Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Tell her I have a date.”

“Is that the truth? You know I won’t lie for you.”

He never would, even when they were kids. The rat. “Yes.”

“With a guy?”

He smirked at her and she slugged him. “Yes, with a guy.”

“Bring him along. I’m sure Mama and the rest of the family would love to meet him.”

“I’m sure they would. But I actually may want to see him again.”

“You want to tell me about him?”

“Not yet.”

“How about a name?”

“Not yet.” She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Just tell me, is it an Italian name? So I can pass something along to Mama.”

M.C. laughed and took another sip of the beer. “Yes, for heaven’s sake. The name’s about as Italian as they come.”

The rest of the date wasn’t. But that was another story.

He rolled the bottle between his palms, expression in his dark eyes thoughtful. “You like this guy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He pursed his lips. “You don’t date much, Mary Catherine. Just be careful.”

She pictured Lance and laughed. “I’m a cop, Michael. I’m trained in self-defense, am a second-degree black belt and carry a loaded Glock. You don’t need to worry about me out on a date.”

He didn’t smile. “You and I both know, there are ways of being hurt that all the bullets and self-defense classes in the world can’t protect you from.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. “That’s so sweet, Michael.” She hugged him. “I love you, too.”

Michael had been right-she didn’t date much. Never had. She supposed she had been so busy rebelling against her gender that she hadn’t allowed herself much interest in the opposite sex. Certainly not the overwhelming interest many women had.

Or maybe she had rebelled so much that the opposite sex hadn’t been interested in her.

Whichever, her experience in that arena was relatively limited. “Relatively,” because she wasn’t totally inexperienced. She had dated, had a few steady boyfriends and sex.

Even so, as she crossed the bookstore parking lot, she wondered what the hell she had been thinking, agreeing to go out with Lance. She should be at the PSB with Kitt, buried in the case. Not traipsing off to a date with a guy who she knew almost nothing about except the fact that he could make her laugh.

They had arranged to meet in the bookstore’s café. It’d been a good, neutral choice and he had earned points for making it. The last thing she was interested in was a bum rush. She entered the bookstore, which seemed busy for a Wednesday night, and headed for the café.

He had already arrived, she saw. He sat at a table with a clear view of the entrance.

He stood when he saw her. She smiled, waved and crossed to him.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem.”

He pulled a chair out for her, a gentlemanly gesture that surprised her. “I had to stop at my brother’s to get him to pass along my regrets to Mama.”

“Mama?”

“Wednesday nights are pasta night at my mother’s house.”

“You gave up dinner with your family? I’m sorry, you should have told me you had plans.”

She shook her head. “Believe me, it wasn’t a hardship. Let’s just say, Wednesday nights can be a…trial.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

He delivered the line deadpan, but she laughed. Because, of course, she had heard his act and knew he understood exactly what she was talking about.

“Michael, my brother, suggested I bring you.”

“We could still go.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“We’re talking enough material for a new act, aren’t we?”

“Enough for two new acts. Plus, chances are, I’d never see you again. I’ve never had a boyfriend who survived a meal with my family.”

He fell into his comedy schtick, pretending to pick up a mike, face an audience. “I met my girlfriend’s family for the first time last night. My God, this family puts the ‘fun’in dysfunctional. Mama’s an Italian tank with breasts. And one eyebrow. She doesn’t use tweezers to pluck that monster, she pulls out hedge trimmers. No, wait. That’s for her mustache.”

M.C. laughed. “You have met my mother.”

He grinned. “I want to hear more, but after I get us some coffee.”

For the next hour, their conversation volleyed between her telling him about her family and him keeping her in stitches with a running commentary on everyone and everything, sometimes dry and caustic, others screwball.

It wasn’t until they announced the store was closing that M.C. realized how much time had passed.

They stood, tossed their cups in the trash and started for the entrance.

Outside, the night was mild, the sky starless. He walked her to her vehicle. There, she faced him.

“This was a lot of fun. I don’t know when I’ve laughed so much.”

“I don’t know when I’ve made anyone laugh so much.” He lowered his voice. “I wish it didn’t have to end,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“If I kissed you, would you pull a gun on me?”

“I’ll pull the gun if you don’t kiss me.”

So he did, softly, slowly. When he drew away, her knees were weak.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

God yes. “Starving.”

“We could go to my favorite diner? Or…I have most of a Mama Riggio’s supreme pizza left in my fridge.”

“My brothers’ restaurant.”

“Best pizza outside the Chicago Loop.”

She hesitated. She knew what she should do. But God help her, that’s not what she wanted to do.

“I’m a sucker for pizza,” she said. “Especially when it’s the family recipe.”

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

9:30 p.m.

Kitt sat alone at the computer terminal. M.C. had left several hours ago for a date. With “the funny guy,” as she had called him. The detective shift had ended at 6:30 p.m. and the Violent Crimes Bureau had emptied almost on the hour. Slow crime day, apparently.

She and M.C. had spent a good part of the day searching the cold-case files. They had started with 2001, the year of the original SAK murders, and searched through to present day.

Nothing had jumped out at them. Gang killings. Prostitutes found dead. The occasional Jane or John Doe. Nothing that appeared serial in nature. Nothing that seemed to fit the SAK’s profile.

So, Kitt had decided to search backward in time, thinking the “others” the SAK spoke of had been pre-Sleeping Angels.

Kitt glanced at the clock. Her head, neck and shoulders ached. Her eyes burned.

She longed to pack up and go home.

But to what? Her empty house? The television? She couldn’t even head out to one of the bars frequented by other cops. She didn’t trust herself around alcohol. Not now. Not after the night before.

Kitt refocused on the terminal. Another thirty minutes and she’d call it a night. By the time she got home, she would be exhausted. She could make herself a peanut-butter sandwich and a cup of chamomile tea, then go to bed.

And sleep. If she was lucky. If not, she could turn to the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed-or stare at the ceiling for hours.

April 3, 1999. Marguerite Lindz. Eighty-two. Bludgeoned to death.

Kitt stared at the entry, frowning. There had been another elderly woman beaten to death. She had read the entry just minutes ago.

She surfed back until she found it. February 6, 1999. Rose McGuire. Seventy-nine. Bludgeoned to death.

Kitt took a deep breath, working to control her rush of excitement. Old women beaten to death couldn’t be more different from the Sleeping Angel murders; the crimes being related was improbable at best.