Erica Spindler: Copy Cat

“Any help there?” Sal asked.

“Pathologist believes it’s a thumbprint.”

White stepped in. “This guy’s like a cat. Neighborhood canvas turned up zip.”

Riggio took over. “Realtor promised to get back to me this morning with a list of everyone who’s been through the house.”

“Fingerprints?”

“ID Bureau’s working on it. So far, everything’s consistent with the three original killings.”

“Except for the hands,” Kitt said. “Big inconsistency there.”

The room went silent.

Detective Riggio broke the silence first. “We have no proof this caller’s not just another crank. The Register Star ran the story front and center this morning. This guy may have been the first to call in with a wild claim, but I hardly think he’ll be the last.”

“Point noted, Detective Riggio. But I’m not willing to put my money on that. Are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Lundgren?”

“Chief?”

“Let us know if he contacts you again. Put in the trace orders now.”

She nodded and unclipped her cell phone. “And if he does call, what do I tell him?”

“Say whatever the hell you have to to keep him on the line.”

Meeting concluded, they exited the office. Out of their superior’s earshot, Riggio leaned toward her. “Looks like you got what you wanted. You’re in the loop.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Just don’t forget who’s lead on this one, Lundgren. It’s my case.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’d let me forget, Detective Riggio.”

The woman looked as if she had more to say; Kitt didn’t give her the chance. “If you’ll excuse me, I have traces to order.”

Wednesday, March 8, 2006

6:40 p.m.

M.C. dreaded Wednesday nights. Specifically, six-thirty to eight-thirty. “The Pasta Hours,” she called them. That was when she-and all five of her siblings-assembled for a command performance at their mother’s table. There, they would be skewered, then grilled on every aspect of their lives.

M.C. could feel the hot coals already-she was her mother’s favorite entrée.

There wasn’t a single thing about M.C. that her mother approved of. Nothing, nada. The big zippo. It used to bother her, but no longer. She’d realized that if she had wanted to become the woman her mother wanted her to be, she could have.

So, M.C. sucked it up week after week, only occasionally praying for a homicide that would keep her away.

She pulled up in front of her childhood home, a two-story farmhouse, minus the farm. She parked, frowning as she thought of Kitt Lundgren and her anonymous caller.

Could the woman have fabricated the story in an attempt to actively participate in the investigation? Would she go that far?

Yes-if what she’d heard about Lundgren’s obsession with the case was true.

The suspicion left M.C. feeling uneasy and she glanced toward the front porch. Michael and Neil stood there, deep in conversation. She smiled to herself. She’d affectionately nicknamed her five siblings: the Overachiever, the Suck-up and the Three Ass-kissers.

Michael, the Overachiever, was the oldest. A chiropractor. In her mother’s world, the only thing better than one of her children being called “Dr. Riggio” was their being called “Father Riggio.” But Michael-and the rest of the Riggio boy-brood-enjoyed women and sex way too much for that particular calling, so Mama Riggio had contented herself with “her son, the doctor.”

Neil, the Suck-up, taught math at Boylan Central Catholic High School, their alma mater, and coached the wrestling team. Very normal. He had also provided their mother with a daughter-in-law and her first and, to date, only grandchild.

The three youngest of the boys, Tony, Max and Frank, had pooled their resources and Mama’s family recipes and opened Mama Riggio’s Italian Restaurant. The trio had just opened their second location and had plans for a third, in the suburbs closer to Chicago. The name of their restaurant had earned them the nickname the Three Ass-kissers.

M.C. loved her brothers. Adored them, actually. Even the one whose brainchild it had been to decorate Mama Riggio’s with old family photographs, including one of her with braces, zits and really bad hair.

A photo they jumped at every opportunity to point out.

“And that’s our only sister, Mary Catherine. She’s unmarried, if you’re interested.”

Big yuk.

She climbed out of her SUV. “Hello, boys.”

“Yo, M.C.,” Neil called. “Looking wicked.”

“Thanks,” she called back, slamming the vehicle door. “Hoping to scare Mama.”

And she just might. She was dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail.

“You packing heat?” Michael asked, tone teasing.

“Always. So, watch your step.”

Of all her brothers, she was closest to Michael. Maybe because he had been kind to the little girl who had always been tagging after him, or because their minds worked in the same way.

She crossed to him. They hugged, then kissed each other’s cheeks.

She turned to Neil and did the same.

When she pulled away, he grinned at her. “I suggest you check that weapon at the door, Mama’s in rare form tonight. You might be tempted to kill her.”

“Justifiable homicide,” she said. “There’s not a judge in the city who’d convict.”

Just then Benjamin, Neil’s three-year-old, barreled out the door, his mother, Melody, in close pursuit. Neil’s engagement to Melody-a willowy, Protestant, blue-eyed blonde-had been met with family fireworks. Marrying outside both faith and ethnicity? Mama Riggio had actually conjured chest pains over it.

The drama had taken the heat off M.C. for a good six months. Then Melody had ruined everything by becoming Catholic, then having Benjamin.

M.C. was surrounded by Suck-ups.

Benjamin caught sight of M.C. and squealed in delight. She squatted and held out her arms. He ran to her for a big hug and the treat he knew she would have in her pocket. Today it was a package of animal crackers.

“You spoil him,” her sister-in-law said. M.C. stood and smiled. “What’re you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

Neil scooped up his son and helped him open the crackers. “How’s the weather in there?” he asked his wife.

“Cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms. You know Mama.”

They did, indeed, know Mama. They exchanged glances as if wondering whose neck would be on the chopping block tonight.

Michael looked at his watch. “The three pasta-pushers are late.”

“Haven’t they heard carbs are out?” M.C. said. “Again.”

“Actually, I think they’re back in,” Neil murmured. “Again.”

Just then, the three arrived, following one another in separate vehicles. M.C. saw that they were all on their cell phones. They parked and spilled out of their cars, still on their calls. Arguing. With one another, for heaven’s sake.

They bounded up the steps, snapping their phones shut. She was immediately surrounded by the handsome, rowdy bunch. The noise level rose. Hugs, kisses and good-natured ribbing ensued.

God, she loved these oafs.

Melody broke up the reunion. “May I suggest we head inside? Before Mama-”

“Gets really ticked off,” Neil offered. “Good suggestion.”

They all headed in. Shouts of “Mama!” filled the house. The woman appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

“You’re late, all but Michael and Neil.” She glared at M.C. “My only daughter and no help at all.”

Apparently, it would be her neck. Big surprise.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said, kissing her mother’s nearly unlined cheeks. “I was working.”

Her mother made a sound, her own unique cross between a snort and “Holy God.” “Oh, yes, that job.”