“Why do tomorrow what we could tonight? If he’s not awake already, he will be in a matter of minutes.”
When ZZ called. M.C. suspected her old friend wouldn’t waste a minute notifying his employer of the turn of events. She just prayed ZZ’s story was true and that he hadn’t been lying to save his ass.
They reached the Explorer, unlocked it and climbed inside. “I suggest we let Mr. Dale stew a bit. Besides, a rich guy like him has an army of lawyers to call when he gets pissed off.” M.C. started the car. “Let’s pay the kid a visit instead.”
Derrick Todd rented in a neighborhood that aspired to “crummy.” To get to it, they passed Lance’s diner. As they did, M.C. smiled to herself.
“What?” Kitt asked.
“Nothing.”
She cocked an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. “When I called, what were you doing? Not home sleeping.”
“Eating. Cream pie. Four different kinds.”
“Sounds like somebody has an issue with sweets. Have you tried to find help?”
“What makes you think it’s my issue with sweets?”
“Want to tell me about him?” Kitt asked.
“Hardly.”
“Not even a name?”
“Nope.”
“That’s what I love about this partnership,” Kitt said, tone dry, “the sharing and camaraderie.” She pointed to the intersection up ahead. “Right turn there.”
They came upon the building in a matter of minutes. Ramshackle. Overgrown. Just the kind of place one would expect a twenty-four-year-old ex-con to live.
M.C. cruised to a stop in front of the apartment building. Light showed from several windows. “Should we go in?”
“I’m thinking yes.” Kitt checked her weapon. “You?”
“Absolutely.”
“Flashlight?”
“Yup.” She opened the glove box. “Got it.”
They exited the vehicle and made their way up the walk to the building’s front doors. The structure itself was a big rectangle-shaped box. Brick. Built in the forties, M.C. guessed. Probably a pretty nice place in those days. Never the Ritz, but certainly not the dump it was now.
The interior hallway was dimly illuminated by the one bulb that wasn’t burned out. It smelled musty, as if it needed a good airing out, and of someone’s dinner.
Cabbage, M.C. guessed. Nasty stuff. Luckily, Italians didn’t eat a lot of cooked cabbage.
“Third floor,” Kitt murmured. “Unit D.”
They climbed the stairs and made their way down the corridor to D. Music spilled from the apartment across the hall. Kitt rapped on Todd’s door. It creaked, then swung open.
Kitt glanced at M.C., who nodded. Kitt drew her weapon, then rapped on the door again, pushing it wider with her foot. “Derrick Todd?” she called. “Police.”
Nothing. M.C. snapped on the pencil light and directed it into the interior. A crappy dump. Kid was no housekeeper, either.
Kitt looked at her again, for confirmation. M.C. nodded. “Door was open. Justifiable entry. We were concerned about the man’s health.”
Kitt turned back to the apartment. “We’re coming in, Mr. Todd. Just to make sure you’re okay.”
Yeah, right. M.C. drew her weapon. They made their way into the apartment.
There was little to it other than the front room. Kid slept on a dirty-looking futon. The small bathroom didn’t even have a tub, just a stand-up shower. The place was a mess, but not the kind that indicated foul play.
M.C. itched to take advantage of the situation and initiate a real search. But anything they found would then be inadmissible-and their asses would be in a major, big-time sling.
If Todd proved to be a good suspect-which she believed he would-securing a search warrant would be a piece of cake.
Back in the hallway, Kitt belted the flashlight. She repositioned the door as they had found it. Music still blasted from the neighbor’s apartment. Other than that the floor was quiet.
They made their way downstairs and outside. After they had climbed into the SUV, Kitt turned to her. “Want to hang around? See if Todd shows up?”
“I’m game.”
“You got anything to eat in this vehicle?”
“Bag of nuts and some soy chips.”
“Soy chips?” Kitt repeated. “Very uncoplike. Now, if you’d said pork rinds or pretzels, I might have bought it.”
M.C. opened the console compartment, pulled out two snack bags. “Something’s got to balance all my mother’s pasta. They’re actually not bad.”
“I’ll take the nuts. Thanks.”
M.C. watched the woman rip open the bag and begin to eat. She most probably hadn’t had a thing since the sandwich and chips late that afternoon.
She was an interesting woman, M.C. decided. Certainly not the “head case” she had labeled her. She was extremely focused. Smart. Ambitious. She could see how those traits could, under the right circumstances, mushroom into obsession.
The right circumstances. The death of your own child, the murder of several others, an elusive killer and a pressure-cooker investigation.
Kitt shook out some nuts, popped them into her mouth. “Cashews. My favorite.”
“Mine, too. A guilty pleasure.”
Kitt nodded as she munched on the nuts. “Weight’s never been one of my issues. Don’t know why. I enjoy eating.”
“It’s my heritage,” M.C. said. “Italian women get to a certain age and unless they’re careful, they get round. Very round.”
“Your Mom?”
“Round. Very.”
“My Mom was svelte until the day she died.”
“When was that?”
“A couple years ago.”
Her daughter. Her marriage. Her mother. She had lost them all in a matter of a few years. M.C. couldn’t imagine. “I’m sorry.”
She said the words, though they felt lame to her own ears. Inadequate.
Kitt didn’t reply. They fell silent.
After several moments, Kitt asked, “How do you want to do this? Shifts?”
“Okay by me.” M.C. glanced at her watch. “One hour or two?”
“Let’s shoot for two. You sleep first. I’m wide-awake.” M.C. agreed, though she wasn’t sleepy, either. Mind racing, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Beside her Kitt hummed very softly under her breath. A lullaby, M.C. realized.
As she listened, she wondered what made Kitt Lundgren tick.
22
Saturday, March 11, 2006
8:30 a.m.
