Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  The man looked surprised. “Not that I know of. Nothing in his file about it.”

  “What about smarts?” Kitt asked.

  “Not the brightest bulb. The smart ones don’t get caught.”

  “How’d he get out early?” M.C. asked.

  “Same way they all do, Detective. By convincing the review board he no longer posed a threat to society. The fact prisons are filled to bursting doesn’t hurt. Out with the old to make room for the new.”

  Clearly, this guy had been around a long time. Long enough to acquire a very hefty cynicism.

  “How many times has he been sent away?”

  “This last time was two. He seemed to understand that getting convicted a third time would be very bad, but like I said-”

  “Not the brightest bulb.”

  “Exactly.” He glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Kitt stood and M.C. followed her to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. If he contacts you or if you think of anything else, please call us.”

  “He won’t contact me, I can assure you. But if he does, I will.”

  They stopped at the door. Kitt glanced back. “Do you know if he had a cat?”

  “A cat?” the man repeated, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Not that I know of.”

  They started through the door, but he called them back. “Wait, I did forget one thing. His employer called. Said he’d fired the man for not showing up.”

  “Before or after Brown was a no-show for his weekly?”

  “Just before.”

  Interesting. “Who was his employer?”

  “Hold on.” He shuffled through his papers, then looked up, expression odd. “Lundgren Homes.”

  44

  Friday, March 17, 2006

  4:20 p.m.

  M.C. waited until they were in the car to comment. “Lundgren Homes. Any relation?”

  “My ex-husband’s company.”

  “Thoughts on that?”

  She shook her head, brow furrowed with thought. “I’m still processing.”

  M.C. started the engine, then eased away from the curb. She had thoughts on what they had just learned, ones she would keep to herself until Kitt was ready.

  “We need to interview him.”

  Kitt nodded. “Let’s check back in at the PSB first. See what ID collected. White and Allen should have finished their canvas of Brown’s building and neighborhood. Maybe something turned up.”

  M.C. agreed and merged into downtown traffic. “Brown being the SAK doesn’t add up for me.”

  “It wouldn’t have anything to do with his being dumb as a stump, would it?”

  M.C. ignored the sarcasm. “Partly, yes. We’ve already ascertained the SAK is damn clever. That he has uncommon self-control over his urges. That he’s arrogant. That doesn’t sound like Buddy Brown.”

  From the corner of her eyes, she saw Kitt massage her temple.

  “Nor is Brown a killer.”

  “But we found the phone that was used to call me. My number was the last one dialed, that’s concrete, not speculation.”

  “True.”

  “We also found newspaper clippings about the original SAK murders and a tube of lip gloss we’re assuming was used on the Sleeping Angels.”

  “Facts aren’t always what they seem.”

  Kitt turned to fully face her. “Say what you’re thinking, dammit!”

  “Where does your ex fit into this?”

  “He was Brown’s employer.”

  “Don’t you think this is all too coincidental?”

  “Meaning what? That maybe Joe is the SAK?” M.C. held her tongue a moment, then murmured, “I’m not discounting anything, Kitt. Are you?”

  The other woman bristled. “I can tell you that Joe Lundgren is one of the most decent, caring men I’ve ever met. He was a wonderful husband and father and would never hurt a child. Never, M.C.”

  “Okay, so what else could this mean? Put the pieces together. What do we know?”

  “That three girls are dead, killed in the same way as the Sleeping Angel murders. Someone has been calling me, claiming to be the SAK and claiming his crimes are being ripped off. And today we know that someone called me on a cell from an apartment rented to an ex-con named Buddy Brown.”

  Kitt fell silent then. M.C. sensed she was mulling over the pieces, reshuffling the deck, as it were. “Brown’s stint in prison works, in terms of his being the SAK,” she said finally, slowly. “Timewise.”

  M.C. nodded, navigating around a bus. “The Angel killings stopped because he ended up in the slammer.”

  “There he met another inmate whom he confided in. One he told all his secrets to.”

  “He’s arrogant. Proud of his accomplishments. Brags, big-time.”

  “They’re both released. The confidant begins reenacting these ‘perfect’ crimes. Brown’s pissed. Wants him stopped.”

  “But why not stop him himself?” M.C. asked. “One phone call is all it would take. Why involve you?”

  Kitt frowned. “It doesn’t add up.”

  “What if it’s all about you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  M.C. pulled into the PSB parking area reserved for police vehicles. She parked. They climbed out, slamming their doors in unison. “What if there is no copycat?” she said. “The new murders are also the SAK’s? What if Brown’s just a pawn?”

  M.C. saw Kitt’s frustration. That she wanted to completely discount the theory, but couldn’t.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Why’s it all about me?”

  “That, partner, seems to be the question of the hour.”

  “You think Joe’s involved?”

  “He’s a link between you and the caller, we know that for a fact. What it means is still speculative.”

  They made their way into the building and up to the second floor. As they stepped off the elevator, Kitt stopped dead, causing the officer exiting behind her to spill his coffee.

  “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed.

  Kitt apologized even as she drew M.C. to the side. “Tami,” she said. “That’s how ‘Peanut’ knew about her. Because of Joe.”

  “Who?”

  “Joe’s fiancée’s daughter. Remember, he threatened the little girls in my life. She’s the only one.”

  She started for the bureau office, expression determined. “It’s either Brown or someone working with him. They know about Tami because Brown worked for Joe. They got my cell phone number the same way. My God, it would have been so easy! Most of the time Joe’s not in the office. His office manager, Flo, comes and goes. Joe’s so trusting. He wouldn’t think twice about letting one of his crew go into the office to use the phone, bathroom or whatever.”

  She stopped again and swung to face M.C. “That’s how this bastard knows so much about me! A lot of those guys have worked for Joe forever. They knew Sadie. Her nickname. How her death devastated us. My drinking. Everything!”

  She swung on her heel and started back toward the elevator.

  “Where’re you going?” M.C. called, starting after her.

  “To see Joe.” She looked back at M.C. “Brown’s free. He threatened Tami. And if he’s the man I’ve been communicating with, he’s going to see my tracing his call as a betrayal. I don’t want him to take that betrayal out on her.”

  45

  Friday, March 17, 2006

  5:35 p.m.

  They found Joe in his office, preparing to leave for the day. As he shuffled papers, he looked tired. Kitt would swear his hair had gone grayer, just since she had seen him last.

  “Hello, Joe,” she said.

  He paused midshuffle. “Kitt?” he said, obviously surprised to see her. His gaze moved from her to M.C. “What’s up?”

  “This is my partner, Detective Riggio. We need to ask you a few questions about one of your employees.”

  “My employees?” he repeated. “Who?”

  “F
ormer employee,” M.C. corrected. “Buddy Brown.”

  His expression tightened. He waved them into the office. “What do you want to know?”

  “How long did he work for you?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “You knew he was an ex-con?” M.C. asked.

  “Yes. He had construction experience. He seemed pretty desperate for a fresh start.”

  “Why’d you fire him?” M.C. asked.

  “Didn’t show up for work two days in a row. I’m very clear with these guys, you’re here every day, ready to work. Or you’re gone. I need people I can count on.”

  “You said ‘these guys.’ You hire ex-cons before?”

  “I believe in giving people another chance.” He shifted his gaze back to Kitt. “What’s going on? What’d he do?”

  “We have reason to believe he’s the man who’s been calling me, claiming to be the Sleeping Angel Killer.”

  His expression went from blank to thunderstruck. “The Sleeping Angel Killer? Do you really think Buddy Brown’s…that he could be the one?”

  “We’re fairly certain he’s the one who’s been calling me,” Kitt said. “Whether he’s the SAK or not, we don’t have enough proof, one way or the other.”

  M.C. stepped in. “We believe your fiancée’s daughter may be in danger.”

  “Tami…my God-” Joe looked at Kitt, his expression stricken. “I never called Valerie. I didn’t believe you. I thought you were losing it, like before. I never thought-”

  He reached for the phone. She saw that his hand shook. “I’ll call her now.”

  Kitt stopped him. “We’d like to speak with her first. It’s important we do it this way.”

  He hesitated. She saw his conflict. “Trust me,” she said.

  He nodded and jotted her phone number and address on a message, then handed it to her. “She’s a nurse. She should be off her shift now.”

  “Thanks, Joe.” Kitt took the address. “If you hear anything from Brown, contact us immediately.”

  “I will.” He looked slightly dazed. “Tell Valerie to call me, so I’ll know she’s okay. Tell her I…”

  He didn’t finish the last, just let the words trail helplessly off. Kitt wondered what he had been about to ask. For her to pass along that he loved her?

  She didn’t know for certain, but was honest enough to admit the thought bothered the hell out of her.

  46

  Friday, March 17, 2006

  6:10 p.m.

  Valerie Martin opened the door to her cottage-style home. It was located off Springbrook, near the junior college. Though still a well-respected area, it no longer had the cachet it once had. She wore her uniform, though she had changed into slippers. By her expression, M.C. suspected she recognized Kitt.

  No doubt Kitt realized that as well, but she introduced herself, anyway. “Valerie, Kitt Lundgren. Joe’s ex-wife.”

  “I remember. We met at the leukemia event.” She glanced at M.C., then returned her gaze to Kitt’s. “How can I help you?”

  “This is my partner, Detective Riggio. We’re here in an official capacity. May we come in?”

  “Official capacity?” she repeated, eyes widening. “Is Joe…has something happened to-”

  “Joe’s fine,” Kitt said quickly. “May we come inside?”

  “Of course.” Valerie stepped away from the door.

  Kitt entered first; M.C. followed. The interior was homey and comfortable, with pretty feminine touches. Tami sat cross-legged on the floor, a box of markers and drawing pad on the coffee table in front of her. She didn’t look up at them.

  “Do you mind?” She looked toward the kitchen, which they could see from where they stood. “I was getting dinner together.”

  They said they didn’t and followed her to the other room. She had, indeed, been preparing dinner. Looked like leftover spaghetti and a salad. She crossed to her chopping board, picked up the knife and went back to work.

  “You work at Hillcrest Hospital?” M.C. asked, though it wasn’t a question. She still wore her hospital name tag.

  “Yes. The pediatric ward.”

  “Been there long?”

  “My whole career.”

  Kitt cleared her throat. “You’re aware of the recent murders of three ten-year-old girls?”

  The woman’s movements stopped. She looked up, fear creeping into her eyes. “Yes.”

  “We have reason to believe Tami may be in danger.”

  The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered against the board. Without a word, she crossed to the kitchen door and opened it. She peered out, as if to reassure herself her daughter was fine, then turned back to them.

  “What makes you…Why do you think this?”

  M.C. sidestepped the question with one of her own. “Have you noticed anyone out of the ordinary lately? Someone hanging around, a stranger, or strange vehicle, in the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  “Think carefully, Valerie. A face you registered seeing before, even a sense of being watched or followed.”

  “I need to sit down.” Valerie crossed to one of the stools at the breakfast counter and sank onto it.

  “I don’t think…No,” she said again. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Did a clown approach you at the leukemia event?”

  She stared blankly at them. M.C. sensed she was working to process what they were telling her-and all the ramifications of it.

  “He was selling balloons,” Kitt added.

  “Tami had a balloon,” she said. “A pink one. Joe bought it for her, I think.”

  M.C. glanced at her partner. To her credit, Kitt’s expression registered nothing of the turmoil she must have been experiencing.

  “Please,” Valerie said, “tell me why you suspect Tami’s in danger.”

  “We have no concrete proof that she is,” Kitt said gently. “I received a threat that spoke of little girls at the periphery of my life. Tami fits that description.”

  Valerie pressed her lips together, though she looked slightly relieved.

  “We aren’t about to take any chances, Ms. Martin. With that in mind, I suggest you’re extra-careful right now. Don’t leave Tami alone, particularly at night. I suggest that until we catch this killer, you allow your daughter to sleep in your bedroom.”

  She nodded, blinking rapidly, as if fighting tears. “I will. Thank you. If anything happened to Tami, I don’t know what I’d…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at Kitt, cheeks pink. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize,” Kitt said stiffly. “If you think of anything or notice anything out of the ordinary, don’t hesitate to call us.”

  The woman walked them to the door. This time, as they neared the girl, she peeked up at them and shyly smiled. M.C. smiled back. Most kids, including her nephew, would have had the TV blaring. She found it refreshing to see a child entertaining herself another way.

  It had grown dark and Valerie flipped on the porch light for them. As they started across, M.C stopped and turned back. “Ms. Martin? How did you meet your fiancé?”

  From the corners of her eyes, she saw Kitt look at her in surprise.

  “At the hospital.”

  “Surely not in the pediatric ward?”

  “Actually, it was.” She smiled. “Joe came in to entertain the kids with magic tricks.”

  “Magic tricks? Is he good?”

  “Quite good. For an amateur.” M.C. glanced at Kitt. She was frowning. “That was nice of him,” she said.

  “That’s what I thought. The kids love him. It takes their minds off being in the hospital.”

  “He still do that?”

  “He comes in every couple of weeks. Once a month at the outside.”

  M.C. thanked her again, and she and Kitt walked to the car. Once inside, she turned to Kitt. “Your ex is a magician?”

  “Calling him a magician makes him sound professional. He does magic tricks, pretty basic sleight-of-hand stuff. It was a hobby.”
>
  “He visit hospital children’s wards before Sadie died?”

  “When Sadie was in the hospital, he used to cheer her up with his tricks. Sometimes other kids came in to watch.”

  M.C. didn’t comment. She started the car and turned on the lights. As she pulled away from the curb, she noticed another vehicle half a block behind her do the same.

  M.C. moved her gaze from the rearview mirror to the road. “That must have been difficult for you,” she said, changing the subject. “Her being engaged to your ex and all.”

  “I’m fine.” The edge in Kitt’s voice suggested otherwise. “Can we focus on the case?”

  “Sure. Martin seemed on the up-and-up. Like a real nice lady who loves her kid a lot.”

  M.C. navigated traffic, grateful the rush hour was over. “Did Joe hire ex-cons while you were married?”

  “Not that I know of.” Kitt frowned. “First the magic tricks, now the ex-cons. What are you getting at?”

  “Something’s not right here.”

  “Why? Because he does philanthropic work?” M.C. backed off, not quite ready to confront Kitt. “You want to get some dinner?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’m beat.”

  “That’s cool. Tomorrow, same time same station?”

  Kitt agreed, and after dropping her at the PSB, M.C. stopped at Mama Riggio’s for takeout, but ended up eating in and catching up with her brothers’ antics. In true Tony, Max and Frank fashion, when a couple of their single friends came in they introduced her, then wasted no time pointing out her fourth grade “geek squad” photo.

  Why she still loved them, she had no clue.

  She left the restaurant, climbed into her Explorer and headed for home. As she exited the parking lot, she noticed the lights of another car in the lot come on. A moment later, the other vehicle eased into traffic behind her.

  M.C. frowned. Was someone following her?

  As she drove, she kept watch on her “friend.” He stayed with her at a discreet three-car distance. She slowed, giving the driver a chance to pass. He didn’t, instead falling back himself to maintain his distance.

  The stoplight up ahead was about to change from yellow to red; instead of slowing to a stop, she hit the gas and sped through. She saw in the rearview that her shadow, if he or she had even been one, had been forced to stop at the light. She made a turn, then several more. Certain she was no longer being tailed, she headed home.