Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Meaning exactly what?”

“You know how I feel about what you do. Police work? Please. That’s no job for a woman.”

M.C. opened her mouth to argue; Mama waved everyone to the table. As they took their seats, Melody stepped in, voice hushed. “Are you working that child murder?”

She nodded, glancing down the table at Benjamin. He seemed oblivious to everything but his animal crackers. “I’m lead detective.”

“Congrats, li’l sister.” That came from Michael and she smiled at him. He passed the bowl of spaghetti. She served herself, then passed it on.

“Is that madman really back?” Melody asked. “That Sleeping Angel guy?”

“It looks that way. But there were inconsistencies.” Her brother handed her the platter of veal parmigiana, followed by green beans and salad.

“What kind of inconsistencies?” he asked.

She flashed him a smile. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

Max jumped in. “So, this could be a copycat killer?”

The table went quiet. All eyes turned to her. She thought of Kitt Lundgren’s anonymous caller claiming a copycat had killed Julie Entzel. A funny sensation settled over her. “At this point in the investigation, anything’s still possible.”

“I’m glad I had a boy,” Melody murmured. “I’d be scared to death otherwise.”

“Enough!” Mama snapped. “What kind of dinner talk is this? And with the baby listening. Shame on you all.”

“Sorry, Mama,” they murmured in unison, just as they had been doing all their lives.

They turned their attention to their food, which was delicious. Her mother may be a supersize pain-in-her-ass, but she was a fabulous cook. If not for M.C.’s metabolism, she’d weigh four hundred pounds.

“Mary Catherine, you wouldn’t believe who I ran into at the market.” Mama beamed at her. “Joseph Rellini’s mother.”

Just call her clueless. “Who?”

“Joseph Rellini. He graduated from Boylan the year before you. Played in the band.”

She vaguely remembered a dark-haired, stoop-shouldered boy. He had been pleasant enough, but she knew where this was heading and wasn’t about to give her mother any encouragement. Not that she needed any.

“He’s an accountant now.” Mama Riggio leaned forward. “And single. I gave her your number, told her to have him call you.”

“Mama, you didn’t!”

“I most certainly did. Per amor del cielo, look at you! You could do worse.”

Her brothers hooted. Melody made a sound of sympathy. M.C. glared at her mother. “I don’t need a man to complete me, Mama. I’m fine on my own. Doing great.”

“Every day at mass, I pray that you’ll come to your senses, quit that job and bring a nice young man to dinner.”

“Pardon me, Mother, but you are so full of-”

Michael cut her off. “She brought her Glock. Does that count?”

Tony jumped in. “Get used to it, Mama. She’s a lesbian.” M.C. tossed her napkin at her brother. “Up yours, Tony.”

“Mary Mother of God!” Mama lowered her voice. “When did this happen?”

“I’m not gay, Mama. Tony’s just being a jerk.”

“As usual,” Max offered, refilling his wineglass. “For myself, I plan to play the field for a long time.”

“You’re a young man,” Mama said. “But your sister’s not getting any younger.”

Melody, God love her, stepped in. “There’s no rush. Take as long as you need to find the right guy, M.C. Life’s too short to spend it in a so-so relationship.”

“Speaking from experience?” Tony shot back, grinning.

Melody didn’t take the bait. “Yes,” she answered smoothly. “Experience married to the most wonderful man on the planet.”

That brought a round of hoots and ribbing from her brothers. It also shifted Mama’s focus-and gave M.C. an opportunity to escape.

She choked down enough of her meal for appearances and stood. “It’s been real, gang, but I have to go.”

“But we haven’t had dessert yet!” Her mother exclaimed. “Cannolis. From Capelli’s Market.”

Capelli’s cannoli was practically its own food group. It was that good.

But now that Mama had been tipped, there was no way she could stay without another round of “Roasting Mary Catherine.”

She begged off, though she couldn’t escape until she had made her way around the table to kiss everyone goodbye. She was nearly to her SUV when Michael called out to her.

She stopped and waited.

“Are you okay?” he asked when he reached her.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Like all good Riggios, you never pass on dessert.”

“I guess I’d just had my fill.”

He understood she wasn’t talking about food. “She really does love you, you know.”

“It’s my life. Not hers. She needs to accept me for who I am.”

“True.” He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “But-”

He bit back whatever he was about to say, and she frowned. “What?”

“You won’t beat me up, will you?”

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t speak your mind.”

“Okay. It just seems to me, that door swings both ways.”

“Excuse me?”

“The acceptance thing. You need to accept her the way she is.”

“I do. But, she’s my mother and she’s supposed to be-”

“Everything you want her to be?”

“No. But she doesn’t even make an effort!”

“Do you?” he countered.

Mary Catherine, like the rest of the Riggio clan, had a temper. Over the years, she had learned how to hold on to it.

This wasn’t one of those times. Her temper rose; she felt herself flush. She gestured toward the house. “I’m here, aren’t I? Every freaking Wednesday night.”

He didn’t respond and she lashed out at him. “It’s easy for you. For all of you. The perfect sons. All of you have always been everything she wanted you to be. And everything Dad wanted you to be, as well. Males.”

“The world’s smallest violin, Mary Catherine. Just for you.”

“Forget about it.” She yanked open her car door. “Of all people, I would have thought you’d understand.”

She slid inside the Explorer and slammed the door behind her. She started the car and drew away from the curb. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw that he hadn’t moved.

He cocked his head, grinning at her.

Muttering an oath, she slowed to a stop, lowered her window and leaned her head out. “I give up! I’ll see you next week. But if you really loved me, you would have smuggled a cannoli out.”

Wednesday, March 8, 2006

9:10 p.m.

Buster’s Bar was located in a section of town called Five Points, the spot where five major thoroughfares intersected. It was an area that seemed to fall in and out of favor, depending on what commercial endeavors-mostly bars, restaurants and clubs-happened to occupy the space at the time.

Buster’s had weathered the ebb and flow of popularity. The owners served a hearty, if limited, selection of pub food and strong drinks, and offered entertainment several nights a week.

Too worked up to head straight home, M.C. had decided to stop at Buster’s. The slightly seedy club wasn’t an RPD favorite, but it wasn’t unusual for several cops, typically detectives, to wander in on any particular evening. A drink and shop talk with a fellow detective was just what she needed to calm her down.

M.C. entered the building. It smelled of cigarettes, burgers and beer. She saw that she was in luck. Brian and his two biggest RPD buddies-Detectives Scott Snowe and Nick Sorenstein-were at the bar, talking to a third man she didn’t recognize.

M.C. crossed to the bar. Snowe caught sight of her and waved her over.

“Just the man I was hoping to see,” she said.