Copycat (33 page)

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
7:10 p.m.

K
itt hung up the phone. Her call to the Dekalb County sheriff's office had yielded little new information. The evening staff was on duty; the deputy she'd spoken with sounded all of about twelve years old.

Damn, but she was getting old.

The young deputy had promised to ask around, see if anybody on the shift had been around in 1989. In addition, if the night proved slow, he'd pull the files himself and fax them to her. At the very least, he'd leave a message for the sheriff and his chief deputy to call her in the morning.

She hung up, frustrated. In the time it would take someone to get back to her, she could be down there, thumbing through the actual file herself.

She dialed M.C. It went directly to voice mail, indicating the device was turned off. “It's me. I'm going to take a quick run down to Dekalb, to get a firsthand look at the Ballard case files. If you need me, call my cell.”

She headed out of the VCB, toward the elevator. She stopped short halfway there.

“You're not going postal on me, are you?”

“Just trying to go with the flow, take a joke. You know.”

Dear God. She
did
know. That day the two of them had been joking around, M.C. had said, “If we ever need to signal each other, use you're ‘going postal' or ‘taking a joke.'”

That's why M.C., who typically kept in constant contact, had been out of touch. Why she had sounded strained.

She was in trouble.

How had she missed it?

The clown, Kitt realized. She had been investigating the grandmother murders, had gotten a lead on the clown.

Could that be what had led her into danger? Had she gotten a name, followed up and then…what?

A sense of urgency pulling at her, Kitt turned and hurried back to her desk. There, she accessed M.C.'s mother's name, then address and phone number.

She dialed the number; it rang a dozen times with no answer. Praying she was wrong, that she'd find M.C. with her family, neck deep in pasta and one of her mother's interrogations, she hurried for the parking garage.

A short time later, she pulled up in front of a rambling, old farmhouse. A couple of cars were parked out front, though she didn't see M.C.'s Explorer.

A young woman with blond hair and blue eyes answered the door, and Kitt thought she had the wrong address.

She smiled and showed the woman her shield. “I'm Detective Lundgren. I may have the wrong address, but I'm looking for the Riggio home.”

The woman returned her smile. “You're at the right place. You're M.C.'s partner.”

“That's right.” She smiled. “I'm Kitt.”

“I'm Melody, M.C.'s sister-in-law.”

Kitt shook her hand. “I'm sorry to interrupt the family meal, I was looking for—”

“Mel, who is it?”

A tall, good-looking man appeared at the dining room doorway. That he was one of M.C.'s brothers was unmistakable.

“This is Kitt Lundgren,” Melody said. “M.C.'s partner.”

He stepped forward, hand out. “I'm Neil. Her respectable brother.”

“And my husband,” Melody added.

Kitt shook his hand. “I apologize for interrupting your family dinner. But I needed to speak with M.C. Is she here?”

He looked confused. “She's not here.” He looked at his wife. “Was Mary Catherine coming by tonight?”

“Not that I know of.”

Kitt moved her gaze between the two, a feeling of dread growing. “Isn't tonight pasta night?”

Neil smiled. “That's tomorrow night. We just stopped by to see—”

“Melody, Neil?”

They all turned. Mama Riggio herself stood in the doorway. All five foot one inch of her. From her steel-gray hair to her black orthopedic shoes, Mama Riggio looked like a woman who insisted on being taken seriously.

“Mama,” Neil said, “this is M.C.'s partner, Detective Lundgren.”

The woman's gaze sharpened. “Just who I want to talk to! Come and eat. Melody, set another place.”

The younger woman scurried to do it; Kitt stopped her.

“No, don't, Melody. I really can't sta—”

“I insist!” The woman used a gesture that suggested finality. “I want to hear about this man she's seeing. She's been secretive. I wouldn't have even known if Michael hadn't—”

Lance Castrogiovanni.

The funny man.

“Mama,” Neil scolded, “now's not the ti—”

The woman shushed him and went on, though Kitt's thoughts raced. She had no concrete reason to believe Lance Castrogiovanni had anything to do with M.C.'s disappearance, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he did.

“I've got to go,” she said, backing toward the door. “Sorry, Mrs. Riggio. But thank you for the invitation.”

She turned and hurried out the door and to her Taurus.

Neil followed her. “Detective Lundgren, wait!”

She stopped and turned. He reached her, searched her gaze. “Something's wrong, isn't it?”

She saw his concern. She worked to cover her own. “I don't know that, Neil.”

“I'm going to try her cell phone.”

“I already did.”

Fear tightened his features. “How can I help?”

“What do you know about Lance Castrogiovanni?”

“Who?”

“The man M.C.'s been seeing.”

“Clearly, not as much as you do. I know she liked him.”

“Any idea how they met? Or where he liv…” Kitt let the words trail off, seeing from his expression that he was clueless.

“If you hear from her, let me know right away.”

As she made a move to go, he caught her arm. “I can't just sit and do nothing.”

“I'm afraid you're going to have to.” She slipped her arm from his grasp. “I'll keep you posted.”

After she had climbed into her vehicle and pulled away from the curb, she checked in with the CRU. No word from Riggio. She called Sal at home and after hearing her out, he agreed to an all-radio bulletin for M.C. and her SUV. He also advised her to call in Allen and White, to help track every step M.C. took since that morning.

She did as he suggested. Allen and White were none to happy to hear from her—until they learned the reason.

As she hung up with them, she got another call. Praying it was Riggio, she answered, “Lundgren here.”

“This is Deputy Roberts, Dekalb County sheriff's office. I understand you're looking into the Mimi Ballard murder.”

Not M.C. But second best.
“That's right. One of our officers was shot and killed by an unknown subject on Monday night. We got a ballistics match with the gun used to kill Ballard.”

“After all these years? Wow.”

“Do you remember the case?”

“I do. I was only fifteen then, but my dad was a deputy. It was a very big deal. As I'm sure you know, this is a rural community. Not a lot of murders around here. And certainly not ones like that.”

He went on. “Guy's name was Frank Ballard. Whipped her with a belt, then shot her dead. His prints were all over the belt.”

“But the gun wasn't found.”

“Until now, apparently. Wonder how it turned up there, seventeen years after the fact?”

“That's precisely what I'm trying to find out. What can you tell me about the murder? The stuff I won't find in the file.”

“Ballard was pretty well-thought-of. Not everybody's best friend, but a solid cop. You know what I mean?”

She did. The kind who didn't yuk it up with the guys a lot, just did his job. She told him to go on.

“Everybody was shocked. He claimed his innocence, but was convicted, anyway. As far as I know, he's still serving time.

“Wife was from a local farming family. They owned a big spread, she inherited it all when her father died. Ballard had sold everything but the house and a couple of acres to Green Giant. ConAgra now, I think. But isn't everybody?”

She made an agreeable sort of sound and let him ramble. “Still owned the house until recently. Seems a young couple bought it.”

“Anything else about the murder that was unusual?”

“His wife was deaf.”

“Say again.”

“She was deaf. Which made it all the more horrible. That and the fact the little boy found her. Or was it a girl?”

“They had children? How many?”

“I'm not as clear on that. Two, I think. A boy and a girl.”

“Can you remember their names? Their ages?”

“Like I said, it was seventeen years ago. And we lived in Sycamore, a whole different school district, so I'm really fuzzy on this. It might've been just one kid.”

The SAK and his Copycat. Brother and sister.

That's how they knew each other. And she would bet one of them had been ten years old.

“Look,” she said, hearing the urgency in her own voice, “this is priority. I believe that gun—and its shooter—are also linked to a series of child murders here. I need you to get me those children's names and what happened to them.”

“I'll get back to you.” He hung up.

CRU rang. “A cruiser located Detective Riggio's vehicle. Corner of North Main and Auburn. They're waiting for further orders.”

“Tell them to stay put. I'm on my way.”

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
8:40 p.m.

K
itt pulled in behind the cruiser, killed the engine and climbed out. The two officers exited their vehicle and met her at the driver's door of the Explorer.

“Flashlight,” Kitt said. The officer closest to her handed over his. She snapped it on and shined it into the SUV. Nothing looked out of order.

“We tried the doors and found them all locked.”

She nodded. “Let's open it up.”

The second officer jogged to the cruiser, got a shim and jogged back. Within moments, he had the vehicle open.

She checked in the glove box and console, under the seats, in the cargo hold. It was clean.

M.C. had parked the vehicle. She had locked it, taken her phone, jacket and investigation notes.

Kitt snapped off the Maglite and handed it back to the patrolman. She scanned up and down the street. Her gaze settled on the Main Street Diner and its neon Open All Night sign.

M.C. had pointed the diner out to her.
She had eaten cream pie there, four slices. With a guy.

Her funny man?

Kitt instructed the two patrolmen to wait at the SUV and darted across the street to the restaurant. They had a decent-size crowd for a Tuesday night. The woman at the register smiled at her.

Kitt returned the smile and crossed to her. Her name tag read Betty.

“Hi, Betty, I'm looking for an acquaintance of mine. He comes here a lot. Name's Lance.”

“Oh, sure. Lance Castrogiovanni. He's in all the time.”

“Was he in tonight?”

“No. Sorry.”

“He live around here?”

The woman's demeanor became less friendly. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I need to speak with him.” Kitt took out her shield and held it up for the woman. “It's urgent.”

Betty looked upset. “He's not in any trouble, is he?”

Being even remotely honest would only confuse her. After all, Lance Castrogiovanni could be nose deep in shit, or sitting pretty, smelling like a rose.

“I'm actually looking for a woman he's seeing, a fellow police officer. Mary Catherine Riggio. M.C. for short.”

Her smile returned. “That nice policewoman. They were in one night, he introduced us. Come to think of it, I thought I saw her this afternoon.”

A minute later, Kitt was on the street, armed with Lance's address. Two doors down, upstairs. An apartment above the head shop. She collected the patrolmen, instructed one to wait downstairs, the other to accompany her up.

She rapped on the door. Then called out. When she got no answer, she tried the door—and found it locked.

M.C.'s SUV and Betty believing she had seen her earlier was enough to convince Kitt she had just cause to enter the apartment uninvited.

She hoped a judge saw it the same way.

“Kick it in,” she said.

The lock gave easily and they entered, guns drawn. The apartment appeared empty. Other than what she would call usual household clutter, it was clean.

Just cause to enter did not grant them the rights of a search warrant. They had reason to believe M.C. was there and that she needed their help. If the apartment became a crime scene that scenario changed.

They made their way through. Nothing in the living room. Uneaten turkey sandwich on the kitchen counter. Bathroom empty. Kitt pulled back the shower curtain, found the tub clean. The bed was unmade. She checked under it, then crossed to the closet.

Nothing. She started to close the door when a spot of bright orange caught her eye. Peeking out from a box in the bottom of the closet.

As she stared at the spot of orange, her cell phone vibrated.

She unclipped it. “Lundgren here.”

“It's White. I've got a name for you. The clown who performed at the Walton B. Johnson retirement community was Lance—”

“Castrogiovanni,” she finished for him.

“That's right. How'd you—”

She handed the phone to the surprised patrolman, then bent and yanked the cardboard box from the closet. She flipped back the flaps, reached in and pulled out a bright orange clown's wig.