Copycat (20 page)

“New usage for me. I associate ‘do' with prom hair.” M.C. wrinkled her nose. “Nice image, Lundgren. Let's get ID in here for a complete search.”

“Done.”

While M.C. made the call, Kitt poked around. In the bottom of the bedroom closet she found a shoe box. She flipped the lid back.

Yellowed newspaper clippings. All concerning the same events—the original Sleeping Angel murders.

A lump in her throat, she carefully leafed through them. She recalled each as if burned in her memory. In a number of them, she was named as lead detective on the case.

In every news story, he had highlighted her name with a fluorescent yellow marker.

“M.C., come take a look at this.”

Her partner joined her and thumbed through the clippings. “Looks like somebody has a crush on you,” she said dryly.

“Lucky m—” She bit the word off. At the bottom of the box was a tube of lip gloss. Maybelline. The kind that could be purchased at every drug store in America.

The color—
Pretty in Pink.

Friday, March 17, 2006
3:50 p.m.

B
uddy Brown's parole officer was not happy to see Kitt and M.C., a fact that had nothing to do with them. Another con breaking his parole agreement meant more paperwork, more irritation and more discussions with officials.

Wes Williams motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. “I wouldn't have figured Brown as one of those who'd end up back in the pen right away. Some of these guys, yes. Brown
really
didn't like prison.”

Some did?
Kitt glanced at her notes. “He always make his weekly meeting?”

“Like clockwork. Until a week ago.”

“He didn't show?”

“Yup.”

“What did you do?”

“Reported him.”

“That he was in violation of his parole didn't come up on our computer.”

He spread his hands. “What can I say? The wheels of bureaucracy move slowly.”

M.C. jumped in. “What else can you tell us about the man?”

“One of those who always got caught. Started as a wild teenager and became a bad adult.” He flipped through the pages. “Robbery. Arson. Drugs.”

“He seem like the type who could kill someone? A child?”

His gaze sharpened. “A child killer? Brown?”

“Yes.”

“I've been around long enough not to be surprised by anything, but my gut impression? No.”

“The building super claimed he caught him with child pornography. Brown into that?”

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.”

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.”

Friday, March 17, 2006
5:35 p.m.

T
hey 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?”

“Former 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.