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Copycat
Erica Spindler


Five years ago, three young victims were found murdered, posed like little angels. No witnesses, no evidence left behind. The Sleeping Angel Killer called his despicable acts 'the perfect crimes.' The case nearly destroyed homicide detective Kitt Lundgren's career– because she let the killer get away. Now the Sleeping Angel Killer is back. But Kitt notices something different about this new rash of killings– a tiny variation that suggests a copycat killer may be re-creating the original 'perfect crimes'.Then the unthinkable happens. The Sleeping Angel Killer himself approaches Kitt with a bizarre offer: he will help her catch his copycat. Kitt must decide whether to place her trust in a murderer – or risk falling victim to a fiend who has taken the art of the perfect murder to horrific new heights.












Also by Erica Spindler


SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

DEAD RUN

SHOCKING PINK

ALL FALL DOWN




About the Author


The author of twenty-five books, ERICA SPINDLER is best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over six million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed, page turners, white knuckle rides, and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”

Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.










Erica

Spindler

Copycat
























www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)






For Rita J Spindler

mother, mentor, best friend




AUTHOR’S NOTE


When I decided to set Copycat in my childhood home town of Rockford, Illinois, I didn’t fully realise what a great setting Rockford would prove to be, or how much I’d enjoy making that “trip home.” Nor would I have been able to guess that I would actually finish this novel while living in Rockford, displaced by a she-devil named Katrina.

I discovered that much about Rockford has changed in the years I’ve lived away—but much has not. It’s still a close-knit community of hardworking folks who don’t put on airs. Families come first, people are welcoming and really good pizza can be found on almost every block. With all that in mind, I offer an apology: sorry, but in this type of novel people have to die, neighbourhoods must be singled out for murders to occur in and yes, somebody has to be a really twisted bad guy—even in a breadbasket community like this one.

Everyone I spoke with at the Rockford Police Department was welcoming, and they were consummate professionals. Special thanks to Deputy Chief of Detectives Dominic Iasparro, Officer Carla Redd and Identification Bureau Detective Gene Koelker.

Huge thanks to my sister-in-law Pam Schupbach, the most big-hearted woman I know. Not only did she act as hotelier, tour guide and chauffeur while I refamiliarised myself with Rockford, but she housed me again after hurricane Katrina, even taking on the role of babysitter so I could finish this novel.

On the home front, thanks to Mariea Sweitzer, former St Tammany sheriff’s deputy, for the information on phone trace technology—great help for a technology-challenged writer.

Finally, appreciation to the people who provide day-to-day professional support: my agent Evan Marshall, editor Dianne Moggy and assistant Kari Williams. And as always, last but first, thanks to my family for the love and my God for the blessings.















part


one




1


Rockford, Illinois Tuesday, March 5, 2001 1:00 a.m.

The girl’s hair looked silky. He longed to feel it against his fingers and cursed the latex gloves, the necessity that he wear them. The strands were the color of corn silk. Unusual in a child of ten. Too often, as the years passed, the blond darkened until settling on a murky, dishwater color that only bleach could resuscitate.

He cocked his head, pleased with his choice. She was even more beautiful than the last girl. More perfect.

He bent closer, stroked her hair. Her blue eyes gazed lifelessly up at him. Breathing deeply, he let her sweet, little-girl scent fill his head.

Careful … careful …

Mustn’t leave anything for them.

The Other One insisted on perfection. Always pushing him. Demanding more. And more.

Always watching. Every time he looked over his shoulder, the Other One was there.

He felt himself frown and worked to smooth the telltale emotion from his face.

My pretty baby. Most beautiful creation. Sleeping Angel.

The woman detective, Kitt Lundgren, had coined the name Sleeping Angel Killer. The media had jumped on it.

The name pleased him.

But not the Other One. Nothing, it seemed, pleased him.

Quickly, he finished arranging the scene. Her hair. The nightgown he had chosen just for her, with its pink satin bows. Everything had to be just so.

Perfect.

And now for the finishing touch. He took the tube of pale pink lip gloss from his pocket. Using the wand, he applied a coat of the gloss to the girl’s lips. Carefully, smoothing, making certain the color was even.

That done, he smiled at his handiwork.

Good night, my little angel. Sleep tight.




2


Tuesday, March 5, 2001 8:25 a.m.

Violent Crimes Bureau detective Kitt Lundgren stood in the doorway to the child’s bedroom, a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. Another girl was dead. Murdered in her own bed while her parents slept just down the hall.

Every parent’s worst nightmare.

But for these parents, this family, a nightmarish reality.

The sounds of a scene being processed swirled around her. The click of a camera shutter, a detective on his cell phone, a muttered expletive, conversations.

Familiar sounds. Ones she had become accustomed to along with losing her squeamishness years ago.

But this was a child, the second victim in six weeks. Another ten-year-old girl.

The same age as her Sadie.

At the thought of her daughter, her chest tightened. Kitt fought the sensation, fought to keep focused on this child. On nailing the monster who had killed her.

He’d left the first scene eerily clean. Now they had another chance. Maybe this time the bastard had screwed up.

Kitt entered the bedroom. She moved her gaze over it, taking in the girlish interior. Walls painted a delicate blush pink. White provincial furniture, a canopy bed. Ruffled white eyelet curtains that matched the canopy. A shelf of American Girl dolls. She recognized Felicity; Sadie owned the same one.

In fact, the room was a near replica of Sadie’s. Move the bed from the right side of the room to the left, add a desk in the corner and change the paint color from pink to peach.

Focus, Kitt. This isn’t about Sadie. Do the job.

She glanced to her right. Her partner, Brian Spillare, had already arrived. He stood with Detective Scott Snowe, one of the Identification Bureau detectives. There were nine detectives and a supervisor in the ID Bureau. Unlike most big, urban PDs, crime scene techs in the Rockford Police Department were sworn officers, highly trained in all areas of evidence collection. ID processed the scene for fingerprints and trace evidence, collected blood and analyzed blood splatter and spray, retrieved bullets and casings, and ran ballistic checks. They had also been known to collect insects and larvae from corpses, whose life cycles aided in the determination of time of death. In addition, the ID guys were responsible for diagramming and photographing every scene and attending every autopsy, which they also photographed.

The fun never stopped for those guys.

After recovering the evidence, they shipped it to the state crime lab, located just down the street from the Public Safety Building, or PSB, as they called the structure that housed not only the Rockford PD, but the sheriff’s department, city jail and the coroner’s office as well.

The deputy chief of detectives had sent the entire ID Bureau to the scene. Kitt wasn’t surprised. Two dead children in six weeks was a very big deal in this family-first industrial town that averaged only fifteen murders in an entire calendar year—none of those typically blond, blue-eyed girls safely tucked into their beds.

Kitt caught her partner’s eye and pointed toward the bed. He held up a finger, indicating she wait. She did; he concluded his conversation with the other detective and crossed to her.

“This guy is really starting to piss me off,” he said.

Brian was a big guy. One of those easygoing, teddy-bear types. In his case, a teddy bear with freckles and red hair. His cuddly good looks masked a damn impressive temper. If a bad guy crossed Brian, he invariably wished he hadn’t.

She would love for Brian to get his hands on this bastard.

“You been here long?” she asked.

“Maybe fifteen minutes.” He glanced toward the victim, then back at her. “You think he’ll go for three?”

“I hope to hell not,” she said. “He certainly won’t if we catch his ass.”

He nodded, then touched her arm, leaned toward her. “How’s Sadie?”

Dying. Her daughter, her only child. Kitt’s throat closed as emotion swamped her. Five years ago, Sadie had been diagnosed with acute lymphatic leukemia. She had rallied so many times in the past, from chemo and radiation treatments, from the bone marrow transplant that hadn’t been successful, but Kitt sensed she had given up. That she simply didn’t have the reserves to hold on much longer.

Kitt couldn’t speak and shook her head. Brian squeezed her arm, understanding. “How about you?” he asked. “You hanging in there?”

More like hanging on, by her fingernails. “Yeah,” she managed to say, the catch in her voice giving her away. “As best I can.”

To his credit, Brian didn’t call her on it. He, more than anyone other than her husband, Joe, knew what she was going through.

Brian gave her arm another gentle squeeze, then released it. They crossed to the victim. Kitt pushed all expectations of what she would see from her mind. Yes, it appeared the same unknown subject, or UNSUB, had killed both these children, but she needed to come to this scene, this murder, fresh. A good investigator always let the scene and its evidence tell the story. The minute a detective started doing the talking instead of the listening, objectivity—and credibility—went out the window.

The first look at the dead girl hit her hard.

Like the last one, she’d been pretty. Blond. Blue-eyed. Save for the gruesome indications of death—lividity, petechiae (blood vessels broken in the eyes and lips) and the advancing rigor mortis—she appeared to be sleeping.

A sleeping angel. Just like the last one.

Her blond hair fanned out around her head on the pillow, like a halo. Obviously, the killer had brushed and arranged it. Kitt leaned closer. The killer had applied lip color to her mouth, a sheer pink gloss.

“Looks like she was suffocated,” Brian offered. “Just like the last one.”

The absence of outward signs of violence and the petechiae supported suffocation, and Kitt nodded. “Which means the killer applied the lip gloss postmortem.” She glanced at her partner. “What about the gown?”

“Same as the last. Mother says it’s not hers.”

Kitt frowned. It was a beautiful gown, white with ruffles and tiny pink satin bows. “And her father?”

“Nothing new. Neither of them touched the body. Mother came in to wake the girl up for school, took one look at her and screamed. Father came running. Called 911.”

She would have found the fact they hadn’t touched their child weird, but with all the press about the previous murder, the mother would have only needed one look to know her daughter had been a victim of the same monster.

“We have to check them out,” he said.

Kitt nodded. Overwhelmingly, fewer children were murdered by strangers than by their own family, a statistic that seemed impossible to most but was a grim reality for cops.

However, this time they both knew the chances of this being a domestic incident were slim. They had a serial child killer on their hands.

“Like last time, it appears he came in through the window,” Brian said.

Kitt glanced at her partner. “It was unlocked?”

“Must have been. Glass is intact, no marks on the casing. Snowe says they’re going to take the entire window.”

“Footprints on the other side?” Kitt asked, though since it hadn’t rained in a week, the earth below the window would be rock hard.

“Nope. Screen was cut, nice and neat.”

She brought a hand to the back of her neck. “What does it mean, Brian? What’s he telling us?”

“That he’s a sick prick who deserves to be skinned alive?”

“Besides that? Why the lip gloss? The fancy nightgowns? Why the little girls?”

From the other room came a sudden, rending wail of grief. The sound struck Kitt way too close to home and she shuddered.

How would she go on without Sadie?

Brian looked at her, face tight with anger. “I have daughters. I could go to bed one night and the next morning find—” He flexed his fingers. “We need to nail this bastard.”

“We will,” Kitt muttered fiercely. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m bringing this son of a bitch down.”















part


two




3


Rockford, Illinois Tuesday, March 7, 2006 8:10 a.m.

The shrill scream of the phone awakened Kitt from a deep, pharmaceutically induced sleep. She fumbled for the phone, nearly dropping it twice before she got it to her ear. “H’lo.”

“Kitt. It’s Brian. Get your ass up.”

She cracked open her eyes. The sunlight streaming through the blinds stung. She shifted her gaze to the clock, saw the time and dragged herself to a sitting position.

She must have killed the alarm.

She glanced at Joe’s side of the bed, wondering why he hadn’t awakened her, then caught herself. Even after three years, she expected him to be there.

No husband. No child. All alone now.

Kitt coughed and sat up, working to shake out the cobwebs. “Calling so early, Lieutenant Spillare? Must be something pretty damn earth-shattering.”

“The bastard’s back. Shattering enough?”

She knew instinctively “the bastard” he referred to—the Sleeping Angel Killer. The case she never solved, though her obsession with it nearly destroyed both her life and career.

“How—”

“A dead little girl. I’m at the scene now.”

Her worst nightmare.

After a five-year hiatus, the SAK had killed again.

“Who’s working it?”

“Riggio and White.”

“Where?”

He gave a west Rockford address, a blue-collar neighborhood that had seen better days.

“Kitt?”

She was already out of the bed, scrambling for clothes. “Yeah?”

“Tread carefully. Riggio’s—”

“A little intense.”

“Territorial.”

“Noted, my friend. And … thanks.”




4


Tuesday, March 7, 2006 8:25 a.m.

Detective Mary Catherine Riggio, M.C. to everyone but her mother, turned and nodded to Lieutenant Spillare as he reentered the murder scene. None of their fellow officers who witnessed the exchange would guess that the two of them had a personal history—an ill-conceived affair during the time he had been separated from his wife.

The affair had ended. He had gone back to his wife, and she to her senses. She had been considerably younger, new to the force and starstruck. Brian Spillare, then a decorated detective with the Violent Crimes Bureau, had been larger than life, on his way up the RPD ladder. His on-the-job war stories had affected her like an aphrodisiac. Where most women reacted to “sweet nothings” whispered in their ears, stories about bullets, blood and busting the bad guys revved M.C.’s engine.

No one had ever accused her of being a typical girl.

She had come away from the affair, heart intact and an important lesson learned: playing hide-the-salami with a superior was not the way to be taken seriously. She’d vowed to never put herself in that position again.

M.C. crossed to the lieutenant and was immediately joined by her partner, Detective Tom White. Tom was a thirtysomething African-American, tall and slim with elegant features. He and his wife had just had their third child, and the nights of interrupted sleep showed on his face. All in all, Tom was a damn fine detective and a good man, and though their partnership was new, it was solid. He respected both her skills and instincts without any of that annoying “Me Tarzan, You Jane” crap.

During her year in the Violent Crimes Bureau, M.C. had gone through a number of partners. She was, admittedly, intense and ambitious. She recognized that about herself. She recognized that a little softening around the edges would endear her to her fellow officers, but she just couldn’t bring herself to change. If she felt she was right, she fought for it—no matter who thought otherwise. Even a superior, like Brian Spillare.

Warm and fuzzy was for baby ducks and bunnies.

“This looks familiar, doesn’t it?” she said.

The lieutenant nodded. “Unfortunately, very familiar.”

Five years ago, a series of three murders had sent the city, a town located ninety miles west of Chicago on the edge of corn country, into a panic. The nature of the crimes and the fact that the victims were all blond-haired, blue-eyed girls, murdered in their own bedrooms while family members slept nearby, had struck the very heart of the community’s sense of safety. M.C. had been working patrol at the time; they’d gotten calls for every bump in the night.

Then the killings stopped. And after a time, life had returned to normal.

Now it appeared he might be back.

She narrowed her eyes on Brian. He no longer worked in the Detective Bureau, but had been promoted and was supervisor of the Central Reporting Unit, or CRU for short. The CRU took all calls to the RPD, was responsible for all accident reports and registered all sex offenders.

But she understood his interest in this murder. He had been one of the lead detectives assigned to the original case. The other had been Kitt Lundgren.

M.C. struggled to recall the details of the case, of Detective Lundgren’s part in it. Solving the Sleeping Angel murders had been the department’s biggest priority; Lundgren’s leadership had been the talk of the RPD. The detective had become obsessed with catching the perpetrator. She’d let other cases slide, had defied her supervisor and was rumored to have let the killer slip through her fingers. M.C. recalled stories of bungled crime scenes, alcohol abuse and ultimately, forced leave.

A leave Lundgren had only recently returned from. One that had included a stint in rehab.

M.C. frowned. “Lundgren’s a head case.”

“True,” Brian said. “But with what she’s been through, she’s earned it. Cut her some slack.”

Tom White stepped in. “Pathologist’s here.”

The coroner’s office employed two full-time forensic pathologists. They went to the scene of every death, made the official pronouncement of death, examined and photographed the body and brought it to the morgue for autopsy.

This one, Frances Roselli, the older of the two, was a small, neat man of Italian descent.

“Frances,” Brian said, crossing to him. “It’s been a while.”

“Lieutenant. Not long enough, no offense.”

“None taken. You know Detectives Riggio and White.”

He nodded in their direction. “Detectives. What’ve we got?”

“Dead child,” M.C. said. “Ten years old. She appears to have been suffocated.”

He looked to Brian, as if for confirmation. “Sounds like the Sleeping Angel Killer’s MO.”

“Unfortunately, that’s what it looks like.”

The pathologist sighed. “I could have lived the rest of my life without another one of those cases.”

“Tell me about it.” Brian shook his head. “Press is going to be all over us.”

M.C. looked at her partner. “Let’s get the door-to-door of the neighborhood started. See if anybody saw or heard anything unusual last night.”

Tom agreed. “I’ll get a couple uniforms on it.”

“The house is for sale. I want a list of every Realtor and every prospective buyer who’s been through.”

“Looks like it’s been freshly painted, as well,” Tom said. “Let’s get the names of painters and handymen who’ve been within a hundred feet of the place.”

M.C. nodded, then turned to the pathologist. “When will you have a report?”

“As early as tonight.”

“Good,” she said. “Expect a call.”




5


Tuesday, March 7, 2006 8:40 a.m.

Kitt double-parked her Ford Taurus in front of the modest home. To keep the curious away and provide parking for official vehicles, the first officers had cordoned off the street a hundred feet in both directions. She saw the coroner’s Suburban, the crime-scene van, a half-dozen patrol units and an equal number of unmarked squad cars.

She swept her gaze over the home—a small blue box, probably not even a thousand square feet of living space. Outsourcing and downsizing had hit Rockford hard. Industries like Rockwell International and U.S. Filter, once major area employers, were gone. Other, smaller outfits continued to limp along, but the forecast looked bleak. Last total she heard, the area had lost thirty thousand manufacturing jobs. A drive through town supported that figure—there was one empty factory after another.

Kitt had lived in Rockford, a meat-and-potatoes kind of community with a large Italian and Swedish population, all of her forty-eight years. In truth, she’d never even toyed with the idea of leaving, even after Sadie died and her marriage ended. Rockford was her home. She liked living here. Folks didn’t put on airs, fabulous pizza could be found every second block, and if she craved a bit of glitz and glamour, Chicago was just over an hour away.

Frankly, she rarely craved the glitz and glamour. She was one of those people who found comfort in middle-class familiarity.

She climbed out of her vehicle, and the gray, chilly day enveloped her. She shivered and hunched deeper into her jacket. In northern Illinois, winters were hard, springs slow to come and summers too short. But the falls were glorious. She figured the residents deserved it for sticking out the rest of the year’s weather.

She crossed to the crime-scene tape and ducked under it, then headed directly for the first officer. She signed the scene log, ignoring the curious glances of her fellow officers. She didn’t blame them for their interest; she had only returned from forced leave eight weeks ago and had been assigned nothing but no-brainer assault-and-battery cases.

Until this morning, uncertain of her own emotional strength, she had been fine with that. Grateful Sal Minelli, the deputy chief of detectives, had allowed her back. She’d melted down on the job, big-time. She’d jeopardized cases, endangered her fellow officers and the department’s reputation.

Sal had championed her, as had Brian. She would be forever in their debt. What would she have done otherwise? She was a cop. It was all she had ever been.

No, she thought. Once upon a time, she had been a wife. And a mom.

She shook the thought off. The memories that came with it. The ache.

Kitt stepped into the house. It was warm inside. The child’s parents huddled on the couch. Kitt didn’t make eye contact. She swept her gaze over the interior. Pin neat, cheap furnishings. Sculptured carpeting that had obviously seen its day; walls painted a handsome sage color.

She followed the sound of voices to the girl’s bedroom. Too many people in this small room. Detective Riggio should be doing a better job controlling traffic.

She wasn’t surprised to see Brian, though he was no longer part of the detective unit. As if getting wind of her presence, Mary Catherine Riggio turned and stared at her. In the eighteen months she had been away, a handful of officers had made rank of detective; of them one, Mary Catherine Riggio, had joined the VCB. From what she’d heard, the woman was smart, ambitious and uncompromising. All to a fault.

Kitt met her eyes, nodded slightly in acknowledgment, then continued toward the bed.

One look at the victim told her it was true: he was back.

Kitt swallowed hard against the guilt that rushed up, threatening to drown her. Guilt at not having nailed the son of a bitch five years ago, about allowing him to kill again.

She wanted to look away but couldn’t. Despair overwhelmed her. Her daughter’s image filled her head, memories of her last days.

A cry crept up from the depths of her being. She held it in. Her daughter’s death and the Sleeping Angel murders had become weirdly, irrevocably intertwined in her mind.

She knew why. She and her shrink had discussed this one ad nauseam: the first Sleeping Angel murder had occurred as Sadie was slipping away. Her fight to keep her daughter alive had mirrored her fight to stop the SAK, to keep the other girls alive.

God help her, she’d lost both battles.

Kitt suddenly realized that this victim’s hands were positioned differently than the others had been. In the original killings, each victim’s hands had been folded primly on her chest. This one’s were posed strangely, the fingers curled, one seeming to point to her own chest, the other out, as if at another.

It might mean nothing. A variation in the killer’s ritual. After all, five years had passed since the last known victim.

She didn’t think so. The SAK she had hunted had been precise, his scenes had never varied and he had never left the police anything to work with.

Excited, she turned and called Brian over. Riggio and White came with him.

The other woman didn’t give her a chance to speak. “Hello, Detective Lundgren.”

“Detective Riggio.”

“I appreciate you coming out to offer your perspective.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Kitt said, though Mary Catherine Riggio looked anything but appreciative. Kitt shifted her attention to her former partner. “The hands are different.”

Brian nodded, expression admiring. “I’d forgotten.” He looked at M.C. “In all the previous murders, the hands were positioned the same way. Folded on the chest, near the heart.”

Roselli looked over his shoulder at them. “Actually, the hands present a very interesting scenario.”

M.C. frowned. “Why?”

“Clearly, the positioning is unnatural. In which case, the killer posed them postmortem.”

“No surprise there. What’s so—”

“Interesting? How long he waited to do it after the death.”

“I don’t understand,” Kitt said. “He had to act fast, before rigor mortis set in.”

The pathologist shook his head. “Wrong, Detective. He had to wait until after rigor mortis set in.”

For several seconds, no one spoke. M.C. broke the silence first. “What kind of window are we talking about?”

“A small one. Depending on temperature, rigor mortis sets in two to six hours after death. Since the furnace is running and the house is relatively warm, my guess is it took three to four hours.”

Kitt couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you saying he sat here and waited for her to get stiff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And for his patience to pay off, the body had to be discovered before rigor mortis broke at ten to twelve hours after death.”

Brian whistled. He looked at Kitt. “The hand position is extremely important to him.”

“He’s making a bold statement. An arrogant one.”

“Most killers get in and out, as quickly as possible.”

“Most smart ones,” Kitt corrected. “And the original SAK was damn intelligent.”

“So, what does the positioning mean?”

“Me and you,” White offered.

Kitt nodded. “Us and them. In and out.”

“Or nothing,” M.C. said, sounding irritated.

“Doubtful. Considering the risk he took to pose them.” Brian glanced at Kitt. “Anything else jump out at you as different?”

She shook her head. “Not that I’ve noticed—yet.” She shifted her gaze to Detective Riggio. “Is anything missing from the scene?”

“Excuse me?”

“The original SAK didn’t take a trophy from his victim. Which, of course, doesn’t fit the typical profile of a serial killer.”

M.C. and White exchanged glances. “We’ll need the girl’s parents to carefully inventory her things,” she said.

White nodded and made a note in his spiral.

“You mind if I study the scene a bit more?” In an effort to earn the other woman’s good will, Kitt directed the question Riggio’s way, though asking Brian would have yielded an easy yes and, as the superior officer of the group, his decision would have been unarguable.

But Detective Riggio was lead on the case and, Kitt could tell, hungry to prove herself. She was one of those “ballbuster” women cops, a type Kitt had seen too often. Police work was still a boys’ club—women had to fight to be taken seriously. Until they were, they were relegated to second-class citizens. So, many contorted themselves into humorless hard-asses with a severe case of testosterone envy. In other words, a woman acting like a man. Hell, she’d done a turn as one herself.

She knew better now. She had learned what made a female cop an asset was the very fact she wasn’t a man. Her instincts, the way she responded and interacted—all were shaped by her gender.

“Go for it,” she said. “Let me know if anything jumps out.”

Nothing did, and forty minutes later, Kitt left the scene. It felt wrong to be leaving without questioning the parents, lining up the neighborhood canvas and other interviews.

Dammit, this should be her case! She’d worked her ass off to solve it five years ago, every nuance of this killer’s MO was burned onto her brain.

She’d also blown it. And it had been ugly.

“Lundgren!”

Kitt stopped and turned. Mary Catherine Riggio strode toward her, expression set. “I wanted a word with you before you left.”

No surprise there. She folded her arms across her chest. “Floor’s yours.”

“Look, I know your history. I know how important the SAK case was to you, and how it must feel to be shut out now.”

“Shut out? Is that what I am?”

“Don’t play games with me, Lundgren. It’s my case, and I’m asking you to put aside your personal feelings and respect that.”

“In other words, butt out.”

“Yes.”

Kitt cocked an eyebrow at the other woman’s arrogance. “May I remind you, Detective, I know every detail of the original SAK killings. Should this one prove to be a fourth, that knowledge would be invaluable to you.”

“May I remind you, Detective, that each and every one of those case details are already available to me.”

“But my instincts—”

“Are shot. And you know it.”

Kitt fought the urge to become defensive. Riggio would perceive it as weak emotionalism. “I know this guy,” she said instead. “He’s smart. Cautious. He plans his crimes down to the tiniest detail. He prides himself on his intellect, the fact that he keeps emotion out of his crimes.

“He stalks the children, learns their routines. Bedtimes. Location of their bedrooms. Spots the ones who are vulnerable.”

“What makes them vulnerable?”

“Different things. The parents’ situations. Socioeconomics.”

“How are you so certain?”

“Because for the past five years, I ate, drank and shit this son of a bitch. Catching him is nearly all I’ve thought about.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Kitt couldn’t answer. The one time she’d gotten close, she had blown it.

Riggio leaned toward her. “Look, Lundgren, I have nothing against you. I’ve been a cop long enough to know how the job can get to you. How a case can get to you. But that’s not my problem. This is my case. Stand back and let me nail this guy.”

“I was so arrogant, once upon a time.”

Riggio turned to go. “Whatever.”

Kitt caught her arm. “Wouldn’t working together be a benefit? Wouldn’t my experience with the SAK be a benefit? If you spoke to Sal—”

“That’s not going to happen. I’m sorry.”

Kitt doubted that. She dropped her hand and stepped back. “You know, Riggio, it’s not about you. It’s about catching this guy, no matter what it takes.”

The other woman narrowed her eyes. “I’m well aware of what this is about, Detective Lundgren. I suggest you ask yourself if you are.”

“I’ll go to the deputy chief myself.”

“Have a ball. We both know what he’s going to say.”

Kitt watched the other detective walk away, then climbed into her car. Problem was, she suspected she did know what he would say. But that wasn’t going to stop her from trying.




6


Tuesday, March 7, 2006 Noon

Deputy Chief of Detectives Salvador Minelli listened quietly as Kitt presented her case. A strikingly handsome man, with silvering hair and at fifty-one, a nearly unlined face, he dressed with panache and walked with the barest hint of a swagger. These days, Sal—as almost everyone in the department called him—was as much a politician as a cop. In fact, most of those in the know felt he was the front-runner for the chief of police’s job when he retired in a couple of years.

Sal had been a very good friend to her. He had been her superior five years ago and had been as supportive as a man in his position could be, maybe more. He’d certainly gone to bat for her, facing the displeasure of the chief himself.

Perhaps it had been because he was the father of five. Perhaps because he came from a family that valued familial bonds above all else. He had seemed to understand how deeply painful the loss of Sadie had been.

“I know this guy,” Kitt argued. “I know the SAK case better than anyone, you know that. Give Detective Riggio the lead spot, no problem. Let me assist.”

He was quiet for long moments after she finished. He steepled his fingers. “Why are you doing this, Kitt?”

“Because I want this guy. I want him behind bars. Because I’d be an asset to the investigation.”

“I suspect Detective Riggio would disagree on the last.”

“Detective Riggio’s young and overconfident. She needs me.”

“You had your shot, Kitt. He slipped through your grasp.”

“This time he won’t.”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You know how important a fresh pair of eyes can be to a case.”

“Yes, but—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “Detective Riggio’s good. Damn good.”

There was a time, she knew, he had said the same about her. She doubted that would be the case again. To a certain degree, she had become a liability. “She’s headstrong,” Kitt countered. “Too ambitious.” He smiled. “White’s a good ballast for that.” “How can I prove to you that I can handle it?” “I’m sorry, Kitt. You’re too close. Still too fragile.” “With all due respect, Sal, don’t you think I should be the one to make that determination?”

“No,” he said simply. He leaned forward. “Have you considered that working this case might overwhelm you and send you running back to the bottle?” “It won’t.” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m sober. I have been for nearly a year. I intend to stay that way.”

He lowered his voice. “I can’t protect you again, Kitt. You know what I’m talking about.”

She’d let the SAK slip through her fingers. Sal had covered for her. Because he had felt partly responsible.

And because of Sadie.

“I’ll ask Riggio and White to keep you in the loop. Bounce things off you. It’s the best I can do.”

She stood, shocked to realize her hands were shaking. More shocked to realize that she longed for a drink to still them.

The urge she could never give into again.

“Thank you,” she said, then crossed to the door.

He stopped her when she reached it. She turned back. “How’s Joe?” he asked.

Her ex-husband. High school sweetheart. Former best friend. “We don’t talk much.” “You know how I feel about that.”

She did. Hell, she felt the same way.

“If you see him, tell him I said hello.” She told him she would and walked away, with Joe suddenly very much on her mind.




7


Tuesday, March 7, 2006 5:30 p.m.

“Hello, Joe.”

Her ex-husband looked up from the house plans on the desk in front of him. Although his blond hair had silvered over the years, his eyes were as blue as the day she had married him. Tonight, the expression in them was wary.

She supposed she didn’t blame him. These days, she never just “popped in.”

“Hello, Kitt,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

“Flo already left,” she said, referring to the woman who served as both his secretary and office manager. “So I came on in. How’s business?”

“Picking up. Thank God spring’s here.”

Joe owned his own home-construction business, Lundgren Homes. Northern Illinois winters were tough on builders. Home starts simply didn’t happen. The goal was to have several jobs closed in and ready for interior work by the time severe weather hit. Some winters, it had been pretty lean going.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I guess I am.” He passed a hand across his face. “Judging by the bulge, you’re back on the job.”

Her shoulder holster. Joe had never really gotten used to her wearing it. “Sal sends a hello.”

He held her gaze. “And the drinking, how’s—”

“Still sober. Eleven months and counting. I plan to stay that way.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Kitt.”

He meant it, she knew. He had seen the alcohol almost destroy her. And though they’d divorced, he still cared for her. As she did him.

She cleared her throat. “Something’s happened. The Sleeping Angel Killer … it looks like he’s back.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She saw several different emotions chase across his face. “A little girl named Julie Entzel,” she continued. “They found her this morning.”

“I’m sorry.” He shifted his gaze to the plans laid out in front of him. “Sal has you working the case?”

“No, he thinks I’m too close. Too … vulnerable.”

He looked back up at her. “But you don’t agree?”

His tone had taken on an edge. She stiffened slightly, defensive. “I see you do.”

He made a sound, part frustration, part anger. “You chose that case over our marriage. Over me. I’d call that �too close.’”

“Let’s not start this, Joe.”

He stood. She saw that his hands were clenched. “Even after the killings stopped, you couldn’t let it go. Even after Sal closed the case.”

That was true. It had consumed her. Fueled her drinking, her defiance of direct orders. But she had not chosen it over him. She told him so.

He laughed, the sound bitter. “That case became the focus of your life. I should have been your focus. Our marriage. This family.”

“What family?” She regretted the words the moment they passed her lips. She saw how much they hurt him.

She started to say so; he cut her off. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you’d want to know. About the little girl.”

“Why?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Julie Entzel wasn’t our daughter, Kitt. None of those girls were. I’d never met even one of them. And that’s the part you never got.”

“Oh, I got that, Joe. But I feel a sense of responsibility that you, obviously, don’t. I feel a need to help. To do … something.”

“Don’t you think my heart breaks for that little girl, her folks? I know what it’s like to lose a child. That some monster could do such a thing sickens me.” He cleared his throat. “But she wasn’t Sadie. She wasn’t ours. You’ve got to move on with your life.”

“The way you have?” she shot back.

“Actually, yes.” He paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. “I’m getting remarried, Kitt.”

For several seconds, she simply gazed at him, certain she had misheard. She must have. Her Joe, getting remarried?

“You don’t know her,” he went on, before she could ask. “Her name’s Valerie.”

Kitt’s mouth had gone dry. She felt light-headed. What? Had she expected him to pine for her forever?

Yes.

She struggled to keep her turmoil from showing. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone so seriously.”

“No reason you should have.”

No reason? She had a lifetime worth of reasons. “How long have you been dating?”

“Four months.”

“Four months? Not very long. Are you certain—”

“Yes.”

“When’s the big day?” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

“We haven’t set one yet. Fairly soon. It’ll be a small service. Just a few family members and close friends.”

“I see.”

He looked frustrated. “Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” She stood, blinded by tears she would never allow him to see. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”




8


Wednesday, March 8, 2006 12:10 p.m.

Kitt sat at her desk, brown-bag lunch untouched, thumbing through the original Sleeping Angel case files. The information was available electronically, but she preferred to review hard copies.

She slipped out the scene photos of the first victim. Mary Polaski. It hurt to look at her. She had let this little victim down. She had let her family down.

Kitt forced such thoughts from her mind and studied the photos, comparing them to those of Julie Entzel. Why had he positioned the hands this way? Why take the chance of remaining at the scene for hours? What had been so important to him?

Her phone rang; Kitt reached for it without taking her gaze from the photos. “Detective Lundgren, Violent Crimes Bureau.”

“The Detective Lundgren who was in charge of the Sleeping Angel case five years ago?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I think I can help you.”

The call didn’t surprise her; the morning newspaper headline had read: Sleeping Angel Killer Returns. What surprised her was the fact she hadn’t received one before now. “Always happy to have help. Your name?”

“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.”

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.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. I told him to bring it on.” He took a swallow of his beer. “So what’s your story?”

“I’m the youngest of six. And the only girl.”

“I’m sitting next to royalty, then.” He mock bowed. “Princess Mary Catherine.”

“In the form of a cop.”

He held up his glass in a mock toast. “To a fellow rebel and outsider.”

An outsider? She had never thought of herself quite that way, but it certainly fit. She was one of them and loved, but different. And not just because she didn’t fit the mold of her ancestors. Her profession made her different, as well. The way she lived. The violence and inhumanity she saw on a daily basis.

“Is this a private party, or can anybody join in?”

That came from Brian, who seemed to have given up on the bartender. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood. “It’s your party now, guys. I’m beat.”

As she walked away, she looked back at Lance Castrogiovanni. He caught her glance and smiled. She returned the smile, wondering if she would see him again—and hoping that she would.

11

Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:20 a.m.

Kitt stood at the grave site, shivering in the early-morning chill. The stone read:

Our Beloved “Peanut” Sadie Marie Lundgren September 10, 1990—April 4, 2001

Kitt visited Sadie at least once a week. Laid fresh flowers on her grave, removed the dead ones. Today it was daisies.

She looked up at the gray sky, longing suddenly for real spring. Bright sun and blue sky.

“Something bad’s happened, sweetheart. He’s back. That man who killed those girls. And I’m—”

She struggled to speak past the lump that formed in her throat. Even after all the time that had passed, she still choked up at moments like this.

“I’m afraid,” she went on. “For other girls. But for me, too. I can’t … start drinking again. I can’t let it … let him take over my life.

“Not that I have—” She shook her head and bit off the thought. She wouldn’t go there. Wouldn’t burden her sweet child with her problems.

“I hope you’re happy. That it’s good there.” She paused. “I think about you every day, baby. I love you.”

She bent and straightened the flowers, hating to go. Wishing with all her heart that staying would bring her daughter back. Finally she forced herself to take a step back from the grave site. To turn, walk away.

Her cell phone rang as she reached the walkway. She simultaneously answered and glanced back.

“Lundgren here.”

“Hello, Kitt.”

The hair at the back of her neck prickled. The Sleeping Angel Killer. How had he gotten her cell number?

“I’m at a disadvantage,” she said. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.” “You know who I am.”

“I know who you say you are.”

“Yes.” He paused. “So, did you arrange what I asked?”

“I talked to my chief.”

“And?”

“He’s taking your request seriously.”

“But not seriously enough to give you the case.”

“PDs don’t work that way.”

“Another girl’s going to die,” he said. “You can stop it.”

“How?” she asked, heart beating faster. “How can I stop it?”

“I committed perfect crimes. This one’s a cheap imitator. He’ll move fast. Too fast. He won’t plan. The Copycat doesn’t know my secrets.”

“What secrets?” She gripped the phone tightly, working to keep excitement from her voice. To keep it cool, even. “Tell me, so I can help.”

“I know your secret, Kitt.”

His voice had turned sly. She frowned. “What secret would you be referring to?”

“You could have caught me. But you were drunk. That’s why you fell. It was a stupid mistake on my part. But I didn’t make another, did I?”

Kitt couldn’t speak. The past rushed up, choking her. A call had come into the department. A mother, insisting her daughter was being targeted by the SAK. That she was being stalked.

During that time, they had gotten so many calls like that, hundreds. The department checked them all out, but they simply didn’t have the manpower to watch every nine- and ten-year-old girl in Rockford.

But something about this mother’s claim, about this girl … she’d had a feeling. The chief had refused to fund it, had reminded Kitt of her fragile emotional state.

They had buried Sadie the week before.

So, she had broken one of the cardinal rules of police work—she’d gone solo. Set up her own after-hours stakeout.

Night after night she had sat outside that girl’s house. Just her and her little flask. The flask that chased the cold away.

At least that’s what she had told herself. It had been a lie, of course. The flask had been about chasing the pain away.

A week into it, she had seen him. A man who didn’t belong. She should have called for backup. Instead, she’d given chase.

Or tried. By that time, she had been stumbling drunk. She’d fallen, hit her head and been knocked unconscious. When she’d come to, he’d been long gone.

He had never given them another chance.

The chief had been furious. The SAK could have killed her. He could have taken her gun, used it on her or others.

Kitt refocused on the now, on what this meant: he was who he said. There were only two others within the department who knew the truth about that night, Sal and Brian.

Then another girl had died and the SAK had disappeared. Until now.

“Okay,” she said, “you’ve got me. Do you know who the Copycat is?”

He laughed coyly. “I might.”

“Then tell me. I’ll stop him.”

“What fun is there in that?”

She pictured the body of Julie Entzel. Recalled the sound of her parents’ grief. The way it echoed inside her.

“I don’t call any of this fun, you son of a bitch.”

He chuckled, seeming pleased. “But it’s my game now. And it’s time to say goodbye.”

“Wait! What should I call you?”

“Call me Peanut,” he said softly.

In the next instant, he was gone.




12


Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:25 a.m.

Kitt stood frozen, cell phone held to her ear. She struggled to breathe. Peanut. They’d given Sadie the nickname because she’d been so small. Because of the leukemia.

How dare that monster use her precious daughter’s name! It had sounded obscene on his lips. If he had been within her grasp, she would have been tempted to kill him.

Kitt reholstered the phone and walked quickly to her car. She unlocked it, slipped inside, but made no move to start the engine. He was playing with her.

Somehow, he had learned her cell number. Her daughter’s nickname. Which buttons to push.

What else did he know about her?

Everything. At least that was the presumption she needed to operate on. He had called this “fun.” His “game.” And like a masterful player, he had made it his business to educate himself on his competitor’s weaknesses.

She breathed deeply, calmer now, putting the call into perspective. She unclipped her phone and punched in Sal’s cell number. He answered right way.

“Sal, it’s Kitt. He contacted me again. I’m on my way in.”

Kitt arrived at the PSB just after Sal. She caught him waiting at the elevator. The car arrived, and they stepped inside. He punched two and turned to her.

“Well?”

“He’s the real deal, Sal. He knew about that night, about my falling. Why I fell.”

His mouth tightened. “Go on.”

“He said another girl is going to die.”

The elevator stopped on the second floor; they stepped off and headed down the hall to the Violent Crimes Bureau.

“When?”

“He was speaking metaphorically. Said the Copycat was going to move too fast. That whoever was copying his crimes was going to make mistakes.”

They reached the bureau. Nan held out a stack of message slips with a cheery “Good morning.”

He returned her greeting and began to thumb through the slips. “Anything urgent?” he asked the woman.

“The chief needs to push your meeting back thirty minutes. And Detective Allen’s down with the flu. His wife called.”

The deputy chief nodded. “I want Riggio and White. In my office, ASAP. Is Sergeant Haas in yet?”

“In his office.”

“Send him in as well.”

“Will do.” Nan turned to her. “Detective Lundgren, you have a message as well. An old friend. Said he’d try you later.”

Kitt frowned. The woman handed her the pink message slip. “Called himself �Peanut.’ Said to tell you he was looking forward to seeing you on television.”

Kitt didn’t comment, but by the time they had all assembled in Sal’s office, she shook with anger. This brazen bastard was starting to piss her off.

Sal began. “The man claiming to be the Sleeping Angel Killer contacted Detective Lundgren again. This time on her cell phone.” He turned toward her. “Detective, you want to fill everyone in?”

She took over, recounting the brief conversation, minus the incriminating comments about her fall. “He told me to call him �Peanut.’”

Sal looked sharply at her. “Your daughter’s nickname?”

She kept her voice flat. “Yes. He called the bureau this morning as well.” She handed the message slip to Sal. “This was waiting for me here.”

Sal swore. She shifted her gaze to the rest of the group. “Point is, he knows details of the original case and investigation that he couldn’t, unless he is who he claims.”

M.C. frowned. “Last time he called them his �perfect’ crimes as well. Obviously, that’s important to him.”

“He’s arrogant,” Kitt said. “He’s pissed that this guy is copying his work—”

White stepped in. “And being damn sloppy about it.”

“In his opinion,” Riggio murmured.

“Yes.” Kitt paused a moment. “I asked him if he knew who the Copycat was. He said �maybe.’”

Sal steepled his fingers. “Do you think he really does and is being coy? Or that he suspects but isn’t certain?”

“At this point, I’m not certain. If I had to wager a guess, I think he’s being coy.”

“Because he’s playing a game with you,” Riggio agreed. “His words.”

“Yes. A game he called �fun.’”

“If the Copycat makes the mistakes Peanut claims he will, we’ll get him.”

Kitt flinched at the other detective’s use of Sadie’s nickname, though she acknowledged that she had better get used to it. This wouldn’t be the last time.

“But another girl will die,” White offered. “Maybe more than one.”

Kitt cleared her throat. “We’re forgetting another thing here. If he’s telling me the truth, we have two killers to catch. The SAK and his copycat.”

The room grew silent. Sergeant Haas looked at his superior. “What’s your recommendation, Sal?”

“Give him what he wants. Play along.”

Riggio jumped in. “With all due respect, Chief, I disagree.”

The deputy chief turned to her. “He called here, this morning. Said he was looking forward to seeing Kitt on TV.”

“On television?” White asked. “What did he mean by that?”

“Press conference,” Sal offered. “For whatever reason, he wants Kitt working the case and he wants proof we complied with his demand.”

Riggio spoke up. “Clearly, this man’s made it his business to educate himself about Detective Lundgren. He’s gone to great lengths to involve her in this �game.’” She looked at Kitt. “My question is, why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seems to me, that’d be an important thing to find out.”

“Agreed.” Sal moved his gaze between the group. “Tom, I’m temporarily reassigning you. Riggio, it’s you and Kitt on this one. Kitt’s lead.”

Riggio made a sound of protest. “Lead? This is my case. Let her assist, but don’t—”

“My decision’s final. Sorry, Riggio.” He turned to Kitt. “Are you up to this? It’s only round one and he’s calling himself by your daughter’s nickname.”

“I can handle it.”

He nodded. “Then, let’s get busy. Call a press conference for this afternoon. Keep it simple. A straightforward FYI.”

They filed out of the office. When they cleared the chief’s hearing range, Kitt stopped Riggio. “This is going to get intense. It’ll be important we work together, as a team.”

“You don’t need to lecture me, Detective. I have my priorities straight.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“With that said, do you really think you’re ready to lead a major homicide investigation?”

“I said I’m ready, and I am.”

Riggio shook her head. “Do you even know what that means anymore? The pressure of being under the departmental microscope? The press hounding you? The public demanding results? And we’re not talking just any case, the case?”

Kitt didn’t flinch, though a small seed of doubt bloomed inside her. “I’m ready,” she said again.

Riggio leaned toward her. “It’s my ass on the line with this one, too. I need a partner I trust watching my back.”

“I’ll be watching it,” Kitt muttered. “Better than any partner you’ve ever had.”

“Somehow, I have a hard time believing that.”

Kitt watched Riggio walk away. She didn’t blame the woman for her skepticism. Would she want her for a partner? With her history? Would she be able to trust?

Hell, no.

But none of this was her doing. A killer had singled her out for fun and games. He had demanded her participation, for what reason she didn’t yet know.

She could have turned him down. Or pretended to play along. But she hadn’t even considered either an option. From the moment another child had turned up dead, she’d wanted on the case.

Was she making a good, objective choice here? Or was she letting her own need to nail this guy rule her, thus jeopardizing the case?

Brian knew her better than anyone on the force. They had been partners for years; he had been with her as she’d slid deeper and deeper into the bottle—and into despair.

She trusted him completely. To be straight with her, no punches pulled.

She found him in his office, also located on two, just down the hall from the shift commander.

She tapped on his door. “Hey, partner. Got a minute?”

“For you? Always.” He waved her in. She took a seat and he sent her one of his trademark broad smiles. “What’s up?”

“Wanted to run something by you.”

“Shoot.” He leaned back in his chair, waiting.

“The guy called me again.”

“The one claiming to be the SAK?”

“The very one. On my cell phone. Asked me to call him Peanut.”

Brian was quiet a moment, as if processing all the ramifications of that. “How are you with that?”

“Royally pissed off.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

She filled him in on the conversation, sharing how the man had proved his identity.

“Sal put you on the case.”

It wasn’t a question; she answered, anyway. “Yes.”

“And Riggio’s not happy about it.”

“An understatement.” Kitt shifted her gaze, frowning. “Which brings me to you. Am I doing the right thing, going along with this? Am I ready?”

“Seems to me you don’t have a choice. This guy’s brought you onboard, like it or not.”

“Maybe.” She stood, crossed to a wall of photos. There was one of the two of them, receiving a commendation from the mayor. That’d been more than a lifetime ago. There was one of Brian and Scott Snowe from ID at a press conference last year. She remembered it. She’d been on leave, had watched with everybody else—on the News at Five. They had obtained the fingerprints of a “floater” recovered from the Rock River by actually peeling the skin from the corpse’s hand intact. The victim had been identified as the missing wife of a prominent city official—and her identification had quickly led to the husband’s arrest for her murder.

The press had been all over it.

And Brian had gotten bumped to lieutenant.

She turned and faced him once more. “I don’t trust my instincts, Brian. I’m afraid to. Last time—”

“You saved that little girl’s life, Kitt.”

“But I let him get away. Another girl died.”

“Maybe two more would have died. You don’t know.”

“I screwed up.”

“Yeah, you did. But what about today?”

She made a sound of frustration. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you screwed up today?”

“Hell no.”

“Then let the past go. You were a great partner, Kitt. I counted on you, and until Sadie died and your world fell apart, you never let me down.”

“I’m not the cop I was back then. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

“So?” He leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you that you might be a better one?”

It hadn’t.

“You’re going to have to prove yourself, Kitt. To Riggio. To Sal and the rest of the department. But most of all, you’re going to convince you.”

“I have to do this, don’t I?”

“That’s the way I see it.” He paused; when he spoke again, his tone was low, deep with emotion. “Go slow. Trust your instincts, but not blindly. I’ll be here for you. Anything you need.”

She thanked him and stood. She wasn’t certain he’d given her the vote of confidence she longed for, but it would have to do.

In the end, the fact was, a killer had volunteered her for this game. She had no choice but to play.




13


Thursday, March 9, 2006 5:05 p.m.

He sat at the bar, ice-cold draft in front of him, bowl of pretzels and his pack of smokes beside that. He had arrived before the after-work crowd, to get the best seat in the house—directly in front of the TV that was mounted behind and above the bar.

He acknowledged excitement. Anxiety.

Would his Kitten come through for him this time?

He hoped so. He would be angry if she defied him again.

He lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke in. It had an instant calming effect on him. He smiled to himself, recalling watching her at her little daughter’s grave. It’d been sad. And curiously sweet. He supposed he should feel bad, spying on her. Using what he learned against her.

But he didn’t.

He was just that kind of guy.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, he glanced at his watch. It had been genius to ask her to call him Peanut. It had rattled her, big-time. As had calling on her cell phone. Both proved he meant business. That he knew his shit and wasn’t afraid to play dirty to get what he wanted.

Genius. He liked the sound of that.

Damn but he liked being him.

The News at Five began in earnest. Top story of the day: “The Return of the Sleeping Angel Killer.”

They showed a picture of Julie Entzel. Then of his Little Angels. Their narrative was over the top.

Typical media.

They cut to a breaking press conference. And there she was, his Kitten. He hung on her few words. They were exploring every lead. Studying all the evidence. They had no proof they were even dealing with the same killer.

Blah … blah … blah …

The other detective was with her, Mary Catherine Riggio. Taking a back seat. Standing quietly at his Kitten’s side. Expression set. Grim. Not a bit happy about this turn of events. About her sweet, career-making case being stolen out from under her nose. He almost laughed out loud.

Of course, not a word about a copycat. No mention of communication from someone claiming to be the SAK. No indeed.

She closed the brief conference by assuring the media that they would catch this monster, that he would not get away with this heinous murder.

But he already had.

He smiled to himself and stood. Good girl, Kitten. Stay tuned, there’s lots more fun to come.




14


Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:30 p.m.

Kitt had been attending Alcoholics Anonymous for eighteen months. The department shrink, and consequently her chief, had required her to complete a twelve-step program before they would allow her back on the job.

She truly hadn’t thought she needed it. That attending had been nothing more than a hoop the department wanted her to jump through. She hadn’t turned to alcohol until her life fell apart. She’d thought that made her different, not really an alcoholic.

Little by little, she had seen how wrong she was.

She had realized, too, she needed the support and understanding of fellow alcoholics. They had become a kind of surrogate family. They were privy to her most secret thoughts and feelings, the demons that chased her and the longings of her heart.

She had become particularly close to three of her fellow AA members: Wally, an unemployed machine-shop supervisor who lost his job and two fingers because of drinking on the job; Sandy, a homemaker whose kids had been taken away because of her drinking; Danny, the youngest of them, who had woken up to his problem after an auto accident in which his best friend was killed. Danny had been the one behind the wheel.

They’d grown close because of the alcoholism—and because they understood loss.

“Hello, love,” Danny said, taking the seat next to hers and sending her a goofy, lopsided grin.

She returned the smile. “You’re chipper tonight.”

“Life is good.”

“Must’ve gotten lucky,” Wally said from her other side.

“Been sober one year tonight.”

Sandy squeezed his hand. “Way to go.”

They chatted quietly while they waited for the meeting to begin. Sandy, it turned out, had had a positive meeting with her lawyer about establishing visitation time with her kids and Wally had gotten a job.

As the group leader opened the meeting, Danny leaned toward her. “Want to get a cup of coffee after?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Saw you on the news. Thought we should talk about it.”

From the tone of his voice, she knew he was concerned. Stand in line, my friend.

They didn’t speak about it again until they were sitting across from each other in a booth at a local eatery called Aunt Mary’s.

“I’m worried about you taking on that case, Kitt. You sure you’re ready?”

“Boy, that question’s getting old.”

“Maybe you should consider that people have a legitimate reason for asking it.” He leaned forward. “You know what your triggers are, Kitt. Don’t put yourself in that position.”

The pressure to perform. Being under the microscope. Stress. Despair. Hopelessness.

“The anniversary of Sadie’s death is coming up,” she said.

“I know, Kitt. And that’s exactly my point. You’re not ready for this.”

She stared into her cup of coffee a moment. “I have to do this, Danny. I can’t explain all the reasons—”

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “You don’t have to. I know them.”

She gazed at their joined hands, suddenly uncomfortable.

Carefully, she slid her hand from under his. “It’s more than my personal reasons. I can’t discuss it, but it has to be me.”

He was silent a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Just know I’m here for you.”

He had been. They’d joined AA around the same time and had been through a lot together. She liked him. Counted on calling him friend.

He’d made it no secret that he would like to deepen their relationship. But she cherished his friendship too much to take a chance on a romance between them. Besides, at twelve years her junior, she felt like she’d be robbing the cradle.

“Joe’s getting remarried.”

Danny paused, a forkful of apple pie halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“It hit me hard. But I should be happy for him. He deserves happiness.”

“Screw that.” Danny set his fork down and leaned forward. “Wallow.”

She smiled at her friend. “I tell myself life goes on. It should go on. That I need to let go.”

“Let go,” he said softly. “You deserve happiness, too.”

“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.”

“So, what makes the perfect crime?”

“Easy. Getting away with it.”

“And who gets away with it?”

“The smart ones. The ones who are careful. The ones who plan.”

“Exactly.” Kitt sat forward, feeling a stirring of excitement. “He told me, �This one will move fast, he won’t plan.’”

Kitt saw that M.C. was getting excited, too. “When you move fast, you’re sloppy. You miss things. You’re seen. You leave things behind at the scene.”

“The lack of evidence was one of the most frustrating things about the original SAK murders. He left us nothing to work with.”

“He knew what he was doing. He was highly organized.”

They fell silent. M.C. reached across and helped herself to one of Kitt’s chips. “So far, this one’s no different,” she said. “He’s left us nothing.”

“That we’ve uncovered yet,” Kitt corrected. “And he certainly has moved fast. Two girls in three days.”

M.C. munched on the chip, expression thoughtful. “What else made the original SAK murders un-solvable?”

“The randomness of the choice of original victims was a huge roadblock. We never found a link between them. Yeah, they were all blond, blue-eyed ten-year-olds, but all from different sides of town, backgrounds, schools, you name it.”

Usually a serial chose victims from a specific area, one he knew well and traveled often; or he chose them from a walk of life, such as prostitutes.

It was unusual for them to operate outside their comfort zone.

“So, how did he choose them?”

“Exactly.” Kitt held out the bag of chips for her partner. “And don’t forget, he stopped at three. With each victim, the odds of capture are raised. Hell, Bundy admitted to twenty-eight murders and may have actually committed more. The SAK didn’t give us that.”

“Why did he stop?” M.C. wondered aloud. “That’s another anomaly. Usually, they don’t.”

“He was busted,” Kitt offered. “Ended up doing time on an unrelated crime. Took him out of circulation.”

M.C. nodded. “It happens.”

“Presuming my caller is telling the truth about a copycat, maybe these two met in prison?”

M.C. agreed again. “That killing duo, Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris, met in prison. Went on to jointly kill five teenage girls. Your caller is pretty proud of himself. I don’t see him hiding his �work.’ Probably bragged about how he pulled it off.”

“But not to just anybody. It had to be somebody he trusted. Child killers are not beloved, even in the joint.”

“And even if we assume these girls are his and not a copycat’s, prison still makes sense. It’s been five years since the last Sleeping Angel murder. We need the names of anyone recently released from the state pens.”

Kitt sat back, mulling over the pieces, thinking aloud. “The original SAK committed three murders. He executed each crime exactly six weeks apart. Then he stopped.”

She shifted her thoughts to his calls, the things he said. “He believes his crimes were perfect. That’s important to him, maybe even more important than getting away with the crime. What does that say about him? Who is this guy?”

M.C. narrowed her eyes. “He’s arrogant. Cocky. Out to prove he’s the best.”

“He thinks he has proved it,” Kitt offers. “Then along comes this �copycat.’ Our SAK is pissed. He doesn’t think this guy has the ability to pull �perfect’ off. He’ll make him look bad.”

“He won’t be as careful,” M.C. says. “He’ll leave evidence behind. Or his victims won’t be random. Or he won’t have the self-control to stop. He’s already blown it by killing two girls in three days.”

He’d seen this coming. Absolutely. He knew who the killer was.

Kitt opened her mouth to say just that, then swallowed the thought as another jumped into her head.

Self-control. Dear God.

“What are you thinking?” M.C. asked.

“If the SAK wasn’t in prison, if he was able to consciously stop in order to lessen the chances of being caught, he’s a whole different breed of serial. One with uncommon control over his urges.”

“Which would make him that much more dangerous.”

“Exactly.”

M.C. stood. “Evidence is what it is.”

“We have no way of knowing if and when he’ll stop.”

“So we focus on finding a commonality between the victims.”

“Bingo.” Kitt followed her to her feet, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. “Let’s fill Sal and Sergeant Haas in. Then talk to the girls’ parents.”




18


Friday, March 10, 2006 4:20 p.m.

Julie Entzel’s mother was still in her bathrobe and bed slippers when she answered the door. When she saw them, a look of fear came into her eyes, followed by one of hope.

“Have you found out something?” she asked.

“Nothing definite yet,” M.C. said gently. “We wanted to ask you a few more questions.”

Margie Entzel looked crushed. She nodded and wordlessly opened the door wider. She shuffled deeper into the house, to a small family room. The television was on. The Weather Channel.

She picked up the remote, hit Mute, then looked at them. “I like watchin’ it �cause I don’t have to think.”

Kitt murmured her understanding and leaned forward. “Mrs. Entzel, I’m Detective Lundgren. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman’s throat worked; she struggled to speak. “I seen you on TV the other night. Today, I seen where another girl got killed.”

“Yes.” Kitt glanced at her partner, then back at Margie Entzel. “We are going to catch him. Soon. You can help us.”

The mother clasped her hands on her lap, expression growing determined. “How?”

“We’re trying to find a link between your daughter and the other girl who was killed. Did you know her or the family?”

She shook her head that she didn’t. They ran through the list of possible places their paths intersected: school, church, pediatrician, the places they shopped, restaurants they frequented. M.C. took notes while Kitt listened and prodded the mother’s memory.

“Any out-of-the-ordinary stops or events in the past few months?”

Margie Entzel thought, expression tight with effort. “Girls’ softball tryouts. My uncle Edward’s seventieth birthday … Julie’s birthday party.”

“When was that?”

“Her birthday was January 21. It was a Saturday. She was so … excited to be having her party on her birthday. That doesn’t happen that … often.”

Marianne Vest’s tenth birthday had been in February.

Kitt glanced at M.C. She hadn’t made the connection yet.

“You had a party for her? Where?”

She plucked a tissue from the box and dabbed her eyes. “The Fun Zone. She loved it there.”

This time M.C. looked at Kitt. Kitt sent her the slightest nod, which she returned. M.C. closed her notebook and stood. “We’ll talk to the other girl’s family, cross-reference this list. Hopefully, something will intersect.”

Kitt stood and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Entzel. We’ll be in touch.”

Margie Entzel took her hand. Hers was damp. “I wish I could have helped more,” she said.

“You helped more than you know. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

They waited until they were in the car to speak. Kitt started the car, then looked at M.C. “Julie Entzel’s birthday was in January, Marianne Vest’s in February. Coincidence?”

“I bet not. Or maybe I should say, I hope not.”

Within the hour, their hunch proved correct. Marianne Vest had also had her tenth birthday party at the Fun Zone.




19


Friday, March 10, 2006 5:40 p.m.

The Fun Zone was an indoor play place that catered to children from ages two to fourteen. For the little ones there were rides, a ball pit and maze; for the older ones, laser tag, a rock-climbing wall and a game arcade the size of a small university. As an added incentive, the Fun Zone mascots, Sammy and Suzi Squirrel, roamed the place, handing out hugs and signing autographs.

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?”




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