M.C. stiffened. “I was afraid of that.”

Which would explain the sudden magnanimity.

Kitt recalled the last thing Brian had said, “Are you threatening me, Detective?”

Her expression must have given her away because M.C. swore and stood. “I was afraid because I knew you’d get the wrong idea.”

“From what I heard, I’m not certain there could be a ‘right’ idea. You had an affair with Brian?”

“Yes. Had. Years ago. I was a rookie and he was a detective in the VCB. He was separated from his wife.

“It was stupid,” M.C. continued. “I was young. Naive. I looked up to him…he was like a god. The hotshot, macho detective. He knew everything, had seen everything.”

Kitt remembered the younger Brian. Big and good-looking with the kind of swagger that screamed “I’m all that.” Female catnip.

“So, what happened?”

“I realized sleeping with a colleague was a mistake. He went back to his wife. No harm, no foul.”

“Until now?” M.C. frowned. “Yeah. And I don’t get it. Years go by, we have a fine working relationship. Suddenly, he’s all over me. Hitting on me. Following me. It’s weird.”

It was weird, Kitt thought. That behavior certainly wasn’t typical of the Brian she had known for years. He had always been a womanizer. A love ’em and leave ’em kind of Romeo. More faithful to his wife at some times than others.

But none of his affairs, that she knew of, had ever been serious. Certainly none had ever crossed this kind of line.

What was going on with Brian? Middle age and a crumbling marriage? Something more?

Or was M.C. lying?

“A word of advice, Kitt. Watch your back with that one.”

“What are you thinking?” M.C. asked.

“That it’s time to go.” Kitt finished her slice of pizza and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “My tail’s dragging.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to say anything else?”

Kitt met her gaze evenly. “I’m not certain what to say. Brian’s my friend. My good friend.”

“Well,” she said, tone bitter, “you said you’d be honest.”

“I’m trying to be fair, too. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” M.C. crossed to the pizza box and closed the lid. “That’s life.”

“M.C.? I-” Kitt bit back the conciliatory words she had been about to say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Sure. See you then.”

Kitt exited the bureau, feeling as if she should say something more, but not knowing what. She knew M.C. felt she was taking Brian’s side, but that wasn’t the case. She simply wasn’t siding with M.C., either. Weirdly, she didn’t fully trust either of them right now.

She made her way to the elevator, which took her to the parking garage. As she crossed to her vehicle, she remembered her waiting message. She checked it. It was from Brian.

“Kitt. It’s me. I did a little nosing around. You’re not going to believe what I found. Call me on my cell.”

52

Monday, March 20, 2006

8:30 p.m.

Excited, Kitt jumped into her vehicle. The message could mean only one thing-Brian had found something that might implicate a cop in the SAK and Copycat cases. After buckling up and starting the engine, she dialed him back. The device went automatically to his voice mail.

“Dammit, Brian, don’t leave me that kind of voice mail, then go into hiding. Call me back.”

Thirty minutes later, home and changed into her comfortable jeans, he still hadn’t called. She tried his cell again with the same results. Frustrated, she decided to try Ivy. Maybe he was with his kids. Or reconciling with his wife.

If she struck out there, she would begin trying his hangouts. No doubt he was at one of them.

She dialed the man’s home number. His wife answered. “Hi, Ivy. It’s Kitt Lundgren.”

“Hello, Kitt. Brian’s not here.”

“He told me you guys were separated. How’re you doing?”

“Great.” A bitter note crept into her tone. “For a fortysomething, soon-to-be-divorced woman.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Me, too. I just wish I’d divorced him years ago.”

“Maybe he’ll change? Once he realizes you mean it.”

“He won’t change, Kitt. Old dog. Hound dog.”

For a moment, Kitt was silent. It was true. She wished she could console the woman, but Brian had been a womanizer as long as she had known him. “He does love you, Ivy.”

“He has a unique way of showing it, doesn’t he?”

Kitt felt bad for the other woman. She wanted to remind her that at least she had her children, but knew the comment wouldn’t be appreciated. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

“He’s got his cell phone.”

“He didn’t answer. Any idea where he’s staying?”

“Same crappy dump where he used to rendezvous with his girlfriends, the jerk. The Starlight, on Sixth Street.”

She knew the place. It was a crappy dump. The kind of place that could be rented out by the hour.

“Thanks, Ivy. If you hear from him, let him know I called.”

The woman didn’t respond, just hung up.

Things were bad between them.

Kitt called the Starlight’s front desk. She learned Brian was, indeed, registered there. She asked the man to ring his room.

He did. And after fifteen rings without an answer, she hung up and called the deskman back. “He didn’t answer. Have you seen him this evening?”

“I haven’t looked, lady.”

“Is his car in the lot?”

For a long moment, the man said nothing. Then he let out a patient-sounding sigh. “I don’t spy on the guests. If you’ve got worries about your old man, get your sagging ass down here yourself.” With that, he hung up.

What, did her voice sound like it was attached to a sagging derriere?

She redialed. He answered on the second ring, voice wary.

“This is Detective Kitt Lundgren with the Rockford Police Department,” she said. “I’m trying to reach one of your guests. Lieutenant Brian Spillare. Since he’s not answering his phone, I need you to check the parking lot for his vehicle. This is not a negotiable request. Is that clear?”

The man’s voice took on a whiny edge. “How would I know which car is his? We got lots of-”

“It’s a blue Pontiac Grand Am. You took his plate number when he checked in. Look for it. Now.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to argue. He didn’t. “Hang on,” he said, then put her on hold.

A couple of minutes later, he returned. “It’s here. You need anything else before I go back to my job?”

She ignored the sarcasm, already on her way to her vehicle. “What room’s the lieutenant in?”

“Two-ten.”

She ended the call and slid into her Taurus, thoughts racing.

Brian’s car in the lot. No answer on his cell or the room phone.

“I did a little nosing around. We need to talk.”

She didn’t like the feeling that settled in the pit of her gut. A vague uneasiness. A feeling that something wasn’t right.

As she sped toward Sixth Street, Kitt tried to reason it away. He could be currently involved in one of those “rendezvous” Ivy had mentioned. Or out with one of his RPD drinking buddies, who had driven.

But a detective answered his cell, radio or beeper. Always, no matter what he was in the middle of. It was a cardinal rule of police work. She’d been called out of church, movies, dinners out. While making love with her husband.

Brian was in trouble.

She made it to the Starlight in good time. She leaped out of her car and ran up the stairwell to the second floor. She reached 210 and tapped on the door. From inside came the sound of the TV. “Brian! It’s Kitt.”

He didn’t answer and she knocked again, harder. When he still didn’t reply, she tried the knob. And found the door unlocked.

Her unease growing, taking on a horrible form, Kitt drew her weapon. With her free hand, she eased the door open.

A cry slipped past her lips. Brian lay on his back in the doorway, eyes open, vacant. He was shirtless; he’d been shot twice in the chest. A pool of blood ringed his body.