Copycat (9 page)

Friday, March 10, 2006
5:40 p.m.

T
he Fun Zone was an indoor play place that catered to children from ages two to fourteen. For the little ones there were rides, a ball pit and maze; for the older ones, laser tag, a rock-climbing wall and a game arcade the size of a small university. As an added incentive, the Fun Zone mascots, Sammy and Suzi Squirrel, roamed the place, handing out hugs and signing autographs.

They showed their badges to the teenager manning the front door and asked for the manager. She pointed toward the ticket counter, located just inside. A Mr. Zuba.

M.C. cocked an eyebrow at the name. “What?” Kitt asked.

“My brother Max went to school with a Zuba. Zed.”

Kitt shook her head. “What kind of a sick puppy names their kid Zed Zuba?”

The other woman shrugged. “Called himself ZZ, for obvious reasons and because he was crazy about the rocker ZZ Top. It's probably not the same guy, ZZ was a hell-raiser. Gave his parents never-ending shit.”

“No doubt getting back at them for the name.”

They waited in line behind a family with four kids under the age of six, all four of them talking at once. Since the noise and activity level inside was mind-boggling, the four youngsters fit in just fine.

They reached the front of the line and asked the bored-looking teenager behind the counter for Mr. Zuba. The kid nodded and called over his shoulder, “ZZ, you got visitors!”

A man standing at the other end of the booth turned. His gaze landed on them and recognition lit his features.

“Oh, my gosh! Mary Catherine Riggio?”

“ZZ.” She smiled. “I haven't seen you since Max called and begged me to come pick you guys up in Beloit.” Beloit, Wisconsin, a quick, thirty-minute trip across the state line from Rockford, was a college town and favorite of Rockford teens. “You were drunk off your ass.”

“And you were a saint for picking us up. An angel of mercy.” He shook his head. “Those were some crazy days. I'm settled down now. Got two kids. Boy and a girl.” He looked past her. “You here with your family?”

“No.” She showed him her badge. “This is my partner, Detective Kitt Lundgren. Can we speak to you in private?”

He paled slightly. “Sure. Hold on.”

He gave strict orders to the teen, exited the booth and motioned for them to follow him.

“Is it always like this?” M.C. asked, nearly shouting to be heard.

“Friday nights are big. Second only to Saturdays between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon.”

He unlocked a door that led into the stockrooms, which were considerably quieter. M.C. said a silent thank-you. When they reached his office, he invited them to have a seat.

She saw a photo of his wife and kids on the desk. Pretty lady. Cute kids. She told him so and he beamed.

“Judy and I met at Rock Valley. Isn't she great? And that's Zoe.” He pointed to the picture of a pretty, dark-haired toddler. “She's two now. And the baby. Zachary.”

Zoe and Zach Zuba. She ran the nickname possibilities through her head: ZZII, Zgirl, ZZ-redux, Zuper-kid.

She wanted to shake him and demand, “What were you thinking?”

Instead, she asked, “The noise level doesn't drive you nuts?”

“Nah. I love kids. Besides, they're just having fun.”

ZZ. Who would have thought?

“What's up, M.C.?”

“We're investigating the recent Sleeping Angel murders. Apparently, both victims had their birthday parties here. The Entzel girl in January. The Vest girl in February.”

He moved his gaze between them, looking uneasy. “When I saw them on TV, I thought they looked familiar, but I see so many kids. Now that I know they…Oh, man, this is really horrible. How can I help?”

“What kind of screening do you put prospective employees through?”

“Criminal-background check with the state police and a drug test. We ask for references, which we check.”

“You get many adults in here without children?”

“We're real careful about that. The Fun Zone prides itself on being a safe place for kids. We advertise it.”

He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a package of wristbands. “They're numbered—a family or group all have the same number on their bands. We check wristbands as people exit. A child is never allowed to leave without the adult they registered with.

“In addition, an adult walks in solo, without a kid, my door employee is instructed to ask what party or group they're meeting. If they're not, they call me or one of my assistants and we suggest they've come to the wrong place. I mean, what kind of adult would come
here
for fun? Get real.”

“What about video surveillance?” Kitt asked.

“At the front entrance and in both restrooms. Also at the registers.”

“Do you save the tapes?”

He shook his head. “They turn over every seventy-two hours. They're mainly for insurance liability.”

M.C. leaned forward. “We'll need any tapes you have. Plus, from this minute on, no rolling over.”

“But—”

She didn't give him a chance to argue. “In addition, I'm going to need to get a list of your employees. Current and terminated in the past year.”

For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair. “Like I said, M.C., the Fun Zone prides itself on being a safe environment for kids. If—”

“If what, ZZ? If Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest's killer found them here, you wouldn't want the press to find out? Afraid it might hurt business?”

He flushed. “Of course not. But our employees are clean. Hell, most of 'em are teenagers.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Right?”

He reached for the phone. “Let me get Mr. Dale. He's the owner, so it's his call.”

M.C. ended up speaking with the man herself. She convinced him that actually, in the end, it was
their
call. He instructed his manager to give them whatever they needed; M.C. promised she would do her best to keep the Fun Zone out of the news.

They left with a list of the Fun Zone's employees, both part-and full-time; the records from the day of both girls' parties and forty-eight hours of the play place's video surveillance.

As they belted into M.C.'s Ford, Kitt looked at her. “Angel of mercy? No offense, but I can't see it.”

“He's forgotten I refused to do it unless they each gave me fifteen bucks.”

“There's the Mary Catherine Riggio I've come to know.”

“Hey, it beat the hell out of Mom and Dad finding out. Max would have been grounded for the rest of his life.” She eased away from the curb. “By the way, remind me never to have kids.”

Kitt turned to her. “Why's that?”

“One visit to that place is enough for a lifetime.”

“It's not quite as bad when you're there with your own kid. They love it so much, it sort of eases the pain.”

M.C. grimaced. “Like I said, remind me never to have kids.”

“Do you really mean that?”

M.C. thought of Benjamin, how much she loved him. “Sure,” she said. “Who needs 'em. You've got to admit, they're nothing but troub—”

As soon as the words passed her lips, she realized her mistake. “I'm sorry, Kitt. I wasn't thinking, I—”

“Don't worry about it,” she said, looking away. M.C. noticed Kitt's hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to kick herself. Of all the stupid, graceless and insensitive things she could have said. “I'm such a jerk. Really, I'm sorry.”

Kitt shook her head. “Forget about it. Let's talk about the case.”

M.C. jumped at the familiar—and comfortable—territory. “It's going on seven. Your choice. Keep going or call it a night?”

“I vote we run these names through the computer. See how far we get.”

“You got it,” M.C. replied, heading for the Whitman Street Bridge. “To hell with Friday night.”

Friday, March 10, 2006
10:35 p.m.

T
hey made it three-quarters of the way through the list before M.C. suggested they call it quits. She was tired and hungry, and the most exciting thing they had turned up was a DWI, Driving While Intoxicated. Kitt had agreed and they'd planned to resume the next morning—there was no such thing as a weekend off when neck-deep in a high-profile homicide investigation.

M.C. was beginning to think they'd gotten their hopes up for nothing. Truth was, the Fun Zone could still be the link, but their UNSUB could be some freak with kids of his own. He brings his own kid in, looks like Dad of the Year; whole time he's scouting his next pretty little victim.

That scenario would make him much more difficult to nail. M.C. eased into her driveway, shifted into Park, but made no move to kill the engine or get out of the car. She'd left Kitt at the computer only because she had assured M.C. she would be on the road five minutes behind her. M.C. let out a long breath, thinking of the day. Of Kitt. The pain in her eyes and voice as she had spoken of her daughter—and of her regrets.

And of her parting words tonight, as M.C. had headed home.

“Hey, Riggio.”
She had stopped, looked back at her.
“For the record, being a mom was the best thing I ever did.”

A lump formed in M.C.'s throat. The image of Marianne Vest filled her head, followed in quick succession by one of Julie Entzel's mother in her robe and slippers at four in the afternoon.

They made all her little dramas seem pretty insignificant. M.C. swallowed hard, gazing at her dark house. She hadn't left a porch light on. She didn't own a dog, cat or any other creature.

Growing up in a house with five boisterous brothers and a constant menagerie of pets, friends and relatives underfoot, she had looked forward to someday living alone. To having her personal space, to using the bathroom whenever she needed to, no waiting. To spending as long as she wanted in the shower, without fear of running out of hot water.

Quiet. Calm. Just the way she liked it.

So why didn't she want to go inside?

Because she couldn't face the quiet tonight. Not yet, anyway. She needed people. A few laughs. A drink or two. Or four.

But where to go? Buster's Bar, she decided, and acted on the impulse. She checked her rearview mirror, shifted her SUV into Reverse and backed down the drive.

She made it across town to Five Points in fifteen minutes. Unlike the other night, the place was packed. And instead of funny man Lance Castrogiovanni on the stage, a country-western singer was attempting a version of Shania Twain's “Any Man of Mine.”

M.C. wound her way through the crowd to the bar. There she saw Brian Spillare and several of his RPD buddies. Judging by the decibel of their laughter, they had been there a while.

Brian caught sight of her and waved her over. The group made room, and Brian ordered her a glass of wine. “I was just thinking about you,” he said.

She let that pass, though it set her teeth on edge. “Really, Lieutenant?”

“So formal?” He swayed slightly on his feet. “It's Friday night, loosen up.”

“Looks to me like you're loose enough for both of us.” The bartender set her wineglass in front of her. After paying for it, she turned back to him. “Is your wife with you? I'd love to tell her hello.”

“Nope. She's having a girls' night out. I'm a free man.”

Oh, brother. She couldn't believe she had fallen for his lines, naive rookie or not.
“Lucky her. Excuse me, Lieutenant, I have—”

He caught her arm. “I need to talk to you, M.C. Privately.”

“Can't it wait? I'm beat. And as you said, it's Friday night.”

“It's about the SAK case.”

She frowned. “What about it?”

“Not here.” He motioned toward the back of the bar, the hall that led to the restrooms.

Although she didn't like it, she nodded and followed him.

He stopped at the end of the corridor and faced her. “You still totally do it for me. I wanted you to know that.”

She stared at him, not quite believing what she knew she had heard. “Are you hitting on me?”

“I'm just being honest.” He caught her hand. “Putting myself out there. For you.”

She made a sound of disgust. Apparently, they had very different definitions of
honest.
Her definition didn't include tricks or infidelity.

She jerked her hand away. “This is sexual harassment, Lieutenant. I don't think you want to go there.”

“Whatever happened to us?” he asked, leaning toward her, forcing her backward. “We were good together, weren't we?”

She realized then just how inebriated he was. Too inebriated to listen to reason. “You were married. You still are.”

“But it was good, wasn't it?”

“Back off, Brian. You're drunk.”

“Not that drunk.” His voice took on a whiny tone. “Come on, it could be good again.”

“There you are, M.C.,” Lance Castrogiovanni said, coming up behind Brian. “Sorry I'm late.”

She gratefully grabbed the out. “My date,” she said, ducking past the startled lieutenant. “Brian, you know Lance. Excuse us.”

The comedian put his arm around her and steered her out of the hallway. She leaned toward him. “Thanks, that was getting uncomfortable.”

“Thought you looked like you could use saving.” He pointed toward a table in the corner. “For a moment, I thought he was going to pulverize me.”

“Brian's big but harmless.”

“Didn't look so harmless to me.” They reached the table. He held out a chair and she sat. “Aren't you two colleagues?”

“We are. He's also a superior officer—and a mistake from my days as a rookie.”

“Ouch.”

“No joke. Of course, he wasn't a lieutenant back then. But I wasn't a detective, either.”

“Young people make mistakes. I made my share, that's for sure.”

She held her glass up. “To mistakes and lucky breaks.”

“Lucky breaks?” he asked.

“That you were here. Because of my past relationship with Brian and his position on the force, I have to be very careful.”

“So kneeing him in the balls would have been a bad thing?”

She laughed. “A very bad thing, yes.”

He leaned toward her, expression amused. “You really weren't that lucky, Detective Riggio.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “Typically, when I'm not working, I avoid these places like the plague. Too much smoke and desperation.”

“Which would make me unusually lucky to find you here.”

“Except…I was here looking for you.”

“Funny.”

He met her gaze, his serious now. “That's not part of my act. It's true. In fact, this is my third time in. If you were a no-show tonight, I was moving on to plan B.”

“Which was?”

“Call you at work. I wasn't thrilled by plan B.”

“You have something to hide, Lance Castrogiovanni? A skeleton or two in your closet?”

“Don't we all?” He laughed. “Actually, as long as it's confession time, cops give me the willies. Except for you, of course.”

“I'm honored, I guess.”

“I know an open-all-night diner that serves the best homemade cream pies in the world.”

“That is so
not
Italian,” she teased.

“Exactly.” He held out a hand. “My treat.”

“In that case, you've got a deal.”

They agreed to each take their own car. The diner, appropriately named the Main Street Diner, was located at the corner of North Main and Auburn Streets, an area that had fallen on lean times.

As they entered the brightly lit establishment, the woman behind the counter—middle-aged with a net over her gray bob—greeted Lance by name. When she did, a man peered out from the kitchen.

“Lance, buddy, where've you been?”

“Working. A good thing, by the way. Keeps me in pie.”

“Who's that with you?”

“A friend. Mary Catherine Riggio, Bob Meuller. His wife Betty. Mary Catherine's a cop, so be nice.”

“I'm always nice,” he said.

Betty snorted. “More like, always crusty. That's why I keep him in back.”

Just then a group of rowdy young people stumbled into the restaurant. M.C. could tell they were all about three sheets to the wind—except for the designated driver, who looked irritated. She kept jiggling her car keys and rolling her eyes.

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.