Copycat

“I’m someone you’ve wanted to meet for a very long time.”

The sly amusement in his tone grated. She didn’t have time for wackos. Or for games. She told him so.

“I’m the Sleeping Angel Killer.”

For the space of a heartbeat she wondered if it could be true. Could it be this easy?

Of course it couldn’t.

“You’re the Sleeping Angel Killer,” she repeated. “And you want to help me?”

“I didn’t kill that little girl. The one in the paper today.”

“Julie Entzel.”

“Yeah, her.” She heard a hissing sound, as if he were taking a drag on a cigarette. She made a note. “Someone ripped me off.”

“Ripped you off?”

“Copied me. And I don’t like it.”

Kitt glanced around her. Everyone, it seemed, was either out on a call or at lunch. She stood and waved her free arm, hoping to catch the attention of someone walking by. She needed to initiate a trace.

“I want you to catch this asshole and stop him.”

“I want to help you,” she said. “But I’ve got another call coming in. Can you hold a moment?”

“Now who’s playing games?” She heard him exhale. “Here are the rules. I won’t talk to anyone but you, Kitt. May I call you Kitt?”

“Sure. What should I call you?”

He ignored her question. “Nice name. Kitty. Kitten. Feminine. Sexy. Doesn’t fit a cop, though.” Another pause, another deep inhale. “Of course, everybody calls you Detective. Or Lundgren. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” she said. “But here’s the thing, I’m not working the Entzel murder. I’ll transfer you to the team who is.”

He ignored her. “Rule number two. Don’t expect anything for free. And don’t expect it to be easy. Everything costs. I determine payment.”

His voice was deep. Relatively youthful. The smoking hadn’t yet altered that. She would place his age between twenty-five and thirty-five. “Is there a rule number three?”

“There may be. I haven’t decided yet.”

“And if I don’t want to play by your rules?”

He laughed. “You will. Or more little girls will die.”

Shit. Where the hell was everyone? “All right. Just give me a reason to believe you’re anything more than a crank. Something to take to my chief—”

“Goodbye, Kitten.”

He hung up. She swore and dialed the Central Reporting Unit. Because all the department calls were routed through a switchboard, a trace had to be manually initiated on a per call basis. However, the number of each call that came into the RPD switchboard was automatically trapped.

“This is Lundgren in Violent Crimes. I just received a call to my desk. I need the number, ASAP.”

She hung up and two minutes later CRU called her back. It was Brian himself. “It was a cell number, Kitt. What’s up?”

A cell number. Unlike a call made from a landline, which could be trapped in ten seconds of continuous connection, one from a cell took five minutes. If the guy was smart, he also knew that all new cellular phones included a GPS chip that allowed a call’s location to be pinpointed within ten minutes. Older models, without the new technology, would take hours.

She glanced at her watch. She would guess the call had lasted no more than three minutes. Which meant this guy understood trace technology.

“Guy claimed he was the SAK,” she said. “The original SAK. Said Julie Entzel’s murder isn’t his.”

Brian whistled. “Obviously, you want a name and address to go along with that number?”

“ASAP.” She glanced toward her sergeant’s office and saw he was still out. “Call me back on my cell.”

She hung up, collected her notes and headed for Sal’s office. She paused as she saw Riggio and White entering the squad room. She pointed toward Sal’s office. “You’ll be interested in this.”

She reached the deputy chief’s, the other two detectives right behind her. She tapped on his open door.

He looked up, waved them in. Kitt didn’t waste time on a preamble. “I just received a call from someone claiming to be the SAK.” Seeing she had everyone’s attention, she continued, “He also claimed he did not kill Julie Entzel.”

“Why was he calling you?”

This came from Riggio, and Kitt met her gaze. “He wants me to find this copycat and stop him.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Sal frowned. “What else did you get from him?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a smoker. I guess his age to be between twenty-five and thirty-five. He told me—” She glanced at her notes. “‘Someone ripped me off. Copied me. And I don’t like it.’”

“Did you initiate a trace?”

“Everyone was at lunch or out on call. When I tried to put him on hold, he told me to stop playing games.”

“You called CRU—”

“The minute he hung up. Call came from a cell phone. I’m waiting to hear back on the owner’s name.”

“The caller, did he say anything else?”

“He gave me two rules. Said if I didn’t follow them, more little girls would die.”