Copycat (24 page)

Monday, March 20, 2006
3:30 p.m.

A
s M.C. had predicted, a judge granted the search warrant for Joe Lundgren's home, vehicles and business. The language of a warrant had to be specific; law enforcement could not simply go on a fishing expedition. Each address and vehicle had to be specifically named in the warrant or it was off-limits. Likewise, a warrant that was too specific could hamstring investigators.

They had begun with the business office, for no other reason than his connection to Brown was through Lundgren Homes. There, they had pulled employment records; communication with the Illinois Parole Board, cell phone bills, bank statements, his computer.

M.C. hoped to find a payoff to Brown, receipts for the cell phones used to call Kitt, or something that would tie him to Kitt's caller or Brown's murder—or any of the others, for that matter.

From the business office, they moved to the man's Highcrest Road residence. M.C. wondered if this was the house he and Kitt had shared when they were married. Something about the lived-in feeling of the California cottage-style home suggested that it was.

She stood in the living room, surveying the row of family photos on the fireplace mantel. They were all from the time before Sadie's death, when they had been a family. Many of the photos included Kitt. A smiling, carefree-looking Kitt.

A wife and mother. Happy. Loved.

A visual record of Kitt's loss.

M.C. shifted her thoughts away from her partner. How did Valerie feel about the photos? M.C. had seen ones similar to these in every room of the house. Did they make her feel threatened? Jealous?

“Detective?”

She turned. One of the officers assigned to search Lundgren's truck stood in the doorway. “Find anything?” she asked.

“It was clean. You want me to have it impounded?”

“Do it.” Although they weren't looking for biological evidence from the Copycat murders, Buddy Brown had been killed then transported to Anna Paige Park. “Detective White's with Lundgren's lawyer?”

“Yes. In the basement.”

The lawyer had followed them around while another uniform had kept a confused yet indignant Lundgren company just outside.

She turned back to the photos, frowning. Something about this didn't feel right. Was Joe Lundgren as good a suspect as she'd originally thought? It had made sense to her, the idea that Joe was punishing Kitt. She had painted him as angry and jealous.

Would a man with so much anger toward his ex-wife keep photographs of her displayed this way?

If he was smart, yes. If he was a cool customer, acting with his intellect instead of his emotion.

Which brought her right back to her problem. She didn't see him as that man. And it certainly didn't fit her theory.

Nor had they found the proverbial “smoking gun.”

Her thoughts turned to her argument with Brian. Had Kitt overheard it? M.C. hoped not. Depending on what or how much she had heard, she could have a big-time wrong idea.

Now, unless she brought it up, she would never know. And Kitt could continue to have the wrong idea.

Should that bother her? Yes, she decided. For despite not fully trusting the woman or her methods, she had grown to admire her. And in a strange way, they didn't make too bad a team.

It was almost five-thirty by the time M.C. made it back to the bureau. Sal looked up from the report on his desk. “How'd it go?”

“It'll take a while to sift through the minutiae, but not great.”

“What now?”

“Put Kitt back on.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You're certain that's wise?”

“Lundgren's not our man.”

“That's a big reversal from earlier today, Detective.”

“Yes, it is. But I'm standing by it.”

He sat quietly a moment, then nodded. “Limited role until all the ‘minutiae' is studied. I can't allow even a hint of impropriety here.”

“You've got it. I'm going to break for dinner, then begin picking through it.”

 

What M.C. hadn't told Sal was that she didn't plan on eating alone. Lance had been in her thoughts all day; she had decided seeing him was just what she needed.

She didn't call, simply stopped at Wok to Go, then headed to his place. “Hey,” she said when he opened the door. She held up the take-out bag. “I brought Chinese.”

“My angel of mercy.”

She entered his apartment. The normally pin-neat living area looked as if a tornado had struck. She moved her gaze over the disaster. Books. Photos. Notebooks. Papers that had been crumpled and tossed. Empty coffee cups, soda cans, an extra-large pizza box and an overflowing ashtray.

She frowned. “You smoke?”

He grimaced. “A friend stopped by. He chain smokes.” He crossed to the couch and cleared a space for her, then collected the pizza box and a half-dozen cans and cups.

“Sorry about the mess. I'm working on some new material. It's a painful process.”

“Apparently. Looks like you hosted a World Wrestling Federation event in here.”

“An apt analogy. Creation. Birth. Demon wrestling.”

“You want to pass anything by—”

“No. Thanks.”

Stung by his gruff reply, she didn't comment.

Moments later, they were eating in silence. After a while, he set down his chopsticks. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“What I said…about my stuff. The process is so raw…I'm just not ready. Thanks, though, for offering to listen.”

She smiled, touched by the apology. “It's okay.”

“I don't think it is.”

Something in his eyes and voice told her he was no longer talking about his apology. “What is it, Lance?”

“I'm falling in love with you.”

Just like that, she thought. He laid the words between them. Gave form to whatever was growing between them.

What did she say to that? How did she feel? Elated. Terrified. Hopeful. Confident. Vulnerable.

“What are you thinking?”

“That you must be crazy.”

“To be falling in love with you? Or just in general?”

She smiled. “To be falling in love with me.”

“That makes
you
crazy.”

Was she? She thought yes. Definitely.

She laughed. “I might be falling in love with you, too.”

A smile pulled at his mouth. He stood, held out his hand. She took it and they went to the bedroom. And there they made love.

Afterward, they lay quietly, holding each other. M.C.'s thoughts whirled with the events of the day—Kitt's response to her bringing Joe in for questioning and her temporary removal from the case. The evidence awaiting her at the bureau. Her argument with Brian, his threat.

Remembering it, a knot formed in her stomach. He would do it, too. She didn't know why, after so long, he was behaving this way. It was as if Brian had become another person.

“What's wrong?” Lance rubbed her back. “You're tense.”

“Remember that guy from the bar? The one you saved me from?”

“The pushy creep?”

“Yeah, that one. He's been following me.”

Lance propped himself up on an elbow, expression concerned. “When did this start?”

“A couple days ago. Last week he showed up at my house, drunk. He came on to me again. When I turned him down, he started following me.”

“What's this asshole's problem?”

“I don't know, it's weird. I cornered him today. Told him to back off.”

“Or else?”

“Pretty much.”

He searched her gaze. “And he didn't take that well?”

“No.” She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “He threatened to start a rumor that I slept my way into the VCB.”

“With him.”

“Yes.”

“So he can smear you and boast at the same time. What a jerk.”

“He's a superior officer. Decorated. Well-thought-of. People will be more likely to believe him than me.”

“Maybe I should have a man-to-man with him?”

She had a big picture of that. Lance would end up in jail—with an emergency room stop on the way. “Thanks, hero. But I think I've got it covered.”

“I want to be your hero, Mary Catherine Riggio. Just say the word.”

M.C. liked the sound of that and leaned across and kissed him, then drew regretfully away. “I can't stay,” she murmured. “I wish I could.”

“Duty calls?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So, that's the way it is—eat and run.”

He was teasing; she teased back. “More than just eating, or have you already forgotten?”

“Never. Just an insatiable appetite, that's all.”

She smiled and kissed him again. “I've got to go.”

As she climbed out of the bed, he caught her hand. “When will I see you again? Tonight?”

“I don't know how late I'll be. Call me?”

“You call me. I'll be here.”

M.C. agreed she would try, then she hurried to dress.

Monday, March 20, 2006
6:30 p.m.

T
he RPD evidence room was located in the building's basement. Kitt had spent the day there, sifting through the items collected from the storage unit Peanut had directed them to.

His comment, “You have to have faith,” suggested she had given up on it too quickly. Of course, it could be his way of sending her on another wild-goose chase.

She sat back, frowning. She had hardly made a dent in the locker's contents, yet a theme had already begun to emerge. The items were decidedly feminine in character—they had either belonged to a woman or a woman had selected them to create this tableau.

Interesting. All along, they had assumed the SAK to be a man. Most serial killers were men, true. But women who killed typically chose “softer” means of death, like poison or suffocation. They eschewed guns, knives, clubs and anything else that caused a mess.

The Sleeping Angel deaths were nothing if not “clean.” In fact, the SAK took great pains to “prettify” his victims.

Or was that
her
victims?

Kitt rubbed her forehead. Big problem: The three bludgeoning deaths Peanut had claimed responsibility for.

The SAK wasn't a woman.

The Copycat was.

The truth hit her like a ton of bricks. She stood up quickly. Was this the clue? What Peanut had meant for her to find? He expected good detective work out of her. He refused to make it easy.

This made sense. Didn't it?

She retrieved her bottle of water and sat on a carton filled with books. She took a swallow of the water, mind racing.

A man had rented the storage locker. An assumed man, she corrected. With a stolen ID. A man they didn't have a photo of; just the vague recollection of the storage-facility salesperson.

Could she be right? Was the Copycat a woman?

“I heard you were down here, Lundgren. Working hard, I see.”

She turned and smiled at Scott Snowe, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “Detective Snowe? What brings you out of the ID cave?”

He sauntered in, grinning. “I have a present for you. Analysis of fibers retrieved from the Entzel and Vest scenes.”

He held out the report, looking very pleased with himself. She took it.

“Tyvek,” he said. “Consistent with a Hazmat suit.”

Kitt scanned the analysis. Crime-scene techs wore “clean” suits mostly for protection. The Tyvek was disposable, durable and fluid repellant. Some techs and law-enforcement professionals wore them to protect the scene from contamination, as well. Most were coverall style, some with booties and hood. In addition to the hood, a mask with a breathing apparatus was also worn anytime the threat of airborne contaminants existed.

“Gray,” Kitt said. “Not as common as the white. Which will help to narrow down the source.”

The RPD used white, the standard. She had seen the gray, however. One of the city's emergency management teams used them.

“True, though I've seen white with gray booties.”

She nodded, then murmured, “It makes sense. He wears the clean suit. It reduces the possibility of his leaving trace behind.”

“Exactly. Thought you'd want to know, ASAP.”

“Thanks.” She looked back up at him. “Has M.C. seen this?”

“Not yet. You want to do the honors?”

“Maybe not.” She held the report out. “I'm off the case.”

“I heard. And in my not-so-humble opinion, it's all bullshit.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “You do it.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “You done for the day?”

“Oh, yeah. It's Miller time.”

As he turned to leave, she called after him. “Thanks, Scott. I appreciate this.”

He waved off her thanks and disappeared through the evidence room door. For long moments she gazed at the now-empty doorway, thoughts on the evidence report. Tyvek. An unexpected turn. And one that certainly lent credence to her “SAK as cop” theory.

This was one smart SOB.

She let out a weary breath, the elation she had felt before Snowe's visit gone. She was tired, hungry and intellectually spent. She flat didn't have the energy for the puzzle right now.

She thought of Snowe, leaving for the night. Meeting his buddies for a drink. Didn't a beer sound like heaven about now? Along with a big, greasy burger. Or even a couple of slices of an artery-clogging, all-meat pizza.

The closest she was going to get was a bag of snack crackers and a Diet Coke.

Kitt unclipped her cell phone from her belt. She saw she had a message waiting and frowned. She hadn't heard it ring. She flipped the device open and saw why—no signal.

She stood and exited the evidence room. Once again she had a signal and she dialed M.C.'s cell, making a mental note to check her messages later. The other woman picked up almost immediately.

Kitt hadn't spoken to M.C. since that morning, and at the sound of her voice, she recalled the things Brian had said.

“She told me about Joe. She was almost gloating.”

“She's ambitious…and she'll do anything, to anyone, to get what she wants.”

Like go behind a partner's back. Get them removed from a case. “M.C.,” she said stiffly. “It's Kitt. How's it going?”

“As well as can be expected,” M.C. responded, tone guarded. “Sifting through some pretty boring stuff.”

Joe's stuff.
“White abandoned you?”

“Sent him home. His wife called, he heard the baby crying and the other two kids fighting in the background. She sounded three-quarters of the way toward a breakdown.”

Kitt couldn't help wondering if she had sent him home because she was all heart, or because she wanted all the glory?

She hated thinking that way. She wanted to trust M.C. Until this morning, she had begun to—and begun to think that growing trust had been a two-way street.

“You in the building?” she asked.

“On two. You?”

“I'm in the basement. I'm coming up. I've got some interesting information to share.”

When she made the VCB, she discovered that M.C. had ordered a pizza. Extra-large. Extra-cheese. Extra-everything. Seeing it was after hours, she had also scored a six-pack of beer.

“That's a mighty big pizza, Detective. PMS week?”

A smile touched her mouth. “My brothers' idea of a joke. I order a small, they deliver this. Join me?”

“And here I was prepared to beg.”

Kitt dragged a chair to the other woman's desk. “You've been here all evening?”

“Almost. Had an errand to run earlier.”

Kitt simultaneously handed the fiber analysis report to M.C. and reached for a slice of the pie. “I must be psychic, I was just thinking about pizza.”

“Great minds and all that. What is this?”

“Fiber analysis from the Entzel and Vest scenes.” She popped the tab on the Diet Coke she had brought up with her. “Take a look.”

She did and a moment later, straightened. “Tyvek? Holy crap.”

Kitt cocked an eyebrow at the saying. “Not quite my sentiment, but close.”

After a moment, M.C. laid the report aside. “Interesting. Do you think he wears the coverall to the scene or puts it on there? Let's say, outside the girl's bedroom window?”

“My guess, wears it there. Puts the hood up outside her window.”

“Then, afterward, he destroys the garment. And any evidence on it that might link him to the crime.”

“Him,” Kitt agreed. “Or her.” M.C. straightened. “Excuse me?”

“I believe there's a strong chance the Copycat is female.” Kitt shared her theory with the other woman, starting with her observations of the locker's contents and finishing by recalling the traditional profile of a female serial killer.

M.C. sat back in her chair, bringing her beer with her. She took a long swallow, then rolled the can between her palms. “The Copycat a woman? Interesting.”

Kitt leaned forward. “I want to run one additional thought by you. Could the original SAK have been a cop?”

“You're joking, right?”

“I wish I was. I reviewed the transcript of my recorded conversations with Peanut. He knew about Todd. How? Who else knew he was a suspect?”

“Outside the department, damn few. ZZ. Sydney Dale. ZZ's wife.”

“Exactly. Of course, since I'm not officially on the case, take it for what you think it's worth.”

“You're back on.”

“First I've heard of it.”

“Limited involvement until I've finished going through all this.” She motioned with her hand to her desktop and computer. “I'm doing my best to plow through it tonight.”

Kitt cocked an eyebrow. “That come from Sal?”

“My recommendation to Sal was for full reinstatement. He added the caveat.”

“You want me to thank you?”

The edgy question landed between them. M.C. leaned forward, expression earnest. “I screwed up, Kitt. I'm sorry.”

“Because the search of Joe's turned up nothing?”

“No, because we're partners. It wouldn't matter if we had found a journal detailing the crimes, I would still be apologizing. This isn't about Joe. Or the case. It's about how you deserved to be treated.”

“And the search?”

“Let's just say, I don't believe Joe's as strong a suspect as I did.”

Kitt nodded, slightly mollified but unconvinced. She couldn't dismiss the things Brian had said about M.C. They had been friends a long time; he had earned her trust. Why would he lie to her?

“So, what do you think, Kitt? Can you work with me?”

She avoided the question with one of her own. “A better question might be, can you trust me?”

“I'll do my damnedest. How's that for honesty?”

“Not bad. Now it's my turn. I overheard your argument with Brian.”

M.C. stiffened. “I was afraid of that.”

Which would explain the sudden magnanimity.

Kitt recalled the last thing Brian had said,
“Are you threatening me, Detective?”

Her expression must have given her away because M.C. swore and stood. “I was afraid because I knew you'd get the wrong idea.”

“From what I heard, I'm not certain there could be a ‘right' idea. You had an affair with Brian?”

“Yes. Had. Years ago. I was a rookie and he was a detective in the VCB. He was separated from his wife.

“It was stupid,” M.C. continued. “I was young. Naive. I looked up to him…he was like a god. The hotshot, macho detective. He knew everything, had seen everything.”

Kitt remembered the younger Brian. Big and good-looking with the kind of swagger that screamed “I'm all that.” Female catnip.

“So, what happened?”

“I realized sleeping with a colleague was a mistake. He went back to his wife. No harm, no foul.”

“Until now?” M.C. frowned. “Yeah. And I don't get it. Years go by, we have a fine working relationship. Suddenly, he's all over me. Hitting on me. Following me. It's weird.”

It
was
weird, Kitt thought. That behavior certainly wasn't typical of the Brian she had known for years. He had always been a womanizer. A love 'em and leave 'em kind of Romeo. More faithful to his wife at some times than others.

But none of his affairs, that she knew of, had ever been serious. Certainly none had ever crossed this kind of line.

What was going on with Brian? Middle age and a crumbling marriage? Something more?

Or was M.C. lying?

“A word of advice, Kitt. Watch your back with that one.”

“What are you thinking?” M.C. asked.

“That it's time to go.” Kitt finished her slice of pizza and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “My tail's dragging.”

“That's it? You're not going to say anything else?”

Kitt met her gaze evenly. “I'm not certain what to say. Brian's my friend. My good friend.”

“Well,” she said, tone bitter, “you said you'd be honest.”

“I'm trying to be fair, too. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” M.C. crossed to the pizza box and closed the lid. “That's life.”

“M.C.? I—” Kitt bit back the conciliatory words she had been about to say. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Sure. See you then.”

Kitt exited the bureau, feeling as if she should say something more, but not knowing what. She knew M.C. felt she was taking Brian's side, but that wasn't the case. She simply wasn't siding with M.C., either. Weirdly, she didn't fully trust either of them right now.