“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?”

“Absolutely.”

As they hoped they would, they caught Stevens at work. He possessed one of those broad, honest-looking faces that didn’t mean squat.

“Is this about my wallet?” he asked, after they had introduced themselves.

“Your wallet?” Kitt asked.

He looked frustrated. “Was stolen. The day after Christmas. I reported it. Never heard a thing back.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stevens. We’re here about your storage locker.”

“What storage locker?”

“Loves Park Self-Storage. Unit seven. You rented it on January 3.”

He stared at them a moment, frowning. “I didn’t rent a storage facility, my wallet was stolen. Can’t you guys get anything right?”

Nice. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir.” Kitt handed him a copy of the rental agreement. “But according to this, you did.”

He scanned the document, frowning, then handed it back. “This isn’t me. It can’t be.”

“And why’s that?” M.C. asked.

“I was in San Francisco on January 3. On my honeymoon.”

27

Monday, March 13, 2006

3:00 p.m.

By three that afternoon, Kitt was mighty pissed off. M.C. watched the woman as she paced. “At this rate, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor. Or your shoes.”

“Screw ’ em both. Another dead end. Dammit!”

“Apple?” M.C. asked.

Kitt stopped pacing. “I’d rather have snack crackers.”

“No junk food.” M.C. tossed her the apple. “You’re already on edge.”

Kitt caught it. “He’s screwing with me. And it’s starting to piss me off.”

“I told you so.”

“Don’t you start with me now. One is most definitely enough.”

“You’ve got things backward,” M.C. said. “I’m the young, brash hothead. You’re the mature, seasoned veteran who’s counseling me. Remember? Lighten up? Go with the flow?”

Kitt took a bite of the apple. It was crunchy and tart, just the way she liked them. “I never said go with the flow.”

“Let’s pretend, then. Now, take your own advice.”

“Excuse me?”

M.C. stood. “Yeah, he’s screwing with you. And doing a damn fine job of it, don’t you think? Stop letting him get to you. Stop running in circles and being pissed off about it.”

“You irritate the hell out of me.” M.C. smiled, perversely pleased. “Better me than him.”

Kitt took another bite of her apple, never taking her gaze from M.C. “I still think there’s something there.”

“But what? It’s not Stevens. His story checked out. He reported his wallet stolen. He canceled all his credit cards and changed the locks on his doors. The airline confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Stevens traveled with them, the hotel confirmed the couple stayed at their San Francisco property for six nights, beginning January 2 and checking out January 8.”

“So our guy steals a wallet. Uses the ID to rent a storage locker. Pays a year in advance.”

“But which guy? The Copycat? Or Peanut?”

M.C. saw Kitt’s involuntary cringe at the nickname. This guy knew how to get to Kitt, no doubt about it. She made a mental note not to refer to him by the name again.

“I don’t know.” Kitt drew her eyebrows together in thought. “He didn’t tell me whose storage locker it was, so I assumed-”

“It was the Copycat’s. As he knew you would.”

“But instead, it’s part of his game.”

“It looked like a stage set, because it was one. He’s sent you on a kind of scavenger hunt.”

Kitt perched on the edge of the desk. M.C. could see that she had forgotten she was pissed off. “So, it’s up to me to find the clue hidden there.”

“Buried, you mean. Like a needle in a haystack. If there’s anything at all.”