Copycat

“With a younger man.”

Her tone was teasing. The expression in his eyes was anything but. “You know how I feel. Give us a chance.” He caught her hands. “Let the past go. Allow yourself to have a future.”

A lump formed in her throat. Her eyes burned. He was right, dammit. What was stopping her? Sadie was gone, five years now; Joe was moving on.

“I care about you, Kitt. I know who you are. I like you. Strong. Vulnerable. Stubborn and forgiving. We’ve lived through the same struggles. We understand each other. We would be good together.”

“You’re too young for me.”

He tightened his fingers. “Biological years mean nothing. I’m an old soul.”

She hesitated; he pressed his point. “If our ages were reversed, you’d think nothing of it.”

That was true. An age-old double standard.

Maybe she should let go. Live a little.

“I don’t want to lose your friendship,” she said. “It’s too important to me.”

“You won’t. I promise. Will you at least think about it?”

“Let me get this case behind me,” she said, meaning it, “and I will.”

Later, as she stood at the bathroom vanity in her panties and a T-shirt, she thought about that promise. Dating Danny. Dating leading to sex. Wasn’t that the natural progression of things?

The thought flustered her. She’d never been with anyone but Joe. They’d been high school sweethearts. Married at twenty. Divorced at forty-five.

This was the first time since the divorce she’d even thought about it. She’d had neither the time nor the energy; hell, for the past year, she’d been in a fight to save her own life.

She had written in her journal faithfully since her therapist urged her to give it a try. It had taken a number of resentful, self-conscious attempts, but the entries had become a vehicle to pour out her anger, fear and grief. And eventually, hope.

Would a future entry read: Went to dinner with Danny. Afterward, I invited him inside to spend the night.

Good God.

She worked to shake off how the thought made her feel. No doubt Joe and his fiancée were … intimate.

Was Valerie younger than Joe? Probably. Ten years? It didn’t seem Joe’s style, but lots of guys did it. Why not?

Why not? A couple of the divorcées from group were always joking about getting a “boy toy.” She supposed that Danny, at thirty-six, would qualify.

Kitt gazed into the mirror, imagining taking off her clothes in front of him.

The thought horrified her. She’d had a baby, for Pete’s sake. Not only had she cleared her fortieth birthday—she was facing her fiftieth. She lifted her tee and stared at her aging body. She wasn’t overweight, but she was out of shape. Falling in all the wrong places. Going soft where she was supposed to be firm. Dear God, what had happened to her knees? When had it happened?

Kitt dropped the tee and turned away from the mirror. When was the last time she’d worked out? She couldn’t remember exactly. Before Sadie died, for sure. Ditto for going for a run.

Pitiful. She was a police officer. How would she run down a suspect? Fend off an attacker?

“Call me Peanut.”

She narrowed her eyes. This son of a bitch meant business. He claimed to be a killer. And he had singled her out for fun and games, psychotic style.

She marched to her closet, dug out her running shoes, then crossed to the dresser for socks and jogging pants.

The time for being soft and vulnerable was yesterday. She meant business, too.

After dressing, Kitt clipped a can of mace to her waistband and strapped on an ankle holster. She wasn’t about to take any chances, not with a maniac stalking her.

There was a lighted track at the high school, three blocks away. The route there was fairly well lit and rarely deserted. She collected her keys and headed out.

The run exhausted her. Toward the end, she felt as if her heart was going to burst from her chest. She never hit that place where the endorphins kicked in and you forgot the pain. Her legs and lower back ached, she was out of breath and sweating like a pig.

She could imagine Mary Catherine Riggio’s expression if she saw her now. Or any of the guys. She’d be the watercooler joke-of-the-day.

So unbelievably uncool.

Kitt made her way home, grateful for the dark. For the opportunity to lick her wounded ego in private. Tomorrow, she would hit the gym. The shooting range wasn’t a bad idea, either.

As she neared her house, she saw that something had been tacked to her front door. A note, she saw.

She climbed the stairs, crossed to the door. The note read:

Saw you on TV. Good girl. I’ll be in touch. Love, Peanut.

15

Friday, March 10, 2006 12:30 a.m.

The angel slept now. Golden hair spread across her pillow. Frilly gown carefully arranged. Just so.

She slept—but not beautifully. Not perfectly. Her blue eyes were wide with terror; her perfect bow mouth twisted into a sort of howl.

Horrible. Grotesque.

Trembling, he applied the lip gloss, smearing it. He attempted to dab up the mess, but his hands shook so badly, he made it worse. Tears stung his eyes and he fought them.

Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t leave any bodily fluids behind.

He backed away from the bed, to the wall. He sank to the floor and brought his knees to his chest. He clutched them, hands sweating inside the latex gloves. He felt ill. Light-headed. The angel had awakened. She had been afraid. Terrified. She had fought him. The terror and fight had ruined her. Made her ugly.

The Other One would be angry. Furious.

He was always watching. Judging him. Ready to scold. Criticize.

He was sick of it. And he was tired. So damn tired he sometimes felt he could close his eyes and sleep forever.

What if he did? Simply went to sleep, never to awaken. Like one of their sweet angels? Or if he disappeared, slipped away into the night? What would the Other One do then? How could he survive?

His mind raced; his heart beat crazily. The room spun slightly. He rested his head on his knees, struggling for control. He breathed deeply. Slowly. Remembering all the things the Other One had told him.

Stay calm. Think first, then act. Take care not to leave anything behind.

He had shown him all the tricks. Remembering them calmed him. Little by little, his heart slowed. His sweat dried.

The angel’s bedside clock glowed hot pink. He watched as the minutes ticked by. He had to wait. For the hands. To pose them.

They were his. All his. Important. A surprise.

Yes, he had surprised the Other One. A difficult, near-Herculean feat. He had weathered the fury that had ensued. The punishments.

But strangely, in the end, the Other One had been pleased.

Who knew? Maybe tonight’s surprise would please him as well.

16

Friday, March 10, 2006 7:10 a.m.

M.C. parked in front of the single-story, ranch-style home. The first officers had already cordoned off the area; one stood at the perimeter, the other was in the house with the victim.

She’d gotten the call as she stepped out of the shower; she hadn’t even taken the time to dry her hair. She needed a shot of caffeine—badly—but would have to make due with the cup of instant coffee she had downed on the way across town.

She swung out of her vehicle, shivering as the cold morning air hit her wet head. She hunched into her jacket, irritated with the cold, longing for spring.

Tullocks Woods. An odd choice of neighborhood for the SAK—or his copycat—to choose, certainly different from the last. Located on the far west side, heavily wooded with large lots, the area was well removed from everything else.

A destination, M.C. thought, frowning. Neither a thoroughfare nor adjacent to one. An unfamiliar vehicle would stick out like a sore thumb.

She’d had a couple of high school friends who had lived here. They’d hosted parties down at the neighborhood clubhouse—the Powwow Club. One of them had gone on to write murder mysteries.

A murder here was hitting way too close to home.

She slammed her car door and started up the walk. Behind her, she heard the sound of others arriving. No doubt the ID guys. Lundgren. The brass.

M.C. recognized the first officer from the range. Jenkins. Real young. A great shot.

She signed the log. “What’ve we got?” she asked.

“Ten-year-old girl. Marianne Vest. Appears to have been suffocated.”

“Parents?”

“Divorced. Mother found her. She’s hysterical. Her pastor’s on the way. A neighbor’s with her now.”

“Anyone else home?”

“No. Big sister spent the night at her best friend’s house.”

“Lucky her. Anything else I should know?”

He hesitated. “No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re certain?”

“It’s just, it’s—” He shifted his gaze. “It’s pretty horrible.”

She nodded. “Let’s keep access to the inner scene as limited as possible. Any questions about that direct them to me. Or Detective Lundgren.”

M.C. said the last grudgingly; she heard it in her own voice and wondered if he did, too. She stepped into the house. It smelled of burned toast. The mother sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee, expression blank with shock.

The neighbor stood awkwardly behind her, looking ill.

M.C. turned right, heading down a hallway. Finding the victim’s bedroom wasn’t difficult—an officer stood outside the door.

She reached him and nodded. “Anybody else been in?”

“No, Detective.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Took her pulse, that’s it.”

M.C. glanced toward the child’s bed. From this position she could see the victim’s hands were once again posed oddly, the right hand with the three middle fingers extended, the left in a fist.

She experienced a quiver of excitement, of expectation. They had a fresh scene. A new, best chance for catching this guy.

Maybe this time he’d slipped up.

“Morning, Detective Riggio.”

She turned. Detective Scott Snowe. The first detective from ID. No doubt the chief would send the entire bureau. Snowe had his camera and video recorder. He wanted to get his initial shots before the room filled up. And before anything was disturbed.

“Detective.”

Snowe motioned toward the bedroom. “This is a pretty fucked-up way to start the weekend. So much for TGIF.”

“No joke. You want to get your shots?”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll be quick.”

“Have at it.”

He stopped just inside the door. “Lundgren’s on her way in. She and a Channel 13 news van pulled up at the same time.”

“How’d the press hear so fast?”

It was a rhetorical question and the detective didn’t answer.

While he went to work, she quickly inventoried the other bedrooms. There were three in total. The teenager’s looked as if a tornado had struck. The master was only slightly less chaotic, but for different reasons. Baskets of clean clothes, yet to be folded. Several stacks of paperback books on the nightstand. Romances. Mysteries. Typical genre stuff. Two empty wineglasses beside them.

M.C. frowned. Had the woman had company last night? She bent and without touching either of the glasses, sniffed. Wine, definitely. Both white.

She shifted her gaze to the other side of the bed. Clearly, if the woman had had company, they hadn’t slept on that half of the queen-size bed. It was neatly made—and covered with stacks of paperwork. She crossed to them. Mama Vest must be a Realtor. The paperwork consisted of flyers, listings, comps, things like that.

“Anything jump out as wrong?”

M.C. turned. Kitt stood in the doorway. “Not yet. You’re late.”

“The media’s all but erecting a big top out there. Or should be.”

“You wanted the job of ringmaster, you got it. Congratulations.”

To her credit, Kitt let that pass. “Apparently, the local affiliates of all three networks received an anonymous call about the murder.”

“Anonymous calls seem to be popular these days.”

“So do murders of ten-year-old girls. Is this another SAK copycat?”

“Looks that way, though I haven’t been in yet. Gave Snowe a few minutes to get his shots.” She paused. “He posed her hands again. Saw that from the doorway.”

Kitt nodded, and together, they headed for the victim’s bedroom. M.C. noticed that the other woman was limping. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re moving like a lame horse.”

Kitt sent her an irritated glance. “I went for a run last night. Had a message waiting for me when I got home. Thumbtacked to my front door.”

“Peanut?”

M.C. saw her wince at the name. “Yup. Said he saw me on TV and would be in touch. Bagged the note and brought it to ID this morning. Which, by the way, is why I’m late.”

M.C. didn’t comment. They reached the child’s room, stepped inside. Several more ID guys had arrived; they all stood silently by the bed.

Kitt and M.C. joined them. Snowe looked over at them, visibly shaken.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said.

M.C. didn’t have to ask what. The Sleeping Angel they had expected to find was, instead, a work of horror. The child’s once-beautiful face was screwed into a terrible scream.

Kitt took a step backward, as if propelled by strong emotion. M.C. held her ground, though not without effort. They had all worked grislier crime scenes, seen bodies mutilated beyond recognition, victims who had been subjected to vile indignities, pre- and postmortem. But this child, the terror frozen on her face, was somehow more chilling, more horrible.

“This one saw him coming,” Snowe muttered.

M.C. cleared her throat. “If we’re lucky, she got a good whack at him. Scratched him, pulled out some hair.”

Snowe squatted, examining the oddly bent fingers. “Nothing to the naked eye. Pathologist will scrape the nails. Here he is now.”

She turned, grateful when she saw it was Frances Roselli on call. She wanted all the experience she could get.

The older man reached the bed, made a sound.

“It isn’t pretty, is it?”

He slipped off his glasses, cleaned them, then slipped them back on. M.C. sensed he was composing himself.

“You got your shots?” he asked Snowe.

He had, and he and the rest of the identification team moved on. He looked at M.C. and Kitt. “Detectives?”

“Anything jump out at you, other than her expression?” M.C. asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to get her hands bagged, then I’ll give her a look-over.”

They thanked him and left him to his work.

“Talked to the mother yet?” Kitt asked.

“No. Let’s do it.”

Mrs. Vest was still in the kitchen, only now a tall, middle-aged man was with her. The pastor, M.C. decided, judging by the cross hanging from a chain around his neck and the Bible on the table in front of him.

“Mrs. Vest?” she asked. The woman looked up, her expression naked with pain. “We need to ask you a few questions. You think you’re up to that?”

She nodded, looking anything but.

“When did your daughter go to bed last night?”

“Nine. That was her … that was her regular time.”

“Did you tuck her in?”

Her eyes welled with tears and her lips quivered. She shook her head. “I didn’t … I was working, so I—”

She broke down sobbing. The pastor laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. M.C. noticed that Kitt looked away.

“So you what, Mrs. Vest?”

“I just … I just told her good-night.”

“Where were you working?”

“In bed.”

“And when did you turn out the lights?”

“Eleven.” M.C. had to strain to hear her small choked reply.

“When you turned out the lights, did you peek in on her?”

M.C. knew the answer by the woman’s tortured expression. Her heart went out to her. “Mrs. Vest, did you have company last night?”

“Company?” She pressed the crumpled tissue to her eyes. “I don’t understand?”

“A visitor.”

She shook her head. “It was just us. Janie, that’s my oldest, spent the night with her best frien—” She looked up at the pastor. “How am I going to tell her about … she doesn’t … dear God.”

M.C. waited, letting the woman cry, the pastor comfort her. When she appeared to have regained some composure, she asked again, “Did you have a visitor last night?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you have to do this now?” the pastor asked.

“We do,” Kitt replied softly. “I’m so sorry.” She squatted in front of her. “Mrs. Vest, I know how hard this is. But we need your help catching the person who did this. Just a couple more questions. Please?”

The woman nodded, clinging to the pastor’s hand.

M.C. continued. “There were two wineglasses on your nightstand, Mrs. Vest. You’re certain you didn’t have company?”

She stared blankly for a moment, as if she didn’t understand, then nodded. “They’re both mine. I didn’t … I’ve been so busy, I haven’t straightened up.”

“Did you hear anything last night?”

She shook her head, miserable.

“Think carefully. A car passing? A dog barking?”

“No.”

“Did you awaken at all in the night?”

Again, she indicated she hadn’t.

Kitt stepped in. “Had your daughter expressed any concern about being followed? Or mention a feeling of being watched? Or having seen the same stranger more than once?”

That had been the case with one of the original SAK victims, as well as the almost-victim whose house she had staked out. When the mother answered “No,” she tried again.

“Anything odd occur over the past weeks? Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood? An unusual number of solicitors or other calls? Sales people coming to the door? Hangups?”

Nothing. There was nothing.

Later, as they left the scene, M.C. looked at Kitt, frustration pulling at her. “Who is this guy? Houdini?”

“He’s got no special powers,” she replied, sounding weary. “Only the ones we give him.”

M.C. stopped, faced her. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re all so comfortable with our hectic lives, we don’t notice anything. We’re sleepwalking, for God’s sake! He depends on that. Without it he couldn’t hurt these gir—”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Like that mother in there. Kicking herself. Wishing for a second chance. If my daughter was alive and this animal was still out there killing girls, I’d never take my eyes off her. Not tuck her in? She’d sleep with me! But it’s not an issue for me, is it? Not anymore.”

Kitt’s voice shook. She visibly trembled. Inside the house she’d handled herself with absolute professionalism, not revealing to M.C. even a glimpse of the depth of her pain. How close to the emotional edge she was.

Now M.C. saw; she didn’t know how to respond.

Kitt didn’t give her the chance to come up with anything. She spun on her heel and walked away.

17

Friday, March 10, 2006 3:00 p.m.

Kitt sat at her desk. Her stomach rumbled and her head hurt. She felt as if she had been chasing ghosts all day. Ghosts, plural. Not just a killer who seemed able to manage the impossible, but her own personal ghosts, the ones that tormented her.

She hadn’t had a face-to-face with Riggio since her emotional outburst. They had gone different ways—she to canvas the neighborhood, Riggio to interview the father, sister and others who’d had a relationship with the victim.

Kitt dreaded their meeting. M.C. had probably spoken with both Sal and Sergeant Haas by now; she herself had provided all the ammo needed to undermine their confidence in her.

Hell, she’d undermined her confidence in herself.

Kitt brought a hand to her head and massaged her aching temple. It was laughable, really. That first day, at the Entzel murder, she’d warned Riggio that “it wasn’t about her.”

But Riggio had maintained her cool objectivity; it was she who had lost it. She who had made it “about her.” How had she actually believed herself strong enough for this?

Her thoughts turned to the previous evening, the note she had found tacked to her door. She had bagged both the note and the tack, careful not to destroy any prints that might have been left on them. First thing, she had taken it to ID to have it dusted. Sergeant Campo, the ID supervisor, had arranged for one of the guys to go out and dust her door for prints. She didn’t think they’d find anything. “Peanut” was way too careful to make such a stupid mistake.

I’ll be in touch.

She shifted her gaze to her phone. But when would he call?

She realized her hands were trembling and dropped them to her lap. There’d been a time that telltale tremble would have sent her scrambling for a drink. Liquid calm. She had kept a flask in her glove compartment and another tucked into a boot in her locker.

No more. That was a part of her history she would never relive.

“Hungry?”

At the sound of her partner’s voice, Kitt looked up. M.C. stood in the doorway holding a brown paper sack. From the grease spots on it, she guessed the contents were from the deli across the street.

“Starving,” she said cautiously, half expecting M.C. to say “Good” and pull out a big sandwich to eat in front of her.

Instead, Riggio crossed to her desk, pulled up a chair and sat. “Figured you hadn’t stopped to eat, either.” She reached into the sack and pulled out two sandwiches. “Reuben or pastrami and swiss on rye?”

Kitt frowned slightly, feeling off balance by the younger woman’s thoughtfulness. “You choose,” she said.

Riggio passed her the pastrami and cheese. “I got chips, too. Mrs. Fisher’s, of course.”

Mrs. Fisher’s was a Rockford brand; their hearty, kettle-style chips a local favorite. When Kitt was growing up, her mom bought them from the factory in three-gallon tins.

They unwrapped the sandwiches—both topped with a big dill pickle spear—and began to eat.

“Canvas turn up anything?” M.C. asked around a bite of the greasy Reuben.

“Nada. Not even a dog barking.” Kitt washed the sandwich down with a sip of water. “This guy chooses a residential, out-of-the-way neighborhood. He leaves his car for hours on this quiet cul-de-sac, but nobody notices. Nobody hears a thing. Nobody needs to take a midnight leak, passes a window and sees the car. Who is this guy?”

She thumbed through her notes, looking for something she might have overlooked. She shook her head. There was nothing. “Poor little thing turned ten just a month ago.”

M.C. opened her bottle of water and took a drink. “Maybe he lives in the neighborhood.”

“Makes sense. He didn’t drive in, he walked.” She ripped open the chips. “Thanks, by the way. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. You buy next time.”

Mary Catherine Riggio was full of surprises.

“Why are you being so nice?” she asked around a bite of sandwich.

“I’m no Mother Teresa, Lundgren. Fact is, you’re no good to me if you’re not thinking clearly. You need to take care of yourself.”

Or maybe not so full of surprises.

“Let’s run a background check on every Tullocks Woods resident sixteen and up.”

“Already begun.” Kitt popped a chip into her mouth and leaned back in her chair. “He doesn’t know all my secrets,” she murmured after a moment. “He’ll make mistakes. Move too fast. Screw up.”

M.C. took another swallow of water. “What are you talking about?”

“What the SAK said to me.” She met her partner’s eyes. “Both times he called, he described his crimes as ‘perfect.’”

M.C. wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “Right. That’s why he’s pissed. Somebody’s ripped him off. And he doesn’t think this somebody is doing it right.”