Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

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.

They 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.