Count to Ten

by Karen Rose

  “I’ve got a breakfast burrito in my car. I’ll split it with you while we wait for CSU.”

  Jeremy nodded sagely. “They should bring X-ray and metal detectors.”

  Mia’s lips twitched. “I’ll tell them you said so.”

  Saturday, December 2, 7:15 A.M.

  Reed stopped behind a line of cruisers and CSU vans. Nothing was happening yet. He supposed they were still waiting for the warrant. Mia was leaning against her department car. He approached, not knowing what to say, or how she’d respond.

  He didn’t know what he felt. Or what he wanted. It had been a sleepless night. She looked over and gave him a friendly smile that didn’t come close to brightening her eyes. “Lieutenant Solliday,” she said formally. “I have someone here you should meet.”

  Inside the car was a little boy, with strawberry blond hair and freckles.

  “Lieutenant, this is Mr. Jeremy Lukowitch,” Mia said. -“Jeremy, this is Lieutenant Solliday. He’s a fire investigator.”

  Fear shadowed the boy’s eyes. “Detective Mitchell says she’ll protect my mom.”

  “Then she will. She’s a good cop.”

  Mia swallowed, but her smile didn’t falter. “Jeremy, you wait here in my car where it’s warm, okay? I’m going to trust you not to touch anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  She started to walk away, then stuck her head back in the window. “Jeremy, we won’t go inside until we have a warrant, but will your mom come out?”

  “She’s probably still asleep. Sometimes she takes sleeping pills.”

  Mia nodded briskly. “That’s fine. I’ll be back soon.” She backed away from the car slowly, but her expression had grown grim. “Are you EMT trained, Reed?”

  “Yeah. You think she OD’d on pills?”

  Mia was jogging now, going around the back where Jack Unger was poised for action, waiting for the warrant. “Not knowingly, maybe. But she saw White. She lived with him. He’s not gonna let her live.”

  “We get the warrant?” Jack asked.

  “Not yet. I think the mom took some pills. We’re going in.” She threw her shoulder into the back door and it cracked. But she winced and hissed. “That hurt.”

  “Y’think?” Reed said. “Move.” And with one heave the door splintered. Both of them drew their weapons and he -followed her in.

  “Mrs. Lukowitch, this is the police.” She ran back to the bedroom where a woman lay curled in a fetal ball. “Aw, shit. Aw, hell. I smell cyanide.” She holstered her gun and felt for a pulse. Then stepped back. “She’s dead, Reed. Rigor’s already setting in.”

  Reed sighed. “Eleven.”

  “You were right. Bodies weren’t what he was counting.” She closed her eyes. “Now how do I tell that baby his mother is dead?”

  “With me. I’ll tell him with you.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Saturday, December 2, 8:10 A.M.

  Mia and Reed shielded Jeremy with their bodies as the ME wheeled his mother out in a body bag. But the boy wasn’t watching. He was looking straight ahead, at nothing at all. Mia crouched down when the ambulance had driven away. “Jeremy, sweetie, I have to work on your house.”

  “What will happen to me?” he asked so softly she had to lean forward to catch the words. “My mom is dead. My dad is gone. Who will take care of me?”

  Me, Mia wanted to say, but didn’t. This was a boy, not a cat. “I’ve called a social worker. They’ll put you in a temporary home until we can get something worked out.”

  “A foster home,” he said dully. “I’ve seen them on TV. Kids get hurt there.”

  Reed shot her a look and she stepped back. He crouched down in front of Jeremy. “Son, I know what you’ve seen on TV. But you need to understand, those are only the bad ones and they’re rare.” The boy wasn’t buying it, so Reed tried again. “Jeremy, you’re a very smart boy. How many -airplanes do you think fly in America every day?”

  Jeremy turned his head. “Thousands,” he replied flatly.

  “That’s right. How many times do you hear about plane crashes on the news? Not many. You hear about the one or two bad planes, but never the thousands of good ones that reach their destinations safely every day. Same with foster homes. Bad ones happen, but they’re rare. I grew up in a good one, so I know.”

  Jeremy’s shoulders sagged. “Okay.” He looked up at Mia. “Can I still see you?”

  Her heart squeezed. “You bet. Now we have to do our jobs, Jeremy. You sit tight and don’t leave without me, Lieutenant Solliday, or one of these officers.”

  His look was far too wise for seven years old. “I’m not stupid, Detective Mitchell.”

  She ruffled his hair. “I know.”

  Murphy waved to them. “Got the warrant.”

  “That was good, what you said to him,” she murmured as they walked. “Thanks.”

  “Mia...”

  “Not now, Reed. I can’t.” She hurried off, leaving him watching her back. Confused and torn he jogged after her to watch what buried treasure Jack would dig up.

  Saturday, December 2, 10:30 A.M.

  It was a good day to be alive. Things were finally look-ing up. Put on a happy face. He grinned as the ridiculous phrases flitted through his mind. He’d left Tyler alive and burning. Immensely satisfying. He’d nearly started straight for Santa Fe, but the adrenaline high had quickly ebbed. Exhausted, he found a cheap roadside motel and went to sleep. When he woke, he was clear minded once more. He’d drive to Santa Fe, sticking to back roads. Once there, and once finished, Mexico seemed the best idea for lying low. Eventually his picture would be old news and he could return.

  He had to go under. Hide like a girl. Because Mitchell had his picture everywhere.

  Rage for the woman bubbled up and he pushed it back. He’d tried to get her once. He needed to learn from Laura Dougherty. Listen to fate. Let it go.

  Control returned and with it the logistics of his plan. Even when he emerged from Mexico, he would not return to Chicago. He’d settle somewhere south, where it was warm. So he needed to get his things. His memories. It was another eight hours of his life, from Indy to Chicago and back south to where he’d started that morning. But he’d waited ten years. What was another eight hours? He wanted his things.

  His instinct was alerted blocks from the house. He turned two blocks too soon and slowed to a stop. He could see cruisers and vans and men with shovels. At his house.

  Mitchell had found his house. She’d taken his stuff. Coldly he turned his car around. To hell with fate. The woman had to pay. She’d dodged a bullet twice this week. Lucky bitch. But her luck was about to run out.

  Saturday, December 2, 11:45 A.M.

  Mia rocked back on her heels, fists on her hips. The table was covered with the items they’d recovered from the Luko-witches’ yard. And they’d needed both the X-ray and metal detectors. Jeremy would be proud of that at least. “This is remarkable.”

  Spinnelli was examining each item. “We’ve got Caitlin’s purse, a necklace from Penny, fourteen sets of keys... shoes, more necklaces... My God.”

  “These keys belong to Dr. Thompson,” Reed said. “These are Brooke’s. We think he took them Wednesday night when she’d had too many beers. These belong to Tania from the hotel, these are Niki Markov’s, the saleswoman. The rest we don’t know.”

  “Now we can tie him to the Burnette and Hill murders,” Spinnelli said with satisfaction. “I still want forensics, but this is a hell of a lot better than what we had.”

  “Atlantic City is sending someone to look at this stuff,” Aidan said. “The women he raped there say he took their keys, his way of saying he could come back anytime.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Reed muttered.

  “I think we’ll all second that emotion,” Spinnelli said. “Sam called. He said the urine tox on Yvonne Lukowitch showed Valium laced with cyanide, not the Ambien in her prescription.”

  “We found a receipt from a photography shop,” Jack said
. “He bought the cyanide there. It’s used in film developing. Sam said she never would have felt a thing.”

  She sighed. “Later on it will mean something to Jeremy that his mother didn’t commit suicide. Now it’s not much comfort to a terrified seven-year-old. Jeremy said his mother met White when she was leading a dog training class in the park last June. His mother came home talking about this new man she’d met. White brought her wine and roses. She asked him to move in within three weeks.”

  “That’s fast,” Jack said.

  “She was lonely,” Mia returned. “We found a scar on her body, collarbone to breast, from a knife slice. Jeremy said White did it the first night he moved in. He told her if she told, he’d do worse and to Jeremy. Jeremy and his mom have been living in terror since the end of last June.”

  “And we still don’t know his name,” Murphy said -bitterly.

  Spinnelli looked hopeful. “I may have something for you. I got a call this morning from Impound. They recovered a car that was reported stolen on Thursday. It was found in the area Murphy was searching. Impound found a book under the seat.”

  Reed sat up. “A math book?”

  Spinnelli’s smile was sharp. “Algebra One. Somebody should be bringing it in the next few minutes. Until then, what will we do next?”

  “I’m following leads from the photo on the news,” Aidan said. “And I’ll be the liaison to Atlantic City PD. I sent the photo to Detroit PD, but we don’t have anything yet.”

  “Keep calling,” Spinnelli said. “Mia?”

  “We have the list from Social Services of all the kids Penny Hill placed with the elder Doughertys. We’re going to follow up on that today. We’ve got nine names with no known address to track down and a few alibis from the known ones to -verify.”

  “Okay,” Spinnelli said. “Did we get anything out of the two boys from Hope Center?”

  “Miles talked to them,” Mia said. “Thad admitted after he learned Jeff was dead that it was Jeff who assaulted him. He said Jeff and Regis did it and Manny watched the door. They threatened to gut him like a pig if he told. So, he didn’t tell. Regis Hunt gets moved to adult prison pending an -investigation and trial. Thad will transfer to another juvie facility. But Dr. Bixby’s still missing.”

  “He’s not home, dead or otherwise,” Spinnelli said. “I’ve got an APB out for his car.”

  “And it doesn’t appear that his keys are in the pile,” Reed added.

  “So he could be alive and hiding, or dead and hidden. What else?” Spinnelli asked.

  “Just something Jeremy said,” Mia mused. “Remember, Murphy, he said that White buried something in the backyard last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. If he killed somebody then, we haven’t found them yet.”

  There was a knock at the door and an officer stuck his head in. “Lieutenant Spinnelli? I’m from Impound. I have some evidence for you.”

  “Thank you. We hope this is good.” Spinnelli handed the book to Mia when the officer from Impound was gone. “Do the honors, Mia.”

  Mia pulled on a pair of gloves and slid the book from the paper evidence sack. “One math book. And inside...” She looked up. “Newspaper clippings. Hill and Burnette.” She grimaced. “And me. Here’s the one of me taking down DuPree and here’s the one with my address, thank-you--Carmichael, and... hello.” She grinned. “One clipping from the Gazette in Springdale, Indiana. thanksgiving night fire leaves two dead. It’s dated the day after Thanks-giving.”

  “The first time Jeremy saw White burying something in the backyard,” Murphy murmured. “Who did he kill?”

  Mia scanned the article, her heart picking up. “One of the victims was Mary Kates. Kates is one of the names on the Social Services list.” Hurriedly she found the list. “Two names. Andrew and Shane Kates. They’re brothers. Andrew would be the right age.”

  “This is good.” Spinnelli paced. “Very good. Now that we know who the hell this guy is, we need to know where he’ll strike next or where he’ll hide or run. The four of you find out. I’m going to call the captain and tell him we finally made some progress.”

  Mia felt invigorated. Renewed. She stared at the table with all his souvenirs, her heart pumping gallons. “Andrew Kates. Your days are numbered, you sonofabitch.”

  Saturday, December 2, 5:15 P.M.

  The wig was making his head sweat. “How much is the rent?” It was an empty apartment in Mitchell’s building. The super held the key in her hand. He was waiting for the right moment to get the information he needed. If she couldn’t tell him, he’d take her keys and investigate Mitchell’s place -himself.

  “Eight fifty,” the old woman said. “Due first of the month.”

  He made a point of looking in the closets. “And is the neighborhood safe?”

  “Very safe.”

  No more than a couple of shootings a week on the street outside. The woman lied like a rug. “I read about that detective in the paper.”

  “Oh, that. She’s moved out. It’ll be very quiet from here on out.”

  Panic rose in his throat. But she was probably lying again. “That was fast.”

  “Well, the movers haven’t come yet. But she’s out of here. No need to worry.”

  But there was every need to worry. He wanted Mitchell. He needed to get into her place before she moved all her things. Surely there was some clue to where she’d gone. He considered shooting the old bag where she stood, but the new gun in his back waistband would be loud. Tyler had built quite a gun collection. He’d wanted to take them all, but he still had to travel light, so he’d taken only two. A .38 and a .44, both of which would bring people running if he fired them. So he’d do it the old-fashioned way. From under his jacket he pulled his pipe wrench and smacked the old lady’s head. Like a rag doll she crumpled, blood from her wound starting to soak the carpet. He bound her hands and feet and gagged her before stuffing her in the closet.

  With her key he let himself into Mitchell’s place. She needed a good decorator. Methodically he checked the coat closet. Other than a trifolded flag on the shelf, it was empty. Her kitchen cabinet was filled with boxes of Pop-Tarts, her freezer with microwave meals. She needed a good nutritionist more than a decorator.

  Her bedroom was a mess, blankets in a pile on the floor. But interestingly, a box of condoms sat open on the nightstand. Her closet was such a mess, there was no way to know if she’d taken clothes or not. Frustrated, he returned to the living room. A pile of mail covered a lamp table. Greedily he searched it. The only thing remotely personal was a postcard with a crab on the front. “Dear Mia, wish you’d come with us. Miss you. Love, Dana.” Dana? A friend with whom Mitchell might stay?

  He opened the lamp table drawer and pulled out a photo album with a grin. He’d struck gold. He lifted the cover and sighed. Mitchell was no more organized about her photos than she was about anything else. None of the photos were put into the plastic sleeves. It was just a pile, as if she threw everything in here with the plan to someday do it right. How had she ever managed to get as far as she did?

  On the top of the stack was an obituary she’d ripped from the paper without even trimming the edges. He fought the urge to trim them himself and read it. Her father had died four weeks before. Interesting. He was survived by her mother. More interesting still. She’d come to heel if her mother were in danger.

  He kept searching. Lots of kids’ school pictures. And a wedding picture. Mitchell in pink with a tall redhead in white lace. On the back it said “Mia and Dana.” Bingo. But Dana who? And where would he find her? Ask and you shall receive. Under the wedding photo was an invitation. dana danielle dupinski and ethan walton buchanan request your presence... It was completely intact. He smiled. She’d been a bridesmaid so there’d been no need to send in the RSVP. He pocketed the card and the obituary. Dana Dupinski lived a good half hour from here. He’d better hurry.

  Saturday, December 2, 6:45 P.M.

  “Talk,” Spinnelli said from the head of the conference table. The
y’d regrouped, Reed and Mia, Murphy and Aidan, and Miles Westphalen. “What do we know?”

  The table was again full, this time of paper. After more than seven hours of phone calls, faxes, and e-mails, they’d been able to put together a great deal of Andrew Kates’s past. Reed was energized. They were closing in.

  “We know where Andrew Kates has been,” he said, “where he’s likely to go, and importantly, why ten is the magic -number.”

  Mia stacked her notes. “Andrew and Shane Kates were born to Gloria Kates. Aidan tracked Andrew to the Michigan juvie system, who faxed us copies of their birth certificates. No father listed for either boy. Andrew is older by four years and served time in Michigan juvie for stealing a car when he was barely twelve. Nobody there remembered him, but it’s been about ten years.”

  “Is that the count to ten?” Westphalen asked and Mia shook her head.

  “Be patient, Miles. This took us seven hours. You can listen for ten minutes.”

  “Sorry,” Westphalen mumbled, properly chastised and Reed swallowed his smile.

  “Anyway,” Mia said. “I talked to the head caseworker for the juvie facility. She didn’t remember him, but she looked up his file. He was a model resident. Claimed he’d been forced to steal the car by his mother to feed her drug habit. Gloria Kates had a yellow sheet full of drug possession charges, so this was probably true.”

  “Obviously he got out,” Spinnelli said.

  “Yeah.” Reed took up the story. “When Andrew got caught stealing the car, his mother, Gloria, skipped town, leaving him to hold the bag.”

  “Which would explain his hostility against women,” Westphalen said. “Why hasn’t he gone after her?”

  “Because she’s dead,” Reed answered. “Heroin overdose, a few months later.”

  “So he has to go after substitutes,” Westphalen mused. “Interesting.”

  “It gets better,” Reed promised. “When Gloria left, Andrew went to juvie and Detroit placed Shane with his maternal aunt, Mary Kates, in Springdale, Indiana.”

  “The Thanksgiving night fire,” Spinnelli murmured.

  “Yes,” Reed said. “I talked with the sheriff and the fire chief there about the Thanksgiving fire. The chief said they found gas cans in the backyard, but no eggs or evidence of solid accelerant. Just a gas and match affair. No fingerprints, no nothing. The sheriff said the aunt and her common-law husband, Carl Gibson, were found dead in their bedroom, close to the window. Their legs were broken so they couldn’t get away.”