Erica Spindler: Copy Cat

“Detective Riggio’s young and overconfident. She needs me.”

“You had your shot, Kitt. He slipped through your grasp.”

“This time he won’t.”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You know how important a fresh pair of eyes can be to a case.”

“Yes, but-”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “Detective Riggio’s good. Damn good.”

There was a time, she knew, he had said the same about her. She doubted that would be the case again.

To a certain degree, she had become a liability.

“She’s headstrong,” Kitt countered. “Too ambitious.”

He smiled. “White’s a good ballast for that.”

“How can I prove to you that I can handle it?”

“I’m sorry, Kitt. You’re too close. Still too fragile.”

“With all due respect, Sal, don’t you think I should be the one to make that determination?”

“No,” he said simply. He leaned forward. “Have you considered that working this case might overwhelm you and send you running back to the bottle?”

“It won’t.” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m sober. I have been for nearly a year. I intend to stay that way.”

He lowered his voice. “I can’t protect you again, Kitt. You know what I’m talking about.”

She’d let the SAK slip through her fingers.

Sal had covered for her. Because he had felt partly responsible.

And because of Sadie.

“I’ll ask Riggio and White to keep you in the loop. Bounce things off you. It’s the best I can do.”

She stood, shocked to realize her hands were shaking. More shocked to realize that she longed for a drink to still them.

The urge she could never give into again.

“Thank you,” she said, then crossed to the door.

He stopped her when she reached it. She turned back.

“How’s Joe?” he asked.

Her ex-husband. High school sweetheart. Former best friend. “We don’t talk much.”

“You know how I feel about that.”

She did. Hell, she felt the same way.

“If you see him, tell him I said hello.”

She told him she would and walked away, with Joe suddenly very much on her mind.

Tuesday, March 7, 2006

5:30 p.m.

“Hello, Joe.”

Her ex-husband looked up from the house plans on the desk in front of him. Although his blond hair had silvered over the years, his eyes were as blue as the day she had married him. Tonight, the expression in them was wary.

She supposed she didn’t blame him. These days, she never just “popped in.”

“Hello, Kitt,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

“Flo already left,” she said, referring to the woman who served as both his secretary and office manager. “So I came on in. How’s business?”

“Picking up. Thank God spring’s here.”

Joe owned his own home-construction business, Lundgren Homes. Northern Illinois winters were tough on builders. Home starts simply didn’t happen. The goal was to have several jobs closed in and ready for interior work by the time severe weather hit. Some winters, it had been pretty lean going.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I guess I am.” He passed a hand across his face. “Judging by the bulge, you’re back on the job.”

Her shoulder holster. Joe had never really gotten used to her wearing it. “Sal sends a hello.”

He held her gaze. “And the drinking, how’s-”

“Still sober. Eleven months and counting. I plan to stay that way.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Kitt.”

He meant it, she knew. He had seen the alcohol almost destroy her. And though they’d divorced, he still cared for her. As she did him.

She cleared her throat. “Something’s happened. The Sleeping Angel Killer…it looks like he’s back.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She saw several different emotions chase across his face. “A little girl named Julie Entzel,” she continued. “They found her this morning.”

“I’m sorry.” He shifted his gaze to the plans laid out in front of him. “Sal has you working the case?”

“No, he thinks I’m too close. Too…vulnerable.”

He looked back up at her. “But you don’t agree?”

His tone had taken on an edge. She stiffened slightly, defensive. “I see you do.”

He made a sound, part frustration, part anger. “You chose that case over our marriage. Over me. I’d call that ‘too close.’”

“Let’s not start this, Joe.”

He stood. She saw that his hands were clenched. “Even after the killings stopped, you couldn’t let it go. Even after Sal closed the case.”

That was true. It had consumed her. Fueled her drinking, her defiance of direct orders. But she had not chosen it over him. She told him so.

He laughed, the sound bitter. “That case became the focus of your life. I should have been your focus. Our marriage. This family.”

“What family?” She regretted the words the moment they passed her lips. She saw how much they hurt him.

She started to say so; he cut her off. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you’d want to know. About the little girl.”

“Why?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Julie Entzel wasn’t our daughter, Kitt. None of those girls were. I’d never met even one of them. And that’s the part you never got.”

“Oh, I got that, Joe. But I feel a sense of responsibility that you, obviously, don’t. I feel a need to help. To do…something.”

“Don’t you think my heart breaks for that little girl, her folks? I know what it’s like to lose a child. That some monster could do such a thing sickens me.” He cleared his throat. “But she wasn’t Sadie. She wasn’t ours. You’ve got to move on with your life.”

“The way you have?” she shot back.

“Actually, yes.” He paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. “I’m getting remarried, Kitt.”

For several seconds, she simply gazed at him, certain she had misheard. She must have. Her Joe, getting remarried?

“You don’t know her,” he went on, before she could ask. “Her name’s Valerie.”

Kitt’s mouth had gone dry. She felt light-headed. What? Had she expected him to pine for her forever?

Yes.

She struggled to keep her turmoil from showing. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone so seriously.”

“No reason you should have.”

No reason? She had a lifetime worth of reasons. “How long have you been dating?”

“Four months.”

“Four months? Not very long. Are you certain-”

“Yes.”

“When’s the big day?” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

“We haven’t set one yet. Fairly soon. It’ll be a small service. Just a few family members and close friends.”

“I see.”

He looked frustrated. “Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” She stood, blinded by tears she would never allow him to see. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

Wednesday, March 8, 2006

12:10 p.m.

Kitt sat at her desk, brown-bag lunch untouched, thumbing through the original Sleeping Angel case files. The information was available electronically, but she preferred to review hard copies.

She slipped out the scene photos of the first victim. Mary Polaski. It hurt to look at her. She had let this little victim down. She had let her family down.

Kitt forced such thoughts from her mind and studied the photos, comparing them to those of Julie Entzel. Why had he positioned the hands this way? Why take the chance of remaining at the scene for hours? What had been so important to him?

Her phone rang; Kitt reached for it without taking her gaze from the photos. “Detective Lundgren, Violent Crimes Bureau.”