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 officials.
Wes Williams motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. “I wouldn’t have figured Brown as one of those who’d end up back in the pen right away. Some of these guys, yes. Brown really didn’t like prison.”
Some did? Kitt glanced at her notes. “He always make his weekly meeting?”
“Like clockwork. Until a week ago.”
“He didn’t show?”
“Yup.”
“What did you do?”
“Reported him.”
“That he was in violation of his parole didn’t come up on our computer.”
He spread his hands. “What can I say? The wheels of bureaucracy move slowly.”
M.C. jumped in. “What else can you tell us about the man?”
“One of those who always got caught. Started as a wild teenager and became a bad adult.” He flipped through the pages. “Robbery. Arson. Drugs.”
“He seem like the type who could kill someone? A child?”
His gaze sharpened. “A child killer? Brown?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been around long enough not to be surprised by anything, but my gut impression? No.”
“The building super claimed he caught him with child pornography. Brown into that?”
The man looked surprised. “Not that I know of. Nothing in his file about it.”
“What about smarts?” Kitt asked.
“Not the brightest bulb. The smart ones don’t get caught.”
“How’d he get out early?” M.C. asked.
“Same way they all do, Detective. By convincing the review board he no longer posed a threat to society. The fact prisons are filled to bursting doesn’t hurt. Out with the old to make room for the new.”
Clearly, this guy had been around a long time. Long enough to acquire a very hefty cynicism.
“How many times has he been sent away?”
“This last time was two. He seemed to understand that getting convicted a third time would be very bad, but like I said-”
“Not the brightest bulb.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Kitt stood and M.C. followed her to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. If he contacts you or if you think of anything else, please call us.”
“He won’t contact me, I can assure you. But if he does, I will.”
They stopped at the door. Kitt glanced back. “Do you know if he had a cat?”
“A cat?” the man repeated, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Not that I know of.”
They started through the door, but he called them back. “Wait, I did forget one thing. His employer called. Said he’d fired the man for not showing up.”
“Before or after Brown was a no-show for his weekly?”
“Just before.”
Interesting. “Who was his employer?”
“Hold on.” He shuffled through his papers, then looked up, expression odd. “Lundgren Homes.”
44
Friday, March 17, 2006
4:20 p.m.
M.C. waited until they were in the car to comment. “Lundgren Homes. Any relation?”
“My ex-husband’s company.”
“Thoughts on that?”
She shook her head, brow furrowed with thought. “I’m still processing.”
M.C. started the engine, then eased away from the curb. She had thoughts on what they had just learned, ones she would keep to herself until Kitt was ready.
“We need to interview him.”
Kitt nodded. “Let’s check back in at the PSB first. See what ID collected. White and Allen should have finished their canvas of Brown’s building and neighborhood. Maybe something turned up.”
M.C. agreed and merged into downtown traffic. “Brown being the SAK doesn’t add up for me.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with his being dumb as a stump, would it?”
M.C. ignored the sarcasm. “Partly, yes. We’ve already ascertained the SAK is damn clever. That he has uncommon self-control over his urges. That he’s arrogant. That doesn’t sound like Buddy Brown.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw Kitt massage her temple.
“Nor is Brown a killer.”
“But we found the phone that was used to call me. My number was the last one dialed, that’s concrete, not speculation.”
“True.”
“We also found newspaper clippings about the original SAK murders and a tube of lip gloss we’re assuming was used on the Sleeping Angels.”
“Facts aren’t always what they seem.”
Kitt turned to fully face her. “Say what you’re thinking, dammit!”
“Where does your ex fit into this?”
“He was Brown’s employer.”
“Don’t you think this is all too coincidental?”
“Meaning what? That maybe Joe is the SAK?” M.C. held her tongue a moment, then murmured, “I’m not discounting anything, Kitt. Are you?”
The other woman bristled. “I can tell you that Joe Lundgren is one of the most decent, caring men I’ve ever met. He was a wonderful husband and father and would never hurt a child. Never, M.C.”
“Okay, so what else could this mean? Put the pieces together. What do we know?”
“That three girls are dead, killed in the same way as the Sleeping Angel murders. Someone has been calling me, claiming to be the SAK and claiming his crimes are being ripped off. And today we know that someone called me on a cell from an apartment rented to an ex-con named Buddy Brown.”
Kitt fell silent then. M.C. sensed she was mulling over the pieces, reshuffling the deck, as it were. “Brown’s stint in prison works, in terms of his being the SAK,” she said finally, slowly. “Timewise.”