Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

Afterward, he had teased her about it. But in a sweet way, one that made her feel sexy and beautiful.

Big mistake, though. And one, God help her, she wouldn’t be making again.

“I found them.”

M.C. blinked, focused. Kitt had arrived and stood before her, clutching several file folders to her chest.

M.C. frowned. “What happened to you? You look like hell.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“At all?”

“That doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “I found them. The others.”

M.C. straightened, fully engaged now. She shifted her gaze to the file folders. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Children?”

“No. Look for yourself.” Kitt dropped the file folders on the desk in front of her.

M.C opened the first file and began to read. As she did, Kitt paced.

When she closed the third file, she returned her gaze to Kitt’s. “The MO’s totally different.”

“I thought the same thing at first. But their very differences link them.”

“You should have gotten more sleep.”

“Just listen. Three crimes, obviously the work of the same person. The crimes a study in extremes. Same with the Sleeping Angel killings.”

M.C. nodded, reluctantly intrigued. “Go on.”

“Think about it. Violent versus serene. Old versus young. Bloody versus clean. These murders were committed exactly eight weeks apart, the SAK’s, six. Then there’s the tape. Like the lip gloss, applied postmortem.”

“Postmortem?” M.C. repeated. “It’s interesting. Worth exploring.”

Kitt rested her palms on the desk and leaned toward the other woman. She lowered her voice. “They’re his. He admitted it.”

“He called you?”

“I knew before he admitted it,” Kitt said. “Outwardly, they couldn’t be more different. But they had the bastard’s signature all over them.”

M.C. narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ve been thinking about Sydney Dale,” she said. “I want to have another talk with him. Thought I’d pay him a visit. See if we could get those questions of ours answered.”

M.C. sat back in her chair. Clearly, Kitt wanted out of the bureau before she said any more about her call last night. Why?

Whatever the reason, she decided to play along. “I ran Dale through the computer. He’s clean. Squeaky clean.”

“Guy doesn’t get to be that rich without dirtying his hands a little bit.”

“True, but that kind of stuff doesn’t end up in our data banks.”

“I don’t trust him. Fact is, he hired Todd. Told his manager the kid was ‘hired.’ Why?”

“Like he said, he knew the kid before he’d gotten himself in trouble. Figured ZZ would do the appropriate background checks and drug screenings.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Hell no. The guy was lying, at least about what he told ZZ.”

Kitt perched on the edge of the desk. “What if he did know Todd was an ex-con and a registered sex offender? Why would he hire him?”

M.C. had an idea where Kitt was heading and held her hands up. “Stop there. Are you thinking Dale might have deliberately put Todd there as a way to deflect suspicion? In case we found the connection between the girls and the Fun Zone?”

“A fall guy. What’s wrong with it?”

“Dale’s a solid citizen. A businessman of standing. Probably a deacon at his church.”

“So was Ted Bundy. And Dennis Rader, the BTK serial killer.” Kitt leaned toward her once more. “He’s smart. And he’s slick. And he was lying. Another chat would be a good thing.”

“Has Schmidt gotten anything from the tapes or surveillance of the Fun Zone?”

“Nada.”

M.C. gazed at the other detective. She may not trust her-but there was a kind of fire that burned in her eyes, one she responded to.

The woman she had labeled a burned-out has-been, had more intensity than any cop she had ever worked with. “You’ve had entirely too much coffee this morning. And way too little sleep.”

“You have a point?”

“Yeah, I might try it myself.” She pushed away from the desk. “Let’s go.”

M.C. offered to drive. Kitt took the offer with what M.C. thought was relief. They made their way to the parking garage and her SUV. Once they were belted in and on their way, she glanced at Kitt.

“We’re alone now. What didn’t you tell me in there, about last night’s conversation with the SAK?”

“He didn’t call me. I called him. From my cell phone.”

She paused a moment, as if knowing M.C. needed a moment to digest what she’d said.

She was right.

Kitt went on. “I knew if he still had the phone and saw it was me, he’d answer.”

“And you did this how?”

“I just tried the last number he called us from.”

For a full ten seconds M.C. said nothing. It had been an outrageously ballsy move. And one that could earn Kitt a severe reprimand.

“Did you involve the CRU?”

“No.”

“Another officer present?”

“No.”

“So, obviously, not recorded.” The light ahead changed; she slowed to a stop. “Dammit, Kitt! Do you have a clue how out of line that was? Do you realize we only have your word of what transpired?”

“Yes. To all of it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. I knew he’d done that, to those old ladies. I saw red. I took a chance. It paid off.”

“Dammit!” she said again. “What else did you get?”

“I know him better. What drives him.”

“In other words, nothing.”

“Not nothing. I kept him on the line. I can do it again.”

“You guess. You hope.” M.C. gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Were you drinking?”

“No. Absolutely no. I made a promise about that, I mean to keep it.”

For what it was worth, M.C. believed she meant it. But the behavior was off. Impulsive. Risky.

“He’s obsessed with his crimes being perfect,” Kitt went on. “Unbelievably arrogant about it.”

Obsession. That was it, M.C. realized. It explained Kitt’s behavior. The light in her eyes. The long hours, the chances she was taking.

Is that what had happened to her before she tumbled over the edge and into a bottle?

M.C. stopped at another red. She turned to the other woman. “You’re getting too close to this case, Kitt.”

“I have it in perspective.”

“Do you?”

The other woman’s cheeks reddened. “I challenged him about his choice of victims. Accused him of being a chicken-shit for picking children and geriatrics. I challenged him to pick on someone stronger. More capable.”

Behind them a horn blared. The light, M.C. saw, had changed. She eased forward. “Someone like you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take the bait?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No. He became angry. And defensive. Insisted part of committing the perfect crime was choosing the perfect victim.”

“So his victims aren’t an emotional choice. They’re an intellectual one.”

“Exactly.” Kitt angled toward her. “No serial kills simply for intellectual satisfaction. That means the emotional drive lies in another direction.”

M.C. turned onto Riverside Drive, which led to the entrance to Brandywine Estates. “You cornered him. You pissed him off. And he struck back. How?”

“How do you know he struck back?”

“A cornered animal defends itself,” she replied simply.

Kitt fell silent. M.C. wound her way through the hilly neighborhood, letting the other woman compose her answer.

When she spoke, her tone was steely with resolve. “He threatened the little girls, ones I might care about. But…there are none.”

He had gotten the best of Kitt. Because, unlike her, Kitt’s caller was not emotionally involved.