them.
She snatched up the receiver. “Danny, you were right. I’m so sor-”
“Danny? Should I be jealous, dear one?”
Not her friend.
Him.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
“That’s not very nice, Kitten.”
“I’m not in a nice mood.”
“And after all I’ve done for you.”
“And what would that be? The wild-goose chase you sent me on? Thanks.”
He chuckled. “It may have seemed that way to you. You have to have faith.”
“I have faith, all right. That I’ll find you and your copycat, and you’ll both rot in prison.”
“You don’t sound yourself tonight. Didn’t you like the balloon? Didn’t it lift your spirits?”
For one dizzying moment, she thought she had misheard him. But she hadn’t. He had been there.
Had he been lying in wait for her? Did he know her routine so well?
A clown. Dear God, was that how he scouted victims?
“Cat got your tongue, Kitten?”
Gooseflesh crawled up her arms at his self-satisfied tone. “Go to hell,” she said, and hung up.
Almost immediately, the phone rang again. As she’d expected, it was him.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said, voice vibrating with the force of his fury. “Do you understand? You won’t like what happens.”
She smiled, experiencing a tingle of victory. For him, the thrill was in terrorizing and manipulating her. Anticipating her emotions. He hadn’t anticipated her hanging up that way. She had momentarily wrenched the upper hand away from him.
If she could manage to do it again, could she force him to make a mistake? Maybe reveal something he hadn’t intended to?
“And what’ll that be?”
“Don’t push me.” She heard the strike of a lighter, the hiss of a cigarette being lit. “I know where you live, Kitt Lundgren. And I know what hurts you.”
Her hands were shaking. She simultaneously cursed the vodka of earlier and longed for more. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do. I promise you that.”
“Tell yourself that, dear one. If it reassures you.”
“I’m done being controlled and intimidated by you. You know what, I think you’re full of shit. You want to be this big badass, but you’re just a coward.”
For a moment she wondered if he had hung up on her, then she heard the sound of his breathing. He was angry again. “There were others, you know. Others who died. Other perfect crimes. Mine.”
Her breath caught. “Other children?”
“You never connected them to me. No one did.”
“Were these others children?” she asked again. “Tell me!”
“Did you like the balloon?” he asked. “Did it remind you of Sadie? Or of the other girls who died? It was thoughtful of me to give it to you, don’t you think?”
“What others?” she asked again. “Tell me, damn you!”
“Sleep well, Kitten.”
He hung up. She swore, certain they didn’t get the tap. A moment later the officer monitoring her phone confirmed it.
She tossed the phone onto the bed.
Bloody hell.
Climbing out of bed, she strode to the bathroom. Her legs felt rubbery, her hands shook. After splashing cold water on her face, she headed to the kitchen. There, the half-empty bottle of vodka mocked her. She stared at it, furious. At herself for succumbing. At Joe. At this child-killing monster.
Fueled by her fury, she crossed to the sink and dumped the remainder of the alcohol, then rinsed the sink to remove its smell. They would not beat her. None of them.
While a pot of coffee brewed, Kitt paced. He’d claimed he’d killed others. Plural. Children? she wondered, then discarded the thought. No way could the murders of children have slipped past the RPD radar.
But if not children, who?
The coffee burbled. She crossed to the pot, needing the caffeine. She needed to chase away the last of the alcohol fog. Mug poured, sugar and milk added, she made herself a peanut-butter sandwich.
While she consumed both, she turned her thoughts to the other things he had said to her. He had been at the charity event. He claimed to be the clown who had given her the balloon. She worked to recall details of his appearance.
Tall, maybe six feet. Medium build. Caucasian. His features had been concealed by the clown getup: white face, big red nose, eyes made up to look wide and surprised. Blue, she thought. His eyes had definitely been blue. Hair color had been obscured by the neon-orange wig.
What to do? She glanced at the wall clock. Still well before midnight. If M.C. wasn’t still up, she should be.
This couldn’t wait until morning.
She returned to the bedroom and snatched up the portable phone. She dialed her partner’s cell number. She answered after the second ring, tone wary.
“You awake, partner?”
“Kitt?” The word came out half growl. “This better be good.”
“You decide. He contacted me again. Claimed other victims, ones we never linked to him.”
She heard the woman’s sharply indrawn breath, then what sounded like her climbing out of the bed. “You think he was telling the truth?”
“Don’t know. I’m going to headquarters now. Figured I’d get on the computer, see if I can find anything.”
“They’re not going anywhere, you know. It’ll wait till morning.”
“I know. But I won’t be able to sleep, anyway.” She cleared her throat. “There’s more. Apparently, he and I were face-to-face tonight.”
“You’ve got me now,” M.C. said. “I go right past your place on my way to the PSB. I’ll pick you up.”
31
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
12:05 a.m.
As the crow flew, Kitt didn’t live that far from her. M.C. parked in the driveway of Kitt’s cottage-style home, climbed out of her Explorer, crossed to the door and rang the bell.
It took several minutes for Kitt to come to the door. Her hair was wet, her face flushed.
“That was fast,” she said. “I didn’t expect you for at least fifteen minutes.”
“I should have warned you, I was still up and dressed.”
“No problem. I took a quick shower. Mind if I take a minute to dry my hair?”
“Go ahead. Is that coffee I smell?”
“A nearly full pot, help yourself. Kitchen’s dead ahead.”
M.C. found the kitchen, then the cabinet that held the mugs. A box of sweetener sat open on the counter. Obviously, Kitt had already had a cup. And, judging by the empty plate by the sink, something to eat.
Before she called? M.C. wondered. Or after?
M.C. filled a mug, sweetened it and sipped. From the other part of the house she heard the hum of a hair dryer.
