She heard his footfalls, the stairs creak. “Lance, please-”
The door snapped shut and she was once again alone in the dark.
71
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
10:50 p.m.
From the minute Kitt alerted the RPD of her discovery, things happened fast. A team converged on Lance’s apartment. ID, Sal and Sergeant Haas. Half the VCB-awaiting news of M.C. and orders. They didn’t care if it took all night; they had come to help Riggio and to catch a monster.
This was the break they had been waiting five years for.
Valerie and Tami had been located at her sister’s in Barrington. Valerie had claimed she had run to her sister for help “nursing her broken heart.” When confronted, she admitted she had lied about Joe’s alibi. She had wanted to hurt him. The way he had hurt her.
She was en route to the PSB for further questioning.
Alibi in place and powerful evidence incriminating Lance, Joe had been released. Sal had delivered that bit of news with a reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. Kitt had been only partly reassured-Joe was not going to forgive her for this.
In the meantime, Allen and White had made another discovery-weeks before her murder, Marianne Vest had attended a birthday party where a clown performed. In addition, the day of Julie Entzel’s party at the Fun Zone, the young man who wore the Sammy Squirrel costume had been sick. They’d hired a substitute-Lance Castrogiovanni.
No doubt more links would be uncovered. That’s the way some investigations were-totally mind-boggling until the one piece was uncovered that revealed all the rest.
But had the piece come too late?
M.C. Where could he have taken her?
Kitt paced, frantic. She racked her brain, replaying the facts in her head. Lance had performed for Rose McGuire at her retirement community. He had been at the Fun Zone the day of Julie Entzel’s party and had probably been the clown Marianne Vest had seen.
Lance was adopted. A computer search had revealed that information and the names and addresses of his parents. Cruisers had already been dispatched.
They didn’t yet have confirmation that he was related to Frank and Mimi Ballard, but Kitt believed they would. She would bet Lance was the little boy who had found his deaf mother shot to death.
Dekalb. The family home.
Kitt rushed over to Sal. “I know where they are, Sal. Dekalb.”
Her superior laid a hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “One minute, Kitt. I’m updating the chief.”
The big kahuna, chief of police. She didn’t give a shit. “I don’t have a minute. I know where he took M.C.”
“I’ll call you right back.” He snapped his phone shut. “Outside. Now.”
She followed him out to the front of the building. The area had been cordoned off. A sizable crowd had gathered.
“I know where they are,” she repeated.
“Dekalb. How do you figure?”
“The Dekalb deputy I spoke with mentioned a family home. Said that it had only been sold recently, to a young couple.”
“I’ll call down there, get them to send a unit over.”
“Request permission to go myself.”
“Denied. I need you here.”
“I know I’m right about this, Sal. I need to be the one who-”
“Denied. Discussion over.”
“Dammit, Sal!” She caught his arm. “This is my case! M.C.’s my partner! I’m not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while-”
“You’re mistaken, Detective. This is my case. Riggio’s my detective. Back off, right now.”
“Yes, sir! Backing off, sir!” She spun on her heel, heading for her car.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Lundgren?”
“To cool off. Do I need permission for that, too?”
“Five minutes,” he said. “Then I want you back upstairs.”
Five minutes later, Kitt was heading toward Dekalb. She acknowledged that Deputy Chief of Detectives Salvador Minelli was going to be really pissed off when he realized what she had done. He might even ask for her badge.
He could have it. M.C. was her partner and friend. And this was her case. Peanut had made it hers.
She tried Deputy Roberts. She got him. He was frazzled. “Sorry, Detective, I’ll have to call you back. We have an incident here.”
“Wait! The Ballard family home, where is it?”
“I’ve got to go, Detective!”
He hung up. Kitt frowned and glanced at the dash clock. Fifteen minutes. Sal may have realized by now she had decided to disobey direct orders. But maybe not-he was a little busy right now.
She dialed the Dekalb County sheriff’s office. “This is Detective Lundgren with the Rockford PD. I believe my chief of detectives called and requested a unit to check out a residence in your jurisdiction?”
When the woman didn’t respond, Kitt feared the gig was up. Then the line crackled and she answered. “Yes, Detective. How can I help you?”
“He’s instructed me to accompany them.”
“They’ve already been dispatched.”
“I’ll meet them.”
“Do you have the location?”
She said she didn’t and the woman rattled off an address, then directions.
“Shall I notify them?” she asked Kitt.
“Yes, thank you.”
As she ended the call, another came in. She saw it was Sal.
Sorry, Sal, I seem to have a bad case of selective hearing tonight. I never even heard it ring.
The woman’s directions proved easy to follow, which was surprising as the farmhouse was literally in the middle of cornfields.
She took the long gravel drive to the house. She saw the deputy’s cruiser sitting out front. Not a light showed from the house or the ramshackle outbuildings situated around it.
She climbed out of her car. The deputy met her. “Detective Kitt Lundgren. Rockford PD.”
“Deputy Shanks. I rang the bell. Got no answer, so I did a spin around the property. Doors and windows are all secure. Nothing out of order on the inside. House appears deserted.”
“You checked the outbuildings?”
“I did. Nothing.”
“A vehicle?”
“Unless you count a broken-down tractor, no.”
“Mind if I take a look around myself?”
“Have at it.”
She did, taking her time. She checked every door and window on the ground level, shone her flashlight through every window. When she found nothing, she moved on to the various sheds.
She would have come to the same conclusion as Deputy Shanks if not for the prickle at the back of her neck.
They were there.
The SAK. And his Copycat. M.C. was with them.
She swept her gaze over the house’s dark facade.
She wanted inside.
The good deputy wasn’t going to allow that.
She turned to the young man. “Looks like our lead was a dead end.”
“Looks that way. I’m sorry, Detective.”
“Thanks for coming all the way out here.”
“No problem at all.”
They crossed to their vehicles. The deputy opened his door, then looked back at her. “By the way, who’re you looking for?”
“Child killer. We think he has my partner.”
“Oh, man. Damn.”
“Yeah, that,” she said. “And worse.”
Say you wish you could help.
He made a move to climb into his vehicle, then stopped. “This that Copycat guy?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“Sorry. Shit.”
Offer to do something more. I’ll take you up on it.
Instead, he climbed into his cruiser. She hesitated a moment, then followed his lead. They started their vehicles and headed down the gravel drive. At the end of the drive, he took a right, heading in the opposite direction she had come.
She smiled becau
se he was making it easy for her. Thank you very much, Deputy Shanks.
Kitt took the left, drove two and a half miles, then U-turned and headed back. She cut her lights when she reached the gravel drive. She rolled slowly toward the house, the crunch of the tires on the gravel deafening in the still night.
She eased her Taurus around back, behind the garage. She wouldn’t put it past the deputy to ride by again, just to make certain everything was secure.
Before she climbed out, she retrieved her flashlight from the glove box and checked her weapon. She reholstered her cell phone and pocketed her car keys.
The back door lock proved flimsy, and she was standing in the farmhouse kitchen in moments. A big, old-fashioned kitchen, she saw. Looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the fifties.
And it was, obviously, empty. She snapped on the pencil light and made her way through the doorway that led into a living room. She moved the beam over the room. Furniture covered in sheets. The stale, airless smell of a place that had been closed up for a long time.
The dining room was completely empty, as was the bedroom on the main floor. Next, Kitt crept up the stairs. Several of them creaked; each time she stopped, held her breath and listened. No one came running. No alarms sounded. Nothing.
If anyone else was in the house they, like her, were trying to be very quiet.
She reached the top landing. The bathroom lay directly across the hall. She crossed to it, eased open the door with her fingertips.
It had recently been used. A roll of toilet paper sat on the floor by the toilet. She stared at the paper, heart pounding.
That meant the water supply to the house had been turned on.
She tiptoed to the sink and put her finger under the faucet-and found it damp.
A moment later, she saw that one of the bedrooms had been slept in. A rumpled sleeping bag lay on the floor under a window. Beside it sat several Coke cans and candy bar wrappers.
She started toward the bag, then froze at the faint sound of voices. Kitt snapped off the flashlight. Where were they coming from? she wondered, straining to locate the source.
The floor vent at her feet.
She knelt beside it to listen. Voices, definitely. So faint she couldn’t determine if they were male or female or how many people were speaking.
Where were they? She had searched the entire hou-
The basement, she realized. An old farmhouse like this one would have had a basement, but she hadn’t seen a door.
Kitt made her way back down to the first floor. Knowing she wasn’t alone, she kept her light off and weapon out, and moved as quietly as she could.
She found the door. Nearly seamless, tucked into the space under the stairs, she had walked right by it earlier. Kitt pressed her ear close.
Nothing.
The silence caused a clammy chill to settle in the small of her back. Voices meant life. A conversation involved more than one person.
She grabbed the knob, gently turned it.
The door was locked.
Kitt nearly cried out in frustration. She laid her ear to the door again. Someone humming. A man. The sound growing louder.
He was coming up the stairs!
She looked frantically around for a place to hide. The sheet-draped furniture. She scrambled for the nearest piece, what appeared to be a hulking chair. A key turned in a lock. Crouching behind the chair, she had full view of the doorway. She took aim.
The door swung outward, shielding the man. He left it open. A moment later, she heard the kitchen door open, then swing shut.
Apparently, he hadn’t noticed it was unlocked. That had been a stupid mistake on her part. If he did, he would realize she was there, and depending on where he was headed, he could see her car.
She could go after him, but M.C.’s safety was her first priority. Scrambling out from behind the chair, she darted for the open door.
The basement was dark; she snapped on her pencil light and circled the room with it. Typical basement stuff. Metal shelves stacked with all manner of things
M.C. wasn’t there. She frowned and moved the beam over the room again, wishing for a more powerful flashlight.
“M.C.,” she whispered, as loudly as she felt she could. “Are you here?”
“Here,” the other woman called. “I’m here.”
Thank God. Kitt hurried in the direction of M.C.’s voice. A wall. Holstering her Glock and holding the pencil light between her teeth, she felt her way across the wall.
“Where are you?” she asked again.
“I don’t know.”
The sound had definitely come from behind the wall. Another room. A hidden room behind this one.
But where was the door?
From the room above came the sound of footfalls. He was coming back! Quickly, she snapped off her light and ducked behind a group of moving boxes.
A moment later, he trotted down the stairs. Humming again. A tune from Oklahoma!
He carried a can of Coke and a straw.
She studied the tall, thin man. She recognized him from his DMV photo she’d called up, though he was better-looking in real life. She saw why M.C. had been attracted to him-he possessed a kind of boyish good looks. Very nonthreatening. Like a redheaded Peter Pan.
Further confirmation her mother had been right-never judge a book by its cover.
He crossed to the battered bookcase, crowded with a mishmash of junk. He picked up what appeared to be a television remote control, pushed a button and the bookcase swung open.
A safe room. Shit.
Most safe-room doors were made of reinforced, bulletproof steel. Once he closed the door behind him, short of dynamite, she wouldn’t be able to get inside until he opened it again.
She would not allow him to lock himself inside that room with M.C.
Luckily his back was to her. Kitt eased from her hiding place, weapon out. She took aim, preparing to fire.
Still humming, he tossed the remote back on the shelf and stepped through the doorway.
Kitt let out a relieved breath. Now she knew how to get in. All she had to do was wait for the right moment.
72
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
12:35 a.m.
At the soft swish of the door opening, M.C. braced herself. Not Kitt, she knew. Not yet. She had heard Lance on the stairs, his humming. Kitt would wait. Until she was certain M.C. was safe. Until she was confident she could take Lance down.
Until she was certain she had no other choice.
“Mary Catherine,” he called softly. “I’ve got your drink.”
He came to her and knelt before her. He held the can and straw to her lips. She sipped the sweet, cold drink. It washed away the taste of the blood. She could almost feel the rush of the sugar entering her system.
“I was so thirsty.”
“More?”
She nodded and took several more sips, then pulled back. “Thank you.”
He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. She saw he had the revolver jammed into the waistband of his pants.
“I hope you have the safety on,” she said. “If not, you’ll have a whole new set of one-liners for your act.”
“That’s what I loved about you, Mary Catherine. You always got me, you know?”
Loved. Past tense.
Not good.
He looked genuinely regretful. “I wish things could have ended differently between us.”
Different than me dying or you going to prison? Gee, Lance, you think?
“We can write our own ending,” she said. “Our very own happily-ever-after.”
“Happily-ever-after,” he repeated, tone wistful. “I believed in those, a long time ago.”
“Believe again,” she said. “It’s not too late.”
“It is. It’s…You don’t understand.”
“You keep saying that. Tell me about the Beast. And about your family.”
He was quiet a moment, then began. She saw that he trembled. �
�Mother was special.”
“Deaf?”
“Yes. She never heard. Even when we told her. She didn’t protect us from him.”
“Who?”
“Father.”
“He hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. That was wrong. No one should ever hurt a child.”
“No. Never.”
“You hurt children, Lance. You killed them.”
“No. The angels are sleeping.”
“Dead,” she corrected him.
“Beautiful. Peaceful. No more pain.”
“What about Marianne Vest?”
He grimaced. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Who are you, Lance? The Sleeping Angel Killer? His Copycat?”
“We’re one. It was always just the two of us.”
“You and the Beast.”
“Yes. The Other One. He protected me. As best he could.”
He. A brother.
“He came up with the plan to save us.”
“What was it?”
“We killed her. After.”
“After what?”
“After he beat her.”
“So, your father hurt her, too?”
He nodded. “We used his gun. He loved his gun.”
The Smith amp; Wesson.
“Then we hid it. Nobody ever suspected us.”
“They do now, Lance.” She said it softly. “Because of the gun. You used it to kill Brian, didn’t you?”
“I killed him because he was bothering you. I tried to talk to him first, explain that you and I were together. He laughed at me. So, I followed him to that motel and I shot him.”
“Your brother, was he angry?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“He’s going to know now. They traced the gun.”
He sat quietly, face expressionless. She went on, “That call I took, at your apartment. It was a woman from the Walton B. Johnson Center. She remembered your name. They’re going to look for me; people knew we had been seeing each other.”
“It’s over, isn’t it?”
His words came out choked. She felt for the little boy whose life had gone so terribly awry. That such evil existed, that it was so often directed toward children, broke her heart.
“It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “Free me. We’ll go to the police. I’ll try to help you.”
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