Copycat (10 page)

Saturday, March 11, 2006
12:05 a.m.

M.C.
found Kitt at her desk, reading a printout. “You said you were right behind me,” M.C. said, acknowledging her irritation. But at what? Having been outworked by the other woman? Or having been pulled away from an enjoyable evening?

Kitt looked up. M.C. saw her excitement. “I meant to be. Just kept punching in ‘one more name.' Our man Derrick popped up at the bottom of the list. Last man, in fact.”

Kitt handed her the printout. “Twenty-four years old. A maintenance engineer at the Fun Zone. Skills he probably acquired in the pen. Did two years at Big Muddy River for indecent liberties with a child.”

Big Muddy River was a correctional facility with a treatment program for sex offenders. “When did he get out?”

“Less than a year ago. Which works with our theory that the SAK and his copycat met in the joint.”

M.C. flipped through the pages, frowning. It was all petty stuff. Shoplifting. Truancy. DUI. Possession. Then the sex offense.

But it painted a picture of a kid sliding downhill.

“He would have had to register. Probably quarterly.” Working at a place like the Fun Zone was a violation, just like living within five hundred feet of a school or volunteering as a Little League coach would be.

Mr. Todd was going back to prison, ASAP.

“How in the hell did this guy slip through the Fun Zone's screening process?” M.C. asked.

“Good question. One I suggest we get an answer to. Think ZZ's up?”

“I'd bet not. But I'd be happy to get him up. Besides, I'm an old friend, how annoyed could he get?”

Pretty damn annoyed, it turned out. His wife answered the door; she nearly fainted when she learned they were cops. She called ZZ, who stumbled out of the bedroom, looking dazed and confused. The commotion awakened the baby, who began to wail. Which in turn woke the toddler, who appeared at the top of the stairs, crying.

“Mary Catherine?” he said, blinking at her, then Kitt. “Detective?”

Kitt grabbed the lead. “I apologize for the hour, Mr. Zuba, but we have a few questions that couldn't wait until morning.”

ZZ's wife stopped halfway up the stairs, expression frozen with fear. “Zed?”

“It's okay, Judy. Take care of the kids.”

She hesitated a moment, then hurried up the last few stairs and scooped the toddler up. When she had disappeared from sight, ZZ turned back to them. “Kitchen,” he said, pointing.

They followed him and all sat at the round oak table, which still bore the evidence of an evening meal with very young children.

The bleary-eyed manager looked at them. “You scared the crap out of my wife. This had better be good.”

“Again, Mr. Zuba,” Kitt said, “I apologize for the hour. It was necessary, however. In an investigation like this, every minute—”

“Counts,” M.C. said, jumping in. “What if it were one of your kids? Would you want the police to wait until everybody had their full eight hours?”

The man looked less disgruntled. “No, of course not. You want coffee or anything?”

They both refused; M.C. began. “What can you tell us about Derrick Todd?” she asked.

“Derrick?” he repeated, appearing genuinely surprised. “He's all right. A quiet guy. Keeps to himself.”

“You hire him?”

“No. Our owner did. He came highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I don't know.”

M.C. cocked an eyebrow. “But you were the Fun Zone's manager at the time?”

He nodded and yawned. “I was pretty new, though. Just on board, I don't know, a matter of months.”

“He go through the usual employment screenings?”

ZZ straightened slightly, as if he was finally awake enough to realize what was going on. “Can't say for certain. I was new and Derrick was the owner's hire.”

“As maintenance engineer, how much interaction does Derrick Todd have with Fun Zone patrons?”

ZZ shifted uncomfortably. “He's on the floor a lot. Maintenance engineer covers a lot of territory for us. Janitorial. Game repair. Sound system, coin and drink machines. Not heavy-duty repair, you understand, but tinkering. He's good at that.”

“What would you say if I told you Derrick Todd is a registered sex offender?”

The manager's expression would have been comical in a different situation. “That's impossible. Derrick can be surly sometimes, but…he's good with the kids, just has a way with…”

His words trailed off. Maybe he heard how they sounded. Or maybe he had heard the stats about pedophiles: that they “loved” kids, that they chose jobs or professions that put them in contact with children, that they could not be rehabilitated.

“Zed? Is everything all right?”

They looked toward the doorway. Judy stood there, expression concerned. It was no wonder; ZZ looked like he was going to throw up.

“Everything's fine, Mrs. Zuba,” Kitt responded, standing. “We apologize for disturbing your family.”

“Is this about those girls who were killed?”

“They say Derrick's a registered sex offender.”

She brought a hand to her mouth. “My God. He's been over to the house.”

M.C. followed her partner to her feet. She passed behind her old friend's chair and patted his shoulder. “You should call Max. I know he'd love to hear from you.”

He nodded but didn't rise. M.C. suspected he was busy dealing with the ramifications of this information getting out. And even worse, what would happen if Derrick turned out to have killed Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest?

When M.C. reached the kitchen doorway, she glanced back at ZZ. “The Fun Zone's owner, Mr. Dale, does he live around here?”

His wife answered. “He lives on the east side. In that swanky neighborhood, Brandywine Estates.”

Moments later, they were outside, heading toward the car. “Interesting,” M.C. said. “Hired by the boss, coming ‘highly recommended.' We'll definitely need to talk to Mr. Dale in the morning.”

“Why do tomorrow what we could tonight? If he's not awake already, he will be in a matter of minutes.”

When ZZ called.
M.C. suspected her old friend wouldn't waste a minute notifying his employer of the turn of events. She just prayed ZZ's story was true and that he hadn't been lying to save his ass.

They reached the Explorer, unlocked it and climbed inside. “I suggest we let Mr. Dale stew a bit. Besides, a rich guy like him has an army of lawyers to call when he gets pissed off.” M.C. started the car. “Let's pay the kid a visit instead.”

Derrick Todd rented in a neighborhood that aspired to “crummy.” To get to it, they passed Lance's diner. As they did, M.C. smiled to herself.

“What?” Kitt asked.

“Nothing.”

She cocked an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. “When I called, what were you doing? Not home sleeping.”

“Eating. Cream pie. Four different kinds.”

“Sounds like somebody has an issue with sweets. Have you tried to find help?”

“What makes you think it's
my
issue with sweets?”

“Want to tell me about him?” Kitt asked.

“Hardly.”

“Not even a name?”

“Nope.”

“That's what I love about this partnership,” Kitt said, tone dry, “the sharing and camaraderie.” She pointed to the intersection up ahead. “Right turn there.”

They came upon the building in a matter of minutes. Ramshackle. Overgrown. Just the kind of place one would expect a twenty-four-year-old ex-con to live.

M.C. cruised to a stop in front of the apartment building. Light showed from several windows. “Should we go in?”

“I'm thinking yes.” Kitt checked her weapon. “You?”

“Absolutely.”

“Flashlight?”

“Yup.” She opened the glove box. “Got it.”

They exited the vehicle and made their way up the walk to the building's front doors. The structure itself was a big rectangle-shaped box. Brick. Built in the forties, M.C. guessed. Probably a pretty nice place in those days. Never the Ritz, but certainly not the dump it was now.

The interior hallway was dimly illuminated by the one bulb that wasn't burned out. It smelled musty, as if it needed a good airing out, and of someone's dinner.

Cabbage, M.C. guessed. Nasty stuff. Luckily, Italians didn't eat a lot of cooked cabbage.

“Third floor,” Kitt murmured. “Unit D.”

They climbed the stairs and made their way down the corridor to D. Music spilled from the apartment across the hall. Kitt rapped on Todd's door. It creaked, then swung open.

Kitt glanced at M.C., who nodded. Kitt drew her weapon, then rapped on the door again, pushing it wider with her foot. “Derrick Todd?” she called. “Police.”

Nothing. M.C. snapped on the pencil light and directed it into the interior. A crappy dump. Kid was no housekeeper, either.

Kitt looked at her again, for confirmation. M.C. nodded. “Door was open. Justifiable entry. We were concerned about the man's health.”

Kitt turned back to the apartment. “We're coming in, Mr. Todd. Just to make sure you're okay.”

Yeah, right.
M.C. drew her weapon. They made their way into the apartment.

There was little to it other than the front room. Kid slept on a dirty-looking futon. The small bathroom didn't even have a tub, just a stand-up shower. The place was a mess, but not the kind that indicated foul play.

M.C. itched to take advantage of the situation and initiate a real search. But anything they found would then be inadmissible—and their asses would be in a major, big-time sling.

If Todd proved to be a good suspect—which she believed he would—securing a search warrant would be a piece of cake.

Back in the hallway, Kitt belted the flashlight. She repositioned the door as they had found it. Music still blasted from the neighbor's apartment. Other than that the floor was quiet.

They made their way downstairs and outside. After they had climbed into the SUV, Kitt turned to her. “Want to hang around? See if Todd shows up?”

“I'm game.”

“You got anything to eat in this vehicle?”

“Bag of nuts and some soy chips.”

“Soy chips?” Kitt repeated. “Very uncoplike. Now, if you'd said pork rinds or pretzels, I might have bought it.”

M.C. opened the console compartment, pulled out two snack bags. “Something's got to balance all my mother's pasta. They're actually not bad.”

“I'll take the nuts. Thanks.”

M.C. watched the woman rip open the bag and begin to eat. She most probably hadn't had a thing since the sandwich and chips late that afternoon.

She was an interesting woman, M.C. decided. Certainly not the “head case” she had labeled her. She was extremely focused. Smart. Ambitious. She could see how those traits could, under the right circumstances, mushroom into obsession.

The right circumstances.
The death of your own child, the murder of several others, an elusive killer and a pressure-cooker investigation.

Kitt shook out some nuts, popped them into her mouth. “Cashews. My favorite.”

“Mine, too. A guilty pleasure.”

Kitt nodded as she munched on the nuts. “Weight's never been one of my issues. Don't know why. I enjoy eating.”

“It's my heritage,” M.C. said. “Italian women get to a certain age and unless they're careful, they get round. Very round.”

“Your Mom?”

“Round. Very.”

“My Mom was svelte until the day she died.”

“When was that?”

“A couple years ago.”

Her daughter. Her marriage. Her mother. She had lost them all in a matter of a few years. M.C. couldn't imagine. “I'm sorry.”

She said the words, though they felt lame to her own ears. Inadequate.

Kitt didn't reply. They fell silent.

After several moments, Kitt asked, “How do you want to do this? Shifts?”

“Okay by me.” M.C. glanced at her watch. “One hour or two?”

“Let's shoot for two. You sleep first. I'm wide-awake.” M.C. agreed, though she wasn't sleepy, either. Mind racing, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Beside her Kitt hummed very softly under her breath. A lullaby, M.C. realized.

As she listened, she wondered what made Kitt Lundgren tick.

Saturday, March 11, 2006
8:30 a.m.

D
errick Todd never showed. Kitt could offer a number of different scenarios for why, but she feared any minute she would get a call informing her that another girl was dead.

After all, the Copycat didn't just kill his victims, he spent the night with them.

She and M.C. had decided that their best course of action would be to station a uniform at Todd's apartment, freeing them to move on. They needed to fill in the chief, acquire both a search and arrest warrant for Todd, and interview the Fun Zone's owner. Food, a shower and change of clothes were high on Kitt's list of priorities as well. They arranged to rendezvous back at the PSB.

Kitt beat the younger woman there and used the time to retrieve Mr. Dale's address from the computer.

“I'm starting to get a complex.”

Kitt looked over her shoulder at M.C. “About what?”

“You outwork me last night, this morning you manage to eat, shower and change clothes at the speed of light. How'd you do it?”

Smiling, Kitt stood. “I keep a change of clothes in my locker here. I showered in the ladies' dressing room, ate peanut-butter crackers from the vending machine and fortified myself with a cup of been-sitting-in-the-pot-all-night coffee.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're an overachiever?”

“Once or twice.” Clearly, M.C. had a competitive streak. Amused, Kitt crossed to her. She held out the address. “Brandywine Estates, just like ZZ's wife said. You want to drive or should I?”

“I will.” M.C. snatched the paper from her. “And snack crackers for breakfast is not a healthy start. You'll be hungry in an hour.”

Roy Lynde, the detective at the desk across the aisle from Kitt's, chuckled and M.C. sent him an annoyed glance. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing.” He held up his hands as if warding off an attack. “Just hanging out, watching the show.”

That brought guffaws from a couple of other guys. One of them said, “Looks like somebody's met her match.”

Roy piped up again. “Don't take it personal, Riggio. Even Wonder Woman comes up short sometimes.”

Kitt saw her partner's jaw tighten but didn't comment until they were headed down the corridor for the elevator. “Want some advice?” she asked.

“Not particularly.”

“You know I'm going to offer it, anyway.”

“I'd prefer if you didn't.”

“Don't take it all so seriously. Lighten up, sometimes.”

M.C. stopped, looked at her, expression incredulous. “
You're
telling
me
to lighten up?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“For obvious reasons, yes.”

“Obvious reasons?” Kitt said, keeping her voice low. “You mean ones like outworking and out-investigating you? Or being able to take a joke?”

M.C. flushed. “Let's see, Detective Intensity, you basically ‘go postal' over the SAK case, blow it and several others, climb into a bottle and end up suspended. By the grace of God—or some mighty powerful strings—you're back at work and I'm stuck with you. Yeah, I have a problem with you telling me to lighten up.”

They glared at each other. Kitt acknowledged being angry—as much at herself as Riggio. For letting the woman engage her and for stepping into the “wise mentor” role in the first place. If Mary Catherine Riggio wanted to be humorless and unlikable, it was her life.

“You know what, Riggio? We have to work together, so get over it.”

Kitt didn't give her a chance to respond; she turned and started for the elevator. M.C. fell into step beside her. They reached the elevator and simultaneously moved to punch the call button. Same for the floor number.

They didn't speak again until they were halfway across town. Kitt broke the silence first. “My daughter died. My marriage fell apart. I didn't handle it well. You called it ‘going postal.' Whatever. It's in the past. Or at least, I'm working hard to put it there.”

For a long moment, Riggio didn't respond. When she did, her voice was tight. “I overreacted,” she said finally. “Being taken seriously is a big deal for me. I had to fight for it all my life.” She paused. “I shouldn't have said those things to you.”

“Fact of the matter is, neither one of us was lying,” Kitt answered.

M.C. smiled suddenly. “If we ever need to speak in code, you're ‘Going postal.'”

“And you're ‘Taking a joke.'”

“But I still don't trust you to watch my back.”

“Ditto.”

The remainder of the drive passed in silence. But a less prickly one this time, one Kitt used to assemble her questions for Sydney Dale.

Mr. Dale, they discovered, lived in a large, contemporary home. The house sat on a beautifully landscaped lot—two acres or more, Kitt guessed, with pool, cabana and natural pond with rock waterfall.

They parked in the circular drive, behind a white BMW convertible. They crossed to the door, but before they could ring the bell, it swung open. An attractive teenage girl ducked past them, blond ponytail swinging. She trotted to the BMW, slid inside and started it up.

As the engine roared to life, a man thundered out the door, nearly knocking Kitt down. “Sam!” he shouted. “I did not give you permission to—”

“Gotta go, Dad. I'm late!” The teen stepped on the gas and sped down the drive.

Kitt watched, part amused, part disgusted.
Classic case of teen ruling the roost. When she was growing up, either of her parents would have chased her down, then soundly kicked her butt.

“Mr. Sydney Dale?” M.C. asked.

He looked at them then, as if just realizing they were there. “Yes?”

He was a big man, though not particularly attractive. His nose occupied too much of his face, and his pitted skin spoke of teenage years besieged by acne.

A problem his daughter did not have. Of course, these days well-heeled parents spared no expense on their spoiled children: facials, professional manicures and pedicures, salon styling Kitt couldn't even afford. She had even heard about breast augmentation as high school graduation gifts.

Geez. Her Mom had given her a ten-karat-gold cross necklace.

Kitt showed him her shield. “Detective Lundgren, Rockford Police Department. My partner, Detective Riggio.”

M.C. flashed her badge; the man didn't even glance at it. “I was wondering when you'd get here. And just to let you know up-front, I've already spoken to my lawyer about this matter.”

Typical rich asshole.
“What matter is that?” Kitt asked.

“My employment of Derrick Todd, of course. Isn't that why you're here?”

“It is. I guess my confusion stems from why you'd think you'd need to consult a lawyer over a few questions about one of your employees.”

He frowned. “Don't play games with me, Detective. We both know why a man like me would consult with his lawyer over this. I have a lot to lose from liars, scam artists or bad press.”

That was true, and she appreciated his candor. “And what did your lawyer advise you to do, Mr. Dale?”

“Answer your questions honestly and help you in any way I could, then send you on your way.”

“That sounds fine to us, Mr. Dale.”

He closed the door behind him. “My wife's still sleeping.”

Lucky her.
Kitt took out her spiral-bound notepad. “I understand you own the Fun Zone.”

“Yes. It's one of my investments. I leave the running of it, including the hiring and firing, to my manager.”

“Mr. Zuba.”

“Yes.”

“You say you leave the ‘hiring and firing' to your manager, but that's not always true. Is that right?”

He hesitated, just slightly. “Once in a while I offer suggestions.”

“As you did with Derrick Todd?”

Again, he hesitated. “Yes.”

“Mr. Zuba told us you ‘highly recommended' Mr. Todd.”

“I did. He was our yard and pool boy for several years. He did a good job, seemed like a nice kid. He quit when he went back to school.”

“Where'd he go?”

“RVC.”

Rock Valley College was a local junior college. Many a high school senior from the area attended “The Rock,” as they called it, before moving on to a four-year university. The school also drew older students, looking to better their chances in the work force.

“When was this?”

He thought a minute. “Four, four-and-a-half years ago.”

Kitt glanced at M.C. She was watching the man carefully, gauging his truthfulness by his body language and eye movement.

“Then what happened?”

“He approached me about a job. I promised I'd see if there was anything available at one of my business endeavors. The Fun Zone had an opening. I recommended Mr. Zuba consider him for it.”

“And that's it?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't tell your manager to hire Mr. Todd on your recommendation alone?”

“Without a background or criminal check? That would be very stupid, don't you think?”

“I do, Mr. Dale. But somehow that's what happened.”

“I certainly don't know how.” He glanced away, then back at her. “Some sort of communication foul-up, I suppose.”

Kitt's hackles rose. He sounded almost bored. “That
communication foul-up
may have cost two young girls their lives.”

He blinked quickly, three times. She had hit a button with that one. Why? Guilt? Or fear?

“So, you had no idea that Derrick Todd had run afoul of the law after leaving your original employ?”

“Would I have recommended him if I had?”

He all but bristled with indignation. Kitt cocked an eyebrow. “I don't know, Mr. Dale. Would you have?”

“I have nothing more to tell you, Detectives. If I could help you more, I would.”

Yeah, right. And pigs fly.

They thanked the man and headed for M.C.'s car. When they were buckled in and on their way, Kitt looked at M.C. “Did you notice he never commented on the reason we were investigating Todd? Never expressed regret, concern or denial?”

“Yeah, I noticed. He was too busy covering his own ass. Prick.”

Kitt nodded as they turned onto Riverside Drive. “If it turns out Todd is guilty of the Copycat murders, Dale's making certain your friend ZZ takes the fall.”

“He had his story down pat, no doubt about it. What a sweetheart.”

“Let's run Mr. Dale through the computer, see if he's as fine and upstanding as he'd like us to believe.”

M.C. nodded. “But first, let's swing by the Fun Zone and have another chat with ZZ. Give him a little heads-up. See if his story changes.”

They arrived at the Fun Zone before the doors officially opened for the day. ZZ and his employees were busy readying themselves for the Saturday onslaught of screaming kids.

He looked anything but happy to see them.

“Could we have a word in private?”

He nodded. “Come on back.”

When they reached his office, M.C. didn't mince words. “ZZ, we have a problem. Your boss insists he only recommended you look at Todd. Not that you hire him. And certainly not that you skip any of the screening process.”

ZZ blanched. “That's not true. He told me quite clearly that he was ‘hired.' That he could personally vouch for him.”

“That's not his story. I'm sorry.”

Visibly upset, he ran a hand through his hair. “I don't know why he would say that.”

M.C. held his gaze. “ZZ, you gotta be straight with me here. 'Cause if Derrick Todd turns out to be a killer, it's going to get ugly. Real ugly. If you've twisted the story to save your own ass, you'd better tell me now.”

“I didn't. I swear.”

Kitt studied the man. Why
would
he lie? Besides, they had questioned him cold; Dale had been primed by ZZ. That had given him plenty of time to prepare his story.

“Thank you, ZZ. We'll be in touch.”

“Wait!” The manager looked confused. “Why do you think Mr. Dale said that?”

“Maybe you should take that up with him?”

His expression changed, realization coming over him. He knew. His boss was setting him up, just in case.

Hang the little guy out to dry. No big mystery there.

Kitt felt bad for the man. Reality checks sucked, big-time.