Copycat

White stepped in before she could finish. “But he claims he didn’t kill Julie Entzel? How’s he so certain more girls will die?”

“He didn’t tell me, so I can only suppose.”

“Maybe he knows who the copycat is?” White offered.

“Maybe,” Riggio agreed. “If we can believe anything he said.”

Kitt cocked an eyebrow, growing annoyed with the other woman. “Would you like to hear the rest of what he said?”

Riggio nodded tersely, and Kitt went on. “He gave me two rules. The first—he won’t talk to anyone but me.”

“Please.”

That came from Riggio. Kitt ignored her.

“And the second?” Sal asked.

“That nothing will be free. Or easy. The cost will be determined by him.”

“He wants money?” That came from White.

Kitt looked at him. “I don’t think that’s the kind of ‘cost’ he was referring to. But he didn’t ask for anything.”

“Sure he did.” Sal moved his gaze between the three. “He asked that you work the case.” He picked up the phone and rang Nan Baker, the VCB secretary. “Nan, is Sergeant Haas back from lunch?” He paused. “Good. Get him in here.”

Every bureau in the RPD had a senior officer. Sergeant Jonathan Haas was Violent Crime’s. He had been Brian’s partner before being promoted and was known around the bureau for being a solid cop.

The tall, fair-haired sergeant arrived. He smelled of the burger and fries he must have had for lunch. It looked as if he had dribbled “secret sauce” on his tie. Though the differences between the two men’s personal styles was dramatic, Sal and Haas had a good relationship. In fact, early in both their careers, they had also been partners.

As Sal began filling him in, Kitt’s cell rang. “Lundgren here.”

“Kitt, Brian. Bad news. The number belongs to a prepaid cell phone. I have the name of the outlet that sold it.”

Smarter than the average bear, obviously. “That’ll have to do. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

She ended the call. The sergeant turned to her. She greeted him, then filled the group in.

Haas nodded. “I want to initiate a trace on every call that comes in to you, here and at home. And I want them all recorded.” He turned to Riggio. “Is the autopsy in?”

“Yes, Sarge. I picked it up last night. No new information, unfortunately. She was smothered, just like the three original SAK victims. Nails were clean. No sign of sexual assault. No defense wounds. Only the hematoma to the forehead.”

“Any help there?” Sal asked.

“Pathologist believes it’s a thumbprint.”

White stepped in. “This guy’s like a cat. Neighborhood canvas turned up zip.”

Riggio took over. “Realtor promised to get back to me this morning with a list of everyone who’s been through the house.”

“Fingerprints?”

“ID Bureau’s working on it. So far, everything’s consistent with the three original killings.”

“Except for the hands,” Kitt said. “Big inconsistency there.”

The room went silent.

Detective Riggio broke the silence first. “We have no proof this caller’s not just another crank. The Register Star ran the story front and center this morning. This guy may have been the first to call in with a wild claim, but I hardly think he’ll be the last.”

“Point noted, Detective Riggio. But I’m not willing to put my money on that. Are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Lundgren?”

“Chief?”

“Let us know if he contacts you again. Put in the trace orders now.”

She nodded and unclipped her cell phone. “And if he does call, what do I tell him?”

“Say whatever the hell you have to to keep him on the line.”

Meeting concluded, they exited the office. Out of their superior’s earshot, Riggio leaned toward her. “Looks like you got what you wanted. You’re in the loop.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Just don’t forget who’s lead on this one, Lundgren. It’s my case.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’d let me forget, Detective Riggio.”

The woman looked as if she had more to say; Kitt didn’t give her the chance. “If you’ll excuse me, I have traces to order.”

9

Wednesday, March 8, 2006 6:40 p.m.

M.C. dreaded Wednesday nights. Specifically, six-thirty to eight-thirty. “The Pasta Hours,” she called them. That was when she—and all five of her siblings—assembled for a command performance at their mother’s table. There, they would be skewered, then grilled on every aspect of their lives.

M.C. could feel the hot coals already—she was her mother’s favorite entrée.

There wasn’t a single thing about M.C. that her mother approved of. Nothing, nada. The big zippo. It used to bother her, but no longer. She’d realized that if she had wanted to become the woman her mother wanted her to be, she could have.

So, M.C. sucked it up week after week, only occasionally praying for a homicide that would keep her away.

She pulled up in front of her childhood home, a two-story farmhouse, minus the farm. She parked, frowning as she thought of Kitt Lundgren and her anonymous caller.

Could the woman have fabricated the story in an attempt to actively participate in the investigation? Would she go that far?

Yes—if what she’d heard about Lundgren’s obsession with the case was true.

The suspicion left M.C. feeling uneasy and she glanced toward the front porch. Michael and Neil stood there, deep in conversation. She smiled to herself. She’d affectionately nicknamed her five siblings: the Overachiever, the Suck-up and the Three Ass-kissers.

Michael, the Overachiever, was the oldest. A chiropractor. In her mother’s world, the only thing better than one of her children being called “Dr. Riggio” was their being called “Father Riggio.” But Michael—and the rest of the Riggio boy-brood—enjoyed women and sex way too much for that particular calling, so Mama Riggio had contented herself with “her son, the doctor.”

Neil, the Suck-up, taught math at Boylan Central Catholic High School, their alma mater, and coached the wrestling team. Very normal. He had also provided their mother with a daughter-in-law and her first and, to date, only grandchild.

The three youngest of the boys, Tony, Max and Frank, had pooled their resources and Mama’s family recipes and opened Mama Riggio’s Italian Restaurant. The trio had just opened their second location and had plans for a third, in the suburbs closer to Chicago. The name of their restaurant had earned them the nickname the Three Ass-kissers.

M.C. loved her brothers. Adored them, actually. Even the one whose brainchild it had been to decorate Mama Riggio’s with old family photographs, including one of her with braces, zits and really bad hair.

A photo they jumped at every opportunity to point out.

“And that’s our only sister, Mary Catherine. She’s unmarried, if you’re interested.”

Big yuk.

She climbed out of her SUV. “Hello, boys.” “Yo, M.C.,” Neil called. “Looking wicked.” “Thanks,” she called back, slamming the vehicle door. “Hoping to scare Mama.”

And she just might. She was dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail.

“You packing heat?” Michael asked, tone teasing.

“Always. So, watch your step.”

Of all her brothers, she was closest to Michael. Maybe because he had been kind to the little girl who had always been tagging after him, or because their minds worked in the same way.

She crossed to him. They hugged, then kissed each other’s cheeks.

She turned to Neil and did the same.

When she pulled away, he grinned at her. “I suggest you check that weapon at the door, Mama’s in rare form tonight. You might be tempted to kill her.”

“Justifiable homicide,” she said. “There’s not a judge in the city who’d convict.”

Just then Benjamin, Neil’s three-year-old, barreled out the door, his mother, Melody, in close pursuit. Neil’s engagement to Melody—a willowy, Protestant, blue-eyed blonde—had been met with family fireworks. Marrying outside both faith and ethnicity? Mama Riggio had actually conjured chest pains over it.

The drama had taken the heat off M.C. for a good six months. Then Melody had ruined everything by becoming Catholic, then having Benjamin.

M.C. was surrounded by Suck-ups.

Benjamin caught sight of M.C. and squealed in delight. She squatted and held out her arms. He ran to her for a big hug and the treat he knew she would have in her pocket. Today it was a package of animal crackers.

“You spoil him,” her sister-in-law said.

M.C. stood and smiled. “What’re you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

Neil scooped up his son and helped him open the crackers. “How’s the weather in there?” he asked his wife.

“Cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms. You know Mama.”

They did, indeed, know Mama. They exchanged glances as if wondering whose neck would be on the chopping block tonight.

Michael looked at his watch. “The three pasta-pushers are late.”

“Haven’t they heard carbs are out?” M.C. said. “Again.”

“Actually, I think they’re back in,” Neil murmured. “Again.”

Just then, the three arrived, following one another in separate vehicles. M.C. saw that they were all on their cell phones. They parked and spilled out of their cars, still on their calls. Arguing. With one another, for heaven’s sake.

They bounded up the steps, snapping their phones shut. She was immediately surrounded by the handsome, rowdy bunch. The noise level rose. Hugs, kisses and good-natured ribbing ensued.

God, she loved these oafs.

Melody broke up the reunion. “May I suggest we head inside? Before Mama—”

“Gets really ticked off,” Neil offered. “Good suggestion.”

They all headed in. Shouts of “Mama!” filled the house. The woman appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

“You’re late, all but Michael and Neil.” She glared at M.C. “My only daughter and no help at all.”

Apparently, it would be her neck. Big surprise.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said, kissing her mother’s nearly unlined cheeks. “I was working.”

Her mother made a sound, her own unique cross between a snort and “Holy God.” “Oh, yes, that job.”

“Meaning exactly what?”

“You know how I feel about what you do. Police work? Please. That’s no job for a woman.”

M.C. opened her mouth to argue; Mama waved everyone to the table. As they took their seats, Melody stepped in, voice hushed. “Are you working that child murder?”

She nodded, glancing down the table at Benjamin. He seemed oblivious to everything but his animal crackers. “I’m lead detective.”

“Congrats, li’l sister.” That came from Michael and she smiled at him. He passed the bowl of spaghetti. She served herself, then passed it on.

“Is that madman really back?” Melody asked. “That Sleeping Angel guy?”

“It looks that way. But there were inconsistencies.” Her brother handed her the platter of veal parmigiana, followed by green beans and salad.

“What kind of inconsistencies?” he asked.

She flashed him a smile. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

Max jumped in. “So, this could be a copycat killer?”

The table went quiet. All eyes turned to her. She thought of Kitt Lundgren’s anonymous caller claiming a copycat had killed Julie Entzel. A funny sensation settled over her. “At this point in the investigation, anything’s still possible.”

“I’m glad I had a boy,” Melody murmured. “I’d be scared to death otherwise.”

“Enough!” Mama snapped. “What kind of dinner talk is this? And with the baby listening. Shame on you all.”

“Sorry, Mama,” they murmured in unison, just as they had been doing all their lives.

They turned their attention to their food, which was delicious. Her mother may be a supersize pain-in-her-ass, but she was a fabulous cook. If not for M.C.’s metabolism, she’d weigh four hundred pounds.

“Mary Catherine, you wouldn’t believe who I ran into at the market.” Mama beamed at her. “Joseph Rellini’s mother.”

Just call her clueless. “Who?”

“Joseph Rellini. He graduated from Boylan the year before you. Played in the band.”

She vaguely remembered a dark-haired, stoop-shouldered boy. He had been pleasant enough, but she knew where this was heading and wasn’t about to give her mother any encouragement. Not that she needed any.

“He’s an accountant now.” Mama Riggio leaned forward. “And single. I gave her your number, told her to have him call you.”

“Mama, you didn’t!”

“I most certainly did. Per amor del cielo, look at you! You could do worse.”

Her brothers hooted. Melody made a sound of sympathy. M.C. glared at her mother. “I don’t need a man to complete me, Mama. I’m fine on my own. Doing great.”

“Every day at mass, I pray that you’ll come to your senses, quit that job and bring a nice young man to dinner.”

“Pardon me, Mother, but you are so full of—”

Michael cut her off. “She brought her Glock. Does that count?”

Tony jumped in. “Get used to it, Mama. She’s a lesbian.”

M.C. tossed her napkin at her brother. “Up yours, Tony.”

“Mary Mother of God!” Mama lowered her voice. “When did this happen?”

“I’m not gay, Mama. Tony’s just being a jerk.”

“As usual,” Max offered, refilling his wineglass. “For myself, I plan to play the field for a long time.”

“You’re a young man,” Mama said. “But your sister’s not getting any younger.”

Melody, God love her, stepped in. “There’s no rush. Take as long as you need to find the right guy, M.C. Life’s too short to spend it in a so-so relationship.”

“Speaking from experience?” Tony shot back, grinning.

Melody didn’t take the bait. “Yes,” she answered smoothly. “Experience married to the most wonderful man on the planet.”

That brought a round of hoots and ribbing from her brothers. It also shifted Mama’s focus—and gave M.C. an opportunity to escape.

She choked down enough of her meal for appearances and stood. “It’s been real, gang, but I have to go.”

“But we haven’t had dessert yet!” Her mother exclaimed. “Cannolis. From Capelli’s Market.”

Capelli’s cannoli was practically its own food group. It was that good.

But now that Mama had been tipped, there was no way she could stay without another round of “Roasting Mary Catherine.”

She begged off, though she couldn’t escape until she had made her way around the table to kiss everyone goodbye. She was nearly to her SUV when Michael called out to her.

She stopped and waited.

“Are you okay?” he asked when he reached her.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Like all good Riggios, you never pass on dessert.”

“I guess I’d just had my fill.”

He understood she wasn’t talking about food. “She really does love you, you know.”

“It’s my life. Not hers. She needs to accept me for who I am.”

“True.” He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “But—”

He bit back whatever he was about to say, and she frowned. “What?”

“You won’t beat me up, will you?”

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t speak your mind.”

“Okay. It just seems to me, that door swings both ways.”

“Excuse me?”

“The acceptance thing. You need to accept her the way she is.”

“I do. But, she’s my mother and she’s supposed to be—”

“Everything you want her to be?”

“No. But she doesn’t even make an effort!”

“Do you?” he countered.

Mary Catherine, like the rest of the Riggio clan, had a temper. Over the years, she had learned how to hold on to it.

This wasn’t one of those times. Her temper rose; she felt herself flush. She gestured toward the house. “I’m here, aren’t I? Every freaking Wednesday night.”

He didn’t respond and she lashed out at him. “It’s easy for you. For all of you. The perfect sons. All of you have always been everything she wanted you to be. And everything Dad wanted you to be, as well. Males.”

“The world’s smallest violin, Mary Catherine. Just for you.”

“Forget about it.” She yanked open her car door. “Of all people, I would have thought you’d understand.”

She slid inside the Explorer and slammed the door behind her. She started the car and drew away from the curb. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw that he hadn’t moved.

He cocked his head, grinning at her.

Muttering an oath, she slowed to a stop, lowered her window and leaned her head out. “I give up! I’ll see you next week. But if you really loved me, you would have smuggled a cannoli out.”

10

Wednesday, March 8, 2006 9:10 p.m.

Buster’s Bar was located in a section of town called Five Points, the spot where five major thoroughfares intersected. It was an area that seemed to fall in and out of favor, depending on what commercial endeavors—mostly bars, restaurants and clubs—happened to occupy the space at the time.

Buster’s had weathered the ebb and flow of popularity. The owners served a hearty, if limited, selection of pub food and strong drinks, and offered entertainment several nights a week.

Too worked up to head straight home, M.C. had decided to stop at Buster’s. The slightly seedy club wasn’t an RPD favorite, but it wasn’t unusual for several cops, typically detectives, to wander in on any particular evening. A drink and shop talk with a fellow detective was just what she needed to calm her down.

M.C. entered the building. It smelled of cigarettes, burgers and beer. She saw that she was in luck. Brian and his two biggest RPD buddies—Detectives Scott Snowe and Nick Sorenstein—were at the bar, talking to a third man she didn’t recognize.

M.C. crossed to the bar. Snowe caught sight of her and waved her over.

“Just the man I was hoping to see,” she said.

“That so?” he asked, taking a swallow of his draft.

She ordered a glass of red wine, then turned back to him. “Thought you could update me on the Entzel evidence.”

“And here I thought it was my personality that interested you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“There’s not much to update, unfortunately. The window proved a bust. Only prints on it were on the inside and belonged to the girl and her parents. Our perp no doubt wore gloves.”

“Any hair? Fiber?”

“Not my area. Ask about the photos.”

“Consider yourself asked.”

“Dropped them on your desk on the way out tonight. Where were you? Little girls’ room?”

She ignored that. “How do they look?”

“Works of art. What did you expect from a master?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nice ego.”

“Yo, Riggio,” Sorenstein said, interrupting the two. “I like a bar that caters to the city’s underbelly.”

“Bite me, bug man,” she shot back.

Nick Sorenstein was ID’s forensic entomologist. He was the lucky one who got to collect bugs and larvae from corpses. It was an area that had required considerable advanced training—and earned him never-ending ribbing.

Snowe took a swallow of the beer. “Riggio here was just asking about hair and fiber from the Entzel scene.”

“Some interesting dark-colored fiber,” Sorenstein said. “Retrieved from the bedding and the window casing. Our guy was wearing black.”

“Now, that is unusual.”

“A lot of cat hair,” Sorenstein continued, ignoring her sarcasm. “They have a long-haired cat named Whiskers. It’s all at the lab. Analysis takes time.”

“Time I don’t have.”

Brian, yuking it up with the man she didn’t recognize, saw her then and grinned. “Hey, M.C. Meet our new friend. Lance Castr’gi’vanni.”

The way he mangled the name told her he had been at the bar longer than was healthy.

“Castrogiovanni,” the man corrected, holding out a hand.

She took it. “Mary Catherine Riggio.”

“Nice meeting you, but I’ve got to go. I’m on.”

A moment later she understood what he meant. It was Comedy Night and Lance Castrogiovanni was the entertainment.

She hoped he was funny; she could use a good laugh.

“Bet I could bench-press that guy, he’s so thin,” Snowe said. “Think he’d be pissed if I tried?”

That brought a round of drunken yuks. Guy humor, she supposed. But he was probably right. Detective Scott Snowe wasn’t a big man, but he was strong. She regularly saw him in the gym; a couple of times they had spotted each other at the bench press. He pressed something like two-fifty.

And the comic, now monologuing about his pathetic childhood, was tall, rail thin and redheaded.

“Actually,” he was saying, “I come from a big Italian family.”

That caught M.C.’s attention and she glanced toward the stage.

“I know, that’s unusual for around here. Can’t swing a dead cat without hitting ‘family.’ But really, look at me. Do I look Italian?”

He didn’t. Not only did he have red hair, he had the pale, freckled skin to go along with it.

“I was adopted,” he continued. “Go figure. What, did the agency lie? Yeah, he’s Italian. Sure he is, that’s the ticket.

“I’ve seen the baby pictures, folks. I was born with these freckles. And the hair? I affectionately call this shade ‘flaming carrot.’ I mean, instead of looking like a mob enforcer, I look like the match-stick he chews on. Do you think I can get any respect on the street?”

M.C. chuckled. He had a point.

“It just doesn’t work when I say—” He motioned the way one of her brothers would, and she laughed outright. “I was always having my ass kicked.

“I tried, you know. To be Italian. One of the guys. I worked on the walk. It’s a strut. Very macho. Cocky.”

He demonstrated the loose-hipped swagger. Each of her brothers had it. Watching the comic, she couldn’t fault his technique, but on him it looked ridiculous. M.C. laughed loudly.

He looked her way. “That’s right, laugh at my pain. At my pitiful attempts to gain acceptance.”

Sorenstein nudged her, dragging her attention from the comedian’s schtick. “I hear Lundgren heard from someone claiming to be the Sleeping Angel.”

“Yeah? Who’d you hear that from?”

“A buddy in CRU.”

And she knew which one. She narrowed her eyes at Brian, who was flirting outrageously with the too-young-for-him bartender. “Passing along a crank call? Some people have way too much time on their hands.”

“You so sure it was a crank?” That came from Snowe.

“Makes a hell of a lot more sense than the real killer calling and confessing. Come on.”

“Strange things happen.”

Suddenly irritated, she wished she had gone home. “Give me a break.”

M.C. swung her stool to face the stage.

“Did we hit a nerve?” Sorenstein teased.

Snowe snickered. “What? Is Lundgren getting to you?”

“Not at all, boys, just enjoying the show.”

She ignored their laughter, sipped her wine and listened to the rest of the comic’s routine about growing up outside the Italian circle, looking in on them.

When he finished, she clapped loudly. He shot her a big smile, bowed and exited the stage. A moment later, he joined them at the bar. M.C. smiled at him. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“Thank you. I need that.” The bartender set a beer in front of him, obviously on the house. He took a long swallow, then glanced back at her. “Let me guess, you’re family.”

He was referring to her ethnicity, she knew. And with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin tone, she knew she looked the part. One hundred percent. She smiled. “You were very funny. Right on target.”

“Thank you, Mary Catherine.”

“Call me M.C. So tell me, how has your family reacted to your choice of comedic subject matter?”

“They hired Uncle Tony to take care of me.”

“Uncle Tony?” she repeated, lips lifting. “An enforcer?”

“Much worse. An ambulance-chasing shark in a suit. He threatened me with a defamation of character lawsuit.”