Erica Spindler: Copy Cat

But had the piece come too late?

M.C. Where could he have taken her?

Kitt paced, frantic. She racked her brain, replaying the facts in her head. Lance had performed for Rose McGuire at her retirement community. He had been at the Fun Zone the day of Julie Entzel’s party and had probably been the clown Marianne Vest had seen.

Lance was adopted. A computer search had revealed that information and the names and addresses of his parents. Cruisers had already been dispatched.

They didn’t yet have confirmation that he was related to Frank and Mimi Ballard, but Kitt believed they would. She would bet Lance was the little boy who had found his deaf mother shot to death.

Dekalb. The family home.

Kitt rushed over to Sal. “I know where they are, Sal. Dekalb.”

Her superior laid a hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “One minute, Kitt. I’m updating the chief.”

The big kahuna, chief of police. She didn’t give a shit. “I don’t have a minute. I know where he took M.C.”

“I’ll call you right back.” He snapped his phone shut. “Outside. Now.”

She followed him out to the front of the building. The area had been cordoned off. A sizable crowd had gathered.

“I know where they are,” she repeated.

“Dekalb. How do you figure?”

“The Dekalb deputy I spoke with mentioned a family home. Said that it had only been sold recently, to a young couple.”

“I’ll call down there, get them to send a unit over.”

“Request permission to go myself.”

“Denied. I need you here.”

“I know I’m right about this, Sal. I need to be the one who-”

“Denied. Discussion over.”

“Dammit, Sal!” She caught his arm. “This is my case! M.C.’s my partner! I’m not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while-”

“You’re mistaken, Detective. This is my case. Riggio’s my detective. Back off, right now.”

“Yes, sir! Backing off, sir!” She spun on her heel, heading for her car.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Lundgren?”

“To cool off. Do I need permission for that, too?”

“Five minutes,” he said. “Then I want you back upstairs.”

Five minutes later, Kitt was heading toward Dekalb. She acknowledged that Deputy Chief of Detectives Salvador Minelli was going to be really pissed off when he realized what she had done. He might even ask for her badge.

He could have it. M.C. was her partner and friend. And this was her case. Peanut had made it hers.

She tried Deputy Roberts. She got him. He was frazzled. “Sorry, Detective, I’ll have to call you back. We have an incident here.”

“Wait! The Ballard family home, where is it?”

“I’ve got to go, Detective!”

He hung up. Kitt frowned and glanced at the dash clock. Fifteen minutes. Sal may have realized by now she had decided to disobey direct orders. But maybe not-he was a little busy right now.

She dialed the Dekalb County sheriff’s office. “This is Detective Lundgren with the Rockford PD. I believe my chief of detectives called and requested a unit to check out a residence in your jurisdiction?”

When the woman didn’t respond, Kitt feared the gig was up. Then the line crackled and she answered. “Yes, Detective. How can I help you?”

“He’s instructed me to accompany them.”

“They’ve already been dispatched.”

“I’ll meet them.”

“Do you have the location?”

She said she didn’t and the woman rattled off an address, then directions.

“Shall I notify them?” she asked Kitt.

“Yes, thank you.”

As she ended the call, another came in. She saw it was Sal.

Sorry, Sal, I seem to have a bad case of selective hearing tonight. I never even heard it ring.

The woman’s directions proved easy to follow, which was surprising as the farmhouse was literally in the middle of cornfields.

She took the long gravel drive to the house. She saw the deputy’s cruiser sitting out front. Not a light showed from the house or the ramshackle outbuildings situated around it.

She climbed out of her car. The deputy met her. “Detective Kitt Lundgren. Rockford PD.”

“Deputy Shanks. I rang the bell. Got no answer, so I did a spin around the property. Doors and windows are all secure. Nothing out of order on the inside. House appears deserted.”

“You checked the outbuildings?”

“I did. Nothing.”

“A vehicle?”

“Unless you count a broken-down tractor, no.”

“Mind if I take a look around myself?”

“Have at it.”

She did, taking her time. She checked every door and window on the ground level, shone her flashlight through every window. When she found nothing, she moved on to the various sheds.

She would have come to the same conclusion as Deputy Shanks if not for the prickle at the back of her neck.

They were there.

The SAK. And his Copycat. M.C. was with them.

She swept her gaze over the house’s dark facade.

She wanted inside.

The good deputy wasn’t going to allow that.

She turned to the young man. “Looks like our lead was a dead end.”

“Looks that way. I’m sorry, Detective.”

“Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

“No problem at all.”

They crossed to their vehicles. The deputy opened his door, then looked back at her. “By the way, who’re you looking for?”

“Child killer. We think he has my partner.”

“Oh, man. Damn.”

“Yeah, that,” she said. “And worse.”

Say you wish you could help.

He made a move to climb into his vehicle, then stopped. “This that Copycat guy?”

“We believe so, yes.”

“Sorry. Shit.”

Offer to do something more. I’ll take you up on it.

Instead, he climbed into his cruiser. She hesitated a moment, then followed his lead. They started their vehicles and headed down the gravel drive. At the end of the drive, he took a right, heading in the opposite direction she had come.

She smiled because he was making it easy for her. Thank you very much, Deputy Shanks.

Kitt took the left, drove two and a half miles, then U-turned and headed back. She cut her lights when she reached the gravel drive. She rolled slowly toward the house, the crunch of the tires on the gravel deafening in the still night.

She eased her Taurus around back, behind the garage. She wouldn’t put it past the deputy to ride by again, just to make certain everything was secure.

Before she climbed out, she retrieved her flashlight from the glove box and checked her weapon. She reholstered her cell phone and pocketed her car keys.

The back door lock proved flimsy, and she was standing in the farmhouse kitchen in moments. A big, old-fashioned kitchen, she saw. Looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the fifties.

And it was, obviously, empty. She snapped on the pencil light and made her way through the doorway that led into a living room. She moved the beam over the room. Furniture covered in sheets. The stale, airless smell of a place that had been closed up for a long time.

The dining room was completely empty, as was the bedroom on the main floor. Next, Kitt crept up the stairs. Several of them creaked; each time she stopped, held her breath and listened. No one came running. No alarms sounded. Nothing.

If anyone else was in the house they, like her, were trying to be very quiet.

She reached the top landing. The bathroom lay directly across the hall. She crossed to it, eased open the door with her fingertips.

It had recently been used. A roll of toilet paper sat on the floor by the toilet. She stared at the paper, heart pounding.

That meant the water supply to the house had been turned on.

She tiptoed to the sink and put her finger under the faucet-and found it damp.