Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Or else?”

“Pretty much.”

He searched her gaze. “And he didn’t take that well?”

“No.” She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “He threatened to start a rumor that I slept my way into the VCB.”

“With him.”

“Yes.”

“So he can smear you and boast at the same time. What a jerk.”

“He’s a superior officer. Decorated. Well-thought-of. People will be more likely to believe him than me.”

“Maybe I should have a man-to-man with him?”

She had a big picture of that. Lance would end up in jail-with an emergency room stop on the way. “Thanks, hero. But I think I’ve got it covered.”

“I want to be your hero, Mary Catherine Riggio. Just say the word.”

M.C. liked the sound of that and leaned across and kissed him, then drew regretfully away. “I can’t stay,” she murmured. “I wish I could.”

“Duty calls?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So, that’s the way it is-eat and run.”

He was teasing; she teased back. “More than just eating, or have you already forgotten?”

“Never. Just an insatiable appetite, that’s all.”

She smiled and kissed him again. “I’ve got to go.”

As she climbed out of the bed, he caught her hand. “When will I see you again? Tonight?”

“I don’t know how late I’ll be. Call me?”

“You call me. I’ll be here.”

M.C. agreed she would try, then she hurried to dress.

Monday, March 20, 2006

6:30 p.m.

The RPD evidence room was located in the building’s basement. Kitt had spent the day there, sifting through the items collected from the storage unit Peanut had directed them to.

His comment, “You have to have faith,” suggested she had given up on it too quickly. Of course, it could be his way of sending her on another wild-goose chase.

She sat back, frowning. She had hardly made a dent in the locker’s contents, yet a theme had already begun to emerge. The items were decidedly feminine in character-they had either belonged to a woman or a woman had selected them to create this tableau.

Interesting. All along, they had assumed the SAK to be a man. Most serial killers were men, true. But women who killed typically chose “softer” means of death, like poison or suffocation. They eschewed guns, knives, clubs and anything else that caused a mess.

The Sleeping Angel deaths were nothing if not “clean.” In fact, the SAK took great pains to “prettify” his victims.

Or was that her victims?

Kitt rubbed her forehead. Big problem: The three bludgeoning deaths Peanut had claimed responsibility for.

The SAK wasn’t a woman.

The Copycat was.

The truth hit her like a ton of bricks. She stood up quickly. Was this the clue? What Peanut had meant for her to find? He expected good detective work out of her. He refused to make it easy.

This made sense. Didn’t it?

She retrieved her bottle of water and sat on a carton filled with books. She took a swallow of the water, mind racing.

A man had rented the storage locker. An assumed man, she corrected. With a stolen ID. A man they didn’t have a photo of; just the vague recollection of the storage-facility salesperson.

Could she be right? Was the Copycat a woman?

“I heard you were down here, Lundgren. Working hard, I see.”

She turned and smiled at Scott Snowe, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “Detective Snowe? What brings you out of the ID cave?”

He sauntered in, grinning. “I have a present for you. Analysis of fibers retrieved from the Entzel and Vest scenes.”

He held out the report, looking very pleased with himself. She took it.

“Tyvek,” he said. “Consistent with a Hazmat suit.”

Kitt scanned the analysis. Crime-scene techs wore “clean” suits mostly for protection. The Tyvek was disposable, durable and fluid repellant. Some techs and law-enforcement professionals wore them to protect the scene from contamination, as well. Most were coverall style, some with booties and hood. In addition to the hood, a mask with a breathing apparatus was also worn anytime the threat of airborne contaminants existed.

“Gray,” Kitt said. “Not as common as the white. Which will help to narrow down the source.”

The RPD used white, the standard. She had seen the gray, however. One of the city’s emergency management teams used them.

“True, though I’ve seen white with gray booties.”

She nodded, then murmured, “It makes sense. He wears the clean suit. It reduces the possibility of his leaving trace behind.”

“Exactly. Thought you’d want to know, ASAP.”

“Thanks.” She looked back up at him. “Has M.C. seen this?”

“Not yet. You want to do the honors?”

“Maybe not.” She held the report out. “I’m off the case.”

“I heard. And in my not-so-humble opinion, it’s all bullshit.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “You do it.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “You done for the day?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s Miller time.”

As he turned to leave, she called after him. “Thanks, Scott. I appreciate this.”

He waved off her thanks and disappeared through the evidence room door. For long moments she gazed at the now-empty doorway, thoughts on the evidence report. Tyvek. An unexpected turn. And one that certainly lent credence to her “SAK as cop” theory.

This was one smart SOB.

She let out a weary breath, the elation she had felt before Snowe’s visit gone. She was tired, hungry and intellectually spent. She flat didn’t have the energy for the puzzle right now.

She thought of Snowe, leaving for the night. Meeting his buddies for a drink. Didn’t a beer sound like heaven about now? Along with a big, greasy burger. Or even a couple of slices of an artery-clogging, all-meat pizza.

The closest she was going to get was a bag of snack crackers and a Diet Coke.

Kitt unclipped her cell phone from her belt. She saw she had a message waiting and frowned. She hadn’t heard it ring. She flipped the device open and saw why-no signal.

She stood and exited the evidence room. Once again she had a signal and she dialed M.C.’s cell, making a mental note to check her messages later. The other woman picked up almost immediately.

Kitt hadn’t spoken to M.C. since that morning, and at the sound of her voice, she recalled the things Brian had said.

“She told me about Joe. She was almost gloating.”

“She’s ambitious…and she’ll do anything, to anyone, to get what she wants.”

Like go behind a partner’s back. Get them removed from a case. “M.C.,” she said stiffly. “It’s Kitt. How’s it going?”

“As well as can be expected,” M.C. responded, tone guarded. “Sifting through some pretty boring stuff.”

Joe’s stuff. “White abandoned you?”

“Sent him home. His wife called, he heard the baby crying and the other two kids fighting in the background. She sounded three-quarters of the way toward a breakdown.”

Kitt couldn’t help wondering if she had sent him home because she was all heart, or because she wanted all the glory?

She hated thinking that way. She wanted to trust M.C. Until this morning, she had begun to-and begun to think that growing trust had been a two-way street.

“You in the building?” she asked.

“On two. You?”

“I’m in the basement. I’m coming up. I’ve got some interesting information to share.”

When she made the VCB, she discovered that M.C. had ordered a pizza. Extra-large. Extra-cheese. Extra-everything. Seeing it was after hours, she had also scored a six-pack of beer.

“That’s a mighty big pizza, Detective. PMS week?”

A smile touched her mouth. “My brothers’ idea of a joke. I order a small, they deliver this. Join me?”