Copycat (14 page)

Tuesday, March 14, 2006
11:00 p.m.

T
he shrill scream of the phone awakened her. Kitt cracked open her eyes, head and vision swimming. She moved her gaze over the dark room, disoriented.

The phone screamed again. She reached for it, sending something on the nightstand tumbling. A glass, she realized.

An empty glass.

One that had been filled with vodka.

She brought the device to her ear. “H'lo. Lun'ren here.”

“Kitt? Is that you? It's Danny.”

“Danny?” she repeated, struggling to shake the cobwebs from her head. Shake off the effects of the alcohol.

She had fallen off the wagon. Given in to her feeling of betrayal and her despair. How could she have been so stupid and weak?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine. I was sleeping.” She cleared her throat and dragged herself up to see the clock. “What time is it? It feels like the middle of the night.”

“About eleven.”

She heard the disappointment in his voice. The suspicion. A drunk recognized another drunk's bender.

“What's up?” she asked, trying to sound normal. Sober.

He was silent a moment. “Nothing. I was thinking about you. We haven't spoken since last week and…I just wanted to make certain you're doing okay.”

“I'm doing great.” She cringed as the chirpy-sounding lie sprang from her lips. “I mean, as great as can be expected. Considering.”

“Considering that your ex-husband is engaged and you're embroiled in a carbon copy of the case that sent you over the edge?”

“Exactly.” She closed her eyes and prayed he didn't ask her if she had been drinking. She didn't know if she could bring herself to tell him the truth.

“You could have called me, Kitt. Or another member of the group.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Right.” He paused, as if collecting his thoughts or giving her a chance to change her answer. “I thought we were closer than this. Call me when you're ready to be real.”

“Danny, wai—”

But he had hung up. For long moments she sat, dial tone buzzing in her ear. She felt like crap—physically and emotionally. A year of sobriety, down the toilet. With one binge, she had slipped right back into behavior she found personally abhorrent—not just the drinking, but the evasions and lies.

Kitt dropped her head to her hands. They shook. She felt ill. She needed Danny to help her through this. She needed her group, her support system.

She jumped as the phone jangled again. Danny, she thought. He hadn't been able to leave it this way between them.

She snatched up the receiver. “Danny, you were right. I'm so sor—”

“Danny? Should I be jealous, dear one?”

Not her friend.

Him.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“That's not very nice, Kitten.”

“I'm not in a nice mood.”

“And after all I've done for you.”

“And what would that be? The wild-goose chase you sent me on? Thanks.”

He chuckled. “It may have seemed that way to you. You have to have faith.”

“I have faith, all right. That I'll find you and your copycat, and you'll both rot in prison.”

“You don't sound yourself tonight. Didn't you like the balloon? Didn't it lift your spirits?”

For one dizzying moment, she thought she had misheard him. But she hadn't.
He had been there.

Had he been lying in wait for her? Did he know her routine so well?

A clown. Dear God, was that how he scouted victims?

“Cat got your tongue, Kitten?”

Gooseflesh crawled up her arms at his self-satisfied tone. “Go to hell,” she said, and hung up.

Almost immediately, the phone rang again. As she'd expected, it was him.

“Don't ever do that to me again,” he said, voice vibrating with the force of his fury. “Do you understand? You won't like what happens.”

She smiled, experiencing a tingle of victory. For him, the thrill was in terrorizing and manipulating her. Anticipating her emotions. He hadn't anticipated her hanging up that way. She had momentarily wrenched the upper hand away from him.

If she could manage to do it again, could she force him to make a mistake? Maybe reveal something he hadn't intended to?

“And what'll that be?”

“Don't push me.” She heard the strike of a lighter, the hiss of a cigarette being lit. “I know where you live, Kitt Lundgren. And I know what hurts you.”

Her hands were shaking. She simultaneously cursed the vodka of earlier and longed for more. “You don't know me as well as you think you do. I promise you that.”

“Tell yourself that, dear one. If it reassures you.”

“I'm done being controlled and intimidated by you. You know what, I think you're full of shit. You want to be this big badass, but you're just a coward.”

For a moment she wondered if he had hung up on her, then she heard the sound of his breathing. He was angry again. “There were others, you know. Others who died. Other perfect crimes. Mine.”

Her breath caught. “Other children?”

“You never connected them to me. No one did.”

“Were these others children?” she asked again. “Tell me!”

“Did you like the balloon?” he asked. “Did it remind you of Sadie? Or of the other girls who died? It was thoughtful of me to give it to you, don't you think?”

“What others?” she asked again. “Tell me, damn you!”

“Sleep well, Kitten.”

He hung up. She swore, certain they didn't get the tap. A moment later the officer monitoring her phone confirmed it.

She tossed the phone onto the bed.

Bloody hell.

Climbing out of bed, she strode to the bathroom. Her legs felt rubbery, her hands shook. After splashing cold water on her face, she headed to the kitchen. There, the half-empty bottle of vodka mocked her. She stared at it, furious. At herself for succumbing. At Joe. At this child-killing monster.

Fueled by her fury, she crossed to the sink and dumped the remainder of the alcohol, then rinsed the sink to remove its smell. They would not beat her. None of them.

While a pot of coffee brewed, Kitt paced. He'd claimed he'd killed others. Plural. Children? she wondered, then discarded the thought. No way could the murders of children have slipped past the RPD radar.

But if not children, who?

The coffee burbled. She crossed to the pot, needing the caffeine. She needed to chase away the last of the alcohol fog. Mug poured, sugar and milk added, she made herself a peanut-butter sandwich.

While she consumed both, she turned her thoughts to the other things he had said to her. He had been at the charity event. He claimed to be the clown who had given her the balloon. She worked to recall details of his appearance.

Tall, maybe six feet. Medium build. Caucasian. His features had been concealed by the clown getup: white face, big red nose, eyes made up to look wide and surprised. Blue, she thought. His eyes had definitely been blue. Hair color had been obscured by the neon-orange wig.

What to do? She glanced at the wall clock. Still well before midnight. If M.C. wasn't still up, she should be.

This couldn't wait until morning.

She returned to the bedroom and snatched up the portable phone. She dialed her partner's cell number. She answered after the second ring, tone wary.

“You awake, partner?”

“Kitt?” The word came out half growl. “This better be good.”

“You decide. He contacted me again. Claimed other victims, ones we never linked to him.”

She heard the woman's sharply indrawn breath, then what sounded like her climbing out of the bed. “You think he was telling the truth?”

“Don't know. I'm going to headquarters now. Figured I'd get on the computer, see if I can find anything.”

“They're not going anywhere, you know. It'll wait till morning.”

“I know. But I won't be able to sleep, anyway.” She cleared her throat. “There's more. Apparently, he and I were face-to-face tonight.”

“You've got me now,” M.C. said. “I go right past your place on my way to the PSB. I'll pick you up.”

Wednesday, March 15, 2006
12:05 a.m.

A
s the crow flew, Kitt didn't live that far from her. M.C. parked in the driveway of Kitt's cottage-style home, climbed out of her Explorer, crossed to the door and rang the bell.

It took several minutes for Kitt to come to the door. Her hair was wet, her face flushed.

“That was fast,” she said. “I didn't expect you for at least fifteen minutes.”

“I should have warned you, I was still up and dressed.”

“No problem. I took a quick shower. Mind if I take a minute to dry my hair?”

“Go ahead. Is that coffee I smell?”

“A nearly full pot, help yourself. Kitchen's dead ahead.”

M.C. found the kitchen, then the cabinet that held the mugs. A box of sweetener sat open on the counter. Obviously, Kitt had already had a cup. And, judging by the empty plate by the sink, something to eat.

Before she called? M.C. wondered. Or after?

M.C. filled a mug, sweetened it and sipped. From the other part of the house she heard the hum of a hair dryer.

She crossed to the refrigerator. A half-dozen photos, held in place by magnets, graced its front.

Sadie, she realized. And Joe.

She studied the images, one by one. Sadie had been a beautiful little girl. Blond and blue-eyed, with an endearing smile that included dimples. Joe, also fair-haired, was a handsome man. Strongly built, like someone whose job kept him active. She saw where Sadie had gotten her dimples.

M.C. sipped the coffee. But it was the pictures of Kitt that surprised her most. She almost didn't recognize her, she looked so young in the photographs. So lighthearted.

What must it feel like to lose your family?

She had lost her father, and it had been awful. But losing your child? Then your marriage? She couldn't imagine the pain.

“I see you found the coffee.”

M.C. whirled around. Some of her coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup, onto her hand and the floor.

Kitt crossed the kitchen, ripped off a paper towel and handed it to her. “Sorry I startled you.”

M.C. mopped up the mess, then turned back to Kitt. The other woman's gaze was on the photographs, the yearning in her expression painful to see.

“She was a beautiful little girl.”

A smile touched Kitt's mouth. “Inside and out.”

“I'm really sorry. It's got to be…horrible.”

Kitt didn't respond, but crossed to the sink and rinsed her plate and cup, then stuck them in the dishwasher. “You said you weren't asleep. Out with the guy?”

“Working. Going over the storage-unit inventory list.”

“Anything jump out?”

“No. It's a major mishmash of crap. Clothing, books, old calendars, the dressmaker's dummy, an aluminum Christmas tree, old record albums. And that's just the beginning. It reads like the contents of someone's attic.”

“But whose?”

“My fear is, it's no one's. That your anonymous friend went to Goodwill or a few garage sales and assembled a bunch of junk to throw you off.” M.C. crossed to the sink, dumped the remainder of her coffee and rinsed her cup. “Garbage in here?” she asked, opening the cabinet located under the sink.

“No! I'll do—”

M.C. saw what Kitt was trying to hide. An empty vodka bottle. A bottom-of-the-barrel brand.

The kind a drunk would buy. M.C. stared at the bottle, realizing what it meant. This was what she had feared when they'd been assigned to work together. Kitt had sworn she was rehabilitated. She had been fool enough to believe her.

Was this a first offense? Or had it been happening all along?

Did that even matter?

M.C. tossed the soiled paper towel into the trash, then retrieved the bottle. She turned to Kitt and held it up, furious. “What is this?”

Kitt stared at the bottle, expression devastated.

“Dammit, Kitt! You've been drinking.”

“I can explain.”

“No, you can't. You're an alcoholic. You can't drink. Not ever.”

“I know.” She took a step toward her, hand out. “Just listen. Please.”

“I've got to go to Sal with this.”

“It won't happen again. I promise.”

“You can't promise that. And I can't allow you to jeopardize this investigation.”

“He'll suspend me. And I don't have…being a cop is all I have left.”

“You should have thought of that before you knocked back a fifth.”

“It wasn't like that…It—”

“This partnership is over, Kitt.”

“Joe's remarrying!” she cried. “The woman has a daughter. Sadie's age. He…I found out tonight. They're going to be a family. They're going to have—”

She bit the words back, but M.C. imagined they went something like
“They're going to have everything I lost.”

A lump formed in M.C.'s throat as she struggled with the pity she felt for the other woman. It was okay to feel bad for her, but she couldn't allow Kitt to put the investigation at risk. Her responsibility was to the force, to the trust the public—and her superior officers—had in her.

As she watched, Kitt crossed to the table and chairs. She sank onto one of the chairs and dropped her head into her hands.

“It broke my heart,” she whispered. “The thought that he could do this. Just replace Sadie that way. Replace…me.”

M.C. wavered in the doorway a moment more, then crossed to Kitt. She squatted down in front of her. “Tell me what happened,” she said softly. “I'm listening.”

“It's a fund-raiser for pediatric leukemia. We go every year. I ran into Joe there, with his fiancée. Valerie. That's when I learned—” She sucked in a deep breath. “When I learned about her daughter. Tami.

“We had words. I was so angry. Felt so…betrayed. I stopped at a store on the way home, bought the vodka and…proceeded to drink most of it.”

She swallowed hard, then looked up at M.C. “That's what I did when Sadie died. I drank to fill up the empty place inside. To dull the pain. Dull the ache of missing her.

“Before that, I didn't drink. Occasionally, socially. Drinking wasn't a part of my life growing up. My paternal grandfather was an alcoholic and because of that my dad never drank.”

She squeezed her hands into fists; M.C. saw that her knuckles were white.

“Then
he
called. Tonight. So proud of himself. Smirking and so arrogant. He was there, at the leukemia event.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“He gave me a pink balloon.” Kitt went on to explain about how, after her confrontation with Joe, a clown had approached her with a balloon. “On the phone, he asked if I liked the balloon he had given me.”

A clown. Is that how he chose his victims?

M.C. stood. “What else did he say?”

“He said there were other victims, ones the police never connected to him.”

“But nothing else about tonight?”

“No.” Kitt laced her fingers. “I was sober for a year, M.C. I screwed up tonight. I hate myself for it. But it won't happen again.”

M.C. didn't know a lot about alcoholism. Thankfully, no one in her family had succumbed to it. She knew it was a disease. That some people were “genetically” susceptible. That the alcoholic couldn't be cured through willpower alone.

Should she give her another chance? Could she afford to?

Dammit, she hated being in this position!

“This once,” she found herself saying, “I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But just this once. If you screw up again, I'm going to the chief.”

Even as the words passed her lips, M.C. wondered if she was making a big mistake. A mistake that would cost her dearly—more than a few rungs up the ladder.

Maybe even her life.