Copycat (25 page)

She made her way to the elevator, which took her to the parking garage. As she crossed to her vehicle, she remembered her waiting message. She checked it. It was from Brian.

“Kitt. It's me. I did a little nosing around. You're not going to believe what I found. Call me on my cell.”

Monday, March 20, 2006
8:30 p.m.

E
xcited, Kitt jumped into her vehicle. The message could mean only one thing—Brian had found something that might implicate a cop in the SAK and Copycat cases. After buckling up and starting the engine, she dialed him back. The device went automatically to his voice mail.

“Dammit, Brian, don't leave me that kind of voice mail, then go into hiding. Call me back.”

Thirty minutes later, home and changed into her comfortable jeans, he still hadn't called. She tried his cell again with the same results. Frustrated, she decided to try Ivy. Maybe he was with his kids. Or reconciling with his wife.

If she struck out there, she would begin trying his hangouts. No doubt he was at one of them.

She dialed the man's home number. His wife answered. “Hi, Ivy. It's Kitt Lundgren.”

“Hello, Kitt. Brian's not here.”

“He told me you guys were separated. How're you doing?”

“Great.” A bitter note crept into her tone. “For a fortysomething, soon-to-be-divorced woman.”

“I'm really sorry.”

“Me, too. I just wish I'd divorced him years ago.”

“Maybe he'll change? Once he realizes you mean it.”

“He won't change, Kitt. Old dog. Hound dog.”

For a moment, Kitt was silent. It was true. She wished she could console the woman, but Brian had been a womanizer as long as she had known him. “He does love you, Ivy.”

“He has a unique way of showing it, doesn't he?”

Kitt felt bad for the other woman. She wanted to remind her that at least she had her children, but knew the comment wouldn't be appreciated. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

“He's got his cell phone.”

“He didn't answer. Any idea where he's staying?”

“Same crappy dump where he used to rendezvous with his girlfriends, the jerk. The Starlight, on Sixth Street.”

She knew the place. It
was
a crappy dump. The kind of place that could be rented out by the hour.

“Thanks, Ivy. If you hear from him, let him know I called.”

The woman didn't respond, just hung up.

Things were bad between them.

Kitt called the Starlight's front desk. She learned Brian was, indeed, registered there. She asked the man to ring his room.

He did. And after fifteen rings without an answer, she hung up and called the deskman back. “He didn't answer. Have you seen him this evening?”

“I haven't looked, lady.”

“Is his car in the lot?”

For a long moment, the man said nothing. Then he let out a patient-sounding sigh. “I don't spy on the guests. If you've got worries about your old man, get your sagging ass down here yourself.” With that, he hung up.

What, did her voice sound like it was attached to a sagging derriere?

She redialed. He answered on the second ring, voice wary.

“This is Detective Kitt Lundgren with the Rockford Police Department,” she said. “I'm trying to reach one of your guests.
Lieutenant
Brian Spillare. Since he's not answering his phone, I need you to check the parking lot for his vehicle. This is not a negotiable request. Is that clear?”

The man's voice took on a whiny edge. “How would I know which car is his? We got lots of—”

“It's a blue Pontiac Grand Am. You took his plate number when he checked in. Look for it. Now.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to argue. He didn't. “Hang on,” he said, then put her on hold.

A couple of minutes later, he returned. “It's here. You need anything else before I go back to my job?”

She ignored the sarcasm, already on her way to her vehicle. “What room's the lieutenant in?”

“Two-ten.”

She ended the call and slid into her Taurus, thoughts racing.

Brian's car in the lot. No answer on his cell or the room phone.

“I did a little nosing around. We need to talk.”

She didn't like the feeling that settled in the pit of her gut. A vague uneasiness. A feeling that something wasn't right.

As she sped toward Sixth Street, Kitt tried to reason it away. He could be currently involved in one of those “rendezvous” Ivy had mentioned. Or out with one of his RPD drinking buddies, who had driven.

But a detective answered his cell, radio or beeper. Always, no matter what he was in the middle of. It was a cardinal rule of police work. She'd been called out of church, movies, dinners out. While making love with her husband.

Brian was in trouble.

She made it to the Starlight in good time. She leaped out of her car and ran up the stairwell to the second floor. She reached 210 and tapped on the door. From inside came the sound of the TV. “Brian! It's Kitt.”

He didn't answer and she knocked again, harder. When he still didn't reply, she tried the knob. And found the door unlocked.

Her unease growing, taking on a horrible form, Kitt drew her weapon. With her free hand, she eased the door open.

A cry slipped past her lips. Brian lay on his back in the doorway, eyes open, vacant. He was shirtless; he'd been shot twice in the chest. A pool of blood ringed his body.

She crossed to him. With shaking hands, she checked his pulse. She found none and stepped away, a hand to her mouth.

Her mind raced. A knot of tears choked her. Kitt turned her back toward her friend, unclipped her cell phone and dialed the CRU. It took three tries before she could say the words clearly enough for the woman to understand.

“Officer fatality. Starlight Motel, Sixth Street and Eighteenth Avenue.”

Monday, March 20, 2006
10:20 p.m.

M.C.
roared into the motel parking lot. She was not the first to arrive; parking spots were scarce already. Patrol cars. The coroner's Suburban. Vehicles she recognized as unmarked police cars. News of a fatality involving a police officer spread fast. No doubt Sal and Sergeant Haas were on the scene already; the chief of police himself would make an appearance.

An officer was down. A lieutenant.

M.C. simply stopped her SUV and climbed out. Heart thundering, she slammed the door and hurried toward the stairs, pausing only long enough to sign in.

Kitt had called her, told her what happened. Bluntly, without emotion.

M.C. hadn't been fooled. Kitt and Brian had been partners. Good friends. She was taking this hard.

M.C. reached the second floor. A number of officers milled about on the covered walkway, anxious, awaiting word—of what had happened, how they could help. Nobody spoke. The silence was grim.

M.C. crossed to the officer manning the door. She showed him her ID and he waved her in. Her first look at Brian knocked the wind out of her. She stopped cold, fighting to regain her equilibrium.

She had seen him just that morning. Very much alive. Bigger than life.

She had been angry. Furious.

“Try it and you'll regret it, I promise you that.”

“Are you threatening me, Detective?”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

Mouth dry at the memory, she lifted her gaze. Kitt stood to the right of Brian, silently watching as the forensic pathologist examined him. She looked up. M.C. lifted a hand in greeting and made her way toward her.

“How are you?” she asked when she reached her.

“Not great.”

“I'm sorry.”

She nodded, glanced away, then back. “This afternoon I asked Brian to look into any police officer who might have had a grudge against the department. This evening, he left me a message saying he'd found something. That's how I ended up here.”

“My God—” M.C. lowered her voice “—you believe this somehow relates to the SAK or Copycat?”

“Yes. I'm thinking Brian might've questioned the wrong person about it.”

M.C. digested that. “His death coming on the heels of your conversation and his message could be a co…”

She let the word—
coincidence
—trail off. It was almost too preposterous to utter.

They fell silent. M.C. moved her gaze over the room. The TV was on. ESPN, she saw. His shoulder holster, with holstered weapon, hung on the back of the desk chair. The shooter had caught him mid–Big Mac. The bag and food sat on the bed by the remote. Two Miller long-necks, one empty, the other half-drunk, sat on the nightstand by the bed.

His cell phone was attached to his hip.

The sound of the teams climbing the stairs filled the quiet. ID, M.C. thought. Sure enough, a moment later, ID Detective Sorenstein and Sergeant Campo entered the room.

Kitt glanced from them, to her. “Anybody besides me overhear your argument with Brian?” she asked quietly.

The elephant in the middle of the room.
M.C. appreciated her bringing it up. “Not that I know of. But that doesn't mean no one did.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“You've never hesitated before.”

“This could cause you problems. Head it off. Go to Sal. Tell him everything before he asks.”

The thought of revealing her affair to the chief made M.C. squirm. It would go on her permanent record; a mistake that would shadow her for the rest of her career. “There's nothing to tell. I had nothing to do with this.”

It was their last opportunity to speak privately. Sal and Sergeant Haas arrived. They caught sight of her and Kitt and started toward them. M.C. noticed how the chief kept his gaze fixed on them, never lighting on Brian's body.

“Detectives,” he said by way of greeting, then turned fully to Kitt. “Brief me.”

“Brian left me a message. I couldn't get him on his cell, so I tracked him down here.”

“Here?”

“He and Ivy were separated. I called her, she told me where he was staying. I found him this way, checked his pulse and called in.”

Sal nodded and turned to the pathologist. “Anything you can tell us, Frances?”

“Judging by the gunpowder tattooing around the bullet wound, the shooter was standing no more than eighteen inches away.” He indicated the gunpowder particles imbedded in a circular pattern in the skin around the bullet hole. “I haven't a doubt that's what killed him. First bullet entered in the lung area, the second his heart. I'm guessing the order by the tattooing. First bullet hit and Lieutenant Spillare took a step backward. Changing the shot's distance changed the gunpowder pattern.”

“How long ago?” Sal asked.

“Not long. A few hours. Temperature and stomach contents will help us pinpoint the time.” Roselli stood and removed his gloves. “He gets priority, of course.”

“He knew his killer,” Sergeant Haas said.

“I agree.” Sal turned to Kitt. “The scenario seems pretty clear. He opened the door and was shot.”

Considering the scenario and the fact she was the one who had found Brian, she came under suspicion. Kitt un-sheathed her weapon and held it, grip out, for the superior officers. “My weapon,” she said.

Every time a gun was discharged, particles of primer and burned gunpowder deposited on the hands of the shooter, as well as the barrel of the gun. Sergeant Haas took the gun, examined it for such residue, then handed it back. “Keep it for now.”

“Thank you, Sarge,” she said, and reholstered it. “There's something else about tonight.” Kitt glanced her way and for one horrifying moment M.C. thought she was going to tell them about her affair with Brian. “About the message he left me. Could we step outside?”

They agreed and headed out onto the walkway. As it was far from private, they took the stairs to the first floor, then crossed to stand beside Kitt's Taurus.

“This afternoon I approached Lieutenant Spillare with a theory. That the SAK was a cop.”

Sal narrowed his eyes and Sergeant Haas drew a sharp breath. “And what led you to this theory?”

She repeated what she had told M.C. earlier that evening. “I reviewed the tapes of my calls from Peanut. He knew about Derrick Todd, that we were ‘chasing our tails.' He understands the process. That's how he got away with his crimes. He takes great pride in that. As if he has something to prove to us. A chip on his shoulder.”

“He could be a crime or police buff. Or have family in law enforcement.”

“All true. But he could also be a cop, or former cop, with an ax to grind with the department, some sort of grudge.”

She paused, as if to give them a moment to comment. When they didn't, she went on. “Brian offered to check employment records, see if any names popped up.”

She drew a breath, moved her gaze between the two men. “In his message, Brian said he had ‘nosed' around. That he needed to talk to me.”

Her two superiors were silent a moment, as if digesting what she'd said. “You saved the message?”

“Absolutely.”

Sal swore suddenly. “Trace Lieutenant Spillare's steps. I want to know who he talked to, every file he opened, every piece of paper he touched. If a cop's responsible for this, I'll tear him apart myself.”