Copycat. Erica Spindler
Читать онлайн книгу.
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