Copycat (16 page)

Thursday, March 16, 2006
9:00 a.m.

M.C.
sat at her desk, staring into space, thinking of the previous evening and her date with Lance. She had slept with him, for God's sake. On their first date. What had she been thinking?

She hadn't been. Not rationally, anyway. He had swept her off her feet. With laughter, of all things.

She crossed her legs under her desk, remembering. Who would have thought she could laugh and orgasm at the same time?

And that the combination would be so incredible? Her abdominal muscles, already contracting with laughter, had spasmed with orgasm. It'd been like an orgastic explosion; she had thought she was going to die. She had actually fallen on top of him, momentarily paralyzed.

Afterward, he had teased her about it. But in a sweet way, one that made her feel sexy and beautiful.

Big mistake, though. And one, God help her, she wouldn't be making again.

“I found them.”

M.C. blinked, focused. Kitt had arrived and stood before her, clutching several file folders to her chest.

M.C. frowned. “What happened to you? You look like hell.”

“I didn't sleep.”

“At all?”

“That doesn't matter.” She shook her head. “I found them. The others.”

M.C. straightened, fully engaged now. She shifted her gaze to the file folders. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Children?”

“No. Look for yourself.” Kitt dropped the file folders on the desk in front of her.

M.C opened the first file and began to read. As she did, Kitt paced.

When she closed the third file, she returned her gaze to Kitt's. “The MO's totally different.”

“I thought the same thing at first. But their very differences link them.”

“You should have gotten more sleep.”

“Just listen. Three crimes, obviously the work of the same person. The crimes a study in extremes. Same with the Sleeping Angel killings.”

M.C. nodded, reluctantly intrigued. “Go on.”

“Think about it. Violent versus serene. Old versus young. Bloody versus clean. These murders were committed exactly eight weeks apart, the SAK's, six. Then there's the tape. Like the lip gloss, applied postmortem.”

“Postmortem?” M.C. repeated. “It's interesting. Worth exploring.”

Kitt rested her palms on the desk and leaned toward the other woman. She lowered her voice. “They're his. He admitted it.”

“He called you?”

“I knew before he admitted it,” Kitt said. “Outwardly, they couldn't be more different. But they had the bastard's signature all over them.”

M.C. narrowed her eyes. “What aren't you telling me?”

“I've been thinking about Sydney Dale,” she said. “I want to have another talk with him. Thought I'd pay him a visit. See if we could get those questions of ours answered.”

M.C. sat back in her chair. Clearly, Kitt wanted out of the bureau before she said any more about her call last night. Why?

Whatever the reason, she decided to play along. “I ran Dale through the computer. He's clean. Squeaky clean.”

“Guy doesn't get to be that rich without dirtying his hands a little bit.”

“True, but that kind of stuff doesn't end up in our data banks.”

“I don't trust him. Fact is, he hired Todd. Told his manager the kid was ‘hired.' Why?”

“Like he said, he knew the kid before he'd gotten himself in trouble. Figured ZZ would do the appropriate background checks and drug screenings.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Hell no. The guy was lying, at least about what he told ZZ.”

Kitt perched on the edge of the desk. “What if he did know Todd was an ex-con and a registered sex offender? Why would he hire him?”

M.C. had an idea where Kitt was heading and held her hands up. “Stop there. Are you thinking Dale might have deliberately put Todd there as a way to deflect suspicion? In case we found the connection between the girls and the Fun Zone?”

“A fall guy. What's wrong with it?”

“Dale's a solid citizen. A businessman of standing. Probably a deacon at his church.”

“So was Ted Bundy. And Dennis Rader, the BTK serial killer.” Kitt leaned toward her once more. “He's smart. And he's slick. And he was lying. Another chat would be a good thing.”

“Has Schmidt gotten anything from the tapes or surveillance of the Fun Zone?”

“Nada.”

M.C. gazed at the other detective. She may not trust her—but there was a kind of fire that burned in her eyes, one she responded to.

The woman she had labeled a burned-out has-been, had more intensity than any cop she had ever worked with. “You've had entirely too much coffee this morning. And way too little sleep.”

“You have a point?”

“Yeah, I might try it myself.” She pushed away from the desk. “Let's go.”

 

M.C. offered to drive. Kitt took the offer with what M.C. thought was relief. They made their way to the parking garage and her SUV. Once they were belted in and on their way, she glanced at Kitt.

“We're alone now. What didn't you tell me in there, about last night's conversation with the SAK?”

“He didn't call me. I called him. From my cell phone.”

She paused a moment, as if knowing M.C. needed a moment to digest what she'd said.

She was right.

Kitt went on. “I knew if he still had the phone and saw it was me, he'd answer.”

“And you did this how?”

“I just tried the last number he called us from.”

For a full ten seconds M.C. said nothing. It had been an outrageously ballsy move. And one that could earn Kitt a severe reprimand.

“Did you involve the CRU?”

“No.”

“Another officer present?”

“No.”

“So, obviously, not recorded.” The light ahead changed; she slowed to a stop. “Dammit, Kitt! Do you have a clue how out of line that was? Do you realize we only have your word of what transpired?”

“Yes. To all of it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn't. I knew he'd done that, to those old ladies. I saw red. I took a chance. It paid off.”

“Dammit!” she said again. “What else did you get?”

“I know him better. What drives him.”

“In other words, nothing.”

“Not nothing. I kept him on the line. I can do it again.”

“You guess. You hope.” M.C. gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Were you drinking?”

“No. Absolutely no. I made a promise about that, I mean to keep it.”

For what it was worth, M.C. believed she meant it. But the behavior was off. Impulsive. Risky.

“He's obsessed with his crimes being perfect,” Kitt went on. “Unbelievably arrogant about it.”

Obsession. That was it, M.C. realized. It explained Kitt's behavior. The light in her eyes. The long hours, the chances she was taking.

Is that what had happened to her before she tumbled over the edge and into a bottle?

M.C. stopped at another red. She turned to the other woman. “You're getting too close to this case, Kitt.”

“I have it in perspective.”

“Do you?”

The other woman's cheeks reddened. “I challenged him about his choice of victims. Accused him of being a chicken-shit for picking children and geriatrics. I challenged him to pick on someone stronger. More capable.”

Behind them a horn blared. The light, M.C. saw, had changed. She eased forward. “Someone like you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take the bait?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No. He became angry. And defensive. Insisted part of committing the perfect crime was choosing the perfect victim.”

“So his victims aren't an emotional choice. They're an intellectual one.”

“Exactly.” Kitt angled toward her. “No serial kills simply for intellectual satisfaction. That means the emotional drive lies in another direction.”

M.C. turned onto Riverside Drive, which led to the entrance to Brandywine Estates. “You cornered him. You pissed him off. And he struck back. How?”

“How do you know he struck back?”

“A cornered animal defends itself,” she replied simply.

Kitt fell silent. M.C. wound her way through the hilly neighborhood, letting the other woman compose her answer.

When she spoke, her tone was steely with resolve. “He threatened the little girls, ones I might care about. But…there are none.”

He had gotten the best of Kitt. Because, unlike her, Kitt's caller was not emotionally involved.

They reached Sydney Dale's drive and M.C. pulled in. She brought the car to a stop and faced Kitt. “You say you're learning what makes this guy tick. That may be, but he's learning the same about you, Kitt. And it seems to me, that's a dangerous place to be.”

Thursday, March 16, 2006
10:10 a.m.

S
ydney Dale wasn't home. But his young, blond-haired trophy wife was. She came to the door in a pretty silk pantsuit. She directed them to his office, located in the Strathmore Professional Complex off Mulford Road.

As they turned to go, Kitt stopped and looked back at her. “What can you tell me about Derrick Todd?”

Her expression subtly altered. “Who?”

“He worked for you and your husband about four years ago. He was the yard and pool—”

“I'm the new Mrs. Dale,” she told them, yawning. “I wasn't around then.”

“Would you know where we could find the ‘old' Mrs. Dale?”

“Ask Sydney. I don't keep track of her.”

As they climbed back into the SUV, Kitt looked at M.C. “The new Mrs. Dale is so young she was probably a teenager when Todd worked here.”

M.C. arched her eyebrows. “I wonder how many Mrs. Dales there have been?”

“And if each one was younger than the last?”

They passed the rest of the ten-minute drive in silence. When they reached the office, they parked near the appropriate suite number and climbed out.

“You mind if I do this?” Kitt asked as they crossed the parking lot.

M.C. hesitated, then nodded. “You seem to have the eye-of-the-tiger thing going—have a ball.”

The receptionist was as young, attractive and blond as the “new” Mrs. Dale, and Kitt wondered if he used the office as a screening ground for prospective wives.

As she had suspected would be the case, Dale was not happy to see them. “Detectives,” he said with barely veiled annoyance, “this is a surprise.”

“We have a few more questions about Derrick Todd.”

“I can't imagine. We've fired him. Naturally. I don't know what more you could want from me.”

“An explanation of why you hired a registered sex offender to work around children.”

“I gave you that explanation.”

“But it didn't quite make sense to us.”

“Do I need to contact my lawyer?”

“If you feel it's necessary, go ahead.” Kitt paused, allowing him a moment to think it over. When he didn't make a move, she continued. “Perhaps you could tell us again
why
you asked your manager to forgo background checks and hire Mr. Todd?”

“I never told Mr. Zuba not to do the customary background checks.” He spread his hands. “A classic case of miscommunication.”

“Problem is, he tells a more convincing story than you do.”

“That's your problem, Detectives. Not mine.”

“Actually,” M.C. said, stepping in, “it is your problem. Because when we're not convinced, we keep digging. We're like a dog with a bone, Mr. Dale. And it's not pretty.”

“Are you threatening to harass me?”

“Absolutely not. Just giving you a glimpse into the investigative process.”

“We need to speak to your ex-wife as well,” Kitt said. “We need her name and address.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Afraid so.” Kitt waited, pen poised above her tablet.

He glanced at his receptionist, then pointed to his office. “We can talk in here.”

They followed him into the office; he shut the door behind them. “I gave Todd a job because she lied.”

“Who lied, Mr. Dale?”

“My daughter. She's the one he was convicted of exposing himself to.”

She pictured the pretty blonde roaring off in the BMW. “Sam?”

“No. Jennifer. She lives with her mother now.”

Kitt glanced at M.C. The other woman raised her eyebrows.

“How do you know she lied?”

“I found her diary.” He looked genuinely sickened and for the first time M.C. thought of him as human. “Her mother and I were going through a messy divorce. Our lives were in chaos. The girls were traumatized. Jen made up the whole thing in an attempt to keep us together. And to keep her and Sam together.”

“It didn't work. Obviously.”

“No. My ex-wife would have no part of staying together.”

“Your ex-wife?”

“Yes.” He looked away, then back. “I know what you're thinking. I see it on your faces. I loved my wife, not that it's any of your business. She left me for another man, not the other way around.”

Kitt didn't respond in any way, though she experienced a prickle of guilt at having jumped to exactly that conclusion.

M.C. jumped in once more. “We're not here to judge your personal life, Mr. Dale. Just to get the truth about Derrick Todd and his job at the Fun Zone.”

“Exactly,” Kitt confirmed. “Once you learned the truth, did you go to the D.A.? Try to secure an early release for him?”

He shook his head. “I was afraid of the…ramifications. From Todd. And the state.”

Afraid that he'd be sued.

The “human” label once again became suspect.

“So, Mr. Todd doesn't know that you believe him innocent?”

“No. I told him I suspected it didn't go down the way Jen said. And I offered him a job. He was grateful.”

She would bet he was. That kind of label wasn't easy to live with. And it made finding a job damn difficult.

Kitt thought of Derrick Todd, his surliness, his anger at the police. The blatant disrespect.

No wonder. He had been convicted of a crime he hadn't committed. No doubt he had proclaimed his innocence to the heavens. Yet, he'd gone to prison. Suffered God only knew what while in the pen and would have to carry the stigma of sex offender with him for the next ten years.

Now he had no job and was being questioned about another crime he hadn't committed.

No wonder he was bitter. She'd probably dish some serious antisocial attitude, too.

In one fell swoop, she had gone from longing to smack the cocky smirk off the kid's face to pitying him.

“Do you have the diary?” M.C. asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. “In my safety deposit box. I kept it just in case I needed it someday.”

“‘Someday' has come, Mr. Dale. I'll need you to retrieve that journal today and bring it to us. Understand, I'm not going to keep this information a secret. Not from Todd, his attorney or the state.”

He nodded, looking ill.

As they left his office, Kitt stopped and turned back to him. “By the way, Mr. Dale, where were you the nights of the sixth and the ninth of this month.”

He frowned. “I don't know for certain. Nancy keeps my calendar. Let's go see.”

He led them back out to the waiting area. The receptionist produced his day planner. On the sixth he had been out of town on business. An overnight stay. On the ninth he and his wife had attended a Burpee Museum fund-raiser, then had gone home to bed.

“I suppose you can produce documentation and witnesses to confirm both?”

For the first time, he looked shaken. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dale. Bring that item in before day's end.”

Kitt and M.C. walked to the car in silence. When they'd reached the Explorer, climbed in and buckled up, Kitt turned to the other woman. “Do you believe Dale's story?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Puts Todd in a whole new light, doesn't it?”

“And puts us back to square one.”

“Thanks for mentioning that,” Kitt muttered, then shook her head. “No, not square one. The Fun Zone's still a connection.”

M.C. started the car. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be. But I'm not buying that. Not yet, anyway.”

They drove in silence for several blocks. As they slid through the light at Riverside and Mulford, Kitt murmured, “Your date last night, how was it?”

“That's sort of personal.”

“It must have been very good, then.”

M.C. shot her an irritated glance. “Whatever.”

“Who was he? That Lance guy who came to the PSB to see you?”

“Yes. Satisfied?”

Clearly, she didn't want to talk about it. Which, perversely, made Kitt want her to. “You went to bed with him, didn't you?”

“Excuse me?”

Kitt smiled. “I'm multitalented. Both nosy and psychic.”

“More like multi-pain-in-the-ass.”

“Whatever,” she said, tossing M.C.'s indifferent word back at her.

They drove for several minutes in silence. Then, as they neared the PSB, M.C. made a sound of exasperation. “Okay, how did you know I slept with him?”

“Simple. When I walked into the squad room this morning, you were staring dreamily into space and smiling to yourself.”

“I was not!”

“It was one of those satisfied little grins that speaks volumes.”

M.C. opened her mouth as if to argue, then shut it.

Kitt laughed. “I think it's sweet.”

“I've never aspired to sweet.”

“You like this guy.”

It wasn't a question; M.C. answered her, anyway. “Yeah, I like this guy. But I'm only admitting it in the hopes you'll shut up.” She glanced out the window, then back at Kitt. “Where do we go from here?”

“Personally, I think you should back off on the sex and get to know him better. But maybe that's my age talking.”

“Thanks, Mom, but I was talking about where you and I should go. With this investigation.”

“Let's talk to the chief. Fill him in on the latest.”

“Then what?”

“Hell, if I know.”

“Now, there's a definitive answer.”

“You asked. Besides, I suspect the chief is going to have a strong opinion on what comes next. He always does.”

“He's going to have your ass for what you did.”

Trying to turn the tables on “Peanut.” Calling without clearing it first.

Stepping outside the chain of command—again.

“He doesn't have to know,” Kitt said.

“And how are you going to explain being certain Lindz, McGuire and Olsen were victims of the SAK?”

“I just will be.”

It took a second or two, Kitt saw, for her words to register. “You're out of your mind if you think I'll lie for you.”

“I won't ask you to.”

“You screwed up, Kitt. Face the music and move on.”

“I don't see it that way. A good cop follows her gut. Sometimes that means making a move that's left of protocol.”

“Left of protocol? I don't think so. I want my career to move forward, not the other way around. If I take part in that meeting and don't reveal all I know—”

“Then don't take part in the meeting.”

“That's bullshit.” She cruised into the PSB garage, parked and shut off the engine. She turned to her. Kitt saw that she was angry. “You're losing it, Detective. I suggest you take a big step back, before it's too late.”

M.C. opened the car door. Kitt caught her arm, stopping her. “You think sleeping with that guy was smart?”

“That doesn't have anything to do with this.”

“You followed your gut. Whether you regret it now or not, that's what you did.”

“That was personal. This is work. There's a difference.”

“No, there's not. We go through our lives acting on our instincts, our gut feelings. About people. Choices that range from which job to accept to whom to trust. The good cop tunes into those instincts, follows them.”

“You are so full of shit, Kitt.” She shook off her hand. “For a while I wondered how such a good cop could have ended up the way you have. Now I know.”