Copycat (34 page)

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

M.C.
came to. She hurt all over. She opened her eyes to a deep black. Moving her gaze over the darkness, she searched for a light source and found none.

Her hands were bound behind her back with duct tape. Her feet were also bound with the tape. She lay on her side on a cool, damp floor. A basement, she decided. That explained the damp and the absolute dark.

She maneuvered herself into a sitting position. She tasted blood on her tongue. The blood brought it all rushing back. She'd gotten to Lance's. They'd embraced. He had held her tightly, almost desperately. He loved her, he had said fiercely.

Her funny man had been anything but lighthearted. She remembered thinking it was almost as if he thought it was the end.

The end.

She grimaced. The end of them. Of her.

Good night, Gracie.

She didn't know which tasted more foul against her tongue—the blood or the bitterness of betrayal.

M.C. forced thoughts of betrayal back. That didn't matter now, clearing her head and finding a means of escape did. He'd gone to the kitchen for her sandwich. She'd gotten a call. Wanda, the Walton B. Johnson Center's former director. She had remembered the clown's name. She had been almost giddy about the fact that she had been able to recall it after all these years, and at her age, too.

“Lance Castrogiovanni.”
M.C. had been speechless. Phone to her ear, she had stared at Lance, walking toward her with her sandwich. Even as disbelief and betrayal had rushed over her, with her free hand she had gone for her gun.

In the next instant a searing pain had shot through her head and the lights had gone out.

Someone else had been in the apartment.

His accomplice. Together they were the SAK and Copycat? Not adversaries, but working as a team. It had been one of her and Kitt's theories.

M.C. struggled to recall a detail from the moment before she had been knocked out, something that might offer a clue to the accomplice's identity, but came up empty.

When she had come to, she and Lance had been alone. Or so it had seemed. Her hands and feet had been bound. He'd had a gun. A revolver. Looked like a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson.

The .45 Smith & Wesson used to kill Brian?

He'd been crying. His hands shaking as he held the gun to her head. She'd half expected him to pull the trigger by mistake, he'd been so rattled. He'd told her to call Kitt, assure her everything was all right. Tell her that the clown lead had dead-ended.

She had done what he asked to buy time. M.C. had known that when she went missing, Kitt would check every source herself. She had tried to tip off Kitt with their joke about signaling each other with “going postal” and “taking a joke,” then with the reference to pasta night.

Nothing had clicked with the other woman—M.C. had been able to tell by her response. But it would—especially when M.C. turned up AWOL.

Of course, by then it might be too late. For her, anyway.

She'd tried to reason with him. Tried to convince him to reconsider. Free her and turn himself in. Turn in his accomplice. Didn't he love her? she'd asked. Didn't he trust her to try to help him?

Lance's demeanor had done a one-eighty. In the blink of an eye, he had transformed from weepy and frightened to enraged. He had struck her with the butt of the gun.

It was the last thing she remembered until now.

M.C. heard a door open and shut, then the sound of footfalls on stairs. Wooden stairs, she realized as one creaked.

She stared into the darkness, waiting. After a moment, Lance emerged from the darkness.

“Hello, Mary Catherine,” he said softly.

She didn't respond and he crossed to her. He knelt down and gently cupped her face in his hands. She felt them tremble. “Are you all right?”

She still didn't respond. She didn't trust herself to. She feared she might curse him, or spit in his face. She wasn't certain what had set him off last time, but she didn't want to do it again.

Nor was she convinced her skull could take many more blows. The last had been a doozy.

“It looks like it hurts.” He trailed a finger over her temple, over what she was certain was an angry-looking knot. “I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.”

“Then make it un-happen, Lance.”

He kissed her; she tasted his tears. She wanted to retch. Instead, she played along. “Free my hands. They hurt, Lance. My arms hurt.”

“I can't. I'm sorry, M.C.”

“I won't try to escape. I promise.”

He looked incredibly sad. “I wish I could believe that.”

“I love you, Lance. Why would I run away?”

She nearly choked on the words. She
had
thought she loved him. How could he have fooled her so completely?

“I wish I could believe—So many things, M.C. I wish so many things.”

He kissed her again. His breath smelled fresh, like peppermint. As if he'd just sucked on a candy.

“He would be so angry,” he said. “Angrier than he already is.”

“Who, Lance?”

“The Beast.” He said it on a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard.

Her heartbeat quickened. His partner. The one who had struck her the first time. And the one, she suspected, who was calling the shots.

“I'm sorry, for earlier,” he said again. “I didn't want to hit you.”

“Then why did you?”

“He expected it.”

“The Beast?”

“Yes. But I don't want to talk about him.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“My family. I promised to tell you about them. I want you to understand.”

“I want to understand, Lance. Tell me about them.”

“Not now. Later.”

He stood. She saw that he shook.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “You know I'll help you. I'll protect you.”

He shook his head. “He protects me. He always has. We're one.”

“You love him more than me?”

“You don't understand.”

“Make me understand. Please, Lance.”

“I can't survive without him. I tried.”

His voice grew thick. “I'm sorry, Mary Catherine.” He turned to go. She called him back.

“You killed those girls, didn't you?”

He looked down at her. Regretfully. “I didn't want to.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“He wanted me to.”

“And you do everything he asks?”

“I'll be back.”

“No, wait!” She struggled against the duct tape, trying to loosen it, getting nowhere. “Are you going to kill me, Lance? Because he wants you to?”

He walked away without responding. She fought the feeling of panic that rose up in her. “You don't have to,” she called. “You control your own destiny. Nobody else has that power.”

She heard his footfalls, the stairs creak. “Lance, please—”

The door snapped shut and she was once again alone in the dark.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
10:50 p.m.

F
rom the minute Kitt alerted the RPD of her discovery, things happened fast. A team converged on Lance's apartment. ID, Sal and Sergeant Haas. Half the VCB—awaiting news of M.C. and orders. They didn't care if it took all night; they had come to help Riggio and to catch a monster.

This was the break they had been waiting five years for.

Valerie and Tami had been located at her sister's in Barrington. Valerie had claimed she had run to her sister for help “nursing her broken heart.” When confronted, she admitted she had lied about Joe's alibi. She had wanted to hurt him. The way he had hurt her.

She was en route to the PSB for further questioning.

Alibi in place and powerful evidence incriminating Lance, Joe had been released. Sal had delivered that bit of news with a reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. Kitt had been only partly reassured—Joe was not going to forgive her for this.

In the meantime, Allen and White had made another discovery—weeks before her murder, Marianne Vest had attended a birthday party where a clown performed. In addition, the day of Julie Entzel's party at the Fun Zone, the young man who wore the Sammy Squirrel costume had been sick. They'd hired a substitute—Lance Castrogiovanni.

No doubt more links would be uncovered. That's the way some investigations were—totally mind-boggling until the one piece was uncovered that revealed all the rest.

But had the piece come too late?

M.C. Where could he have taken her?

Kitt paced, frantic. She racked her brain, replaying the facts in her head. Lance had performed for Rose McGuire at her retirement community. He had been at the Fun Zone the day of Julie Entzel's party and had probably been the clown Marianne Vest had seen.

Lance was adopted. A computer search had revealed that information and the names and addresses of his parents. Cruisers had already been dispatched.

They didn't yet have confirmation that he was related to Frank and Mimi Ballard, but Kitt believed they would. She would bet Lance was the little boy who had found his deaf mother shot to death.

Dekalb. The family home.

Kitt rushed over to Sal. “I know where they are, Sal. Dekalb.”

Her superior laid a hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “One minute, Kitt. I'm updating the chief.”

The big kahuna, chief of police. She didn't give a shit. “I don't have a minute. I know where he took M.C.”

“I'll call you right back.” He snapped his phone shut. “Outside. Now.”

She followed him out to the front of the building. The area had been cordoned off. A sizable crowd had gathered.

“I know where they are,” she repeated.

“Dekalb. How do you figure?”

“The Dekalb deputy I spoke with mentioned a family home. Said that it had only been sold recently, to a young couple.”

“I'll call down there, get them to send a unit over.”

“Request permission to go myself.”

“Denied. I need you here.”

“I know I'm right about this, Sal. I need to be the one who—”

“Denied. Discussion over.”

“Dammit, Sal!” She caught his arm. “This is my case! M.C.'s my partner! I'm not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while—”

“You're mistaken, Detective. This is
my
case. Riggio's
my
detective. Back off, right now.”

“Yes, sir! Backing off, sir!” She spun on her heel, heading for her car.

“Where the hell do you think you're going, Lundgren?”

“To cool off. Do I need permission for that, too?”

“Five minutes,” he said. “Then I want you back upstairs.”

Five minutes later, Kitt was heading toward Dekalb. She acknowledged that Deputy Chief of Detectives Salvador Minelli was going to be really pissed off when he realized what she had done. He might even ask for her badge.

He could have it. M.C. was her partner and friend. And this was her case. Peanut had made it hers.

She tried Deputy Roberts. She got him. He was frazzled. “Sorry, Detective, I'll have to call you back. We have an incident here.”

“Wait! The Ballard family home, where is it?”

“I've got to go, Detective!”

He hung up. Kitt frowned and glanced at the dash clock. Fifteen minutes. Sal may have realized by now she had decided to disobey direct orders. But maybe not—he was a little busy right now.

She dialed the Dekalb County sheriff's office. “This is Detective Lundgren with the Rockford PD. I believe my chief of detectives called and requested a unit to check out a residence in your jurisdiction?”

When the woman didn't respond, Kitt feared the gig was up. Then the line crackled and she answered. “Yes, Detective. How can I help you?”

“He's instructed me to accompany them.”

“They've already been dispatched.”

“I'll meet them.”

“Do you have the location?”

She said she didn't and the woman rattled off an address, then directions.

“Shall I notify them?” she asked Kitt.

“Yes, thank you.”

As she ended the call, another came in. She saw it was Sal.

Sorry, Sal, I seem to have a bad case of selective hearing tonight. I never even heard it ring.

The woman's directions proved easy to follow, which was surprising as the farmhouse was literally in the middle of cornfields.

She took the long gravel drive to the house. She saw the deputy's cruiser sitting out front. Not a light showed from the house or the ramshackle outbuildings situated around it.

She climbed out of her car. The deputy met her. “Detective Kitt Lundgren. Rockford PD.”

“Deputy Shanks. I rang the bell. Got no answer, so I did a spin around the property. Doors and windows are all secure. Nothing out of order on the inside. House appears deserted.”

“You checked the outbuildings?”

“I did. Nothing.”

“A vehicle?”

“Unless you count a broken-down tractor, no.”

“Mind if I take a look around myself?”

“Have at it.”

She did, taking her time. She checked every door and window on the ground level, shone her flashlight through every window. When she found nothing, she moved on to the various sheds.

She would have come to the same conclusion as Deputy Shanks if not for the prickle at the back of her neck.

They were there.

The SAK. And his Copycat. M.C. was with them.

She swept her gaze over the house's dark facade.

She wanted inside.

The good deputy wasn't going to allow that.

She turned to the young man. “Looks like our lead was a dead end.”

“Looks that way. I'm sorry, Detective.”

“Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

“No problem at all.”

They crossed to their vehicles. The deputy opened his door, then looked back at her. “By the way, who're you looking for?”

“Child killer. We think he has my partner.”

“Oh, man. Damn.”

“Yeah, that,” she said. “And worse.”

Say you wish you could help.

He made a move to climb into his vehicle, then stopped. “This that Copycat guy?”

“We believe so, yes.”

“Sorry. Shit.”

Offer to do something more. I'll take you up on it.

Instead, he climbed into his cruiser. She hesitated a moment, then followed his lead. They started their vehicles and headed down the gravel drive. At the end of the drive, he took a right, heading in the opposite direction she had come.

She smiled because he was making it easy for her.
Thank you very much, Deputy Shanks.

Kitt took the left, drove two and a half miles, then U-turned and headed back. She cut her lights when she reached the gravel drive. She rolled slowly toward the house, the crunch of the tires on the gravel deafening in the still night.

She eased her Taurus around back, behind the garage. She wouldn't put it past the deputy to ride by again, just to make certain everything was secure.

Before she climbed out, she retrieved her flashlight from the glove box and checked her weapon. She reholstered her cell phone and pocketed her car keys.

The back door lock proved flimsy, and she was standing in the farmhouse kitchen in moments. A big, old-fashioned kitchen, she saw. Looked as if it hadn't been updated since the fifties.

And it was, obviously, empty. She snapped on the pencil light and made her way through the doorway that led into a living room. She moved the beam over the room. Furniture covered in sheets. The stale, airless smell of a place that had been closed up for a long time.

The dining room was completely empty, as was the bedroom on the main floor. Next, Kitt crept up the stairs. Several of them creaked; each time she stopped, held her breath and listened. No one came running. No alarms sounded. Nothing.

If anyone else was in the house they, like her, were trying to be very quiet.

She reached the top landing. The bathroom lay directly across the hall. She crossed to it, eased open the door with her fingertips.

It had recently been used. A roll of toilet paper sat on the floor by the toilet. She stared at the paper, heart pounding.

That meant the water supply to the house had been turned on.

She tiptoed to the sink and put her finger under the faucet—and found it damp.

A moment later, she saw that one of the bedrooms had been slept in. A rumpled sleeping bag lay on the floor under a window. Beside it sat several Coke cans and candy bar wrappers.

She started toward the bag, then froze at the faint sound of voices. Kitt snapped off the flashlight. Where were they coming from? she wondered, straining to locate the source.

The floor vent at her feet.

She knelt beside it to listen. Voices, definitely. So faint she couldn't determine if they were male or female or how many people were speaking.

Where were they? She had searched the entire hou—

The basement, she realized. An old farmhouse like this one would have had a basement, but she hadn't seen a door.

Kitt made her way back down to the first floor. Knowing she wasn't alone, she kept her light off and weapon out, and moved as quietly as she could.

She found the door. Nearly seamless, tucked into the space under the stairs, she had walked right by it earlier. Kitt pressed her ear close.

Nothing.

The silence caused a clammy chill to settle in the small of her back. Voices meant life. A conversation involved more than one person.

She grabbed the knob, gently turned it.

The door was locked.

Kitt nearly cried out in frustration. She laid her ear to the door again. Someone humming. A man. The sound growing louder.

He was coming up the stairs!

She looked frantically around for a place to hide.
The sheet-draped furniture
. She scrambled for the nearest piece, what appeared to be a hulking chair. A key turned in a lock. Crouching behind the chair, she had full view of the doorway. She took aim.

The door swung outward, shielding the man. He left it open. A moment later, she heard the kitchen door open, then swing shut.

Apparently, he hadn't noticed it was unlocked. That had been a stupid mistake on her part. If he did, he would realize she was there, and depending on where he was headed, he could see her car.

She could go after him, but M.C.'s safety was her first priority. Scrambling out from behind the chair, she darted for the open door.

The basement was dark; she snapped on her pencil light and circled the room with it. Typical basement stuff. Metal shelves stacked with all manner of things

M.C. wasn't there. She frowned and moved the beam over the room again, wishing for a more powerful flashlight.

“M.C.,” she whispered, as loudly as she felt she could. “Are you here?”

“Here,” the other woman called. “I'm here.”

Thank God.
Kitt hurried in the direction of M.C.'s voice. A wall. Holstering her Glock and holding the pencil light between her teeth, she felt her way across the wall.