Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“He has a unique way of showing it, doesn’t he?”

Kitt felt bad for the other woman. She wanted to remind her that at least she had her children, but knew the comment wouldn’t be appreciated. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

“He’s got his cell phone.”

“He didn’t answer. Any idea where he’s staying?”

“Same crappy dump where he used to rendezvous with his girlfriends, the jerk. The Starlight, on Sixth Street.”

She knew the place. It was a crappy dump. The kind of place that could be rented out by the hour.

“Thanks, Ivy. If you hear from him, let him know I called.”

The woman didn’t respond, just hung up.

Things were bad between them.

Kitt called the Starlight’s front desk. She learned Brian was, indeed, registered there. She asked the man to ring his room.

He did. And after fifteen rings without an answer, she hung up and called the deskman back. “He didn’t answer. Have you seen him this evening?”

“I haven’t looked, lady.”

“Is his car in the lot?”

For a long moment, the man said nothing. Then he let out a patient-sounding sigh. “I don’t spy on the guests. If you’ve got worries about your old man, get your sagging ass down here yourself.” With that, he hung up.

What, did her voice sound like it was attached to a sagging derriere?

She redialed. He answered on the second ring, voice wary.

“This is Detective Kitt Lundgren with the Rockford Police Department,” she said. “I’m trying to reach one of your guests. Lieutenant Brian Spillare. Since he’s not answering his phone, I need you to check the parking lot for his vehicle. This is not a negotiable request. Is that clear?”

The man’s voice took on a whiny edge. “How would I know which car is his? We got lots of-”

“It’s a blue Pontiac Grand Am. You took his plate number when he checked in. Look for it. Now.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to argue. He didn’t. “Hang on,” he said, then put her on hold.

A couple of minutes later, he returned. “It’s here. You need anything else before I go back to my job?”

She ignored the sarcasm, already on her way to her vehicle. “What room’s the lieutenant in?”

“Two-ten.”

She ended the call and slid into her Taurus, thoughts racing.

Brian’s car in the lot. No answer on his cell or the room phone.

“I did a little nosing around. We need to talk.”

She didn’t like the feeling that settled in the pit of her gut. A vague uneasiness. A feeling that something wasn’t right.

As she sped toward Sixth Street, Kitt tried to reason it away. He could be currently involved in one of those “rendezvous” Ivy had mentioned. Or out with one of his RPD drinking buddies, who had driven.

But a detective answered his cell, radio or beeper. Always, no matter what he was in the middle of. It was a cardinal rule of police work. She’d been called out of church, movies, dinners out. While making love with her husband.

Brian was in trouble.

She made it to the Starlight in good time. She leaped out of her car and ran up the stairwell to the second floor. She reached 210 and tapped on the door. From inside came the sound of the TV. “Brian! It’s Kitt.”

He didn’t answer and she knocked again, harder. When he still didn’t reply, she tried the knob. And found the door unlocked.

Her unease growing, taking on a horrible form, Kitt drew her weapon. With her free hand, she eased the door open.

A cry slipped past her lips. Brian lay on his back in the doorway, eyes open, vacant. He was shirtless; he’d been shot twice in the chest. A pool of blood ringed his body.

She crossed to him. With shaking hands, she checked his pulse. She found none and stepped away, a hand to her mouth.

Her mind raced. A knot of tears choked her. Kitt turned her back toward her friend, unclipped her cell phone and dialed the CRU. It took three tries before she could say the words clearly enough for the woman to understand.

“Officer fatality. Starlight Motel, Sixth Street and Eighteenth Avenue.”

Monday, March 20, 2006

10:20 p.m.

M.C. roared into the motel parking lot. She was not the first to arrive; parking spots were scarce already. Patrol cars. The coroner’s Suburban. Vehicles she recognized as unmarked police cars. News of a fatality involving a police officer spread fast. No doubt Sal and Sergeant Haas were on the scene already; the chief of police himself would make an appearance.

An officer was down. A lieutenant.

M.C. simply stopped her SUV and climbed out. Heart thundering, she slammed the door and hurried toward the stairs, pausing only long enough to sign in.

Kitt had called her, told her what happened. Bluntly, without emotion.

M.C. hadn’t been fooled. Kitt and Brian had been partners. Good friends. She was taking this hard.

M.C. reached the second floor. A number of officers milled about on the covered walkway, anxious, awaiting word-of what had happened, how they could help. Nobody spoke. The silence was grim.

M.C. crossed to the officer manning the door. She showed him her ID and he waved her in. Her first look at Brian knocked the wind out of her. She stopped cold, fighting to regain her equilibrium.

She had seen him just that morning. Very much alive. Bigger than life.

She had been angry. Furious.

“Try it and you’ll regret it, I promise you that.”

“Are you threatening me, Detective?”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

Mouth dry at the memory, she lifted her gaze. Kitt stood to the right of Brian, silently watching as the forensic pathologist examined him. She looked up. M.C. lifted a hand in greeting and made her way toward her.

“How are you?” she asked when she reached her.

“Not great.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded, glanced away, then back. “This afternoon I asked Brian to look into any police officer who might have had a grudge against the department. This evening, he left me a message saying he’d found something. That’s how I ended up here.”

“My God-” M.C. lowered her voice “-you believe this somehow relates to the SAK or Copycat?”

“Yes. I’m thinking Brian might’ve questioned the wrong person about it.”

M.C. digested that. “His death coming on the heels of your conversation and his message could be a co…”

She let the word-coincidence-trail off. It was almost too preposterous to utter.

They fell silent. M.C. moved her gaze over the room. The TV was on. ESPN, she saw. His shoulder holster, with holstered weapon, hung on the back of the desk chair. The shooter had caught him mid-Big Mac. The bag and food sat on the bed by the remote. Two Miller long-necks, one empty, the other half-drunk, sat on the nightstand by the bed.

His cell phone was attached to his hip.

The sound of the teams climbing the stairs filled the quiet. ID, M.C. thought. Sure enough, a moment later, ID Detective Sorenstein and Sergeant Campo entered the room.

Kitt glanced from them, to her. “Anybody besides me overhear your argument with Brian?” she asked quietly.

The elephant in the middle of the room. M.C. appreciated her bringing it up. “Not that I know of. But that doesn’t mean no one did.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“You’ve never hesitated before.”

“This could cause you problems. Head it off. Go to Sal. Tell him everything before he asks.”

The thought of revealing her affair to the chief made M.C. squirm. It would go on her permanent record; a mistake that would shadow her for the rest of her career. “There’s nothing to tell. I had nothing to do with this.”

It was their last opportunity to speak privately. Sal and Sergeant Haas arrived. They caught sight of her and Kitt and started toward them. M.C. noticed how the chief kept his gaze fixed on them, never lighting on Brian’s body.