Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

They reached Sydney Dale’s drive and M.C. pulled in. She brought the car to a stop and faced Kitt. “You say you’re learning what makes this guy tick. That may be, but he’s learning the same about you, Kitt. And it seems to me, that’s a dangerous place to be.”

Thursday, March 16, 2006

10:10 a.m.

Sydney Dale wasn’t home. But his young, blond-haired trophy wife was. She came to the door in a pretty silk pantsuit. She directed them to his office, located in the Strathmore Professional Complex off Mulford Road.

As they turned to go, Kitt stopped and looked back at her. “What can you tell me about Derrick Todd?”

Her expression subtly altered. “Who?”

“He worked for you and your husband about four years ago. He was the yard and pool-”

“I’m the new Mrs. Dale,” she told them, yawning. “I wasn’t around then.”

“Would you know where we could find the ‘old’ Mrs. Dale?”

“Ask Sydney. I don’t keep track of her.”

As they climbed back into the SUV, Kitt looked at M.C. “The new Mrs. Dale is so young she was probably a teenager when Todd worked here.”

M.C. arched her eyebrows. “I wonder how many Mrs. Dales there have been?”

“And if each one was younger than the last?”

They passed the rest of the ten-minute drive in silence. When they reached the office, they parked near the appropriate suite number and climbed out.

“You mind if I do this?” Kitt asked as they crossed the parking lot.

M.C. hesitated, then nodded. “You seem to have the eye-of-the-tiger thing going-have a ball.”

The receptionist was as young, attractive and blond as the “new” Mrs. Dale, and Kitt wondered if he used the office as a screening ground for prospective wives.

As she had suspected would be the case, Dale was not happy to see them. “Detectives,” he said with barely veiled annoyance, “this is a surprise.”

“We have a few more questions about Derrick Todd.”

“I can’t imagine. We’ve fired him. Naturally. I don’t know what more you could want from me.”

“An explanation of why you hired a registered sex offender to work around children.”

“I gave you that explanation.”

“But it didn’t quite make sense to us.”

“Do I need to contact my lawyer?”

“If you feel it’s necessary, go ahead.” Kitt paused, allowing him a moment to think it over. When he didn’t make a move, she continued. “Perhaps you could tell us again why you asked your manager to forgo background checks and hire Mr. Todd?”

“I never told Mr. Zuba not to do the customary background checks.” He spread his hands. “A classic case of miscommunication.”

“Problem is, he tells a more convincing story than you do.”

“That’s your problem, Detectives. Not mine.”

“Actually,” M.C. said, stepping in, “it is your problem. Because when we’re not convinced, we keep digging. We’re like a dog with a bone, Mr. Dale. And it’s not pretty.”

“Are you threatening to harass me?”

“Absolutely not. Just giving you a glimpse into the investigative process.”

“We need to speak to your ex-wife as well,” Kitt said. “We need her name and address.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Afraid so.” Kitt waited, pen poised above her tablet.

He glanced at his receptionist, then pointed to his office. “We can talk in here.”

They followed him into the office; he shut the door behind them. “I gave Todd a job because she lied.”

“Who lied, Mr. Dale?”

“My daughter. She’s the one he was convicted of exposing himself to.”

She pictured the pretty blonde roaring off in the BMW. “Sam?”

“No. Jennifer. She lives with her mother now.”

Kitt glanced at M.C. The other woman raised her eyebrows.

“How do you know she lied?”

“I found her diary.” He looked genuinely sickened and for the first time M.C. thought of him as human. “Her mother and I were going through a messy divorce. Our lives were in chaos. The girls were traumatized. Jen made up the whole thing in an attempt to keep us together. And to keep her and Sam together.”

“It didn’t work. Obviously.”

“No. My ex-wife would have no part of staying together.”

“Your ex-wife?”

“Yes.” He looked away, then back. “I know what you’re thinking. I see it on your faces. I loved my wife, not that it’s any of your business. She left me for another man, not the other way around.”

Kitt didn’t respond in any way, though she experienced a prickle of guilt at having jumped to exactly that conclusion.

M.C. jumped in once more. “We’re not here to judge your personal life, Mr. Dale. Just to get the truth about Derrick Todd and his job at the Fun Zone.”

“Exactly,” Kitt confirmed. “Once you learned the truth, did you go to the D.A.? Try to secure an early release for him?”

He shook his head. “I was afraid of the…ramifications. From Todd. And the state.”

Afraid that he’d be sued.

The “human” label once again became suspect.

“So, Mr. Todd doesn’t know that you believe him innocent?”

“No. I told him I suspected it didn’t go down the way Jen said. And I offered him a job. He was grateful.”

She would bet he was. That kind of label wasn’t easy to live with. And it made finding a job damn difficult.

Kitt thought of Derrick Todd, his surliness, his anger at the police. The blatant disrespect.

No wonder. He had been convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed. No doubt he had proclaimed his innocence to the heavens. Yet, he’d gone to prison. Suffered God only knew what while in the pen and would have to carry the stigma of sex offender with him for the next ten years.

Now he had no job and was being questioned about another crime he hadn’t committed.

No wonder he was bitter. She’d probably dish some serious antisocial attitude, too.

In one fell swoop, she had gone from longing to smack the cocky smirk off the kid’s face to pitying him.

“Do you have the diary?” M.C. asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. “In my safety deposit box. I kept it just in case I needed it someday.”

“‘Someday’ has come, Mr. Dale. I’ll need you to retrieve that journal today and bring it to us. Understand, I’m not going to keep this information a secret. Not from Todd, his attorney or the state.”

He nodded, looking ill.

As they left his office, Kitt stopped and turned back to him. “By the way, Mr. Dale, where were you the nights of the sixth and the ninth of this month.”

He frowned. “I don’t know for certain. Nancy keeps my calendar. Let’s go see.”

He led them back out to the waiting area. The receptionist produced his day planner. On the sixth he had been out of town on business. An overnight stay. On the ninth he and his wife had attended a Burpee Museum fund-raiser, then had gone home to bed.

“I suppose you can produce documentation and witnesses to confirm both?”

For the first time, he looked shaken. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dale. Bring that item in before day’s end.”

Kitt and M.C. walked to the car in silence. When they’d reached the Explorer, climbed in and buckled up, Kitt turned to the other woman. “Do you believe Dale’s story?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Puts Todd in a whole new light, doesn’t it?”

“And puts us back to square one.”

“Thanks for mentioning that,” Kitt muttered, then shook her head. “No, not square one. The Fun Zone’s still a connection.”

M.C. started the car. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be. But I’m not buying that. Not yet, anyway.”