Copycat

They showed their badges to the teenager manning the front door and asked for the manager.

She pointed toward the ticket counter, located just inside. A Mr. Zuba.

M.C. cocked an eyebrow at the name. “What?” Kitt asked.

“My brother Max went to school with a Zuba. Zed.”

Kitt shook her head. “What kind of a sick puppy names their kid Zed Zuba?”

The other woman shrugged. “Called himself ZZ, for obvious reasons and because he was crazy about the rocker ZZ Top. It’s probably not the same guy, ZZ was a hell-raiser. Gave his parents never-ending shit.”

“No doubt getting back at them for the name.”

They waited in line behind a family with four kids under the age of six, all four of them talking at once. Since the noise and activity level inside was mind-boggling, the four youngsters fit in just fine.

They reached the front of the line and asked the bored-looking teenager behind the counter for Mr. Zuba. The kid nodded and called over his shoulder, “ZZ, you got visitors!”

A man standing at the other end of the booth turned. His gaze landed on them and recognition lit his features.

“Oh, my gosh! Mary Catherine Riggio?”

“ZZ.” She smiled. “I haven’t seen you since Max called and begged me to come pick you guys up in Beloit.” Beloit, Wisconsin, a quick, thirty-minute trip across the state line from Rockford, was a college town and favorite of Rockford teens. “You were drunk off your ass.”

“And you were a saint for picking us up. An angel of mercy.” He shook his head. “Those were some crazy days. I’m settled down now. Got two kids. Boy and a girl.” He looked past her. “You here with your family?”

“No.” She showed him her badge. “This is my partner, Detective Kitt Lundgren. Can we speak to you in private?”

He paled slightly. “Sure. Hold on.”

He gave strict orders to the teen, exited the booth and motioned for them to follow him.

“Is it always like this?” M.C. asked, nearly shouting to be heard.

“Friday nights are big. Second only to Saturdays between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon.”

He unlocked a door that led into the stockrooms, which were considerably quieter. M.C. said a silent thank-you. When they reached his office, he invited them to have a seat.

She saw a photo of his wife and kids on the desk. Pretty lady. Cute kids. She told him so and he beamed.

“Judy and I met at Rock Valley. Isn’t she great? And that’s Zoe.” He pointed to the picture of a pretty, dark-haired toddler. “She’s two now. And the baby. Zachary.”

Zoe and Zach Zuba. She ran the nickname possibilities through her head: ZZII, Zgirl, ZZ-redux, Zuper-kid.

She wanted to shake him and demand, “What were you thinking?”

Instead, she asked, “The noise level doesn’t drive you nuts?”

“Nah. I love kids. Besides, they’re just having fun.”

ZZ. Who would have thought?

“What’s up, M.C.?”

“We’re investigating the recent Sleeping Angel murders. Apparently, both victims had their birthday parties here. The Entzel girl in January. The Vest girl in February.”

He moved his gaze between them, looking uneasy. “When I saw them on TV, I thought they looked familiar, but I see so many kids. Now that I know they … Oh, man, this is really horrible. How can I help?”