“Excuse me?”
“I threw up.” She dragged a hand through her hair. M.C. saw that it shook badly. “You going to go to the chief with that? Have me pulled from the investigation?”
“Do I need to?”
“Fuck you.”
M.C. didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched between them until Kitt cleared her throat. “Victim doesn’t fit the profile. She’s a brunette. Very brunette. Brown eyes.”
“A brunette,” M.C. repeated, processing what this meant. “His ritual is changing.”
“Or maybe he’s just giving up the pretense of being the SAK. He knows we’re onto him.”
“We suspect he’s not,” she corrected. “Is everything else the same?”
Kitt stood. With the light directly on her face, M.C. saw how tired she was. “From what I could tell, yes. The nightgown, the lip gloss, the posed hands. She was smothered. It looks as if he came in the window.”
“The scene?”
“Looks clean.” Kitt took a deep breath. “Mother thought she heard something and came to check on her daughter.”
“When was that?”
“Fourish. Found her this way. Called 911.”
“Father?”
“MIA. Six years now.”
“Any reason to suspect him?”
“From what I’ve heard so far, no. He took off and the mother said ‘good riddance.’ She never even tried to tap him for child support.”
“Name?”
“Webber. Catherine. Mother’s Marge. A friend’s with her.” Kitt stuffed her hands into her windbreaker’s pockets. “I don’t think he’s going to stop with three.”
“We don’t know that, Kitt.” M.C. said it as firmly as she could, but Kitt didn’t respond. M.C. sensed she was mired in her own dark thoughts.
They headed into the home. Modest. Neat. Tiny foyer. Equally tiny dining room to the right, family room to the left.
Two women sat on the couch. M.C. had no trouble picking out the victim’s mother. She caught M.C.’s eyes before she could look away.
Their gazes held. Something in the mother’s affected her like a slap. Before she realized what was happening, Marge Webber was on her feet and across the room. She grabbed M.C.’s right arm. “You let this happen!” she cried. “How could you do that?”
M.C. stared at her, shocked.
“She’s not blond!” The woman tightened her fingers; they dug into M.C.’s arm. “Her eyes are brown! Not blue!”
Mary Catherine couldn’t find her voice. Even if she could have, she didn’t know what she would say.
“Marge, honey,” the friend cooed, crossing to them, “come on, sweetheart.”
“No! No!” Her voice rose, taking on a hysterical edge. “My baby!” she wailed. “He’s taken my baby!”
After prying the woman’s fingers from M.C.’s arm, she drew her away. As M.C. watched, Marge Webber crumbled, sobbing in her friend’s arms.
M.C. realized she was shaking. That her chest was tight. She struggled to breathe evenly. Past the guilt that had her in a choke hold.
Now she understood Kitt, her obsession, her actions. Marge Webber had made her understand.
“Any means necessary,” she muttered.
“What?”
She looked at Kitt. “I don’t care what we have to do to get this son of a bitch, how many rules we need to break. I want him.”
Kitt held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Any means necessary.”
42
Friday, March 17, 2006
11:20 a.m.
Kitt sat at her desk, staring at the notes spread out before her. She liked to make notes on Post-its. They were like puzzle pieces. She could move them around, shuffle them, tack them up, create a time line.
M.C. sat slumped in a chair across from her, lost in her own thoughts. They had just endured a lengthy meeting with not just the Sarge and Sal-but their boss as well. They had been grilled for forty minutes over the case, their progress-or lack of-and the latest murder.
The chief didn’t want to accept the fact that Derrick Todd wasn’t their man. He was too perfect. A convicted sex offender working at a kid’s party place. He insisted they take another look at the ex-con. An arrest would go a long way to reassuring the public.
Never mind that the poor bastard didn’t do it.
She picked up the Post-it that read Derrick Todd and crumpled it. He was out of it. He couldn’t have committed this last murder-his ass had been sitting squarely in jail for violating the state’s sex-offender-registration law.
Of course, she doubted he would be in there much longer. Dale had delivered the diary to her. She, in turn, had handed it over to Todd’s lawyer.
Her phone rang and she reached for it. “Detective Lundgren.”
“Sorry about the angel,” he said.
Kitt snapped her fingers to get M.C.’s attention, then pointed to the Post-it with “Peanut phones” written on it. She nodded and dialed CRU, initiating the trace. That done, M.C. wrote Cell/11:41 on a card and set it on the desk in front of Kitt.
“Was she yours?” Kitt asked.
“Did I kill her? No, Kitten, I didn’t.”
“And you expect me to believe you? Just like that? After the little warning you left me?”
“I hope it doesn’t devalue your ride too much. I wanted to be creative.”
“I suppose you consider picking a brunette this time your idea of ‘creative’?”
“I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with this girl.” He lowered his voice to a husky drawl. “I would choose someone closer to you, Kitten. Someone you have a connection with.”
Tami. “Give me a name, asshole!”
“You don’t play well with others, do you?”
“Fuck you. I’m tired of your games.”
He laughed, clearly pleased. “I hate it when we fight. Can’t we make up?”
“Tell me what I want to know and you’re my best friend again. We’re both on the same side. We both want to stop the Copycat.”
“We are indeed two of a kind,” he said, sounding pleased. “Hurt by people who were supposed to love us. Betrayed by them. Cheated out of the life we deserved.”
She took a stab. “And we’re fighters. Both of us.”
He was quiet a moment. When he replied, his voice sounded deeper. “Yes. Fighters.”
“Then help me. Please.”
He ignored that. “What’s it like to bury your child?” he asked.
“I don’t want to talk about my daughter. I want to talk about the Copycat.”
“But it’s my show, Kitten. Give me what I want and maybe…maybe I’ll give you what you want.”
Kitt experienced a tickle of excitement. She glanced at the clock. “You’re a professional at delivering death, maybe you should know how it feels for those left behind. Sadie’s death left a hole inside me, a yawning chasm that nothing could fill. I wanted to die myself. Wished I was dead. Considered doing it. Killing myself.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked, tone rapt.
“I don’t know,” she answered simply, honestly. “Or perhaps I did try, one drink at a time.”
“What brought you back?”
“AA, the people I met there.” She paused, thinking of Danny, the night before, how she had hurt his feelings. “They reminded me that I’m not the only one in the world who hurts. That we’re all interconnected.”
“And that Sadie wouldn’t want you to give up.”
She paused, caught off balance. How did he know that? “Yes,” she said.
M.C. set another card on the desk. 11:43.
Three minutes to go.
A group had gathered. Sergeant Haas, several of the other detectives, Sal. They were all watching the clock, praying, she knew from experience, that this time they’d nail him.
“You think you know me so well?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Now, Kitten,” he chided her, �
�you don’t really expect me to tell you all my secrets?”
“Why not? I tell you mine, you tell me yours. A partnership.”
“A partnership,” he repeated. “I like that. In fact, I like you, Kitt. I respect you, despite your screwups.”
“That’s good to know. But will you still like me when I bust you?”
He laughed. “Maybe more. Of course, that’s not going to happen.”
“You’re so certain?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at her partner, who held up two fingers. “How?”
“Because I’m better than you,” he said simply. “I’m sorry if that hurts, but it’s true. I’m better than you all.”
“I’ll take that challenge, Peanut.” The ease with which the nickname slipped off her lips surprised her. “Let’s make it official.”
“Competitive, even when you feel so hopeless. When you’re so lost. See why I admire you?”
“But I feel neither hopeless nor lost.”
“I feel so hopeless,” he said, tone mocking. “As if nothing will ever be good, or right, again. I wonder sometimes, should I just end it? But thoughts of Sadie stop me-I fear taking my own life would keep me from being with her in the afterlife.”
Kitt felt ill. She recognized her own words, her thoughts and feelings, being spit mockingly back at her
An entry from her journal.
He had been in her house that day. Maybe more than once.
Kitt fought to keep how exposed that made her feel from showing. “So, you were in my house. You read my journal. Make you feel like a big man?”
He ignored that. She heard the flick of a lighter, the hiss of a cigarette catching, coming to life. “Did you warn the little girls? The ones in the periphery of your life?”
“There are no little girls in my life.”
He clucked his tongue. “Now who’s playing games, Kitten?”
“I don’t play games.”
“We all do. In fact, life’s one big game. We’re all vying to come out the big winner. Top dog. King of the hill.”
“Queen of the hill, thank you. Besides, playing at life and really living it are very different things.”
“I would love to continue this discussion but our time’s up.”
“No, wait! You promised-”
“I said maybe, no promises.”
“That’s not fair! I gave you what you wanted, I-”
“Life’s not fair, dear one. Bye-bye.”
He hung up; she swung toward M.C., already on the line with CRU.
She met Kitt’s eyes, expression jubilant. “Got him!”
“Six cruisers,” Sal ordered. “No chances. Everybody wears Kevlar. No mistakes.” He turned toward White and Allen. “Backup Lundgren and Riggio.”
Everybody scrambled. Before they even reached the address, they had learned it was a twelve-unit apartment building. As Kitt pulled up in front of the building, HQ was in the process of running the building’s individual addresses through the computer.
Definitely not the most desirable real estate in the metro area.
The cruisers were already there, officers at the ready, weapons drawn.
Kitt climbed out of the car. “Nobody leaves,” she ordered. “ID everybody.”
White and Allen joined them, and they made their way into the building. The hallway was dim and smelled of urine. The trace had pinpointed the address, but not the unit number.
“Super’s usually on the first floor,” Kitt said. “If the building’s got one.” The detectives split into pairs, each taking one side of the hallway.
Kitt and M.C. struck pay dirt right off.
The super was a sixtyish man with an impressive beer belly and a face lined from years spent in the sun. She noted his hands-big, callused and fish-belly white. From inside the apartment came the sound of the TV. All My Children, she recognized. While on leave she had become addicted to it.
“Detective Lundgren.” She held up her shield. “Detective Riggio. We need to ask you a few questions.”
M.C. stepped in. “Are all these units occupied?”
“All but two. Those folks vacated a couple weeks ago. Skipped on their rent.” He narrowed his eyes. “I bet you’re lookin’ for that freak in 310.”
“Why’s that?”
“Caught him lookin’ at pictures of kids.”
“Pictures of kids?”
“You know, that kiddie porn. Wanted to puke. Thankful my kids are grown. Warned everyone in the building with kids.”
Ex-con. Sex offender. Promising.
“His name?”
“Brown. Buddy.”
“Know if he’s home right now?”
“No clue. Haven’t seen him in a week or so. But he slips in and out, all hours. Like the freak he is.”
M.C.’s cell rang. She separated herself from the group. “Riggio. Thanks. Got it.”
Kitt excused herself, crossed to her partner. “HQ?”
She nodded. “They discovered Brown, too.”
“Sex offender?”
“No. Burglary and assault. They’re still working on the other tenants. So far nothing’s jumped out.”
“Brown’s our man. I feel it.” She crossed back to the super and thanked him for his help. “For your own safety, I suggest you return to your apartment. Remain there until I give you the go-ahead to leave.”
He looked almost gleeful. Kitt suspected this was the most excitement he’d encountered in some time. All My Children just couldn’t compete. “The freak’s behind on his rent,” he called after them. “You need me to let you in, just give a shout.”
Kitt, M.C. and the two other detectives converged on 310.
Kitt rapped on the door. “Mr. Brown, open up! Police!”
From inside came a sound, like a glass shattering.
“Let’s go!” White reared back and kicked the door in. The four burst through, guns drawn. A cat darted past their feet and into the hall. Otherwise, the unit seemed devoid of life.
“Mr. Brown!” Kitt called again. “Police!”
She didn’t need to search the apartment to know it was empty. Brown had already flown the coop.
They fanned out, anyway, searching the one-bedroom unit. It smelled of cat excrement and spoiled food. Kitt found what she was looking for on a soiled futon near the front window. A cell phone. He’d left it when he ran.
She crossed to it, snapped on a latex glove, squatted down and retrieved the last number called.
The department’s main number.
She scrolled back. A virtual plethora of numbers. Any one of which may lead them to the Copycat.
M.C. joined her. “Sent White and Allen to question the other tenants.”
Kitt nodded. “He figured we got the trace, took off. Called me from this phone.”
“I’ll report it. Get the units downstairs to start canvassing the area. He could be close.”
“He have a car?”
“A Ford Escort. It’s out front.”
“Let’s get it impounded.” M.C. nodded, then frowned. “You notice there’s no cat box in here.”
She looked at her partner, surprised. She hadn’t noticed.
“No food or water bowl, either.”
“No wonder the creature took off the minute the door opened. Poor thing.”
“It’s weird.”
“What?”
“An outdoor cat in an apartment? No pet door? Why didn’t the cat bolt when Brown exited earlier?”
“That’s a good question, isn’t it? Clearly the cat belonged to Brown and had been here a while.”
“Judging by the amount of cat doo.”
Kitt arched an eyebrow at the expression. “Doo?”
“You know, as in doo-doo. Aka shit.”
“New usage for me. I associate ‘do’ with prom hair.” M.C. wrinkled her nose. “Nice image, Lundgren. Let’s get ID in here for a complete search.”
“Done.”
While M.C. made the call, Kitt po
ked around. In the bottom of the bedroom closet she found a shoe box. She flipped the lid back.
Yellowed newspaper clippings. All concerning the same events-the original Sleeping Angel murders.
A lump in her throat, she carefully leafed through them. She recalled each as if burned in her memory. In a number of them, she was named as lead detective on the case.
In every news story, he had highlighted her name with a fluorescent yellow marker.
“M.C., come take a look at this.”
Her partner joined her and thumbed through the clippings. “Looks like somebody has a crush on you,” she said dryly.
“Lucky m-” She bit the word off. At the bottom of the box was a tube of lip gloss. Maybelline. The kind that could be purchased at every drug store in America.
The color-Pretty in Pink.
43
Friday, March 17, 2006
3:50 p.m.
Buddy Brown’s parole officer was not happy to see Kitt and M.C., a fact that had nothing to do with them. Another con breaking his parole agreement meant more paperwork, more irritation and more discussions with officials.
Wes Williams motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. “I wouldn’t have figured Brown as one of those who’d end up back in the pen right away. Some of these guys, yes. Brown really didn’t like prison.”
Some did? Kitt glanced at her notes. “He always make his weekly meeting?”
“Like clockwork. Until a week ago.”
“He didn’t show?”
“Yup.”
“What did you do?”
“Reported him.”
“That he was in violation of his parole didn’t come up on our computer.”
He spread his hands. “What can I say? The wheels of bureaucracy move slowly.”
M.C. jumped in. “What else can you tell us about the man?”
“One of those who always got caught. Started as a wild teenager and became a bad adult.” He flipped through the pages. “Robbery. Arson. Drugs.”
“He seem like the type who could kill someone? A child?”
His gaze sharpened. “A child killer? Brown?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been around long enough not to be surprised by anything, but my gut impression? No.”
“The building super claimed he caught him with child pornography. Brown into that?”
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