The woman returned her smile. “You’re at the right place. You’re M.C.’s partner.”
“That’s right.” She smiled. “I’m Kitt.”
“I’m Melody, M.C.’s sister-in-law.”
Kitt shook her hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt the family meal, I was looking for-”
“Mel, who is it?”
A tall, good-looking man appeared at the dining room doorway. That he was one of M.C.’s brothers was unmistakable.
“This is Kitt Lundgren,” Melody said. “M.C.’s partner.”
He stepped forward, hand out. “I’m Neil. Her respectable brother.”
“And my husband,” Melody added.
Kitt shook his hand. “I apologize for interrupting your family dinner. But I needed to speak with M.C. Is she here?”
He looked confused. “She’s not here.” He looked at his wife. “Was Mary Catherine coming by tonight?”
“Not that I know of.”
Kitt moved her gaze between the two, a feeling of dread growing. “Isn’t tonight pasta night?”
Neil smiled. “That’s tomorrow night. We just stopped by to see-”
“Melody, Neil?”
They all turned. Mama Riggio herself stood in the doorway. All five foot one inch of her. From her steel-gray hair to her black orthopedic shoes, Mama Riggio looked like a woman who insisted on being taken seriously.
“Mama,” Neil said, “this is M.C.’s partner, Detective Lundgren.”
The woman’s gaze sharpened. “Just who I want to talk to! Come and eat. Melody, set another place.”
The younger woman scurried to do it; Kitt stopped her.
“No, don’t, Melody. I really can’t sta-”
“I insist!” The woman used a gesture that suggested finality. “I want to hear about this man she’s seeing. She’s been secretive. I wouldn’t have even known if Michael hadn’t-”
Lance Castrogiovanni.
The funny man.
“Mama,” Neil scolded, “now’s not the ti-”
The woman shushed him and went on, though Kitt’s thoughts raced. She had no concrete reason to believe Lance Castrogiovanni had anything to do with M.C.’s disappearance, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he did.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, backing toward the door. “Sorry, Mrs. Riggio. But thank you for the invitation.”
She turned and hurried out the door and to her Taurus.
Neil followed her. “Detective Lundgren, wait!”
She stopped and turned. He reached her, searched her gaze. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
She saw his concern. She worked to cover her own. “I don’t know that, Neil.”
“I’m going to try her cell phone.”
“I already did.”
Fear tightened his features. “How can I help?”
“What do you know about Lance Castrogiovanni?”
“Who?”
“The man M.C.’s been seeing.”
“Clearly, not as much as you do. I know she liked him.”
“Any idea how they met? Or where he liv…” Kitt let the words trail off, seeing from his expression that he was clueless.
“If you hear from her, let me know right away.”
As she made a move to go, he caught her arm. “I can’t just sit and do nothing.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to.” She slipped her arm from his grasp. “I’ll keep you posted.”
After she had climbed into her vehicle and pulled away from the curb, she checked in with the CRU. No word from Riggio. She called Sal at home and after hearing her out, he agreed to an all-radio bulletin for M.C. and her SUV. He also advised her to call in Allen and White, to help track every step M.C. took since that morning.
She did as he suggested. Allen and White were none to happy to hear from her-until they learned the reason.
As she hung up with them, she got another call. Praying it was Riggio, she answered, “Lundgren here.”
“This is Deputy Roberts, Dekalb County sheriff’s office. I understand you’re looking into the Mimi Ballard murder.”
Not M.C. But second best. “That’s right. One of our officers was shot and killed by an unknown subject on Monday night. We got a ballistics match with the gun used to kill Ballard.”
“After all these years? Wow.”
“Do you remember the case?”
“I do. I was only fifteen then, but my dad was a deputy. It was a very big deal. As I’m sure you know, this is a rural community. Not a lot of murders around here. And certainly not ones like that.”
He went on. “Guy’s name was Frank Ballard. Whipped her with a belt, then shot her dead. His prints were all over the belt.”
“But the gun wasn’t found.”
“Until now, apparently. Wonder how it turned up there, seventeen years after the fact?”
“That’s precisely what I’m trying to find out. What can you tell me about the murder? The stuff I won’t find in the file.”
“Ballard was pretty well-thought-of. Not everybody’s best friend, but a solid cop. You know what I mean?”
She did. The kind who didn’t yuk it up with the guys a lot, just did his job. She told him to go on.
“Everybody was shocked. He claimed his innocence, but was convicted, anyway. As far as I know, he’s still serving time.
“Wife was from a local farming family. They owned a big spread, she inherited it all when her father died. Ballard had sold everything but the house and a couple of acres to Green Giant. ConAgra now, I think. But isn’t everybody?”
She made an agreeable sort of sound and let him ramble. “Still owned the house until recently. Seems a young couple bought it.”
“Anything else about the murder that was unusual?”
“His wife was deaf.”
“Say again.”
“She was deaf. Which made it all the more horrible. That and the fact the little boy found her. Or was it a girl?”
“They had children? How many?”
“I’m not as clear on that. Two, I think. A boy and a girl.”
“Can you remember their names? Their ages?”
“Like I said, it was seventeen years ago. And we lived in Sycamore, a whole different school district, so I’m really fuzzy on this. It might’ve been just one kid.”
The SAK and his Copycat. Brother and sister.
That’s how they knew each other. And she would bet one of them had been ten years old.
“Look,” she said, hearing the urgency in her own voice, “this is priority. I believe that gun-and its shooter-are also linked to a series of child murders here. I need you to get me those children’s names and what happened to them.”
“I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
CRU rang. “A cruiser located Detective Riggio’s vehicle. Corner of North Main and Auburn. They’re waiting for further orders.”
“Tell them to stay put. I’m on my way.”
69
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
8:40 p.m.
Kitt pulled in behind the cruiser, killed the engine and climbed out. The two officers exited their vehicle and met her at the driver’s door of the Explorer.
“Flashlight,” Kitt said. The officer closest to her handed over his. She snapped it on and shined it into the SUV. Nothing looked out of order.
“We tried the doors and found them all locked.”
She nodded. “Let’s open it up.”
The second officer jogged to the cruiser, got a shim and jogged back. Within moments, he had the vehicle open.
She checked in the glove box and console, under the seats, in the cargo hold. It was clean.
M.C. had parked the vehicle. She had locked it, taken her phone, jacket and investigation notes.
Kitt snapped off the Maglite and handed it back to the patrolman. She scanned up and down the street. Her gaze settled on the Main Street Diner and its neon Open All Night sign.
M.C. had pointed the diner out
to her. She had eaten cream pie there, four slices. With a guy.
Her funny man?
Kitt instructed the two patrolmen to wait at the SUV and darted across the street to the restaurant. They had a decent-size crowd for a Tuesday night. The woman at the register smiled at her.
Kitt returned the smile and crossed to her. Her name tag read Betty.
“Hi, Betty, I’m looking for an acquaintance of mine. He comes here a lot. Name’s Lance.”
“Oh, sure. Lance Castrogiovanni. He’s in all the time.”
“Was he in tonight?”
“No. Sorry.”
“He live around here?”
The woman’s demeanor became less friendly. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I need to speak with him.” Kitt took out her shield and held it up for the woman. “It’s urgent.”
Betty looked upset. “He’s not in any trouble, is he?”
Being even remotely honest would only confuse her. After all, Lance Castrogiovanni could be nose deep in shit, or sitting pretty, smelling like a rose.
“I’m actually looking for a woman he’s seeing, a fellow police officer. Mary Catherine Riggio. M.C. for short.”
Her smile returned. “That nice policewoman. They were in one night, he introduced us. Come to think of it, I thought I saw her this afternoon.”
A minute later, Kitt was on the street, armed with Lance’s address. Two doors down, upstairs. An apartment above the head shop. She collected the patrolmen, instructed one to wait downstairs, the other to accompany her up.
She rapped on the door. Then called out. When she got no answer, she tried the door-and found it locked.
M.C.’s SUV and Betty believing she had seen her earlier was enough to convince Kitt she had just cause to enter the apartment uninvited.
She hoped a judge saw it the same way.
“Kick it in,” she said.
The lock gave easily and they entered, guns drawn. The apartment appeared empty. Other than what she would call usual household clutter, it was clean.
Just cause to enter did not grant them the rights of a search warrant. They had reason to believe M.C. was there and that she needed their help. If the apartment became a crime scene that scenario changed.
They made their way through. Nothing in the living room. Uneaten turkey sandwich on the kitchen counter. Bathroom empty. Kitt pulled back the shower curtain, found the tub clean. The bed was unmade. She checked under it, then crossed to the closet.
Nothing. She started to close the door when a spot of bright orange caught her eye. Peeking out from a box in the bottom of the closet.
As she stared at the spot of orange, her cell phone vibrated.
She unclipped it. “Lundgren here.”
“It’s White. I’ve got a name for you. The clown who performed at the Walton B. Johnson retirement community was Lance-”
“Castrogiovanni,” she finished for him.
“That’s right. How’d you-”
She handed the phone to the surprised patrolman, then bent and yanked the cardboard box from the closet. She flipped back the flaps, reached in and pulled out a bright orange clown’s wig.
70
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
10:10 p.m.
M.C. came to. She hurt all over. She opened her eyes to a deep black. Moving her gaze over the darkness, she searched for a light source and found none.
Her hands were bound behind her back with duct tape. Her feet were also bound with the tape. She lay on her side on a cool, damp floor. A basement, she decided. That explained the damp and the absolute dark.
She maneuvered herself into a sitting position. She tasted blood on her tongue. The blood brought it all rushing back. She’d gotten to Lance’s. They’d embraced. He had held her tightly, almost desperately. He loved her, he had said fiercely.
Her funny man had been anything but lighthearted. She remembered thinking it was almost as if he thought it was the end.
The end.
She grimaced. The end of them. Of her.
Good night, Gracie.
She didn’t know which tasted more foul against her tongue-the blood or the bitterness of betrayal.
M.C. forced thoughts of betrayal back. That didn’t matter now, clearing her head and finding a means of escape did. He’d gone to the kitchen for her sandwich. She’d gotten a call. Wanda, the Walton B. Johnson Center’s former director. She had remembered the clown’s name. She had been almost giddy about the fact that she had been able to recall it after all these years, and at her age, too.
“Lance Castrogiovanni.” M.C. had been speechless. Phone to her ear, she had stared at Lance, walking toward her with her sandwich. Even as disbelief and betrayal had rushed over her, with her free hand she had gone for her gun.
In the next instant a searing pain had shot through her head and the lights had gone out.
Someone else had been in the apartment.
His accomplice. Together they were the SAK and Copycat? Not adversaries, but working as a team. It had been one of her and Kitt’s theories.
M.C. struggled to recall a detail from the moment before she had been knocked out, something that might offer a clue to the accomplice’s identity, but came up empty.
When she had come to, she and Lance had been alone. Or so it had seemed. Her hands and feet had been bound. He’d had a gun. A revolver. Looked like a.45 caliber Smith amp; Wesson.
The.45 Smith amp; Wesson used to kill Brian?
He’d been crying. His hands shaking as he held the gun to her head. She’d half expected him to pull the trigger by mistake, he’d been so rattled. He’d told her to call Kitt, assure her everything was all right. Tell her that the clown lead had dead-ended.
She had done what he asked to buy time. M.C. had known that when she went missing, Kitt would check every source herself. She had tried to tip off Kitt with their joke about signaling each other with “going postal” and “taking a joke,” then with the reference to pasta night.
Nothing had clicked with the other woman-M.C. had been able to tell by her response. But it would-especially when M.C. turned up AWOL.
Of course, by then it might be too late. For her, anyway.
She’d tried to reason with him. Tried to convince him to reconsider. Free her and turn himself in. Turn in his accomplice. Didn’t he love her? she’d asked. Didn’t he trust her to try to help him?
Lance’s demeanor had done a one-eighty. In the blink of an eye, he had transformed from weepy and frightened to enraged. He had struck her with the butt of the gun.
It was the last thing she remembered until now.
M.C. heard a door open and shut, then the sound of footfalls on stairs. Wooden stairs, she realized as one creaked.
She stared into the darkness, waiting. After a moment, Lance emerged from the darkness.
“Hello, Mary Catherine,” he said softly.
She didn’t respond and he crossed to her. He knelt down and gently cupped her face in his hands. She felt them tremble. “Are you all right?”
She still didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to. She feared she might curse him, or spit in his face. She wasn’t certain what had set him off last time, but she didn’t want to do it again.
Nor was she convinced her skull could take many more blows. The last had been a doozy.
“It looks like it hurts.” He trailed a finger over her temple, over what she was certain was an angry-looking knot. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Then make it un-happen, Lance.”
He kissed her; she tasted his tears. She wanted to retch. Instead, she played along. “Free my hands. They hurt, Lance. My arms hurt.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, M.C.”
“I won’t try to escape. I promise.”
He looked incredibly sad. “I wish I could believe that.”
“I love you, Lance. Why would I run away?”
She nearly choked on the words. She ha
d thought she loved him. How could he have fooled her so completely?
“I wish I could believe-So many things, M.C. I wish so many things.”
He kissed her again. His breath smelled fresh, like peppermint. As if he’d just sucked on a candy.
“He would be so angry,” he said. “Angrier than he already is.”
“Who, Lance?”
“The Beast.” He said it on a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard.
Her heartbeat quickened. His partner. The one who had struck her the first time. And the one, she suspected, who was calling the shots.
“I’m sorry, for earlier,” he said again. “I didn’t want to hit you.”
“Then why did you?”
“He expected it.”
“The Beast?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to talk about him.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“My family. I promised to tell you about them. I want you to understand.”
“I want to understand, Lance. Tell me about them.”
“Not now. Later.”
He stood. She saw that he shook.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “You know I’ll help you. I’ll protect you.”
He shook his head. “He protects me. He always has. We’re one.”
“You love him more than me?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Make me understand. Please, Lance.”
“I can’t survive without him. I tried.”
His voice grew thick. “I’m sorry, Mary Catherine.” He turned to go. She called him back.
“You killed those girls, didn’t you?”
He looked down at her. Regretfully. “I didn’t want to.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“He wanted me to.”
“And you do everything he asks?”
“I’ll be back.”
“No, wait!” She struggled against the duct tape, trying to loosen it, getting nowhere. “Are you going to kill me, Lance? Because he wants you to?”
He walked away without responding. She fought the feeling of panic that rose up in her. “You don’t have to,” she called. “You control your own destiny. Nobody else has that power.”
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