But I’m only admitting it in the hopes you’ll shut up.” She glanced out the window, then back at Kitt. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Personally, I think you should back off on the sex and get to know him better. But maybe that’s my age talking.”

  “Thanks, Mom, but I was talking about where you and I should go. With this investigation.”

  “Let’s talk to the chief. Fill him in on the latest.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hell, if I know.”

  “Now, there’s a definitive answer.”

  “You asked. Besides, I suspect the chief is going to have a strong opinion on what comes next. He always does.”

  “He’s going to have your ass for what you did.”

  Trying to turn the tables on “Peanut.” Calling without clearing it first.

  Stepping outside the chain of command-again.

  “He doesn’t have to know,” Kitt said.

  “And how are you going to explain being certain Lindz, McGuire and Olsen were victims of the SAK?”

  “I just will be.”

  It took a second or two, Kitt saw, for her words to register. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll lie for you.”

  “I won’t ask you to.”

  “You screwed up, Kitt. Face the music and move on.”

  “I don’t see it that way. A good cop follows her gut. Sometimes that means making a move that’s left of protocol.”

  “Left of protocol? I don’t think so. I want my career to move forward, not the other way around. If I take part in that meeting and don’t reveal all I know-”

  “Then don’t take part in the meeting.”

  “That’s bullshit.” She cruised into the PSB garage, parked and shut off the engine. She turned to her. Kitt saw that she was angry. “You’re losing it, Detective. I suggest you take a big step back, before it’s too late.”

  M.C. opened the car door. Kitt caught her arm, stopping her. “You think sleeping with that guy was smart?”

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “You followed your gut. Whether you regret it now or not, that’s what you did.”

  “That was personal. This is work. There’s a difference.”

  “No, there’s not. We go through our lives acting on our instincts, our gut feelings. About people. Choices that range from which job to accept to whom to trust. The good cop tunes into those instincts, follows them.”

  “You are so full of shit, Kitt.” She shook off her hand. “For a while I wondered how such a good cop could have ended up the way you have. Now I know.”

  37

  Thursday, March 16, 2006

  3:40 p.m.

  He watched the girl play. She was perfect. A perfect angel. Carefree. Lovely. More perfect than any of the others had been.

  Why? He cocked his head. She was blonde and blue-eyed and pretty. But the others had been also.

  No, this one was special because of Kitt. He had made a threat. And a promise. A threat to the little girls around his Kitten.

  And a promise to himself. To win. At all costs.

  She cared about the girls. Hurt them and he hurt her. And this one she would blame herself for.

  Funny, now that he had determined her punishment, and realized how utterly effective it would be-he wasn’t angry with her. Yes, she had defied him again. Challenged him again. But he saw it as fighting spirit. And truly appropriate.

  He leaned against the park bench and let the sweet breeze flow over him. What a devastating blow it would be to her when this girl died. Poor Kitten. Would she be able to overcome it? Would it send her back to the bottle? Or maybe, this time, for her service weapon.

  One shot to the head and all the pain would go away.

  A part of him hoped she took that path. She had endured so much already. But another part was rooting for her to fight on.

  Interesting how attached he had become. How connected to her struggles.

  It was too bad this scenario could only have one outcome-Kitt Lundgren’s death.

  38

  Thursday, March 16, 2006

  6:20 p.m.

  M.C. stood at her kitchen window, leftovers Melody had dropped off earlier heating in the microwave. She and Benjamin had stayed for animal crackers and a chat. Ben, of course, had been more interested in the crackers than the talking. M.C. had learned that in her absence at the previous evening’s dinner she had been her mother’s main course.

  The microwave chimed and she retrieved the cannelloni. She carried the plate to the table, sat but didn’t eat. Truth was, she wasn’t all that hungry. M.C. hated the position Kitt had put her in. She had overlooked Kitt’s lapse into the bottle. Now she expected her to overlook this. What next?

  She had done as she’d threatened and boycotted Kitt’s meeting with the chief. A small thing, but one Sal would make note of. Even so, she wasn’t at all certain that move had been the right one.

  Yes, Kitt had acted outside protocol. But it had been a ballsy move. The “no guts, no glory” kind that sometimes paid off big-time.

  M.C. wasn’t a gambler. She couldn’t afford to be associated with risky b
ehavior. Brash, ballsy cops weren’t the ones who became chief of detectives, let alone the chief of police. Because those big risks backfired as often as they paid off.

  No, the cops who climbed the ladder were steady. They followed protocol, were brilliant strategists and excellent politicians. Admittedly, she had a ways to go in those areas, but she had time. If she kept her eyes on her goals, she would achieve them.

  The doorbell rang and for a second she thought it was the microwave again. She made her way to the door, peeked out the sidelight. Brian Spillare stood on her porch, hands jammed into the pockets of his faded blue jeans.

  She opened the door. “Brian? What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  She hesitated, then opened the door wider. He stepped through and she closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”

  “I needed someone to talk to. Someone I could trust.”

  An epidemic, apparently. At this moment no one would be better to discuss Kitt with than Brian. After all, he had been her partner.

  She smiled. “Coincidentally, so do I. How about a cup of coffee?”

  “You have anything stronger?”

  Typical Brian. “Beer?”

  “Perfect.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. His standing in the doorway that way brought back memories. Ones that weren’t unpleasant, but had no place in their present relationship.

  “Something smells awfully good.”

  “Leftovers of Mama’s cannelloni.”

  She thought about offering him some but didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Sharing a meal in her small kitchen was just a little too intimate for comfort.

  She handed him the longneck bottle, eschewing a glass. He had always preferred drinking out of a bottle. She was pretty certain in his case it was somehow a phallic thing-the man really was all about his ding-dong.

  “Thanks.” He took the beer. Their fingers brushed and she drew her hand away.

  “You’re not drinking?” he asked.

  “No. Not tonight.”

  He rolled the bottle between his palms. “Ivy kicked me out.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. And she was. Not that she blamed the woman. She had certainly put up with a lot in her years married to the hard-partying cop. “Maybe she’ll take you back? She has before.”

  “I might not want her back.” He took another swallow of the brew. “Other fish and all that.”

  They had been married twenty-some years and had three children together and “other fish” was what he had to say? No wonder she kicked him out. You go, girl.

  “You wanted to talk to me about something?” she asked.

  “Us.”

  “Oh, please.” She pushed away from the counter, irritated. “I don’t have time for this.”

  He caught her arm. “Can you just listen?”

  “Brian-”

  “I’ve never gotten over you.”

  She stood stiffly, working to control her annoyance. “This is so interesting, Brian. Your wife kicks you out and suddenly you’ve never gotten over me.”

  “It’s true.”

  She shook her head, disgusted. With him, his adolescent behavior. With herself for ever getting involved with him. And for allowing him into her home tonight.

  “We shared nothing but a few weeks of sex.”

  “But it was great sex.”

  She shook off his hand. “Grow up, Brian.”

  He took a step forward, weaving slightly. “That’d hurt if I believed you really felt that way.”

  He’d been drinking. Dammit, why hadn’t she noticed that before she let him in?

  “I think you should go.”

  “Don’t be that way, baby.”

  He made a move to grab her; she sidestepped him. This situation presented a big problem. The man was a superior officer. Well liked and well connected within the force. He could make trouble for her. The kind of trouble that could affect her climb up the ladder.

  She eased toward the front door. “I’m seeing someone. Regularly.”

  “It doesn’t have to be love. It can just be fun.”

  “Not interested, Lieutenant. Please go.”

  M.C. reached the front door. She grabbed the knob; he laid his hand over hers. “Who’re you seeing? Not that scrawny comic from the bar?”

  “Yes, if you must know.”

  He snorted. “What do you see in him?”

  “He makes me laugh. Let go of my hand, Brian.”

  “Bet he’s not as good as I was.”

  “You’re a legend in your own mind. But nobody else’s.”

  His mouth thinned. He made a grab for her; she swung sideways, grasped his upper arms and kneed him square in the nuts.

  He doubled over, moaning and muttering a string of curses, all directed at her and her gender.

  “Sorry, Brian. I didn’t want to do that, but you left me no choice.” As he started to straighten, she opened the door and pushed him through it. “I’m willing to pretend this never happened. But if you ever try this crap again, it’ll cost you more than sore balls.”

  39

  Thursday, March 16, 2006

  11:00 p.m.

  As she’d threatened Kitt that she would, M.C. had taken a stand. Kitt had faced the chief alone, her partner’s absence pointedly noted. Sal was sharp. He suspected something was up but had supervised detectives long enough to understand the wisdom of giving them space. Most issues eventually resolved themselves, one way or another. And if they hadn’t, he’d stepped in with appropriate action.

  What the chief didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. At least at this juncture.

  Or so Kitt told herself.

  She didn’t blame M.C. her decision. If this blew up in Kitt’s face, her partner didn’t want to be taken down with her. As M.C. had said, she had ambitions.

  But if they cracked this case, nailed the SAK and the Copycat, M.C. would take part of the credit. Even if it was directly a result of the “left of protocol” move M.C. so strongly protested, she would move up her rung.

  Kitt would be happy for her; everybody would win-but especially the children.

  Kitt sat at her kitchen table, files spread around her. Her mind raced. The chief had agreed-study the Olsen, Lindz and McGuire case files, look for a commonality between them and the SAK killings, something the original investigating officers missed. Brian and Sergeant Haas had worked it. That’d been just before she and Brian had been partnered up; Sal had been sergeant then.

  Kitt frowned. She was starting to understand this bastard. This time, she was going to nail him. If it was the last thing she did in this lifetime, his ass was going down.

  She pushed away from the table, stood and stretched. Her body ached, and the muscles in her neck and back were knotted. She rolled her shoulders in an effort to loosen them, then tipped her head from side to side.

  It momentarily relieved the tension, and she began to pace.

  Three old ladies, beaten to death. Vicious murders. Gruesome. Scenes surprisingly clean, considering. One had lived in an assisted-living community, one in an apartment, another a home. All had lived alone. None had been sexually assaulted. Robbery had not been a motive. No witnesses. No hair, fingerprints or bodily fluids.

  Frustrated, she turned and strode back to the table. Her doorbell sounded and she glanced at the clock. It was after eleven, late for a visitor.

  Danny, she saw when she went to the door. He stood in the circle of light, looking tired and tense.

  “Danny?” she said as she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” She stepped aside and he entered her small foyer. After she closed the door behind him, she nodded toward the kitchen. “I have a pot of coffee brewed.”

  He followed her, though he refused the drink. “I’m coffeed-out.”

  She poured herself a cup, aware of him watching her
, then turning his gaze to the case files.

  “Your hands are shaking,” he said.

  She smiled. “I’m probably coffeed-out, too.”

  “Then maybe you should cut yourself off?”

  “I’ve got a lot to do. I need the caffeine if I’m going to make it.”

  “I’m worried about you, Kitt.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “What day is this?”

  She stared at him, realizing she didn’t know. Or rather, she couldn’t access the information.

  “It’s Thursday, Kitt.”

  AA. She had missed group.

  “I’m so sorry. I was working…it totally slipped my mind.”

  He took her cup and set it on the counter, then caught both her hands with his, holding them tightly. “The other night, when I called. You’d been drinking.”

  She wanted to deny it, but to deny it would be as bad as the drinking itself. “Yes.”

  “And tonight you skipped group.”

  “Forgot, didn’t skip. There’s a difference.”

  He said nothing. He didn’t need to speak, his expression said it all.

  She hurried to reassure him. “It was just that once, I swear. It’s not going to happen again.”

  “Before you fell off the wagon, wouldn’t you have sworn it couldn’t happen at all? That you had a handle on it?”

  “That was before…something happened. Joe…his fiancée has a daughter. A ten-year-old.”

  Her friend’s expression softened with understanding. And regret. For her. “Kitt, damn…I’m so sorry.”

  Danny, like her other AA friends, knew her heart. They knew all her hurts and fears, all the things that had sent her into the bottle in the first place.

  He brought his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

  And tired. So very tired.

  “It hurt so bad,” she said, voice small. “I felt…feel so betrayed.”

  He gently rubbed her back, rhythmically smoothing his fingers over her knotted muscles.