Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  Lance waited until the kids had picked a table, then chose the one farthest from them.

  “You must live near here,” M.C. said.

  “I do. Just up the block. Eat here at least once a day. Sometimes more.”

  “Those the owners?”

  “Yup. Couldn’t find reliable night help, so they pull the shift themselves. Nice people. Down to earth.”

  “They seem that way.”

  He handed her a menu. “Everything’s good, by the way.”

  “I don’t even have to look. If I don’t try this famous cream pie, I’ll be thinking about it for the next month. Which one do you suggest?”

  He couldn’t recommend only one, he said, so he ordered one of each: coconut, chocolate, strawberry and lemon, along with two cups of coffee. When Betty brought them out, M.C. made a sound of surprise: they were huge, at least six inches high.

  “You looked hungry,” he said.

  They spent the next couple of minutes passing the slices. Lance gave her the first taste of each. The rowdy teens, obviously influenced by their cream pie extravaganza, ordered four slices of pie as well.

  “Okay, I’ve got to admit, this is the best pie I’ve ever had.”

  “Favorite?”

  “Coconut. Followed closely by chocolate.”

  He smiled. “Me, too. But followed by lemon.”

  She took another bite of the coconut, then set aside her fork, vowing to breathe a while before taking another bite.

  “How’s work?” she asked.

  “It’s a joke.”

  “Professional humor?”

  “I can’t help myself.” He took another forkful of the dessert. “It’s good. I’ve been busy. How about you?”

  “It’s murder.”

  She said it deadpan, and he hooted. “Professional humor?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What’s it like being a cop?”

  “What’s it like being a comic?”

  He didn’t seem to mind her turning the question back to him. “Rewarding, painful, exhilarating, frustrating. When the audience is with you, it’s the highest high ever. When they’re not, nothing is more horrible. And it’s everything in between, including trying to earn enough money to keep on doing it-and eating.”

  “Why do you? Keep doing it?”

  “Because I have to,” he said simply. “It keeps me sane.”

  She liked his honesty, she decided. She liked that he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t, didn’t self-aggrandize.

  Her cell phone rang, and she held up a finger as she answered. “Riggio here.”

  “It’s Kitt. We’ve got him.”

  M.C. straightened, instantly focused on the case. “Who is he?”

  “Derrick Todd, a registered sex offender.”

  “Working at the Fun Zone? I’ll be right there.”

  She ended the call and reclipped her phone. He made a sound of regret. “You’ve got to go,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.” She took a swallow of her coffee and stood. “I enjoyed this. Thanks for the pie.”

  He followed her to her feet. “Can I see you again?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. I’ll look forward to it.”

  It wasn’t until she was halfway to the PSB that she realized she hadn’t given him her phone number-if he wanted to see her again, he’d have to resort to plan B.

  21

  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 w
ords 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.
>
  22

  Saturday, March 11, 2006

  8:30 a.m.

  Derrick 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.”