Copycat (21 page)

Friday, March 17, 2006
6:10 p.m.

V
alerie Martin opened the door to her cottage-style home. It was located off Springbrook, near the junior college. Though still a well-respected area, it no longer had the cachet it once had. She wore her uniform, though she had changed into slippers. By her expression, M.C. suspected she recognized Kitt.

No doubt Kitt realized that as well, but she introduced herself, anyway. “Valerie, Kitt Lundgren. Joe's ex-wife.”

“I remember. We met at the leukemia event.” She glanced at M.C., then returned her gaze to Kitt's. “How can I help you?”

“This is my partner, Detective Riggio. We're here in an official capacity. May we come in?”

“Official capacity?” she repeated, eyes widening. “Is Joe…has something happened to—”

“Joe's fine,” Kitt said quickly. “May we come inside?”

“Of course.” Valerie stepped away from the door.

Kitt entered first; M.C. followed. The interior was homey and comfortable, with pretty feminine touches. Tami sat cross-legged on the floor, a box of markers and drawing pad on the coffee table in front of her. She didn't look up at them.

“Do you mind?” She looked toward the kitchen, which they could see from where they stood. “I was getting dinner together.”

They said they didn't and followed her to the other room. She had, indeed, been preparing dinner. Looked like leftover spaghetti and a salad. She crossed to her chopping board, picked up the knife and went back to work.

“You work at Hillcrest Hospital?” M.C. asked, though it wasn't a question. She still wore her hospital name tag.

“Yes. The pediatric ward.”

“Been there long?”

“My whole career.”

Kitt cleared her throat. “You're aware of the recent murders of three ten-year-old girls?”

The woman's movements stopped. She looked up, fear creeping into her eyes. “Yes.”

“We have reason to believe Tami may be in danger.”

The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered against the board. Without a word, she crossed to the kitchen door and opened it. She peered out, as if to reassure herself her daughter was fine, then turned back to them.

“What makes you…Why do you think this?”

M.C. sidestepped the question with one of her own. “Have you noticed anyone out of the ordinary lately? Someone hanging around, a stranger, or strange vehicle, in the neighborhood?”

“No.”

“Think carefully, Valerie. A face you registered seeing before, even a sense of being watched or followed.”

“I need to sit down.” Valerie crossed to one of the stools at the breakfast counter and sank onto it.

“I don't think…No,” she said again. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“Did a clown approach you at the leukemia event?”

She stared blankly at them. M.C. sensed she was working to process what they were telling her—and all the ramifications of it.

“He was selling balloons,” Kitt added.

“Tami had a balloon,” she said. “A pink one. Joe bought it for her, I think.”

M.C. glanced at her partner. To her credit, Kitt's expression registered nothing of the turmoil she must have been experiencing.

“Please,” Valerie said, “tell me why you suspect Tami's in danger.”

“We have no concrete proof that she is,” Kitt said gently. “I received a threat that spoke of little girls at the periphery of my life. Tami fits that description.”

Valerie pressed her lips together, though she looked slightly relieved.

“We aren't about to take any chances, Ms. Martin. With that in mind, I suggest you're extra-careful right now. Don't leave Tami alone, particularly at night. I suggest that until we catch this killer, you allow your daughter to sleep in your bedroom.”

She nodded, blinking rapidly, as if fighting tears. “I will. Thank you. If anything happened to Tami, I don't know what I'd…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at Kitt, cheeks pink. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Kitt said stiffly. “If you think of anything or notice anything out of the ordinary, don't hesitate to call us.”

The woman walked them to the door. This time, as they neared the girl, she peeked up at them and shyly smiled. M.C. smiled back. Most kids, including her nephew, would have had the TV blaring. She found it refreshing to see a child entertaining herself another way.

It had grown dark and Valerie flipped on the porch light for them. As they started across, M.C stopped and turned back. “Ms. Martin? How did you meet your fiancé?”

From the corners of her eyes, she saw Kitt look at her in surprise.

“At the hospital.”

“Surely not in the pediatric ward?”

“Actually, it was.” She smiled. “Joe came in to entertain the kids with magic tricks.”

“Magic tricks? Is he good?”

“Quite good. For an amateur.” M.C. glanced at Kitt. She was frowning. “That was nice of him,” she said.

“That's what I thought. The kids love him. It takes their minds off being in the hospital.”

“He still do that?”

“He comes in every couple of weeks. Once a month at the outside.”

M.C. thanked her again, and she and Kitt walked to the car. Once inside, she turned to Kitt. “Your ex is a magician?”

“Calling him a magician makes him sound professional. He does magic tricks, pretty basic sleight-of-hand stuff. It was a hobby.”

“He visit hospital children's wards before Sadie died?”

“When Sadie was in the hospital, he used to cheer her up with his tricks. Sometimes other kids came in to watch.”

M.C. didn't comment. She started the car and turned on the lights. As she pulled away from the curb, she noticed another vehicle half a block behind her do the same.

M.C. moved her gaze from the rearview mirror to the road. “That must have been difficult for you,” she said, changing the subject. “Her being engaged to your ex and all.”

“I'm fine.” The edge in Kitt's voice suggested otherwise. “Can we focus on the case?”

“Sure. Martin seemed on the up-and-up. Like a real nice lady who loves her kid a lot.”

M.C. navigated traffic, grateful the rush hour was over. “Did Joe hire ex-cons while you were married?”

“Not that I know of.” Kitt frowned. “First the magic tricks, now the ex-cons. What are you getting at?”

“Something's not right here.”

“Why? Because he does philanthropic work?” M.C. backed off, not quite ready to confront Kitt. “You want to get some dinner?”

“Thanks, but I'll pass. I'm beat.”

“That's cool. Tomorrow, same time same station?”

Kitt agreed, and after dropping her at the PSB, M.C. stopped at Mama Riggio's for takeout, but ended up eating in and catching up with her brothers' antics. In true Tony, Max and Frank fashion, when a couple of their single friends came in they introduced her, then wasted no time pointing out her fourth grade “geek squad” photo.

Why she still loved them, she had no clue.

She left the restaurant, climbed into her Explorer and headed for home. As she exited the parking lot, she noticed the lights of another car in the lot come on. A moment later, the other vehicle eased into traffic behind her.

M.C. frowned. Was someone following her?

As she drove, she kept watch on her “friend.” He stayed with her at a discreet three-car distance. She slowed, giving the driver a chance to pass. He didn't, instead falling back himself to maintain his distance.

The stoplight up ahead was about to change from yellow to red; instead of slowing to a stop, she hit the gas and sped through. She saw in the rearview that her shadow, if he or she had even been one, had been forced to stop at the light. She made a turn, then several more. Certain she was no longer being tailed, she headed home.

Hours later, unable to sleep, she stood at her front window. She couldn't stop thinking about the events of the day, couldn't shake the question of whether Joe Lundgren's involvement with Buddy Brown was more than that of employer and employee.

As she gazed at the street, a car cruised slowly past her house. A Ford. Like the one that had pulled out after her earlier tonight, when she'd left the restaurant. And before, at Valerie Martin's.

An unmarked police car.

Someone was keeping tabs on her.

Who?

Without turning on the porch light, she slipped out of the house and crossed to the far end of the porch. From that vantage point, she'd be able to answer that question when the driver passed under the streetlight.

She didn't have to wait long. As if the driver had simply made a loop of her block, he rolled by again. And as she had predicted, she got a clear look at the man behind the wheel.

It was Lieutenant Brian Spillare.

Saturday, March 18, 2006
8:10 a.m.

W
hen M.C. called, Kitt was on her third cup of coffee and still trying to shake the cobwebs out. She had stayed up most of the night, reviewing Brown's file. Picking it apart. Nothing in it suggested great skill or intelligence. A two-time loser, he seemed to have been picked up for everything he'd ever done. He more than likely would have spent most of his life behind bars if not for lawyers and legal loopholes.

“Yo,” Kitt answered.

Her partner didn't mince words. “They found Brown. But before you get too excited, he's dead.”

It took Kitt a moment to process that. When she had, she hurried to the bathroom. “How?”

“Only know where. Paige Park.”

“Son of a bitch!” She pulled down her pajama bottoms and sat on the toilet. “You on your way out there?”

“Pulling myself together. Are you peeing? That's so gross.”

“It was an emergency.” She stood, flushed and crossed to the sink. “So sue me.”

“I'll think about it. See you out there.”

Twenty minutes later Kitt pulled up next to M.C.'s Explorer. Anna Paige Park was located on the far north side of town. If a body was going to surface in a park in Rockford, Paige Park would head the list.

Kitt climbed out of her battered Taurus, clutching a travel mug of coffee. Her partner stood beside her vehicle, hands stuffed into the pockets of her down vest.

“You look like hell,” M.C. said.

“Here's a clue, so do you.”

She smiled grimly. “I blame the job. It sucks.”

“How's a girl going to get her beauty sleep?” M.C.'s smile was sudden and took Kitt by surprise. “Exactly.”

They crossed to the first officer and signed the log. Outdoor sites posed specific investigative problems. Rain and wind destroyed evidence. Wild animals had been known to decimate crime scenes, including the body. Weather conditions altered the decomposition process.

When it came to crime-scene investigation, nothing beat the two
C
's—control and containment.

“What've we got?” she asked.

“Body in a gully, just beyond that ridge of trees. Jogger and his golden retriever found him. One Buddy Brown. Wallet was on him. Cash in the wallet.”

“How much?”

“Enough to buy a fifth of something cheap or dinner at McDonald's.”

Robbery hadn't been a motive.

“Anything else?”

“Looks like he was killed at another location and dumped here.”

“Great.”

“All the appropriate parties are on their way. My partner's with the body.”

They nodded and started for the ridge, consisting of thick pines and spindly hardwood trees. Pine straw, leaves and other natural debris crackled under their feet—the same debris with which the killer had attempted to conceal the body.

Kitt and M.C. started down the hill. The uniform lifted a hand in greeting and they crossed to him, introducing themselves.

“You two are the first.”

“Lucky us.” Kitt crossed to the body, squatted down beside it. He lay faceup on a black tarp. The killer hadn't bothered digging a hole, had simply covered him with the leaves.

He hadn't been too worried about the body being uncovered.

She recognized Brown from the pictures in his file. Medium-size man—midtwenties. Medium complexion. Brown eyes and hair.

She gazed at him, working to picture him as the one who had taunted her, calling himself Peanut. The man who had arrogantly described his crimes as “perfect.”

He looked like every other, quite ordinary, penny-ante criminal.

“He's been dead a while,” M.C. said, squatting beside her.

“Mmm.” The decomposition process was, indeed, well under way.

“Got a guess?”

“Too many variables, I know I'll be off. But it wasn't yesterday, that's for certain.”

Which meant Buddy Brown had not been the one on the phone with her.

Which changed things dramatically once again.

Exactly when he had died would be established by the pathologist. Kitt moved her gaze over the victim. “No gunshot wound, no blood.”

From behind them came the sound of ID arriving. Kitt glanced over her shoulder. Sorenstein and Snowe. The pathologist, Frances Roselli.

She stood, M.C. with her. “Day late and a dollar short,” she called. “Couldn't drag yourselves out of the sack?”

“Bite me,” Sorenstein answered. “It's Saturday.”

As they neared, Kitt saw that with the exception of the pathologist, the men looked a bit green. The smell of the victim was not helping their condition.

“Overdo it last night?” she teased. “No one to blame but yourself.”

“Kiss mine,” Snowe grumbled.

“This your suspect?” Sorenstein asked. “The ex-con?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Bad news travels fast.”

“Neck was broken,” pathologist said. He squatted and pointed. “See the angle of the head?”

“Think that's what killed him?”

“Doesn't make much sense to break somebody's neck after they're already dead, but you never know.”

“How long you think he's been this way?”

For a long moment, the pathologist was quiet. “It's been dry. Cool. That'd slow the process. I'm thinking two to three weeks, depending. Autopsy will give us a more specific time.” He glanced at Sorenstein. “And whatever's feasting on this sorry shit.”

Snowe laughed. “Ready to go buggy, buddy?”

Sorenstein hunched deeper into his jacket. “Damn, I hate this job.”

Kitt and M.C. backed off to let the others do their thing.

Two to three weeks? Three weeks ago Julie Entzel had been alive.

M.C. turned to her. “What now?”

“Figure out the connection between the SAK, Copycat and Buddy Brown.”

“And you,” M.C. added.

And me, Kitt silently agreed.