Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“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.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

12:05 a.m.

M.C. found Kitt at her desk, reading a printout. “You said you were right behind me,” M.C. said, acknowledging her irritation. But at what? Having been outworked by the other woman? Or having been pulled away from an enjoyable evening?

Kitt looked up. M.C. saw her excitement. “I meant to be. Just kept punching in ‘one more name.’ Our man Derrick popped up at the bottom of the list. Last man, in fact.”

Kitt handed her the printout. “Twenty-four years old. A maintenance engineer at the Fun Zone. Skills he probably acquired in the pen. Did two years at Big Muddy River for indecent liberties with a child.”

Big Muddy River was a correctional facility with a treatment program for sex offenders. “When did he get out?”

“Less than a year ago. Which works with our theory that the SAK and his copycat met in the joint.”

M.C. flipped through the pages, frowning. It was all petty stuff. Shoplifting. Truancy. DUI. Possession. Then the sex offense.

But it painted a picture of a kid sliding downhill.

“He would have had to register. Probably quarterly.” Working at a place like the Fun Zone was a violation, just like living within five hundred feet of a school or volunteering as a Little League coach would be.

Mr. Todd was going back to prison, ASAP.

“How in the hell did this guy slip through the Fun Zone’s screening process?” M.C. asked.

“Good question. One I suggest we get an answer to. Think ZZ’s up?”

“I’d bet not. But I’d be happy to get him up. Besides, I’m an old friend, how annoyed could he get?”

Pretty damn annoyed, it turned out. His wife answered the door; she nearly fainted when she learned they were cops. She called ZZ, who stumbled out of the bedroom, looking dazed and confused. The commotion awakened the baby, who began to wail. Which in turn woke the toddler, who appeared at the top of the stairs, crying.

“Mary Catherine?” he said, blinking at her, then Kitt. “Detective?”

Kitt grabbed the lead. “I apologize for the hour, Mr. Zuba, but we have a few questions that couldn’t wait until morning.”

ZZ’s wife stopped halfway up the stairs, expression frozen with fear. “Zed?”

“It’s okay, Judy. Take care of the kids.”

She hesitated a moment, then hurried up the last few stairs and scooped the toddler up. When she had disappeared from sight, ZZ turned back to them. “Kitchen,” he said, pointing.

They followed him and all sat at the round oak table, which still bore the evidence of an evening meal with very young children.

The bleary-eyed manager looked at them. “You scared the crap out of my wife. This had better be good.”

“Again, Mr. Zuba,” Kitt said, “I apologize for the hour. It was necessary, however. In an investigation like this, every minute-”

“Counts,” M.C. said, jumping in. “What if it were one of your kids? Would you want the police to wait until everybody had their full eight hours?”

The man looked less disgruntled. “No, of course not. You want coffee or anything?”

They both refused; M.C. began. “What can you tell us about Derrick Todd?” she asked.

“Derrick?” he repeated, appearing genuinely surprised. “He’s all right. A quiet guy. Keeps to himself.”

“You hire him?”

“No. Our owner did. He came highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

M.C. cocked an eyebrow. “But you were the Fun Zone’s manager at the time?”

He nodded and yawned. “I was pretty new, though. Just on board, I don’t know, a matter of months.”

“He go through the usual employment screenings?”

ZZ straightened slightly, as if he was finally awake enough to realize what was going on. “Can’t say for certain. I was new and Derrick was the owner’s hire.”

“As maintenance engineer, how much interaction does Derrick Todd have with Fun Zone patrons?”

ZZ shifted uncomfortably. “He’s on the floor a lot. Maintenance engineer covers a lot of territory for us. Janitorial. Game repair. Sound system, coin and drink machines. Not heavy-duty repair, you understand, but tinkering. He’s good at that.”

“What would you say if I told you Derrick Todd is a registered sex offender?”

The manager’s expression would have been comical in a different situation. “That’s impossible. Derrick can be surly sometimes, but…he’s good with the kids, just has a way with…”

His words trailed off. Maybe he heard how they sounded. Or maybe he had heard the stats about pedophiles: that they “loved” kids, that they chose jobs or professions that put them in contact with children, that they could not be rehabilitated.