Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Not necessarily. Yes, ASL’s the native language of deaf Americans as well as some hearing children born into deaf families. However, courses exist to learn ASL. As do immersion-study programs.”

Kitt didn’t hide her disappointment. She had liked the scenario as it would dramatically narrow the field of suspects, a field that would include Valerie Martin. “How did you learn?”

“My wife’s deaf. She taught me.” He paused. “Here’s another option. Your guy’s not familiar with ASL, but simply looking up English words in an English-ASL dictionary. They have them online. There’s one that’s actually animated. I could e-mail you the URL, if you want.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Sergeant Haas returned as Jimmy walked away. Kitt saw from his expression that the call hadn’t pleased him. “Valerie Martin didn’t return to work after lunch. The house was closed up tight, no vehicle in the garage. A neighbor directed them to the daughter’s school. There, they learned her mother had checked her out just after lunch.”

Sal’s expression turned grim. “Let’s put out an all-radio bulletin for the woman and her daughter.”

“What about Joe?” Kitt asked.

“We keep him until his lawyer starts squealing. Then we’ll have to book him or let him go.”

“He might have an idea where Valerie headed. I’m worried about Tami. If Valerie is guilty and doesn’t suspect we’re onto her, the girl could be in danger.”

“You want to talk to him?” Sal asked.

“I’ll try. I don’t think he’ll be so happy to talk to me.” Her cell rang and she answered. “Lundgren, here.”

“It’s Sorenstein. Good news. We’ve got us a match.”

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

5:40 p.m.

The gun used to kill Brian had also been used to kill a woman in Dekalb, a farming community about an hour southeast of Rockford. Dekalb had two claims to fame-it was the birthplace of supermodel Cindy Crawford and was home to the Northern Illinois University campus. Many locals would add “sweet corn” to the list as a third. In fact, the community sponsored the Cornfest every August, a big street party that hosted an annual two-hundred-thousand visitors who consumed seventy tons of sweet corn.

Kitt peered over Sorenstein’s shoulder at the NIBIN monitor. “It’s a good match,” he said. “Damn near perfect.”

Sure enough, the markings on the bullet taken from Brian’s body corresponded to those from the bullet of a 1989 murder.

“While I waited for you, I took the liberty of accessing LEDS.”

LEDS was the state’s Law Enforcement Data System. “So, what’s the story?”

“A man named Frank Ballard killed his wife in 1989. He shot her between the eyes. He was arrested, tried and convicted, but the gun was never recovered. It was believed said weapon was the man’s service revolver. Same make and model. Standard issue,.45 caliber Smith amp; Wesson.

“He was law enforcement?”

“That’s right. Dekalb County sheriff’s office deputy.”

Kitt’s thoughts raced. Law enforcement. How had that weapon, used in a murder seventeen years ago, shown up here? Now?

And what, if anything, did it have to do with the SAK and Copycat investigations?

“Anything else?” she asked.

“That’s about it. Here’s a printout. Figured I’d leave the rest of the detecting up to you.” He grinned up at her. “Seems to me, I’ve earned a beer.”

“You did, Sorenstein. Thanks.”

His grin faded. “Brian was a friend. More than a friend. I want to nail the son of a bitch who did this.”

Kitt headed back up to the VCB. She found Sal and filled him in. “I’m going to talk to Joe, see if he has any ideas where Valerie’s gone. Then I thought I’d give the Dekalb sheriff’s office a call. See if I can get a little more information.”

“Keep me informed.” He started for his office, then stopped and looked back. “Heard from Riggio?”

“Left her a message an hour or so ago. I’ll give her another call, see where she’s at.”

A moment later, fingers crossed that the clown angle played out, she dialed her partner’s cell. M.C. answered on the second ring.

“Hey, stranger,” Kitt said. “Long time, no see.”

“I was just listening to your message. Major developments?”

Kitt quickly filled her in about Valerie, Joe and the ballistics match. When she didn’t comment, Kitt went on, “What about the clown angle?”

“It was a bust. Sorry.”

Kitt admitted bitter disappointment. If the clown lead had panned out, Joe would have been a step closer to “free to go.” She would have at the very least been able to offer him some reassuring information.

Or was she simply wanting to reassure herself?

“You contacted all the family members who might remember-”

“Yes. Nothing. No clowns. No magic tricks, either.”

The last came out of left field. “I didn’t know you were looking into that angle as well. If you’d told me, I could have saved you some time and trouble-Joe wasn’t even doing magic back then.”

“You’re not going postal on me, are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just trying to go with the flow, take a joke. You know.”

“It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

“I’m going to follow up on the ballistics match, see if I can get a lead on how that weapon made its way from Dekalb to here. Are you coming in?”

“Thought I’d swing by Mama’s, give her my regrets in person.”

“Regrets?”

“Tuesday nights are pasta night with my family.”

“That’s right.” Kitt glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m here. Go have dinner with your family. Besides, if I need you, I’ll call.”

“What if I need you?”

Kitt laughed. “I’ll leave my cell on all night, just in case you need saving from Mama Riggio.”

“I’m getting another call, Kitt. I’ve got to go.”

She hung up before Kitt could say goodbye. Perplexed, Kitt drew her eyebrows together. Something about M.C. had seemed off. Brittle. As if she had been working hard to be pleasant.

Was she pissed off about something?

Kitt holstered her phone and shifted her thoughts to Joe. She wished she’d had no part in today. But she had-and she had a job to do. If Joe was innocent, it would be proved so.

She prayed that when that happened, they could salvage what they had and make a fresh start.

She stepped into the interrogation room. Joe, who was now alone in the room, looked at her. She saw how angry he was. How hurt.

“Back for another pint of blood?” he asked.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Joe.”

“How else could I feel? This was an ambush, Kitt.”

“I didn’t mean it to be.”

“Please. I’m not stupid. ‘Just trust me,’” he said bitterly, mocking her. “And I did. What a fool.”

“When I said that I meant it. Circumstances changed and I had to-”

“You had to do your job.” He looked away, then back. “I wish I had a dollar for every time you said those exact words to justify your behavior. I’d be a rich man.

“I suppose what gets me,” he went on, “is that even after having known each other most of our lives, after loving-and burying-a daughter, you don’t have a clue who I am.”

His words cut her to the quick. They hurt because she felt she did know him, because she loved him-and because even so, she had suspected him of being a part of this. And would continue to suspect him until evidence cleared him.

It was the nature of her job-and what that job had done to her.

What could she say to him?

She had no defense. She was guilty as charged.

“I love you, Joe. I always have.”