Copycat (5 page)

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.”

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

B
uster'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 matchstick 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.

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

K
itt 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.