Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“I would have been pissed if you had. I’m exercising to keep up with the competition, not to lose weight.”

She sipped, making a sound of pleasure as the sweet, barely warm beverage flowed over her tongue.

“Your partner?”

“Mmm. Mary Catherine Riggio.”

“You say the name like she’s a snake you’re afraid is going to bite you.”

Kitt leaned back on her elbows. “I think she already has.”

He pursed his lips. “Want to talk about it?”

“Maybe. That for me, too?”

He handed her the pastry bag. “What’s left of it. I got hungry waiting.”

She peered into the bag at the half-eaten muffin. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, Danny, but I think I’ll pass.”

“No problemo.” He grinned and helped himself to the last of the muffin.

“So, what’s up?” she asked, eyeing him.

“Wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing.”

“I haven’t melted down, if that’s what you’re asking.” She winced at the defensive edge that had crept into her voice.

“I’m not waiting for you to fail, Kitt. I’m not expecting you to.”

“Just want to be here when I do, right?”

“No,” he chided gently at her sarcasm, “just want to be here if you need me. You know me better than that.”

She did. Damn. “Sorry. So I guess the stress is getting to me.”

“Or the partner.”

The partner. Right. Kitt took a swallow of the coffee. “She’s young. And smart.”

“Attractive?”

“Yeah, that, too.”

“And this bothers you why?”

“I would think the reasons are quite obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Be serious.”

“You’re smart, Kitt. And, if I may say so, damn attractive.”

“You’re my friend, you have to say that. And-” She held up a hand, stopping him. “I’m not young.”

“But you are wise.”

He delivered that with a grin. She groaned. Great. The wise, grandmotherly one. “I’m a screwup.”

“Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.”

Kitt was quiet a moment, acknowledging that he was right. “I suppose the thing is, she makes it look effortless.”

“The work?”

“No. Believing in herself.”

He didn’t comment, simply gave her a quick hug. “I need to go.”

She followed him to his feet. “So soon?”

“I promised a friend I’d help him move.”

She watched him walk away, then turned and crossed to her door. And found it unlocked.

She frowned. Surely she hadn’t left it that way.

Had she?

She searched her memory, retracing her steps. She couldn’t clearly remember locking it-but it was one of those things she did automatically. She was a cop, after all.

She examined the door and casing. There weren’t any signs of the lock being jimmied or forced. Could she have been so distracted she’d forgotten?

She could have, Kitt realized, dismayed. She had better pull herself together.

She let herself in, pointedly locking the door behind her. A shower, then a good breakfast, she decided. The latte would hold her until then.

She peeled off her damp T-shirt as she entered the bedroom. She tossed it at the hamper, then froze, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end.

Her nightstand drawer stood partly open. The drawer she kept her gun in.

The blood began to pound in her head. An officer always carried a weapon. When she ran, she wore a fanny pack or an ankle holster. Today it was a fanny pack.

Still, she knew she had not left that drawer open.

Kitt crossed to the nightstand and slid the drawer the rest of the way open. Her journal. A pen. Several favorite photos of Sadie. The empty space where her Glock usually rested.

Someone had been in her house. Who? She pictured Danny, waiting on the front porch. Surely, not-

Peanut.

He knew where she lived. He was, obviously, adept at breaking and entering. He had decided to take his toying with her to a new level.

He could still be there.

She unzipped the fanny pack, removed the Glock and began a systematic search. In the end, she found nothing out of place save for the original drawer and her unlocked front door.

Was she imagining things? Had she left both the door unlocked and the nightstand drawer open?

Was she losing it? Again?

The hell of it was, she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t trust herself, her instincts. Which left her more uneasy than knowing a dozen monsters like the SAK had been in her home.

Monday, March 13, 2006

8:00 a.m.

Kitt sipped the just-brewed coffee. The rest of the day before had slipped by without incident. She had spent a good part of it wrangling with herself over whether the SAK had been in her house or not and whether she should share her suspicions with M.C. or Sal.

She had decided against sharing. The last thing she needed was anything that made her look overwrought or would shake their confidence in her state of mind.

She was shaken enough, thank you very much. M.C. arrived then, looking slightly bleary-eyed.

“How was your day off?” Kitt asked.

“Frankly, it sucked. I spent it doing laundry, cleaning and paying bills.”

“The fun never stops for us cops. The kid’s lawyer left a message.”

“Yeah? What’d he have to say?”

“That Todd’s innocent, of course.”

“I like the kid for this. He’s the best we’ve got.”

“Actually, I think the Fun Zone’s the best lead we’ve got. It links the victims, something we were never able to do with the original SAK murders. By the way, Sal authorized an undercover officer working the place. He thought you’d be the perfect choice.”

That brought M.C. fully awake. “The perfect choice? I scare the crap out of most kids. Plus, if I have to spend another ten minutes in that place, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“That’s what I told him. Reminded him, too, that both of us have been on TV in regards to the case.”

“And?”

“He’s putting Schmidt on it.”

“Lucky Schmidt. So he gets the previous security tapes, too?” When Kitt nodded, she added, “I suppose I owe you for that one.”

“What’re partners for?”

Before M.C. could comment, Kitt’s desk phone rang. “Detective Lundgren.”

“Are you running in circles, dear one?”

Him. Kitt signaled M.C. The other woman was immediately on the phone to CRU, initiating the trace.

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is. Your beloved Peanut.”

Kitt gritted her teeth at his sly tone. “I wondered when you’d call. Thought maybe you were welching on our deal.”

“I don’t welch on my deals.”

“Good. We gave you what you wanted, now it’s your turn. Give us the Copycat.”

M.C., still on with CRU, bent and jotted cell phone on the folder on the desk in front of her.

Dammit. She had to keep him on five minutes to get the trace.

“How does it feel having another girl’s death on your hands?” she asked.

“Not on mine. Yours, Kitten.” He laughed. “Besides, I don’t care if my hands have blood on them. A child’s blood. But you care.”

“My conscience is clear.”

“Is it? What of your daughter? Is her blood on your hands?”

It took everything she had to stay focused. He wanted her to lose it. He got off on being in control. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

“This isn’t about me,” she said. “You promised information, I expect you to keep that promise.”

He laughed again, the sound somehow reptilian. “How’s the investigation going?”

“We’re following some very strong leads.”

“Who? That kid from the Fun Zone?”

That blindsided her. She fought to keep from revealing it. “How do you know about Todd?”