save for a small sign announcing the change. Simply, Rockford held itself in higher esteem than its neighbor; it had been that way as long as she could remember.
Loves Park Self-Storage, it turned out, was located between a Chinese restaurant and a burger joint. As Kitt climbed out of her vehicle, the smell of grease hit her hard. Not even ten in the morning and somebody was frying something. She had no doubt that a number of the guys they’d brought with them-three patrol units and most of the ID Bureau-were already wondering about lunch: Chinese or burgers?
If they were still here at noon. Who knew? The locker could be empty. The tip could be a ruse. Obviously “Peanut” got his jollies from making her jump through hoops.
But the storage unit could contain anything. The key to the investigation. A direct lead to the Copycat. Or one back to the SAK.
“Hoping Santa brings you everything you’re wishing for?” M.C. said from the other side of the car.
“You know it’s true. Shall we?”
They made their way around the vehicles and fell into step together. Behind them, she heard the rest of the team arriving.
Delivering a search warrant was a mixed bag. It could be an exhilarating moment. Triumphant. Because, as a cop, you knew this was it. That this scumbag, who had done whatever, was about to get nailed. You just knew it. A cop’s instincts.
Other times, it made you feel lousy to be the law. Because of the innocent bystanders. Family members or loved ones who either had no clue what kind of creep they had been living with or were too young to have a clue.
She had experienced everything in between as well. Suspects who pulled weapons or tried to run, ambivalence, lawsuits.
They stepped into the leasing office. It wasn’t much more than a desk, file cabinet and sitting area. Very small. Barely serviceable.
“Good morning,” Kitt said to the woman behind the desk, who not only did not have big hair, but sported a sleek little bob.
So much for stereotypes.
“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.
“Afraid so.” She crossed to her and handed her the warrant. “I’m Detective Lundgren from the Rockford Police Department. This is Detective Riggio. I have a warrant to search unit seven.”
The young woman looked confused, then flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“A search warrant. For the contents of unit seven and that unit’s renter information. It’s all there on the warrant.”
“I’ll have to call my boss and get his okay.”
She reached for the phone; Kitt noticed her hand was shaking. “Call him if you like,” Kitt said, “but a judge already gave me permission. By the way, the law requires you or the owner be present during the search. If you think that’s going to present a problem, you might want to call someone else in.”
“Wait! I don’t have a key to that padlock. How are you going to get in?”
Kitt stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.”
By the time she made it to number seven, one of her colleagues had already cut the lock and rolled back the metal door. The interior was dim, even with sunlight pouring through the open door. The three uniforms snapped on their flashlights.
“We’re going to need scene lights,” Kitt said.
M.C. nodded. “I’ll call.”
The unit, Kitt discovered, was very full. She shone her flashlight beam over the interior. The contents ran the gamut from furniture to bikes, boxes to books, even a dressmaker’s mannequin.
For the next two hours, Kitt and the rest of the team carefully picked through the items, opening boxes, leafing through folded garments, books. Looking for the obvious. Photos. A family Bible or other inscribed items. Weapons. Body parts. A recognizable trophy.
There was something here. She felt it.
Or were those her shot instincts talking to her?
She crossed to Snowe. “What do you think?” she asked.
Snowe turned his ball cap backward on his head. “It’s going to take days, even weeks, to get through everything in here.”
She had thought the same thing but had hoped for better.
“I don’t have that kind of time.”
“We can’t give you a miracle. Wish we could.”
“What about an inventory?”
“No analysis? Less time. A few days.”
Civilians watched television shows like CSI and figured every case got that kind of attention. If only it were so.
At any given time, an urban PD had hundreds of ongoing investigations, new crimes being committed continually and limited manpower and budget. Even cases as high profile as the SAK and Copycat killings faced time-and-money constraints.
“Do your thing,” she said. “I’m going to follow up on the renter.” Kitt motioned one of the uniforms over. “Get the renter’s information and run it through the databases. I want to know who this guy is, where he lives and if he has any priors.”
Each patrol unit traveled with an MDT, or Mobile Data Terminal. It allowed them to access pretty much everything about a suspect but the size of his morning dump.
The man nodded. “You got it, Detective.”
M.C. sidled up to her. “We need to talk.”
Kitt felt herself stiffen. “That so?”
“I’m thinking this is a setup. Another hoop for you to jump through.”
Kitt fought the defensiveness that rose up in her. “Why?”
“It has the feel of a stage set to me. It’s too perfect.”
Kitt moved her gaze over the contents, the picture they made. The dressmaker’s mannequin, the two old Schwinn bikes, propped up against the far wall. The steamer trunk and cracked mirror.
Like a movie set.
One working hard to be part of a story.
“He’s dicking with you, Kitt.”
“But there’s something here. I feel it. He’s planted it.”
“If he did, he buried it. To tie you up. Keep you chasing shadows.”
Chasing shadows. Sadie. Joe. The Sleeping Angels.
“You gotta ask yourself, why?” M.C. said.
Kitt resisted the idea. “Are you suggesting, Detective, that I not pursue this?”
“No. Just-” M.C. looked away, then back. Kitt had the sense that she struggled with something. Or that she was stepping into an arena not only foreign to her, but uncomfortable as well.
“Just be careful,” she finished.
The other woman had surprised her. Concern was the last thing Kitt had expected her to want to communicate. “Thanks for caring,” she said gruffly, “but I don’t think I have anything to worry about from either the SAK or his copycat. I’m not ten years old anymore. And these days I’m only blond because my hairdresser’s a genius.”
M.C. didn’t smile. “You can lose a lot more than your life, Kitt.”
They both knew many things could be taken from a victim besides her life.
What M.C. didn’t realize was, Kitt had already lost most of them.
“Detective Lundgren? I’ve got him.”
The two women hurried out to the patrol car. “Andrew Stevens. Twenty-eight. Engineer with Sundstrand. Lives on Boulder Ridge Drive. Record’s clean. Not even a traffic violation.”
“Great.” Kitt looked at M.C. “You in the mood to ride shotgun?”
