Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “You’re up.”

  “I should have been up a while ago.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I’m going to be really late.”

  He poured her a mug of coffee and held it out. “You were so soundly asleep. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”

  A deep, dreamless sleep, she thought. Real rest. For body and soul.

  She crossed to him and took the coffee. “Still buying into the ‘breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ theory, I see.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She sipped her coffee and watched as he took two plates from a cabinet, utensils from a drawer, and plucked napkins out of the holder near the stove.

  It felt odd to be doing nothing. Joe had always been the breakfast chef, but in the old days she and Sadie would have been setting the table. Cleaning up after him as he went.

  It was a strange sensation, being in the home that had been hers but wasn’t anymore. Seeing that he had left some things organized the same way she had, but that others had been moved.

  She wondered if her lame hovering felt odd to him, as well?

  Kitt shifted her gaze. It landed on the plates. She and Sadie had picked out the stoneware pattern. White with a sunny-yellow-and-black geometric pattern on the edge.

  Like bumble bees! Sadie had exclaimed.

  When they divorced, Kitt had given him everything. She hadn’t wanted the reminders of their life. Their family.

  A lump in her throat, she ran her fingers along the plate’s patterned edge. Now she found herself hungry for those reminders. For the memories.

  She found Joe watching her. “Sadie picked these.”

  “Yes.”

  “These, too.” She picked up the Mickey Mouse and Pluto salt-and-pepper shakers. “From our trip to Disney World. Remember?”

  “I remember everything, Kitt.”

  Something in his tone took her breath.

  She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She scolded herself for being a coward, a ninny. What was she afraid of?

  The moment passed and he spooned scrambled eggs-he’d made them with mushrooms, onions and cheese-onto her plate. “Bacon?”

  “Silly man. Of course, bacon.”

  He laid two strips on her plate and pointed her toward the already toasted and buttered English muffins.

  While they ate, they talked about nothing of consequence. The weather. Food. News of mutual acquaintances and family members. When they’d finished, Joe said her name softly. She lifted her gaze to his.

  “Are you ready to talk about what brought you here?”

  It all came crashing back. Brian. The call from Peanut. His questions. She felt the euphoria of the last hours slipping away.

  She fought to hold on to it, at least for a few more moments. “Besides the promise of great sex and a real breakfast?”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t make it all a joke and shut me out. That’s what you-”

  He bit the words back and pushed away from the table. He carried his plate and utensils to the sink, then turned back to her. She saw that he shook. “You broke my heart, Kitt. We lost Sadie. Then I…lost you.”

  “I know. I’m sor-”

  “No,” he cut her off, “you don’t. You can’t imagine what it was like for me to watch helplessly as you self-destructed. You can’t imagine how it hurt to have you close enough to touch, but a million miles away. I needed you so…much.”

  His words hurt. She pressed her lips together, wishing she could deny them. Defend herself.

  But how did one defend herself against the truth?

  “I grieved for a long time,” he continued. “Then I became angry. So angry, I…I thought it would consume me.”

  He’d never revealed that anger to her. Not through words or actions. Or maybe she had been too absorbed in her own feelings to notice his.

  Last night’s pretty dream of a happily-ever-after with Joe seemed ridiculous now.

  In the heat of self-realization-then passion-it had been easy. Simple. She loved him. He loved her. This morning, in the harsh light, she saw how difficult-and how complicated-that dream really was.

  “You must hate me.”

  “I discovered,” he said, “that the line between love and hate is thin, indeed.”

  Kitt held his gaze, though it hurt to look at him. She felt she owed him that. “I don’t know what to say besides I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  Tears choked her. She fought her way past them. Even without a happy ending for them, she was so much better off than she had been twenty-four hours ago.

  Now, at least, she recognized her feelings. Had the ability to love again.

  “Brian’s dead,” she said quietly. “He was murdered last night.”

  “Brian? My God.”

  “I can’t go into the reasons why, but I believe his murder is related to the Copycat killings.”

  Joe crossed back to the table and sat heavily. He looked dazed. She went on. “The one claiming to be the Sleeping Angel Killer called again last night. He asked me to tell him about you. About us. Our courtship and marriage.

  “In return, he promised to give me the name of the Copycat killer.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. He gave me another clue instead.”

  “And you ended up here?”

  “In the process of telling him about us, I opened a door. And everything I’d locked away came spilling out.”

  This time it was she who needed to stand, to walk away. When she had organized her thoughts, she turned back to him. “I always knew I still loved you. But I didn’t think I could let go of the pain enough to really love you. The way you deserve to be loved.”

  “And now?”

  “Remember at the leukemia event, how you told me you wanted to live again. I want to live again. To let go of the pain and stop hurting.”

  He caught her hand, curled his fingers around hers. It reminded her of that day, so long ago, as they had faced Sadie’s doctor. Bracing themselves for whatever came next.

  Together. Always. Irrefutably.

  “Things are more complicated than you and me,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  She knew that. Valerie. Her child.

  Too much time had passed to catch their happily-ever-after.

  She held his hand tightly. “Just tell me, can you forgive me, Joe?”

  “I already have.”

  57

  Tuesday, March 21, 2006

  9:20 a.m.

  Where was Kitt? M.C. checked her watch for what seemed like the dozenth time since she had considered Kitt undeniably late. She had expected her in first thing, considering the events of the night before.

  A pall hung over the department. One of their own had been cut down.

  M.C. hadn’t slept much, for a complicated set of reasons. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d relived the murder scene. She recalled Brian in life, that he had a family. She worried about her argument with him and what she should do. Go to her superiors, come clean about her and Brian’s history together and their argument, or hope they never became wise to it.

  Brian’s murder had her spooked. If he had been killed because he’d asked a fellow officer the wrong question, that left both her and Kitt vulnerable. Particularly Kitt.

  She had called her home and cell phone. The woman had answered neither. Again, weird.

  M.C. drummed her fingers on her desktop, considering other scenarios. She could have fallen off the wagon and be home, sleeping it off.

  After all, just a week ago Kitt had lapsed, blaming the emotional trauma of discovering Joe was going to be a stepfather. Last night Kitt’s good friend and former partner had been murdered. Kitt felt partly responsible. Enough emotional trauma to send even a teetotaler running for the bottle.

  It beat the hell out of the first scenario-Kitt lying just inside her own doorway, shot twice in the chest.

  Screw it, she decid
ed, standing. She’d just take a little road trip over to Kitt’s to check on her.

  She got no further than the decision when her cell phone buzzed. She answered without looking at the display, certain Kitt was calling.

  “Riggio here.”

  She learned immediately she was wrong. “I missed you last night,” Lance said.

  She smiled. “I missed you, too.”

  “I hoped you’d call. Waited until the wee hours.”

  “Things took a turn for the worse here. I couldn’t get away.”

  “What about today?”

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t look good.” Sergeant Haas appeared in the doorway. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.”

  She hung up, then turned her attention to her superior. “What’s up, Sarge?”

  “Sal wants to see you in his office. Now.”

  M.C. didn’t like his tone. Too official. “Kitt’s not in yet.”

  “We don’t need Kitt for this one.”

  When they reached the deputy chief’s office, she saw why not. Sal wasn’t alone. A detective she recognized from Internal Affairs was with him.

  The question about whether she should come clean about her argument with Brian had become moot. They already knew.

  Another realization followed on the heels of that one:

  Kitt had told them about it.

  That’s why she was late this morning. Why she hadn’t answered her cell phone. She hadn’t wanted to face M.C. until after IA finished with her.

  Bitterness mixed with betrayal. She supposed she deserved it, after the way she had gone behind Kitt’s back about Joe. She had been naive to believe they had worked through that.

  “Come in, Detective Riggio. This is Detective Peters, from Internal Affairs.”

  She nodded in greeting. “I recognize Detective Peters. We spoke during the Caldwell investigation.”

  “That’s right,” the man agreed, the barest smile shaping his mouth. “Have a seat.”

  She sat and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Do you have any idea what this meeting might be about, Detective?”

  Tell the truth and look paranoid or guilty? Or play it dumb and cool? Both came with advantages and risks.

  She took the middle road. “One of the investigations I’m working on would be my best guess.”

  “And they are?”

  “The Copycat killings and Lieutenant Spillare’s murder.”

  “A rather small caseload.”

  “But intense.”

  “Indeed.” The man steepled his fingers. “How would you categorize your relationship with Lieutenant Spillare?”

  “Good. Until recently.”

  “Until recently,” he repeated. “Could you tell us what happened to change your relationship?”

  “The lieutenant began hitting on me. When I refused his advances, he began following me.”

  “That would be sexual harassment.”

  “I suppose it would.”

  “Why didn’t you approach one of your superiors. Or us?”

  “I thought I could handle it myself.”

  His gaze sharpened. “And did you?”

  “If you’re asking did I kill him, the answer is ‘hell no.’ We argued. Yesterday, in fact.”

  Sal spoke up. “Why didn’t you come to me with this last night? You had to know how your argument would be overheard. And how it would look. It’s just plain stupid, Riggio!”

  No joke.

  As had been trusting Kitt.

  Peters stood and crossed to stand directly before her. “I think Detective Riggio had her reasons. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

  Rather than cock her head back to meet his eyes, she stood. They were nearly nose-to-nose. “That is right, Detective Peters. You’re very astute.”

  If he noticed the edge in her voice, he didn’t comment. She turned toward her superiors. “Brian and I had an affair, years ago. I was a rookie, he was a detective. It was a mistake and didn’t last long. I really didn’t want to share that. I’m not proud of it. That’s why I didn’t come forward.”

  For a moment the men were silent. Then Sal spoke. “You weren’t the first rookie to fall under Brian’s spell, nor were you the last.”

  She nodded. “With all due respect, knowing others were as stupid as me doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  Peters cleared his throat and redirected them. “Is it true that you threatened Lieutenant Spillare?”

  “Actually, he threatened me. When I told him if he didn’t back off, I intended to report him, he said he would spread that I slept my way into the VCB.”

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I told him he had better not.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t threaten to shoot him?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “We’ll need your weapon for ballistics testing.”

  She slipped the Glock.45 from the holster and handed it over. She knew the drill. Upon firing, every gun created a sort of “fingerprinted” bullet, marks on the metal caused by tiny imperfections in the gun’s barrel. And like human fingerprints, no two weapons left identical impressions on their bullets. Likewise, with cartridge casings.

  To obtain the comparison casing or bullet, they would fire it into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet or casing, then compare it to any that had been recovered from the scene of Brian’s murder.

  Sal accepted her weapon. “You’ll have it back this morning.”

  “Thank you.” She moved her gaze between them. “Was there anything else?”

  They said there wasn’t and she exited the office. Word of her being questioned by IA-and no doubt why-had traveled fast. A number of other officers milled around Sal’s office, hoping for some dish. A few of them had the decency to avert their gazes, but others openly stared at her.

  This was just the kind of attention she had worked hard to avoid.

  Recalling Kitt’s advice about going with the flow, she shook off her irritation and passed by them with her head high.

  She found that Kitt had made it in and was at her desk. “Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked from the doorway.

  Kitt looked up. “Excuse me?”

  “You made it in. Finally.”

  “I heard about Internal Affairs. How was it?”

  M.C. ignored her question and crossed to Kitt’s desk. “Where were you this morning?”

  Kitt shifted her gaze slightly and M.C. frowned. “That’s what I thought. Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m totally lost now. You want to clue me in?”

  “You wanted to get back at me for Joe, didn’t you? I hope we’re square now, because I don’t think I’m up for another sneak attack.”

  Kitt stood, placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward her. When she spoke, her voice was low and vibrated with anger. “You think I went to the sarge and Sal about your argument with Brian?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t me, M.C. I don’t go for that behind-the-back crap. I said what I needed to last night. If another issue comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

  The other woman gazed at her a moment. “Then who?”

  “Someone overheard you. Or Brian told someone about it, which I find pretty unlikely.” She lowered her voice. “How deep in shit are you?”

  “Slap on the wrist for not stepping forward. They’re going to run ballistics on my weapon. Most of all, I just look bad.”

  “We all make mistakes. I certainly have.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  She said it deadpan and Kitt laughed. “I suppose it’s not, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Look, Peanut called me last night. He-”

  “Detective Riggio?”

  They looked up. Sal stood in the doorway. He held out her Glock. “Your weapon.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Got the preliminaries back on the type of
gun used to kill Lieutenant Spillare. The bullet was fired from a standard-issue,.45 caliber Smith amp; Wesson revolver.”

  Most urban forces had begun switching from revolvers to the semiautomatic pistols in the 1970s. RPD officers had the choice between two, both.40 caliber-the Glock or the Smith amp; Wesson 4046.

  She took her weapon and holstered it. “The old policeman’s favorite,” M.C. said, referring to the revolver. “An interesting choice.”

  Sal nodded. “No self-respecting gangbanger or street thug’s going to choose the revolver.”

  “Can we have a minute?” Kitt asked.

  The deputy chief checked his watch. “Can it wait until after-”

  “I heard from Peanut last night. He left a trophy from one of the original killings. A lock of blond hair, tied with a pink ribbon.”

  Kitt had his full attention. He nodded tersely. “My office. Now would be good.”

  58

  Tuesday, March 21, 2006

  10:40 a.m.

  Once they had all assembled in Sal’s office, Kitt described the events of the evening before, starting with finding the package on the doorstep and finishing with Peanut ending their call.

  “He claimed the hair was from one of the original Sleeping Angels. He wouldn’t tell me which one. Told me ‘DNA’ would tell the tale. ID has it and the phone already. They were going to photograph and catalog them, then send the hair to the crime lab.

  “I asked him several questions point-blank,” she continued. “If he was the Copycat. If he knew who the Copycat was. He answered that he was not, but that he did know who he was. In addition, he claimed no knowledge of Brian’s murder.”

  “What do you think?” Sal asked. “Was he being honest?”

  “I think so. Let’s face it, he hasn’t had a problem claiming responsibility for other crimes.”

  “But Brian was a cop,” Sal pointed out.

  “And the Angels were children,” Kitt countered. “I accused him of being a cop himself. It unnerved him.”

  That brought silence. After a moment, Sergeant Haas cleared his throat. “But if he didn’t kill Brian-”

  “Maybe the Copycat did. Maybe the Copycat’s a cop. Maybe they both are.”

  It was the first time she had considered it aloud. She suddenly realized that she had also speculated that the Copycat was a woman.