Copycat. Erica Spindler
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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