Copycat (13 page)

Monday, March 13, 2006
3:00 p.m.

B
y three that afternoon, Kitt was mighty pissed off. M.C. watched the woman as she paced. “At this rate, you're going to wear a hole in the floor. Or your shoes.”

“Screw 'em both. Another dead end. Dammit!”

“Apple?” M.C. asked.

Kitt stopped pacing. “I'd rather have snack crackers.”

“No junk food.” M.C. tossed her the apple. “You're already on edge.”

Kitt caught it. “He's screwing with me. And it's starting to piss me off.”

“I told you so.”

“Don't you start with me now. One is most definitely enough.”

“You've got things backward,” M.C. said. “I'm the young, brash hothead. You're the mature, seasoned veteran who's counseling me. Remember? Lighten up? Go with the flow?”

Kitt took a bite of the apple. It was crunchy and tart, just the way she liked them. “I never said go with the flow.”

“Let's pretend, then. Now, take your own advice.”

“Excuse me?”

M.C. stood. “Yeah, he's screwing with you. And doing a damn fine job of it, don't you think? Stop letting him get to you. Stop running in circles and being pissed off about it.”

“You irritate the hell out of me.” M.C. smiled, perversely pleased. “Better me than him.”

Kitt took another bite of her apple, never taking her gaze from M.C. “I still think there's something there.”

“But what? It's not Stevens. His story checked out. He reported his wallet stolen. He canceled all his credit cards and changed the locks on his doors. The airline confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Stevens traveled with them, the hotel confirmed the couple stayed at their San Francisco property for six nights, beginning January 2 and checking out January 8.”

“So our guy steals a wallet. Uses the ID to rent a storage locker. Pays a year in advance.”

“But which guy? The Copycat? Or Peanut?”

M.C. saw Kitt's involuntary cringe at the nickname. This guy knew how to get to Kitt, no doubt about it. She made a mental note not to refer to him by the name again.

“I don't know.” Kitt drew her eyebrows together in thought. “He didn't tell me whose storage locker it was, so I assumed—”

“It was the Copycat's. As he knew you would.”

“But instead, it's part of his game.”

“It looked like a stage set, because it was one. He's sent you on a kind of scavenger hunt.”

Kitt perched on the edge of the desk. M.C. could see that she had forgotten she was pissed off. “So, it's up to me to find the clue hidden there.”

“Buried, you mean. Like a needle in a haystack. If there's anything at all.”

“There is, I'm certain.” She tossed the apple core into the trash can under her desk. “Because if there wasn't a clue, he'd be cheating. What fun is that?”

M.C. arched her eyebrows, unconvinced.

“Think about it. He's playing with me. He's enjoying the game. He's called it ‘fun.' Cheating isn't fun, there's no satisfaction in winning an unfair game.”

“To
you.
You're talking about a killer.” She took a bite of her own apple, chewed a moment before speaking again. “That's a stretch, Lundgren. Sorry.”

“I know it is. But I have a feeling about this.”

“Do you really think you're in a place to trust your gut right now?”

Kitt looked momentarily stricken. The moment offered M.C. a glimpse of how vulnerable her partner really was. How hesitant.

A very bad place for a cop to be.

M.C. let out a long breath, working to help herself make sense of all the pieces. “You have to question everything he says. Because it's a game, you have to look at each statement through that filter. Ask yourself why. First question, why you, Kitt?”

“Because I was lead on the original SAK case,” she said quickly. “He thinks I'm a worthy opponent, a pushover or whatever. I don't think that's important.”

M.C. didn't buy Kitt's glib reasoning and she disagreed that targeting Kitt was insignificant. The reason the SAK was calling Kitt was of paramount importance.

“There's a specific reason he's involved you,” she insisted. “Think about it, he could have called me or anyone else on the force. But he chose you.”

Kitt made a sound of frustration. “What difference does it make why he chose me? I'm more interested in how he and the Copycat know each other.”

“Maybe they don't. Or maybe they're one and the same person. Or in cahoots with each other. Maybe this is a game they're playing with each other?”

“And I'm simply a pawn?” Kitt brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Which brings us back to square one. Seven days and another girl dead, and we're no closer to an answer than before.”

They both fell silent, M.C. lost in her own thoughts. After a moment, Kitt looked at her. “How do you think he knew about Derrick Todd?”

A good question. And one they hadn't spent much time considering.

Yet.

“He could be following us,” M.C. offered. “He could be involved with the case.”

“A cop?”

“Unlikely. But we can't rule anything out.” M.C. pursed her lips in thought. “Who knew about Todd?”

“For certain? You and me. The chief. ZZ. His wife. And Sydney Dale.”

M.C. nodded. “We both felt Dale was being evasive. The man recommended Todd, hired him without instituting the normal safeguards. Todd said Dale ‘owed' him. Why?”

“I suggest we put the answer to that at the top of our list.”

“Speaking of lists,” Kitt murmured, motioning behind M.C. “Could we be so lucky?”

M.C. looked over her shoulder. Detective Snowe was striding toward them, a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“Got your inventory,” he said when he reached them. He laid it carefully on the desk. “Sorenstein and I worked most of the night. We were as detailed as we could be, considering.”

M.C. thumbed through the list. Fifteen single-spaced, typed pages. “We owe you.”

“You sure as hell do. Buy me a drink some night.”

“You've got it.”

He started off, then stopped and glanced back at her. “Remember that comic from Buster's?”

“Lance Castrogiovanni. What about him?”

“I saw him downstairs a few minutes ago. He was asking for you at the information desk. I'm thinking you have an admirer.”

Detective Allen peeked around his cubicle at them. “A boyfriend, Riggio? And here I thought you and Lundgren were an item.”

M.C. made a sound of disgust. “Grow up, boys.”

She exited the VCB and, five minutes later, crossed the lobby to where Lance sat, looking every bit the fish out of water.

“Are you lost?” she asked when she reached him.

He stood and smiled. “I was. Not anymore.”

Something in his tone left her feeling as if she had done something wonderful. “What brings you into the belly of the beast?” she asked.

“I was in the neighborhood…well, the general vicinity, and decided to look you up. Figured it'd be harder to turn me down in person.”

“Turn you down for what?” she asked, though she had a pretty good idea.

“A date.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You and me, food and drink. A few laughs. Hopefully more than a few, considering.”

She laughed at that. “When?”

“I've got a gig every night this week but Wednesday.”

She would have to miss the family dinner. Her mother's interrogation.

Lance Castrogiovanni had an excellent sense of timing.
M.C. smiled. “Unless I get hung up here, you're on.”

Tuesday, March 14, 2006
7:30 a.m.

T
he sounds of the busy coffeehouse swirled around him. He liked being out among people. Blending in, interacting.

No one had a clue. Who he was. What he was capable of.

No one suspected his secrets.

Even his Kitten. Or maybe, especially her.

He leaned back in his chair and sipped his espresso, smiling at a woman who glanced his way.

He often played this game: studying people—like that woman—and then imagining what she would do if he revealed himself to her. Imagined the fear creeping into her eyes, the noise she might make—a small squeak, like a terrified mouse.

He almost got hard just thinking about it.

The word Lundgren had called him—
impotent
—flew into his head, sucking the pleasure from the moment.

She had made him very angry.

But worse, she had known it. Until he had regained control, she'd had all the power.

He had been powerless.

It'd been a smart move on her part. She had surprised him and earned his admiration. But also his ire.

He couldn't let her get away with it. She would have to pay. A small price this time, as it was her first offense. But not so small she didn't feel its sting. A warning, of sorts, he decided, pleased with himself.

But what?

The woman at the next table caught his eyes and smiled again. Maybe he should ask her?
“I need to scare the shit out of someone. A woman. As a warning. A punishment for bad behavior. What do you suggest?”

No, he didn't suppose that would do at all, but it was fun to imagine. Taking his espresso with him, he crossed to the woman and introduced himself.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006
4:30 p.m.

E
very spring, the local chapter of the Leukemia Society of America held a fair to benefit children stricken with the disease. Held at Rockford's Discovery Center Museum, the fair included food and games, performances and a silent auction. Though it hurt, Kitt always attended. If she could help someone else's child beat this disease, it was worth any amount of distress she might experience.

This year, for the first time, she was attending alone. The past two, although they had been divorced, she and Joe had gone together. They had clung to each other despite their personal differences.

This year, she supposed, he would be clinging to his fiancée.

She wondered if she would see him there. And if Valerie would be with him.

If he bothered to come. Maybe this was another piece of his past he'd chosen to let go.

Kitt strolled through the fair. She bought tickets for games she had no intention of playing, bid on several items she didn't want and ate a piece of pizza she wasn't hungry for.

Lastly, she purchased a luminaria for Sadie. Every year, the fair created a memorial garden to honor those who had been stricken by the disease. The luminarias consisted of a plain white paper bag—on which you wrote your loved one's name, then decorated with markers—and a tea light to be placed inside.

Kitt scrawled
Sadie Marie Lundgren
in purple, Sadie's favorite color, across the bag. She couldn't bring herself to do more, it hurt too much.

The memorial garden was located at the very center of the main hall, cordoned off by a white picket fence. She found the location appropriate—for weren't the victims of the disease at the heart of the drive to find a cure?

Kitt handed the attendant Sadie's bag and watched as the woman placed it, then lit the candle.

She wasn't the first to place a light for Sadie.

Joe was there.

A lump in her throat, Kitt stared at a second luminaria with her daughter's name on it.

Our Peanut. Sadie Marie.

The lump became tears. They burned her eyes. God, she missed Sadie. And Joe. Being a mom.

She missed her family.

“Kitt?”

Joe.
She didn't want him to catch her crying. Especially if he wasn't alone. Blinking to clear her eyes, she turned.

“Joe,” she said stiffly. “Hello.”

She shifted her gaze to the woman with him. She looked to be a good ten years younger than he was, with soft brown hair and eyes.

Joe's fiancée looked nothing like her.
Even their builds were different—Kitt was tall and angular, Valerie petite and curvy. She wasn't sure why that was such a surprise—or why it upset her so much. Perhaps she had imagined he'd picked a clone of her. A sort of stand-in because he still pined for her.

“I'm Kitt,” she managed to say, and held out her hand.

“Valerie.” The woman smiled and took it. “I've heard so much about you.”

She sounded nice. She looked sincere. Kitt wished she could hate her, but that only made her feel worse.

A pretty, fair-haired girl rushed up to Valerie, face aglow with excitement. She held up a plastic zipper bag, half-filled with water. A pitiful-looking goldfish swam inside.

Kitt stared at the child, guessing her age to be nine or ten. Her fingers went numb. A rushing sound filled her head.

Valerie had a child.

Joe was going to be a father again.

“This is my daughter, Tami. Tami, this is Detective Lundgren.”

The child peeked at her, then turned her face into her mother's side.

“I'm sorry,” Valerie said. “She's extremely shy. It's partly because of her—”

Kitt didn't let the woman finish. Blinded by tears, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the exit.

Valerie had a child. A daughter.

Joe was replacing Sadie.

“Kitt, wait!”

She began to run, wanting nothing more than to be away from him. And the girl with the soft brown eyes and shy smile.

He caught up with her just outside the main doors. He captured her elbow and turned her to face him.

“Let me go, Joe!”

“Not until we talk.”

“About what? You trying to replace our daughter?”

“It's not that way.”

“How old is she?”

His expression said it all, and her breath caught on a sob. “How could you do this?”

“I need to live again, Kitt. I need to move on.”

“Start a new life,” she said bitterly. “A new family.”

He caught her other arm. “Wanting a life doesn't dishonor our daughter's memory. Wanting what I had and lost doesn't dishonor her memory. It celebrates it.”

“Let me go,” she said. “I don't want to hear your self-serving justifications.”

“Sadie would hate what we've become. She would hate what you've become. Think about that.”

She jerked her hands free, shaking with the force of her anger and betrayal. “I'm never going to forgive you for this, Joe. Never!”

For long moments, they stood that way, gazes locked. Kitt couldn't bring herself to walk away. She longed to throw herself into his arms and weep for all they had lost—and beg him not to marry Valerie.

Finally, he took a step back from her. “I'm really sorry, Kitt. But I can't…I can't do this anymore.”

He turned and walked away. She watched him go, crushed. Her marriage was over. Soon Joe would belong to another woman. Be part of another family.

A sound of pain caught in her throat. Until now, this very minute, she had still thought of him as hers.

“For you, pretty lady.”

She shifted her gaze to the clown who had come up to her. His painted face serious, he held out one of the balloons he was selling. A pink one.

Her vision blurred, she shook her head, unable to speak.

Stubbornly, he held the balloon out. “To make you smile again.”

The clown had seen the exchange between her and Joe. Perhaps he had heard it as well. He felt sorry for her.

But not as sorry as she felt for herself.

Helplessly, she took the balloon. He bowed, his orange wig bobbing with the movement, then shuffled off.

Clutching the pink balloon, Kitt headed for her empty home.