“Good try. You almost had me.” She heard amusement come into his voice. “I actually do think you’d rather be dead. No child. No marriage. Nothing to live for.”

“I have something to live for, all right. Nailing sick pricks like you. I live to see you behind bars.”

“No, Kitten, it’s the children you care about. The little girls.”

He was right. Dammit. He had turned the tables on her.

“You like the idea of prison?” she pressed. “You have any idea what the rest of the prison population thinks of child killers? You like the idea of a boyfriend named Big Bubba?”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Maybe I should up the ante? Isn’t there a little girl in your life right now? In the periphery of your life? Are you strong enough to protect her? Smart enough? How fast and how hard would you run to save another little girl? Another Sadie?”

Kitt lost it. She felt something snap inside. A bitter-tasting fury spewed out. “You bastard! You know who this killer is. Tell me! Give me his fucking name, or I’ll tear you apart!”

He laughed, the sound high-pitched, gleeful. “Thanks for calling, I enjoyed our talk so much. Keep your eyes on the little girls and whatever you do…don’t blink.”

“You son of a bitch! When I get my hands on-”

“Call anytime, Kitten. Bye-bye.”

35

Thursday, March 16, 2006

9:00 a.m.

M.C. sat at her desk, staring into space, thinking of the previous evening and her date with Lance. She had slept with him, for God’s sake. On their first date. What had she been thinking?

She hadn’t been. Not rationally, anyway. He had swept her off her feet. With laughter, of all things.

She crossed her legs under her desk, remembering. Who would have thought she could laugh and orgasm at the same time?

And that the combination would be so incredible? Her abdominal muscles, already contracting with laughter, had spasmed with orgasm. It’d been like an orgastic explosion; she had thought she was going to die. She had actually fallen on top of him, momentarily paralyzed.

Afterward, he had teased her about it. But in a sweet way, one that made her feel sexy and beautiful.

Big mistake, though. And one, God help her, she wouldn’t be making again.

“I found them.”

M.C. blinked, focused. Kitt had arrived and stood before her, clutching several file folders to her chest.

M.C. frowned. “What happened to you? You look like hell.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“At all?”

“That doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “I found them. The others.”

M.C. straightened, fully engaged now. She shifted her gaze to the file folders. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Children?”

“No. Look for yourself.” Kitt dropped the file folders on the desk in front of her.

M.C opened the first file and began to read. As she did, Kitt paced.

When she closed the third file, she returned her gaze to Kitt’s. “The MO’s totally different.”

“I thought the same thing at first. But their very differences link them.”

“You should have gotten more sleep.”

“Just listen. Three crimes, obviously the work of the same person. The crimes a study in extremes. Same with the Sleeping Angel killings.”

M.C. nodded, reluctantly intrigued. “Go on.”

“Think about it. Violent versus serene. Old versus young. Bloody versus clean. These murders were committed exactly eight weeks apart, the SAK’s, six. Then there’s the tape. Like the lip gloss, applied postmortem.”

“Postmortem?” M.C. repeated. “It’s interesting. Worth exploring.”

Kitt rested her palms on the desk and leaned toward the other woman. She lowered her voice. “They’re his. He admitted it.”

“He called you?”

“I knew before he admitted it,” Kitt said. “Outwardly, they couldn’t be more different. But they had the bastard’s signature all over them.”

M.C. narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ve been thinking about Sydney Dale,” she said. “I want to have another talk with him. Thought I’d pay him a visit. See if we could get those questions of ours answered.”

M.C. sat back in her chair. Clearly, Kitt wanted out of the bureau before she said any more about her call last night. Why?

Whatever the reason, she decided to play along. “I ran Dale through the computer. He’s clean. Squeaky clean.”

“Guy doesn’t get to be that rich without dirtying his hands a little bit.”

“True, but that kind of stuff doesn’t end up in our data banks.”

“I don’t trust him. Fact is, he hired Todd. Told his manager the kid was ‘hired.’ Why?”

“Like he said, he knew the kid before he’d gotten himself in trouble. Figured ZZ would do the appropriate background checks and drug screenings.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Hell no. The guy was lying, at least about what he told ZZ.”

Kitt perched on the edge of the desk. “What if he did know Todd was an ex-con and a registered sex offender? Why would he hire him?”

M.C. had an idea where Kitt was heading and held her hands up. “Stop there. Are you thinking Dale might have deliberately put Todd there as a way to deflect suspicion? In case we found the connection between the girls and the Fun Zone?”

“A fall guy. What’s wrong with it?”

“Dale’s a solid citizen. A businessman of standing. Probably a deacon at his church.”

“So was Ted Bundy. And Dennis Rader, the BTK serial killer.” Kitt leaned toward her once more. “He’s smart. And he’s slick. And he was lying. Another chat would be a good thing.”

“Has Schmidt gotten anything from the tapes or surveillance of the Fun Zone?”

“Nada.”

M.C. gazed at the other detective. She may not trust her-but there was a kind of fire that burned in her eyes, one she responded to.

The woman she had labeled a burned-out has-been, had more intensity than any cop she had ever worked with. “You’ve had entirely too much coffee this morning. And way too little sleep.”

“You have a point?”

“Yeah, I might try it myself.” She pushed away from the desk. “Let’s go.”

M.C. offered to drive. Kitt took the offer with what M.C. thought was relief. They made their way to the parking garage and her SUV. Once they were belted in and on their way, she glanced at Kitt.

“We’re alone now. What didn’t you tell me in there, about last night’s conversation with the SAK?”

“He didn’t call me. I called him. From my cell phone.”

She paused a moment, as if knowing M.C. needed a moment to digest what she’d said.

She was right.

Kitt went on. “I knew if he still had the phone and saw it was me, he’d answer.”

“And you did this how?”

“I just tried the last number he called us from.”

For a full ten seconds M.C. said nothing. It had been an outrageously ballsy move. And one that could earn Kitt a severe reprimand.

“Did you involve the CRU?”

“No.”

“Another officer present?”

“No.”

“So, obviously, not recorded.” The light ahead changed; she slowed to a stop. “Dammit, Kitt! Do you have a clue how out of line that was? Do you realize we only have your word of what transpired?”

“Yes. To all of it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. I knew he’d done that, to those old ladies. I saw red. I took a chance. It paid off.”

“Dammit!” she said again. “What else did you get?”

“I know him better. What drives him.”

“In other words, nothing.”

“Not nothing. I kept him on the line. I can do it again.”

“You guess. You hope.” M.C. gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Were you drinking?”

“No. Absolutely no. I made a promise about that, I mean to keep it.”

For what it was worth, M.C. believed she meant it. But the behavior was off. Impulsive. Risky.

“He’s obsessed with his crimes being perfect,” Kitt went on. “Unbelievably arrogant about it.”