Copycat. Erica Spindler
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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