“I said maybe, no promises.”
“That’s not fair! I gave you what you wanted, I-”
“Life’s not fair, dear one. Bye-bye.”
He hung up; she swung toward M.C., already on the line with CRU.
She met Kitt’s eyes, expression jubilant. “Got him!”
“Six cruisers,” Sal ordered. “No chances. Everybody wears Kevlar. No mistakes.” He turned toward White and Allen. “Backup Lundgren and Riggio.”
Everybody scrambled. Before they even reached the address, they had learned it was a twelve-unit apartment building. As Kitt pulled up in front of the building, HQ was in the process of running the building’s individual addresses through the computer.
Definitely not the most desirable real estate in the metro area.
The cruisers were already there, officers at the ready, weapons drawn.
Kitt climbed out of the car. “Nobody leaves,” she ordered. “ID everybody.”
White and Allen joined them, and they made their way into the building. The hallway was dim and smelled of urine. The trace had pinpointed the address, but not the unit number.
“Super’s usually on the first floor,” Kitt said. “If the building’s got one.” The detectives split into pairs, each taking one side of the hallway.
Kitt and M.C. struck pay dirt right off.
The super was a sixtyish man with an impressive beer belly and a face lined from years spent in the sun. She noted his hands-big, callused and fish-belly white. From inside the apartment came the sound of the TV. All My Children, she recognized. While on leave she had become addicted to it.
“Detective Lundgren.” She held up her shield. “Detective Riggio. We need to ask you a few questions.”
M.C. stepped in. “Are all these units occupied?”
“All but two. Those folks vacated a couple weeks ago. Skipped on their rent.” He narrowed his eyes. “I bet you’re lookin’ for that freak in 310.”
“Why’s that?”
“Caught him lookin’ at pictures of kids.”
“Pictures of kids?”
“You know, that kiddie porn. Wanted to puke. Thankful my kids are grown. Warned everyone in the building with kids.”
Ex-con. Sex offender. Promising.
“His name?”
“Brown. Buddy.”
“Know if he’s home right now?”
“No clue. Haven’t seen him in a week or so. But he slips in and out, all hours. Like the freak he is.”
M.C.’s cell rang. She separated herself from the group. “Riggio. Thanks. Got it.”
Kitt excused herself, crossed to her partner. “HQ?”
She nodded. “They discovered Brown, too.”
“Sex offender?”
“No. Burglary and assault. They’re still working on the other tenants. So far nothing’s jumped out.”
“Brown’s our man. I feel it.” She crossed back to the super and thanked him for his help. “For your own safety, I suggest you return to your apartment. Remain there until I give you the go-ahead to leave.”
He looked almost gleeful. Kitt suspected this was the most excitement he’d encountered in some time. All My Children just couldn’t compete. “The freak’s behind on his rent,” he called after them. “You need me to let you in, just give a shout.”
Kitt, M.C. and the two other detectives converged on 310.
Kitt rapped on the door. “Mr. Brown, open up! Police!”
From inside came a sound, like a glass shattering.
“Let’s go!” White reared back and kicked the door in. The four burst through, guns drawn. A cat darted past their feet and into the hall. Otherwise, the unit seemed devoid of life.
“Mr. Brown!” Kitt called again. “Police!”
She didn’t need to search the apartment to know it was empty. Brown had already flown the coop.
They fanned out, anyway, searching the one-bedroom unit. It smelled of cat excrement and spoiled food. Kitt found what she was looking for on a soiled futon near the front window. A cell phone. He’d left it when he ran.
She crossed to it, snapped on a latex glove, squatted down and retrieved the last number called.
The department’s main number.
She scrolled back. A virtual plethora of numbers. Any one of which may lead them to the Copycat.
M.C. joined her. “Sent White and Allen to question the other tenants.”
Kitt nodded. “He figured we got the trace, took off. Called me from this phone.”
“I’ll report it. Get the units downstairs to start canvassing the area. He could be close.”
“He have a car?”
“A Ford Escort. It’s out front.”
“Let’s get it impounded.” M.C. nodded, then frowned. “You notice there’s no cat box in here.”
She looked at her partner, surprised. She hadn’t noticed.
“No food or water bowl, either.”
“No wonder the creature took off the minute the door opened. Poor thing.”
“It’s weird.”
“What?”
“An outdoor cat in an apartment? No pet door? Why didn’t the cat bolt when Brown exited earlier?”
“That’s a good question, isn’t it? Clearly the cat belonged to Brown and had been here a while.”
“Judging by the amount of cat doo.”
Kitt arched an eyebrow at the expression. “Doo?”
“You know, as in doo-doo. Aka shit.”
“New usage for me. I associate ‘do’ with prom hair.” M.C. wrinkled her nose. “Nice image, Lundgren. Let’s get ID in here for a complete search.”
“Done.”
While M.C. made the call, Kitt poked around. In the bottom of the bedroom closet she found a shoe box. She flipped the lid back.
Yellowed newspaper clippings. All concerning the same events-the original Sleeping Angel murders.
A lump in her throat, she carefully leafed through them. She recalled each as if burned in her memory. In a number of them, she was named as lead detective on the case.
In every news story, he had highlighted her name with a fluorescent yellow marker.
“M.C., come take a look at this.”
Her partner joined her and thumbed through the clippings. “Looks like somebody has a crush on you,” she said dryly.
“Lucky m-” She bit the word off. At the bottom of the box was a tube of lip gloss. Maybelline. The kind that could be purchased at every drug store in America.
The color-Pretty in Pink.
43
Friday, March 17, 2006
3:50 p.m.
Buddy Brown’s parole officer was not happy to see Kitt and M.C., a fact that had nothing to do with them. Another con breaking his parole agreement meant more paperwork, more irritation and more discussions with
