Angels.
Of course.
She punched in the password, exchanging letters for numbers-2-6-4-3-5-7.
The password accepted, the message began to play.
“You were wrong,” he said. “I did take trophies. I’m sharing one with you.”
Kitt began to shake. Revulsion rose up in her. As she held the phone to her ear, it rang.
“Hello, you son of a bitch,” she said.
“Kitten,” he admonished, “name calling? I thought we were friends.”
“Yeah,” she said, scanning the street, the dark cars and windows, the pools of shadows. He was here, somewhere. Watching her. Amused. “We are friends. Come on out and play.”
He laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you. Where’ve you been all night?”
“Cut the crap. Did you call to gloat about Brian? About killing him?”
“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about.”
“Lieutenant Brian Spillare.” To her horror, her throat closed over his name. “My friend. My former partner.”
For long moments he said nothing. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I should believe you, right? A liar and a murderer? Are you a cop, too? Are you, Peanut?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. She pressed on. “Did he get too close? Ask the wrong question? So you killed him.”
“Not mine, Kitten. You’ll have to look elsewhere this time.”
He attempted to be flip, but Kitt detected the slightest tremor in his voice. She had shaken him. Why? If he was being honest and hadn’t killed Brian, why care?
Because she’d asked if he was a cop?
“A child killer and a cop killer.” She paused. “But I forgot the little old ladies. We could rename you the Granny Basher.”
“The cop’s not mine,” he said again. His voice rose. “That’s not why I called.”
“Why did you call, Peanut? Not to gloat? Then why? Why bother me?”
“To talk.” His voice shook. “To make you understand. Without others listening.”
She laughed at him, at the tremor and the notion that she should listen to him. “Understand what? That you’re a yellow son of a bitch. A chicken-shit who murders children and grandmothers?”
“Careful-”
“Why should I be? No one’s listening, remember?” She spun around, facing the dark street. She held out her free arm. “Come get me, asshole! Here I am!”
“You’re hysterical. Calm down.”
“And you’re a monster. Go to hell.”
“I’m not a monster!” He fell silent; she heard the crackle and hiss of flame touching tobacco. His deep inhalation. “I’m not one of those animals who kills for pleasure. I get no thrill from taking a life.”
“Then why?” she asked.
“It’s an intellectual pursuit. Like chess. Crime and investigation. Criminal and cop. Don’t you see?”
“Nobody dies in chess.”
“Higher stakes, that’s all.”
Kitt thought of the dead children, their families. She thought of the three old ladies he claimed were his victims, that they’d been someone’s mother, sister, grandmother. She made a sound of disgust. “Those girls were playing a game with you? Give me a break.”
“No, Kitten.” She heard the admonishment in his voice, the disappointment. “You and I are playing. Now. And five years ago.”
“I’m not playing with you now. I wasn’t then.”
“You are. You were. Five years ago, I won.”
“Winning is getting away with the crime?”
“Yes. Outsmarting and outmaneuvering you. The police.”
“And if I win, I catch you.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We both want to win. I have the edge, of course.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not emotionally involved. You are.”
He wasn’t, she realized. Which made him a true psychopath. No remorse. No empathy. No moral sense of right and wrong.
It also made him that much more difficult to catch.
“Taking a life is not a game move.”
“To you,” he said softly. “Exactly why I have the advantage.”
“Are you the Copycat?”
He paused. “No. I’m not.”
No innuendo this time, no infuriating maybe. She sat down hard on the front steps as the realization hit her: Two killers. Six dead children. A span of five years. And she was no closer to an answer.
She couldn’t do this.
She didn’t have a choice.
“Giving up, Kitten?”
He knew her so well. Did he read her mind? Or the tone of her voice? Or was he a distorted version of herself, a cop obsessed with committing crime instead of stopping it.
“Never. I’ll never give up or stop searching for you.”
“I’m sorry.” The regret in his voice sounded genuine. “It’s hard for you to lose, isn’t it?”
“I’ve already lost everything. This is nothing.”
“Not your life. Surely, you fear death?”
She pictured Sadie and smiled. “No. Death isn’t an ending, but a beginning.”
“Then why fight so hard to hold on to life?” His voice deepened, took on the quality of a caress. “Why the outrage when it’s taken?”
“Because life has value. It’s a gift, a blessing from God. And it’s not yours, or anyone else’s, to take.”
“My Kitten has a spiritual side.”
“Whose hair is this?”
“That’s what DNA testing is for.”
“Is it one of the original Angels’?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who the Copycat killer is?”
“Yes.”
In the past he had been coy with her. Tonight he seemed bent on taking their “game” to a new level. Or was it their relationship he wanted to take to the next level? she wondered. A step past teasing, toward the intimacy of real sharing.
He thought of this as a relationship, she realized.
She worked to keep her excitement at bay. “Give me a name. I’ll get him-or her-out of the picture. Then it’ll be just you and me.”
“Her?” He sounded pleased.
“Is that what you planted for me to find in the storage locker?”
“No. But you’ve surprised me. Until now I’ve been…less than impressed with your deductive skills.”
There was something else there.
She tucked that away for later. “A name. Then it’ll be just you and me. I’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”
“Things like that aren’t free.”
“What do you want in return?”
“You, Kitt.” She could almost hear his smile. “I want to know you better.”
“I invited you to come out of the shadows. There’s no one here but me.”
“We do not have to see each other for me to know you. I want inside your head. I want to know how you think, what you feel. Your dreams. And your fears.”
“But you already know,” she said softly. “Don’t you?”
“Not enough,” he said simply. “I want more. Tell me about your marriage.”
“My marriage?” she repeated, off balance.
“About Joe. Your love affair.”
She hadn’t expect this. He seemed determined to peel back her self-protective layers and peer beneath. What did he intend to do with her once he had examined each and exposed her soft, inner core?
He meant to kill her.
No, he meant to destroy her.
As if once again reading her thoughts, he laughed. “A name, Kitt. Do it for the children.”
The children. The angels. That he used them as a bargaining chip infuriated her. “Bastard. Ask me a question.”
“How did you meet?”
“We were high school sweethearts,” she said grudgingly. “We met when I was a freshman and he was a sophomore.”
“How?”
His questions, coming so close on the heels o
f Joe being interrogated, were weird.
“It’s a cliché. He bumped into me, I dropped my books. He helped me pick them up.” She drew a deep breath, realizing that she was trembling. “He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.”
“And you fell in love with him, just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
“Love at first sight, how sweet.”
She could tell he was laughing at her. That sweet was synonymous with naive and ridiculous. “I didn’t know that’s what it was. Only now, in retrospect.”
“Why him? The blue eyes?”
“Joe’s kind. The kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever known.” She smiled to herself, recalling. “Not just to me. He loves others. Appreciates people. Their differences. Even their flaws.”
“He’s a fucking saint, isn’t he? Saint Joe.”
“We had the same dreams,” she went on, his ugliness rolling off her. This wasn’t about him, she realized. The SAK or Copycat; it wasn’t about the investigation.
It was about her.
And it was healing.
“We had the same beliefs. About life, its beauty and sanctity, about the afterlife. About the things that truly mattered. Love. Family. Faith.”
As she spoke, memories came flooding back. Good ones. Of times she hadn’t thought about in years.
Of laughter. Making love. Sharing their successes. And fears. Celebrating the birth of their daughter. Of Joe’s hand curled around hers as the doctor informed them Sadie had leukemia.
Memories she had locked away, in a strongbox deep inside her. Why was that? How had she allowed the pain to swallow the joy? Bad memories to overshadow good?
Thunder rumbled again, sounding closer this time. The leaves began to rustle. She shivered.
“So what happened?” he asked. “When did your dreams change?”
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“You had the same dreams and beliefs. And you loved him. Why did it all change?”
She’d changed, she realized. Her dreams, her beliefs.
“Because Sadie died,” she said softly. “I lost faith. The ability to dream. To love.”
“Yes,” he said. “Life is cruel. It preys on the weak. The idealistic. Those who love deeply. Better to crush than be crushed.”
“No,” she said, “you’re wrong.”
“Am I, Kitten?”
“And I was wrong. To give up. To turn away from love.”
“I think I’m going to puke.”
Tears filled her eyes. Ones of joy. She had loved Joe from the first.
She loved him still.
She told him so.
He laughed. “You’re a fool. He’s engaged to another woman. He doesn’t love you.”
“Only a fool doesn’t love.” The rain started then, a drop, then sprinkle. The heavens preparing to open up.
“The name,” she said. “I gave you what you wanted. It’s your turn. Who’s the Copycat?”
“Look at the victims again. The victims are talking to you.”
“No! That’s not-”
He hung up. A crack of thunder shook her. She jumped to her feet, grabbed the bag and darted onto her porch just as the sky unleashed a flood.
Shivering, she watched the rain. He’d played her for a fool again. Tricked her into doing what he wanted, giving her what he wanted.
Kitt unlocked her door, stepped into the dark house. She still had the latex gloves on, she realized. She set the paper bag containing the bagged lock of hair and the phone on the top of her console, then removed the gloves.
She curled her fingers around the empty gloves, a laugh bubbling to her lips. He had tricked her, but she had won.
He’d given her something she had been unable to give herself.
Forgiveness. Healing.
Love.
Her thoughts filled with Joe. Her heart filled. She looked at the phone, started toward it. No. She had to apologize. For today. Yesterday. Everything.
She had to beg his forgiveness.
Snatching up her keys, she ran out into the storm.
55
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
1:30 a.m.
The rain came down in blinding sheets. Kitt pulled into Joe’s driveway, threw open the car door and darted for the house. Already wet, she was drenched by the time she reached his door.
With the storm, the temperature had dropped. Her teeth chattered. Her hands and feet were numb.
She didn’t care about the rain. Or the cold. Only Joe. Sharing what she had learned tonight. Begging his forgiveness. Even if it was too late for them to make another start, he deserved her apology.
She had been so wrong. About everything.
She rang the bell, then pounded on his door. “Joe!” she shouted. “It’s me! Kitt!”
The house remained dark. She rang the bell again. And again. “Joe! Open up!”
A light snapped on inside. Then above her head. He peered out the sidelight. She nearly cried out in relief when she saw his face.
“Let me in! I have to talk to you!”
He opened the door and she stumbled inside. “I had to tell you,” she cried. “Now. Tonight.”
He recoiled slightly. She supposed she would, too, if a crazy person was pounding on her door in the middle of the night, soaking wet and wild-eyed.
“About the case?” he asked.
The case? She blinked, confused, then realized that of course he thought that. He had spent most of his day either being interrogated or watching his home and business be searched.
“No.” She shook her head. “This is about me. And you.” She clasped her hands together. “I’m sorry. For pushing you away. For shutting down after Sadie died. You needed me and instead I-”
She broke down and sobbed. In the way she hadn’t allowed herself to before now. After several moments, he drew her stiffly into his arms.
She clung to him until her tears stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a step back.
“Don’t worry about it.”
She swiped at tears with the back of her hands. “I didn’t cry after Sadie. Instead I drowned myself in the Sleeping Angel investigation. When I didn’t have that anymore, I turned to the bottle.”
She drew a tear-choked breath. “If I didn’t grieve, I didn’t have to let go.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I could have turned to you. I should have. I see that now.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“No, Joe, it’s not. I still love you. I’m still in love with you.”
For long moments, he simply gazed at her. What was he feeling? she wondered, unable to read his expression. Was he angry? Happy? Relieved? Annoyed?
Or after all this time, did he feel nothing at all?
Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. He caught one with his index finger. “It’s going to be okay, Kitt. I love you, too.”
It took a full ten seconds for his words to sink in. When they did, a cry rushed to her throat. She threw herself into his arms, cheek pressed to his chest.
His arms went around her. “You’re trembling. And so cold.” He rubbed her back, then eased her out of his arms.
She saw that his T-shirt was wet and made a sound of distress. “I’m sorry, I-”
“Come.” He led her into the house, to the master bathroom. He gave her a fluffy bath towel and his white terry-cloth robe. “Take a shower, if you like. I’ll be in the other room.”
She couldn’t find her voice and nodded. The intimate surroundings felt both odd and invigorating. When he had exited the bathroom, she started the shower. She removed her clothes, laid them over the side of the tub, then stepped into the shower.
Within moments under the hot spray, she was warm. She quickly washed; the shower filled with the scent of Joe’s shampoo and soap. After drying and slipping into the big, soft robe, she padded out to the bedroom.
And found Joe sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his h
ands.
A lump in her throat, she crossed to him. Kneeling in front of him, she gathered his hands in hers. He met her eyes.
He had been crying.
She wanted to ask him whether they were tears of joy or despair, ones for the past or the future.
Instead, she cupped his face in her palms and kissed him. Softly at first, then deeply, with growing passion. That passion drove them to want more, to take more.
To make love.
Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms. Kitt felt at peace for the first time since Sadie died. She pressed her face to Joe’s chest, breathed in his familiar spicy scent.
He stroked her hair. “Not that I care, but what brought all this on?”
Brian. Her psychotic caller. The investigation. “I don’t think I should tell you. Not now, anyway.”
He tipped his face down to hers and frowned. “Why?”
“Because it’ll ruin this.” Her throat closed and she cleared it. “And I want to hang on to now, this moment, as long as I can.”
Even as she said the words, the ugliness seeped in, licking at the edges of her happiness.
She wondered if she would ever get it back again.
56
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
8:10 a.m.
The next morning, Kitt awakened to the smell of bacon. Eyes closed, she breathed deeply. Joe’s famous bacon-and-egg breakfasts. Another thing she had missed about the man.
She cracked open her eyes. Sun trickled in around the blinds. To stay in bed, she thought. The way they used to when they were first married. Be lazy, make love-sometimes they hadn’t gotten out of bed until one or two in the afternoon.
She smiled at the memory, sat up and stretched, then climbed out of bed. She snatched up her panties, stepped into them and crossed to the bureau. Joe had always stored his T-shirts in the second drawer down.
He still did, she saw when she opened the drawer. She drew one out and brought it to her face. It smelled liked him and was soft from wear and washings.
Kitt slipped it on, then padded out to the kitchen.
Joe stood with his back to her as he scrambled the eggs. The kitchen looked as if a small hurricane had hit: he had always been a horrendously messy cook.
“Good morning,” she said.
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