Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

That scenario would make him much more difficult to nail. M.C. eased into her driveway, shifted into Park, but made no move to kill the engine or get out of the car. She’d left Kitt at the computer only because she had assured M.C. she would be on the road five minutes behind her. M.C. let out a long breath, thinking of the day. Of Kitt. The pain in her eyes and voice as she had spoken of her daughter-and of her regrets.

And of her parting words tonight, as M.C. had headed home.

“Hey, Riggio.” She had stopped, looked back at her. “For the record, being a mom was the best thing I ever did.”

A lump formed in M.C.’s throat. The image of Marianne Vest filled her head, followed in quick succession by one of Julie Entzel’s mother in her robe and slippers at four in the afternoon.

They made all her little dramas seem pretty insignificant. M.C. swallowed hard, gazing at her dark house. She hadn’t left a porch light on. She didn’t own a dog, cat or any other creature.

Growing up in a house with five boisterous brothers and a constant menagerie of pets, friends and relatives underfoot, she had looked forward to someday living alone. To having her personal space, to using the bathroom whenever she needed to, no waiting. To spending as long as she wanted in the shower, without fear of running out of hot water.

Quiet. Calm. Just the way she liked it.

So why didn’t she want to go inside?

Because she couldn’t face the quiet tonight. Not yet, anyway. She needed people. A few laughs. A drink or two. Or four.

But where to go? Buster’s Bar, she decided, and acted on the impulse. She checked her rearview mirror, shifted her SUV into Reverse and backed down the drive.

She made it across town to Five Points in fifteen minutes. Unlike the other night, the place was packed. And instead of funny man Lance Castrogiovanni on the stage, a country-western singer was attempting a version of Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine.”

M.C. wound her way through the crowd to the bar. There she saw Brian Spillare and several of his RPD buddies. Judging by the decibel of their laughter, they had been there a while.

Brian caught sight of her and waved her over. The group made room, and Brian ordered her a glass of wine. “I was just thinking about you,” he said.

She let that pass, though it set her teeth on edge. “Really, Lieutenant?”

“So formal?” He swayed slightly on his feet. “It’s Friday night, loosen up.”

“Looks to me like you’re loose enough for both of us.” The bartender set her wineglass in front of her. After paying for it, she turned back to him. “Is your wife with you? I’d love to tell her hello.”

“Nope. She’s having a girls’ night out. I’m a free man.”

Oh, brother. She couldn’t believe she had fallen for his lines, naive rookie or not. “Lucky her. Excuse me, Lieutenant, I have-”

He caught her arm. “I need to talk to you, M.C. Privately.”

“Can’t it wait? I’m beat. And as you said, it’s Friday night.”

“It’s about the SAK case.”

She frowned. “What about it?”

“Not here.” He motioned toward the back of the bar, the hall that led to the restrooms.

Although she didn’t like it, she nodded and followed him.

He stopped at the end of the corridor and faced her. “You still totally do it for me. I wanted you to know that.”

She stared at him, not quite believing what she knew she had heard. “Are you hitting on me?”

“I’m just being honest.” He caught her hand. “Putting myself out there. For you.”

She made a sound of disgust. Apparently, they had very different definitions of honest. Her definition didn’t include tricks or infidelity.

She jerked her hand away. “This is sexual harassment, Lieutenant. I don’t think you want to go there.”

“Whatever happened to us?” he asked, leaning toward her, forcing her backward. “We were good together, weren’t we?”

She realized then just how inebriated he was. Too inebriated to listen to reason. “You were married. You still are.”

“But it was good, wasn’t it?”

“Back off, Brian. You’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk.” His voice took on a whiny tone. “Come on, it could be good again.”

“There you are, M.C.,” Lance Castrogiovanni said, coming up behind Brian. “Sorry I’m late.”

She gratefully grabbed the out. “My date,” she said, ducking past the startled lieutenant. “Brian, you know Lance. Excuse us.”

The comedian put his arm around her and steered her out of the hallway. She leaned toward him. “Thanks, that was getting uncomfortable.”

“Thought you looked like you could use saving.” He pointed toward a table in the corner. “For a moment, I thought he was going to pulverize me.”

“Brian’s big but harmless.”

“Didn’t look so harmless to me.” They reached the table. He held out a chair and she sat. “Aren’t you two colleagues?”

“We are. He’s also a superior officer-and a mistake from my days as a rookie.”

“Ouch.”

“No joke. Of course, he wasn’t a lieutenant back then. But I wasn’t a detective, either.”

“Young people make mistakes. I made my share, that’s for sure.”

She held her glass up. “To mistakes and lucky breaks.”

“Lucky breaks?” he asked.

“That you were here. Because of my past relationship with Brian and his position on the force, I have to be very careful.”

“So kneeing him in the balls would have been a bad thing?”

She laughed. “A very bad thing, yes.”

He leaned toward her, expression amused. “You really weren’t that lucky, Detective Riggio.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “Typically, when I’m not working, I avoid these places like the plague. Too much smoke and desperation.”

“Which would make me unusually lucky to find you here.”

“Except…I was here looking for you.”

“Funny.”

He met her gaze, his serious now. “That’s not part of my act. It’s true. In fact, this is my third time in. If you were a no-show tonight, I was moving on to plan B.”

“Which was?”

“Call you at work. I wasn’t thrilled by plan B.”

“You have something to hide, Lance Castrogiovanni? A skeleton or two in your closet?”

“Don’t we all?” He laughed. “Actually, as long as it’s confession time, cops give me the willies. Except for you, of course.”

“I’m honored, I guess.”

“I know an open-all-night diner that serves the best homemade cream pies in the world.”

“That is so not Italian,” she teased.

“Exactly.” He held out a hand. “My treat.”

“In that case, you’ve got a deal.”

They agreed to each take their own car. The diner, appropriately named the Main Street Diner, was located at the corner of North Main and Auburn Streets, an area that had fallen on lean times.

As they entered the brightly lit establishment, the woman behind the counter-middle-aged with a net over her gray bob-greeted Lance by name. When she did, a man peered out from the kitchen.

“Lance, buddy, where’ve you been?”

“Working. A good thing, by the way. Keeps me in pie.”

“Who’s that with you?”

“A friend. Mary Catherine Riggio, Bob Meuller. His wife Betty. Mary Catherine’s a cop, so be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” he said.

Betty snorted. “More like, always crusty. That’s why I keep him in back.”

Just then a group of rowdy young people stumbled into the restaurant. M.C. could tell they were all about three sheets to the wind-except for the designated driver, who looked irritated. She kept jiggling her car keys and rolling her eyes.

Lance waited until the kids had picked a table, then chose the one farthest from them.