Copycat. Erica Spindler
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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