21

Saturday, March 11, 2006

12:05 a.m.

M.C. found Kitt at her desk, reading a printout. “You said you were right behind me,” M.C. said, acknowledging her irritation. But at what? Having been outworked by the other woman? Or having been pulled away from an enjoyable evening?

Kitt looked up. M.C. saw her excitement. “I meant to be. Just kept punching in ‘one more name.’ Our man Derrick popped up at the bottom of the list. Last man, in fact.”

Kitt handed her the printout. “Twenty-four years old. A maintenance engineer at the Fun Zone. Skills he probably acquired in the pen. Did two years at Big Muddy River for indecent liberties with a child.”

Big Muddy River was a correctional facility with a treatment program for sex offenders. “When did he get out?”

“Less than a year ago. Which works with our theory that the SAK and his copycat met in the joint.”

M.C. flipped through the pages, frowning. It was all petty stuff. Shoplifting. Truancy. DUI. Possession. Then the sex offense.

But it painted a picture of a kid sliding downhill.

“He would have had to register. Probably quarterly.” Working at a place like the Fun Zone was a violation, just like living within five hundred feet of a school or volunteering as a Little League coach would be.

Mr. Todd was going back to prison, ASAP.

“How in the hell did this guy slip through the Fun Zone’s screening process?” M.C. asked.

“Good question. One I suggest we get an answer to. Think ZZ’s up?”

“I’d bet not. But I’d be happy to get him up. Besides, I’m an old friend, how annoyed could he get?”

Pretty damn annoyed, it turned out. His wife answered the door; she nearly fainted when she learned they were cops. She called ZZ, who stumbled out of the bedroom, looking dazed and confused. The commotion awakened the baby, who began to wail. Which in turn woke the toddler, who appeared at the top of the stairs, crying.

“Mary Catherine?” he said, blinking at her, then Kitt. “Detective?”

Kitt grabbed the lead. “I apologize for the hour, Mr. Zuba, but we have a few questions that couldn’t wait until morning.”

ZZ’s wife stopped halfway up the stairs, expression frozen with fear. “Zed?”

“It’s okay, Judy. Take care of the kids.”

She hesitated a moment, then hurried up the last few stairs and scooped the toddler up. When she had disappeared from sight, ZZ turned back to them. “Kitchen,” he said, pointing.

They followed him and all sat at the round oak table, which still bore the evidence of an evening meal with very young children.

The bleary-eyed manager looked at them. “You scared the crap out of my wife. This had better be good.”

“Again, Mr. Zuba,” Kitt said, “I apologize for the hour. It was necessary, however. In an investigation like this, every minute-”

“Counts,” M.C. said, jumping in. “What if it were one of your kids? Would you want the police to wait until everybody had their full eight hours?”

The man looked less disgruntled. “No, of course not. You want coffee or anything?”

They both refused; M.C. began. “What can you tell us about Derrick Todd?” she asked.

“Derrick?” he repeated, appearing genuinely surprised. “He’s all right. A quiet guy. Keeps to himself.”

“You hire him?”

“No. Our owner did. He came highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

M.C. cocked an eyebrow. “But you were the Fun Zone’s manager at the time?”

He nodded and yawned. “I was pretty new, though. Just on board, I don’t know, a matter of months.”

“He go through the usual employment screenings?”

ZZ straightened slightly, as if he was finally awake enough to realize what was going on. “Can’t say for certain. I was new and Derrick was the owner’s hire.”

“As maintenance engineer, how much interaction does Derrick Todd have with Fun Zone patrons?”

ZZ shifted uncomfortably. “He’s on the floor a lot. Maintenance engineer covers a lot of territory for us. Janitorial. Game repair. Sound system, coin and drink machines. Not heavy-duty repair, you understand, but tinkering. He’s good at that.”

“What would you say if I told you Derrick Todd is a registered sex offender?”

The manager’s expression would have been comical in a different situation. “That’s impossible. Derrick can be surly sometimes, but…he’s good with the kids, just has a way with…”

His words trailed off. Maybe he heard how they sounded. Or maybe he had heard the stats about pedophiles: that they “loved” kids, that they chose jobs or professions that put them in contact with children, that they could not be rehabilitated.

“Zed? Is everything all right?”

They looked toward the doorway. Judy stood there, expression concerned. It was no wonder; ZZ looked like he was going to throw up.

“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Zuba,” Kitt responded, standing. “We apologize for disturbing your family.”

“Is this about those girls who were killed?”

“They say Derrick’s a registered sex offender.”

She brought a hand to her mouth. “My God. He’s been over to the house.”

M.C. followed her partner to her feet. She passed behind her old friend’s chair and patted his shoulder. “You should call Max. I know he’d love to hear from you.”

He nodded but didn’t rise. M.C. suspected he was busy dealing with the ramifications of this information getting out. And even worse, what would happen if Derrick turned out to have killed Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest?

When M.C. reached the kitchen doorway, she glanced back at ZZ. “The Fun Zone’s owner, Mr. Dale, does he live around here?”

His wife answered. “He lives on the east side. In that swanky neighborhood, Brandywine Estates.”

Moments later, they were outside, heading toward the car. “Interesting,” M.C. said. “Hired by the boss, coming ‘highly recommended.’ We’ll definitely need to talk to Mr. Dale in the morning.”

“Why do tomorrow what we could tonight? If he’s not awake already, he will be in a matter of minutes.”

When ZZ called. M.C. suspected her old friend wouldn’t waste a minute notifying his employer of the turn of events. She just prayed ZZ’s story was true and that he hadn’t been lying to save his ass.

They reached the Explorer, unlocked it and climbed inside. “I suggest we let Mr. Dale stew a bit. Besides, a rich guy like him has an army of lawyers to call when he gets pissed off.” M.C. started the car. “Let’s pay the kid a visit instead.”

Derrick Todd rented in a neighborhood that aspired to “crummy.” To get to it, they passed Lance’s diner. As they did, M.C. smiled to herself.

“What?” Kitt asked.

“Nothing.”

She cocked an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. “When I called, what were you doing? Not home sleeping.”

“Eating. Cream pie. Four different kinds.”

“Sounds like somebody has an issue with sweets. Have you tried to find help?”

“What makes you think it’s my issue with sweets?”

“Want to tell me about him?” Kitt asked.

“Hardly.”

“Not even a name?”

“Nope.”

“That’s what I love about this partnership,” Kitt said, tone dry, “the sharing and camaraderie.” She pointed to the intersection up ahead. “Right turn there.”

They came upon the building in a matter of minutes. Ramshackle. Overgrown. Just the kind of place one would expect a twenty-four-year-old ex-con to live.

M.C. cruised to a stop in front of the apartment building. Light showed from several windows. “Should we go in?”

“I’m thinking yes.” Kitt checked her weapon. “You?”

“Absolutely.”

“Flashlight?”

“Yup.” She opened the glove box. “Got it.”

They exited the vehicle and made their way up the walk to the building’s front doors. The structure itself was a big rectangle-shaped box. Brick. Built in the forties, M.C. guessed. Probably a pretty nice place in those days. Never the Ritz, but certainly not the dump it was now.