Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

“He’s replacing Sadie,” she murmured, tipping her face up toward his. “And I can’t bear the thought…I can’t bear the thought of them all living together, being a family.”

  “But drinking isn’t going to make it better. It only masks the pain. And when you come off the binge, you feel worse.”

  “I know, Danny, and I promise you, I’m not falling back into the trap.”

  He searched her expression. “You’re particularly vulnerable right now. You need us, more than ever.”

  “I’m fine. I-”

  “Fine? You’re not! Jesus, Kitt, you’re an alcoholic. You can’t just turn it on and off. It’ll grab a hold of you again and-”

  “It won’t. I have it under control.” She saw that he meant to argue with her and went on. “I can’t think about anything but the case right now. It consumes my every waking thought. I have to catch him, Danny.”

  He took a step back from her. “Listen to yourself. Don’t you see what you’re doing? Don’t you recognize what’s happening to you?”

  “Yeah, I recognize it. I’m alive again. I have purpose. Resolve. And you know what? I like it.”

  “That’s addictive behavior. You’re substituting one compulsion for another.”

  “You don’t understand the nature of police work.”

  “That may be, but I understand the nature of addiction.” She tried to turn away; he stopped her. “Are you sleeping? Taking time to eat? Real food, not crap? And what about downtime? Catching a movie or calling a friend?”

  “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. I don’t have time for things like movies or girlfriends.”

  He closed the distance between them. “Dammit, Kitt, you’re driving me frigging nu-”

  He kissed her. For a split second she was too shocked to respond, then she pushed him away, furious. “What the hell was that?”

  His face flooded with color. He looked angry. “Nothing. It was nothi-”

  He bit the last back, turned and strode toward the door.

  “Danny, wait! Let’s talk about this.”

  He didn’t stop and a moment later the door slammed shut. She ran after him, through the door and onto the porch. “Danny! Come on, it’s-”

  Too late, she saw as he started his car and roared away from the curb. She watched until his taillights disappeared from sight, then turned and went back inside.

  She locked the door behind her, then rubbed her arms, chilled from the night air. She would call him tomorrow, after he’d had a chance to cool down. Get over what was undoubtedly anger and embarrassment caused by her rejection.

  Dammit. She didn’t want to lose his friendship. She valued it. But she wasn’t attracted to him. That wasn’t going to change.

  She felt suddenly drained. Why’d he have to pull this now? She didn’t have the time or energy to deal with this. She had a killer to catch. Make that two killers-one of whom had made her mission personal.

  “No, Kitten, it’s the children you care about. The little girls.”

  He had turned the tables on her. He knew her, her deepest fears. How had he managed it?

  She began to pace, her fatigue falling away. Replaced by a kind of nervous energy. She went over what he’d said.

  “How fast and how hard would you run to save another little girl? Another Sadie?” And then, “Aren’t there some little girls in your life right now? Are you strong enough to protect them? Smart enough?”

  She stopped pacing. She realized her heart was pounding. Her hands shaking.

  Little girls. In her life.

  Are you strong enough to save them? Smart enough?

  It hit her all at once then. Joe. His fiancée’s ten-year-old daughter, Tami. The Leukemia Society fair. The clown and his balloon.

  Dear God. The SAK knew about Tami.

  Tami was the little girl at the periphery of her life.

  Fear grabbed her in a stranglehold. She pictured Tami, her shy smile and pretty brown eyes. She had to warn Joe. She had to warn his fiancée.

  Kitt found her shoes, slipped into them. Her sweatshirt jacket was next, followed by a search for her car keys. She located them, grabbed her purse and headed out into the cold night.

  The drive to the Highcrest Road home she and Joe had shared took less time than normal because of the hour. The house was dark; his pickup truck sat in the driveway. She wheeled into the drive, stopped behind the truck, slammed out of her car and ran to his front door.

  She rang the bell, then pounded on the door. “Joe!” she called. “It’s me, Kitt! Open up!”

  She pounded again, calling out, growing desperate.

  Finally, she heard the dead bolt slide back; a moment later the door opened.

  He’d thrown a robe on over his boxers. “Kitt?” he said. “What-”

  “Tami’s in danger,” she said. “We have to warn Valerie.”

  He blinked and she had a sense that he was only waking up now. “Tami,” he repeated. “In danger?”

  “Yes. From the SAK. Because of me.”

  He gazed at her a moment, then opened the door wider. “It’s cold. Come in.”

  She stepped into the foyer; he closed the door behind them. It smelled like him she realized. Not like them, their family, anymore.

  She faced him. “You have to call Valerie. Now. Tonight. It’s that important.”

  “Slow down, Kitt. You’re talking crazy. How would this madman even know Tami?”

  “The Leukemia Society fund-raiser. He was there. Dressed as a clown, selling balloons.”

  Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “A clown? Selling balloons?”

  “Yes, dammit! He saw our exchange and gave me a pink balloon. He called me later, asked me if I liked it.”

  “This is madness.”

  “True. But that doesn’t mean I’m crazy. He threatened me.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “By threatening the little girls. The ones I care about, the ones in my life.”

  “Kitt-”

  Her hackles rose at the way he said her name. Patiently. As if talking to a headstrong child. Or a nutcase.

  “He said ‘little girls at the periphery of my life.’ I just realized tonight that he was talking about Tami. Don’t you get it? Tami’s at the periphery of my life. She’s the only one.”

  “Goddammit, Kitt, just stop!”

  The words exploded from him and she took a step back, shocked. Joe rarely swore, and certainly not that epithet. She could count on one hand the number of times he had lost his temper and yelled.

  “It’s happening again, isn’t it? The same thing that happened to you last time. You’re losing it, falling apart.”

  “It’s not like that! Just listen.”

  “No. Look at you. You’re not sleeping, are you? Not eating right. You can’t think about anything but the case.”

  “No…no…listen. I think he’s been in my house. He’s stalking me. He knows-”

  “Are you drinking again? Because if you’re not now, it’s next.”

  “I’m different now. That’s not going to happen.” She grabbed his hands. “I know Tami’s in trouble. Because of me, she’s caught the attention of a killer. I couldn’t bear it if-If she was hurt because of me. If something happened to her.”

  He curled his fingers around hers. “It’s not your fault that Sadie died. You couldn’t have saved her. Or the girls that monster murdered. None of their deaths are your fault.”

  “You don’t understand, Joe.” She shook her head. “You don’t see.”

  “You’ve got to let it go.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “The girls need me.”

  “What if I needed you, Kitt? What would you do?”

  “This isn’t about you, Joe, it’s about Tami. Her safety.”

  He tightened his fingers. “I’d hoped…I’d thought maybe, just maybe, you’d pulled it together. I see now that you haven’t.”

  Everyone in her life was telling her the same thing-that she had lost perspective
, had become obsessed.

  She hadn’t. Why couldn’t they see it? This was real.

  She told him so. Begged him to call Valerie.

  He said he would, though she didn’t believe him. Maybe it was the pity she saw in his eyes. Or the way he had snapped the door shut behind her. With a kind of finality.

  Her car sat in the driveway, just beyond a streetlight. She started around to the driver’s side, then stopped as marks on the passenger-side panel caught her eyes.

  Someone had keyed her.

  No, she realized. Not just keyed her. They had left her a message. He had left her a message. Scratched into the paint, across the car’s door and front panel.

  Don’t blink.

  40

  Friday, March 17, 2006

  1:45 a.m.

  M.C. called herself fourteen kinds of fool. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. and here she was, at Lance’s door. She had been unable to sleep. Unable to quiet her mind. Her conflict with Kitt, Brian’s sleazy come-on, the investigation, life in general.

  The only thoughts that brought her pleasure were ones of Lance. Is this how an addiction started? she wondered. This thought-stealing need to experience pleasure again? To acquire the potion that would calm the nerves, bring sleep, peace or whatever the psyche-or soul-needed?

  She knew he was home. She had seen his car parked on the street out front. If she knocked, two things could happen. He could invite her in. Or rebuff her.

  The way her day was going, she should walk away now.

  She tapped on the door instead. The first time tentatively. Then more forcefully.

  He opened it. From inside came strains of classical music. Something soothing.

  He frowned. “M.C.? What are you-”

  “Doing here? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  He didn’t move to open the door more and it suddenly occurred to her that he might have a guest. He looked as if he had been in bed-hair mussed, shirt open, trousers half buckled. The thought made her feel ill.

  “I should have called.” She took a step back. “So sorry. I don’t know what I was-”

  “Silly.” He caught her hands and drew her inside, against his chest. He buried his face in her hair. “You smell so good.”

  He didn’t have someone there. She brought her arms around him. He felt too thin, his skin cool. As she held him, he warmed.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  “I am now.”

  She smiled. “Me, too.”

  He locked the door and led her into his small living room. Pin neat with homey touches that surprised her. Most bachelors’ places were anything but “homey.”

  “Bad day?” she asked.

  “Bad night.”

  “They didn’t laugh?”

  He looked as if she had slapped him. She brought a hand to his cheek. “What?”

  “No. No laughing tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. I-”

  He brought a hand to her mouth.

  Wordlessly, he led her to his bedroom. There, they made love.

  But this time, without laughter.

  Without any sound at all.

  He muffled them, with his mouth, hands. Drinking them in, absorbing them. She allowed him to lead, her pleasure feeding on the silence. The need to cry out grew inside her, strangely erotic. Like a separate, building orgasm, straining for release.

  And when the release came, it reverberated inside her with the power of a nuclear explosion.

  It was the most incredibly erotic experience she’d ever had.

  He broke the silence first. “Wow.”

  She smiled and rubbed her face against his damp shoulder. “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Hungry?”

  She shook her head slightly. “Sleepy. Happy.”

  “You weren’t earlier. Earlier, you were Grumpy. Next thing I know, you’ll be Sneezy or Doc.”

  She smiled at his reference to the dwarfs in Snow White. “Are you suggesting I have a multiple-personality disorder?”

  “Don’t all women?”

  She pinched him, and he yelped. “I’m also a cop and carry a gun. I’d remember that, if I were you.”

  He mock shuddered. She yawned and nestled closer to his side. “I had a particularly trying day and night.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She thought a moment, then shook her head again. “Absolutely not.”

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  She tipped her face up to his. “I’m open to ideas.”

  Turned out he had plenty of them. Ones that proved both innovative and exhilarating.

  M.C. came instantly awake. She knew immediately what had awakened her.

  Lance had left the bed.

  She lay stone still, listening. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom. Nor to the kitchen for a snack. Though this wasn’t her home, she knew this to be true by the sound of his footfalls, their number.

  It was a cop thing. A heightened awareness of surroundings brought on by a job that demanded it to stay alive.

  M.C. couldn’t locate him. She may have slept with him-twice now-but she didn’t know him well enough to be comfortable with that. She slid quietly out of bed, bringing her Glock-which she had tucked just under the mattress near her head-with her. She snatched her shirt and panties from the floor and slipped them on.

  M.C. made her way silently from the bedroom to the hall. She found Lance standing at the front window, naked, gazing out at the street. When he turned to look at her, his expression was heartbreakingly sad.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He looked pointedly at the gun, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “That seems a bit reactionary.”

  “Just being cautious.” She laid it on the back of the couch. “You want to talk about why you couldn’t sleep?”

  “The truth?”

  “Truth’s always best.”

  He took a quick breath and she prepared herself for the worst. Was he wondering what he had gotten himself into? Did he want out?

  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had a guy tell her their relationship had been a mistake. A big one.

  “I think I like you too much.”

  She couldn’t have predicted that one in a million years. She stared at him, nonplussed. “Give me a break, funny man.”

  “I’m not joking. For once.”

  She crossed to him, tipped her face up to meet his. She studied his expression, searched his gaze. He wasn’t joking, she realized.

  Which in a strange way, was more frightening than if he had been giving her the brush-off. Where did they go from here? Where did she want them to go? Did she want to open herself up to the possibility of a relationship?

  Yes, she supposed she did.

  She smiled at him. “I think I like you too much, too.”

  “Really?” He searched her gaze, as if for proof that she wasn’t joking. Convinced, he smiled. “This not-sleeping thing works for me.”

  She laughed and rested her head against his shoulder. “Me, too.”

  From the bedroom, she heard the shrill scream of her cell phone. A call this time of night only meant one thing-somebody was dead.

  Because she was being called, she feared the worst. The Copycat had struck again.

  She prayed she was wrong.

  Lance tightened his arms. “Ignore it?”

  “I can’t.” She stepped out of his arms. The phone screamed again.

  She hurried to the other room, grabbing her gun on the way. When she snatched up the phone, she saw from the display that it was, indeed, headquarters.

  She answered. “Riggio.”

  “We’ve got another girl, Detective.”

  She hated it when she was right.

  While the dispatcher filled her in, she turned to the doorway. Lance had followed her. He stood there watching, expression concerned.

  “I’m on my way,” she finished, then ended the call.

  “You have
to go.”

  “Yes. I wish I didn’t but-”

  “I understand. Go.”

  She collected the remainder of her clothing, started toward the bathroom, then stopped and looked back at him. “Another girl is dead.”

  He spread his hands, expression helpless. “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

  “Think of me while I’m gone?”

  “Nothing but you.”

  She crossed to him, pressed a kiss to his mouth, then went to dress.

  41

  Friday, March 17, 2006

  5:20 a.m.

  When M.C. arrived at the scene, she saw that Kitt was already there. She parked beside the Taurus and got out. She gazed at the vehicle, at the words scraped into its dark gray paint and frowned. Don’t blink? What was that all about?

  She found Kitt sitting on the home’s front step. “What the hell happened to your car?”

  “Peanut. He left me a message.”

  The other woman’s voice was curiously devoid of emotion. “When?”

  “Last night, I guess. I noticed it around midnight.”

  M.C. wanted to ask what occasion led her to her car at 12:00 a.m. but let the question pass in favor of another. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a warning about the little girls. To stay on my guard. To watch them carefully. If I don’t, one will-”

  She bit back the word. M.C. knew what it was-die. “This isn’t your fault, Kitt.”

  She lifted her face. Her eyes were red. “This is number three.”

  M.C. nodded. “You’ve been inside?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Detective Riggio?” That came from the officer standing at the edge of the sidewalk.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  He held out a clipboard. “Could you sign in, please?”

  She’d walked right past him, she realized. “Of course. Sorry.”

  She signed in, scanning the log as she did. ID. Sal. The Sarge. Looked like everybody but the chief of police himself. She wouldn’t be surprised if he made an appearance, too. “Anything I should know?” she asked.

  “I’ve filled Detective Lundgren in.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  M.C. turned back to her partner. “Kitt? Are you all right?”

  “Puked in the bushes.”