That’s how I ended up here.”
“My God-” M.C. lowered her voice “-you believe this somehow relates to the SAK or Copycat?”
“Yes. I’m thinking Brian might’ve questioned the wrong person about it.”
M.C. digested that. “His death coming on the heels of your conversation and his message could be a co…”
She let the word-coincidence-trail off. It was almost too preposterous to utter.
They fell silent. M.C. moved her gaze over the room. The TV was on. ESPN, she saw. His shoulder holster, with holstered weapon, hung on the back of the desk chair. The shooter had caught him mid-Big Mac. The bag and food sat on the bed by the remote. Two Miller long-necks, one empty, the other half-drunk, sat on the nightstand by the bed.
His cell phone was attached to his hip.
The sound of the teams climbing the stairs filled the quiet. ID, M.C. thought. Sure enough, a moment later, ID Detective Sorenstein and Sergeant Campo entered the room.
Kitt glanced from them, to her. “Anybody besides me overhear your argument with Brian?” she asked quietly.
The elephant in the middle of the room. M.C. appreciated her bringing it up. “Not that I know of. But that doesn’t mean no one did.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“You’ve never hesitated before.”
“This could cause you problems. Head it off. Go to Sal. Tell him everything before he asks.”
The thought of revealing her affair to the chief made M.C. squirm. It would go on her permanent record; a mistake that would shadow her for the rest of her career. “There’s nothing to tell. I had nothing to do with this.”
It was their last opportunity to speak privately. Sal and Sergeant Haas arrived. They caught sight of her and Kitt and started toward them. M.C. noticed how the chief kept his gaze fixed on them, never lighting on Brian’s body.
“Detectives,” he said by way of greeting, then turned fully to Kitt. “Brief me.”
“Brian left me a message. I couldn’t get him on his cell, so I tracked him down here.”
“Here?”
“He and Ivy were separated. I called her, she told me where he was staying. I found him this way, checked his pulse and called in.”
Sal nodded and turned to the pathologist. “Anything you can tell us, Frances?”
“Judging by the gunpowder tattooing around the bullet wound, the shooter was standing no more than eighteen inches away.” He indicated the gunpowder particles imbedded in a circular pattern in the skin around the bullet hole. “I haven’t a doubt that’s what killed him. First bullet entered in the lung area, the second his heart. I’m guessing the order by the tattooing. First bullet hit and Lieutenant Spillare took a step backward. Changing the shot’s distance changed the gunpowder pattern.”
“How long ago?” Sal asked.
“Not long. A few hours. Temperature and stomach contents will help us pinpoint the time.” Roselli stood and removed his gloves. “He gets priority, of course.”
“He knew his killer,” Sergeant Haas said.
“I agree.” Sal turned to Kitt. “The scenario seems pretty clear. He opened the door and was shot.”
Considering the scenario and the fact she was the one who had found Brian, she came under suspicion. Kitt un-sheathed her weapon and held it, grip out, for the superior officers. “My weapon,” she said.
Every time a gun was discharged, particles of primer and burned gunpowder deposited on the hands of the shooter, as well as the barrel of the gun. Sergeant Haas took the gun, examined it for such residue, then handed it back. “Keep it for now.”
“Thank you, Sarge,” she said, and reholstered it. “There’s something else about tonight.” Kitt glanced her way and for one horrifying moment M.C. thought she was going to tell them about her affair with Brian. “About the message he left me. Could we step outside?”
They agreed and headed out onto the walkway. As it was far from private, they took the stairs to the first floor, then crossed to stand beside Kitt’s Taurus.
“This afternoon I approached Lieutenant Spillare with a theory. That the SAK was a cop.”
Sal narrowed his eyes and Sergeant Haas drew a sharp breath. “And what led you to this theory?”
She repeated what she had told M.C. earlier that evening. “I reviewed the tapes of my calls from Peanut. He knew about Derrick Todd, that we were ‘chasing our tails.’ He understands the process. That’s how he got away with his crimes. He takes great pride in that. As if he has something to prove to us. A chip on his shoulder.”
“He could be a crime or police buff. Or have family in law enforcement.”
“All true. But he could also be a cop, or former cop, with an ax to grind with the department, some sort of grudge.”
She paused, as if to give them a moment to comment. When they didn’t, she went on. “Brian offered to check employment records, see if any names popped up.”
She drew a breath, moved her gaze between the two men. “In his message, Brian said he had ‘nosed’ around. That he needed to talk to me.”
Her two superiors were silent a moment, as if digesting what she’d said. “You saved the message?”
“Absolutely.”
Sal swore suddenly. “Trace Lieutenant Spillare’s steps. I want to know who he talked to, every file he opened, every piece of paper he touched. If a cop’s responsible for this, I’ll tear him apart myself.”
54
Monday, March 20, 2006
11:57 p.m.
It was nearly midnight when Kitt arrived home. She pulled into her driveway, shut off the engine and sat. The sky rumbled ominously. The weather forecast had called for thunderstorms tonight; they had been threatening for hours.
Brian was dead. Her friend and confidant. Her champion.
And she had gotten him killed.
Tears burned her eyes and she didn’t fight them. They rolled down her cheeks. Slowly at first, building until the force of her sobs shook her.
He had made her laugh. Had reminded her daily of the good things about being a cop. He’d been like family.
Family. Three daughters, now fatherless.
Kitt pressed her lips together, thinking of Ivy. Sal had decided he should be the one to tell her. Sergeant Haas had offered to accompany him. More than likely, they were doing it now.
She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Why had she approached him with her “cop with a grudge” theory? Why hadn’t she investigated it herself?
Maybe it would be her in the morgue now, two bullet holes in her chest.
Better her than Brian. She wouldn’t have left anyone behind.
The minutes ticked past. As they did, her tears abated, her grief twisting into a kind of exhausted anger. The kind that brought thoughts of revenge, of finding the son of a bitch who pulled the trigger and making him pay.
She had used grief to fuel her anger many a time before. As a way to keep going, do her job, face a new day.
She climbed out of the car, made her way up the walk. A package waited for her on the front steps. A brown-paper grocery sack. As if some kindhearted neighbor had brought her a meal, and finding her not home,
