Derrick Todd never showed. Kitt could offer a number of different scenarios for why, but she feared any minute she would get a call informing her that another girl was dead.
After all, the Copycat didn’t just kill his victims, he spent the night with them.
She and M.C. had decided that their best course of action would be to station a uniform at Todd’s apartment, freeing them to move on. They needed to fill in the chief, acquire both a search and arrest warrant for Todd, and interview the Fun Zone’s owner. Food, a shower and change of clothes were high on Kitt’s list of priorities as well. They arranged to rendezvous back at the PSB.
Kitt beat the younger woman there and used the time to retrieve Mr. Dale’s address from the computer.
“I’m starting to get a complex.”
Kitt looked over her shoulder at M.C. “About what?”
“You outwork me last night, this morning you manage to eat, shower and change clothes at the speed of light. How’d you do it?”
Smiling, Kitt stood. “I keep a change of clothes in my locker here. I showered in the ladies’ dressing room, ate peanut-butter crackers from the vending machine and fortified myself with a cup of been-sitting-in-the-pot-all-night coffee.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an overachiever?”
“Once or twice.” Clearly, M.C. had a competitive streak. Amused, Kitt crossed to her. She held out the address. “Brandywine Estates, just like ZZ’s wife said. You want to drive or should I?”
“I will.” M.C. snatched the paper from her. “And snack crackers for breakfast is not a healthy start. You’ll be hungry in an hour.”
Roy Lynde, the detective at the desk across the aisle from Kitt’s, chuckled and M.C. sent him an annoyed glance. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” He held up his hands as if warding off an attack. “Just hanging out, watching the show.”
That brought guffaws from a couple of other guys. One of them said, “Looks like somebody’s met her match.”
Roy piped up again. “Don’t take it personal, Riggio. Even Wonder Woman comes up short sometimes.”
Kitt saw her partner’s jaw tighten but didn’t comment until they were headed down the corridor for the elevator. “Want some advice?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
“You know I’m going to offer it, anyway.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“Don’t take it all so seriously. Lighten up, sometimes.”
M.C. stopped, looked at her, expression incredulous. “You’re telling me to lighten up?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“For obvious reasons, yes.”
“Obvious reasons?” Kitt said, keeping her voice low. “You mean ones like outworking and out-investigating you? Or being able to take a joke?”
M.C. flushed. “Let’s see, Detective Intensity, you basically ‘go postal’ over the SAK case, blow it and several others, climb into a bottle and end up suspended. By the grace of God-or some mighty powerful strings-you’re back at work and I’m stuck with you. Yeah, I have a problem with you telling me to lighten up.”
They glared at each other. Kitt acknowledged being angry-as much at herself as Riggio. For letting the woman engage her and for stepping into the “wise mentor” role in the first place. If Mary Catherine Riggio wanted to be humorless and unlikable, it was her life.
“You know what, Riggio? We have to work together, so get over it.”
Kitt didn’t give her a chance to respond; she turned and started for the elevator. M.C. fell into step beside her. They reached the elevator and simultaneously moved to punch the call button. Same for the floor number.
They didn’t speak again until they were halfway across town. Kitt broke the silence first. “My daughter died. My marriage fell apart. I didn’t handle it well. You called it ‘going postal.’ Whatever. It’s in the past. Or at least, I’m working hard to put it there.”
For a long moment, Riggio didn’t respond. When she did, her voice was tight. “I overreacted,” she said finally. “Being taken seriously is a big deal for me. I had to fight for it all my life.” She paused. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”
“Fact of the matter is, neither one of us was lying,” Kitt answered.
M.C. smiled suddenly. “If we ever need to speak in code, you’re ‘Going postal.’”
“And you’re ‘Taking a joke.’”
“But I still don’t trust you to watch my back.”
“Ditto.”
The remainder of the drive passed in silence. But a less prickly one this time, one Kitt used to assemble her questions for Sydney Dale.
Mr. Dale, they discovered, lived in a large, contemporary home. The house sat on a beautifully landscaped lot-two acres or more, Kitt guessed, with pool, cabana and natural pond with rock waterfall.
They parked in the circular drive, behind a white BMW convertible. They crossed to the door, but before they could ring the bell, it swung open. An attractive teenage girl ducked past them, blond ponytail swinging. She trotted to the BMW, slid inside and started it up.
As the engine roared to life, a man thundered out the door, nearly knocking Kitt down. “Sam!” he shouted. “I did not give you permission to-”
“Gotta go, Dad. I’m late!” The teen stepped on the gas and sped down the drive.
Kitt watched, part amused, part disgusted. Classic case of teen ruling the roost. When she was growing up, either of her parents would have chased her down, then soundly kicked her butt.
“Mr. Sydney Dale?” M.C. asked.
He looked at them then, as if just realizing they were there. “Yes?”
He was a big man, though not particularly attractive. His nose occupied too much of his face, and his pitted skin spoke of teenage years besieged by acne.
A problem his daughter did not have. Of course, these days well-heeled parents spared no expense on their spoiled children: facials, professional manicures and pedicures, salon styling Kitt couldn’t even afford. She had even heard about breast augmentation as high school graduation gifts.
Geez. Her Mom had given her a ten-karat-gold cross necklace.
Kitt showed him her shield. “Detective Lundgren, Rockford Police Department. My partner, Detective Riggio.”
M.C. flashed her badge; the man didn’t even glance at it. “I was wondering when you’d get here. And just to let you know up-front, I’ve already spoken to my lawyer about this matter.”
Typical rich asshole. “What matter is that?” Kitt asked.
“My employment of Derrick Todd, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“It is. I guess my confusion stems from why you’d think you’d need to consult a lawyer over a few questions about one of your employees.”
He frowned. “Don’t play games with me, Detective. We both know why a man like me would consult with his lawyer over this. I have a lot to lose from liars, scam artists or bad press.”
That was true, and she appreciated his candor. “And what did your lawyer advise you to do, Mr. Dale?”
“Answer your questions honestly and help you in any way I could, then send you on your way.”
“That sounds fine to us, Mr. Dale.”
He closed the door behind him. “My wife’s still sleeping.”
Lucky her. Kitt took out her spiral-bound notepad. “I understand you own the Fun Zone.”
“Yes. It’s one of my investments. I leave the running of it, including the hiring and firing, to my manager.”
“Mr. Zuba.”
“Yes.”
“You say you leave the ‘hiring and firing’ to your manager, but that’s not always true. Is that right?”
He hesitated, just slightly. “Once in a while I offer suggestions.”
“As you did with Derrick Todd?”
Again, he hesitated. “Yes.”
