He curled into himself and rocked back and forth, like a small child seeking comfort. “It’s my fault, all my fault. I’m stupid. And careless, just like he says.”
“You’re not stupid, Lance.”
“He’s all I have. He’s going to be angry, so angry.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You can’t.” He met her eyes, the expression in his hollow and hopeless. “Only he can.”
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. He meant to kill her. He was sweating and shaking.
Lance Castrogiovanni didn’t enjoy killing; weirdly, he felt it was his duty.
“Don’t do this, Lance!” she cried loudly, to signal Kitt. “We can make it work. I’ll go to my chief and-”
Sobbing now, he stood and went for the Smith amp; Wesson.
The same moment her cop’s sixth sense alerted her that Kitt was in the room, she stepped out of the shadows.
“Put your gun on the floor at your feet, Lance,” Kitt said softly. “Then turn around slowly, hands in the air.”
73
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
12:45 a.m.
Lance did as Kitt asked. Gun at his feet, he turned to face her. She was surprised by his expression-he looked relieved, almost grateful.
Lance Castrogiovanni didn’t want to kill anyone else.
“That’s good,” she said. “Keep your hands up and step away from Detective Riggio.” Again, he did as she requested. She motioned him toward the wall. “Hands up. Feet apart.”
She frisked him for another weapon, then cuffed him. “You have the right to remain silent, you son of a bitch. You have the right to-”
Her cell phone vibrated. She let it go while she finished reading him his rights, then flipped it open as she crossed to free M.C. “Lundgren here.”
“Hello, Kitten.”
She had expected to hear Sal’s very angry voice. She had expected to be sharing this good news and minimizing the trouble she was in.
She smiled grimly. This was a very satisfying runner-up. “How nice to hear from you now. This very minute.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’ve won. I know who you are. I have your accomplice, the so-called Copycat here with me. Or should I call him your brother?”
He laughed softly, the sound unconcerned.
“Perhaps you think I’m joking,” she said. “I assure you, that’s not the ca-”
“Do you have your weapon, Kitten?”
“Of course. And it’s aimed at your brother’s head.”
“What a coincidence. But you’ll understand why in a moment. For now, I’d like you to lay down your gun. Then turn around with your hands in the air.”
This time it was she who laughed. “Now, why would I do that?”
“Because, once again, I hold all the cards.”
The lights snapped on. Kitt made a sound of surprise. And revulsion.
They were standing in a kind of art gallery. On display were photographs, matted and framed. Very professional.
Of all the little angels.
Photos of them very much alive-at school and at play, shopping with their mothers, exiting church, daydreaming, laughing.
Six beautiful little girls, their whole lives ahead of them.
Tears swamped her. That wasn’t all. On the wall were images of them in death. She recognized each girl; this vision of them had been burned onto her brain long before today.
She shifted her gaze. The grandmothers were represented as well. In life-and in their gruesome deaths.
They reminded her of crime scene pho-
“Hello, Lundgren.”
He stepped into the room. She heard M.C.’s sharply drawn breath, even as she registered her own shock.
Kitt turned slowly to face him.
Snowe from ID.
She choked back the cry that raced to her lips. And he had Joe.
He held a gun to Joe’s head. He had sealed Joe’s mouth with duct tape and shackled his wrists behind his back. Judging by Joe’s bloodied face, he had put up a fight.
“I see by your expression that I am, indeed, the one in charge here.” Snowe lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t have told me what you cared about, Kitten.”
He meant Joe. That night on the phone, she had told him how much she loved him. “Let him go, Snowe. Please, he-”
“Lay the gun on the floor, then kick it my way.”
She did, though he didn’t make a move to retrieve it. “Do you like my memorial gallery?” he asked, sounding pleased with himself. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“They’re vile.”
“Capture the memories,” he mused. “Didn’t some photographic company use that as a slogan?”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
“Remove the handcuffs from my brother’s wrists.”
“Do it yourself.”
“Bad idea, Kitten. If I undo the cuffs myself, you and your ex here won’t be alive to see it.”
She obeyed, thoughts racing, searching for a way out of this. She glanced at M.C. and saw by her intent expression that she was doing the same.
“Back up,” Snowe ordered. “I want you where I can see you.”
She did. He nodded. “Lance, take her gun. Give it to me.”
Lance hurried to do what he asked, flushing at the disgust in his brother’s voice.
“Now pick up the Smith amp; Wesson. Stick it back in your pants, little man. We’ll talk about that later.”
“Why are you talking to him like that?” M.C. demanded. “He’s not a child. He’s not stupid.”
“You,” Snowe said, “can shut the fuck up. Or be shot.”
Kitt jumped in, not putting it past M.C. to test Snowe’s resolve. She knew from their conversations, he would neither hesitate nor show mercy. “Let Joe go,” she begged. “He has nothing to do with this. Please, he-”
“Of course he’s a part of this. He was my last move, my final bargaining chip. Grow up, Kitten.”
M.C. snorted with disgust, struggling to free herself. “You’re a police officer. How could you betray your oath this way?”
Kitt held her breath, wondering if Snowe would shoot the other woman; instead he laughed.
“A police officer? Law enforcement? You think I give a shit about our oath?” He released Joe with a shove that sent him stumbling forward. He landed face-first with a sickening crack.
Kitt screamed his name and leaped forward. The blast of Snowe’s gun discharging ricocheted off the walls, drowning out a second scream-M.C.’s.
It took Kitt a moment of blinding pain to realize that Snowe had shot her. Just like that.
Kitt’s legs gave and she sank to her knees. She brought a hand to her chest, near her collarbone. It was wet, sticky. She felt light-headed.
Room spinning, she shifted her gaze to Joe. He lay completely still. Blood leaked from his nose. Not dead, she prayed. Please, not dead.
She’d always vowed she’d solve the Sleeping Angel case, if it was the last thing she ever did.
It looked like it just might be the last thing.
“A nonfatal wound,” Snowe said, tone conversational. “Of course, you could bleed to death, if you don’t get treatment.”
Her stomach rolled, and she fought being sick.
“Our old man was the law. Oh, yeah, carried a gun and wore a badge. He was smarter and stronger than everyone else. Especially me and Lance.”
He glanced at his brother. “Isn’t that right, Lance? We were stupid and worthless and weak. Isn’t that what he told us? He proved it with his fists.”
Lance didn’t reply. Kitt saw that he was staring at her, a kind of horror in his eyes.
Snowe didn’t seem to notice. “Who’s stupid now? We outsmarted them all, little bro. You and me.”
“But we didn’t,” Lance whispered. “They know who we are. What we did.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Mine.”
“That’s ri
ght. Stupid little shit. What was the first rule?”
“Never use the gun.”
“That’s right. But you did. And now we’re fucked.”
Lance hung his head. Kitt stepped in. If she was going to die, anyway, at least she would die having learned not just who had murdered the angels-but why as well.
“So you killed all those girls…and the three grandmothers, simply to prove you could? That you could outsmart us all with your so-called ‘perfect crimes’?”
“Glad to know you were listening.”
“Why girls? Why ten-year-olds?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“You just picked.”
“Yep. That’s the key, right? Randomness.”
She pressed a hand to her wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. “Why me?”
“That’s a rather complicated question and I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. The Sleeping Angels were mine,” he said. “My idea, my perfect crimes. Every aspect of the planning and preparation.
“Lance here got the bright idea to resurrect the Sleeping Angel Killer. So you see, I was being honest, there was a Copycat. My brother and partner.”
It had been one of her and M.C.’s theories.
“I don’t know why he did, I guess he wanted to prove to me that he could pull it off on his own. That he was his own man.” There was no denying the disgust in his tone. He made no secret of the fact he had little respect for his younger brother. “He added his own twist to the murders.”
“The hands,” she said.
“The hands,” he agreed with a sneer. “Felt like he had to express himself. But we both know, when a killer starts expressing himself, it’s the beginning of the end.”
“Maybe he wanted to be caught,” Kitt said. “And be free of you?”
He ignored that. “So I decided to play along. Kick the competition up a notch.”
“By calling me.”
“Yes. He had nothing to do with that. He had nothing to do with the clues.”
“The storage locker and its contents. They were your mother’s things, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And Buddy Brown?”
“That was me. My red herring. I’d busted him years ago, knew he’d gotten out. I paid him a little visit. All care and concern for his future.” He smiled. “Mentioned I heard Joe Lundgren hired ex-cons. That Valerie Martin’s little girl is deaf was sheer, beautiful serendipity.”
Kitt thought of how he had played her-how she had fit the pieces together just as he had expected her to. “And Joe’s number on Brian’s phone log?”
“Never there. I put the log together, simply added his number. Who was going to check up on me?”
She glanced at Joe again, sick with guilt. How could she have suspected him of this?
“Don’t feel too bad,” Snowe said softly, as if reading her mind. “You got the locker contents belonging to a woman right, that the SAK was a cop. So you scored a few rounds. Which, by the way, brings me to you.
“In our calls, I was honest with you. I chose you because we’re two of a kind. We’ve been hurt by those who should have loved us. We’re fighters. Fallen cops. And because, despite being broken, there’s so much strength in you.”
“You were in my house.”
“Several times.”
“You read my journal.”
It wasn’t a question, but he grinned and answered anyway. “Yes. Very enjoyable reading, by the way.” He lowered his voice, tone becoming almost tender. “This could have gone either way.”
“It went my way. It’s over for you.”
He shook his head. “I so admire your spunk. You’re going to die, Kitten. And so is Riggio and your beloved Joe. I’m sorry.”
Lance looked sick. “I don’t want us to hurt them, Scott.”
“Of course you don’t. Because you’re weak. I’ll take care of them. I’ll take care of us. The way I always have. It’s you and me, buddy. Like it’s always been.”
“But Mary Catherine-”
“You don’t love her. She used you-”
“That’s not true!” M.C. said, sounding desperate. “Don’t listen, Lance, he’s-”
“You, shut up!”
“She said she’d help me,” Lance said. “That she’d help us.”
“She’s a liar.” Snowe all but spat the words. “Did Mother ever help you? Did she ever help us?”
When Lance shook his head, he went on, “Who was the only one who ever helped you?”
“You, Scott. But-” He drew a deep breath, as if screwing up his courage. “We’re not going to kill them.”
“We’re not?”
“We’re going to let them go.”
Snowe narrowed his eyes. “And why would we do that? Don’t be such a pussy, Lance. Jesus, you disgust me.”
“Don’t let him talk to you that way!” M.C. cried. “You’re not stupid! Not worthless! I loved you.”
“It’s over, Scott. I’m going to free them.” He started toward M.C. “You can run if you wa-”
Snowe pulled Kitt’s gun from the waistband of his pants, aimed and shot Lance in the back.
His brother stopped dead and looked back at his brother. “Scott?” he said. “Sco-”
Then he went down.
Snowe stared at him a moment, blinking against tears. “You always needed my direction and I respected that. I took care of you. But since you don’t need me anymore…Too bad, little bro.”
They were next. Kitt looked at M.C. She was struggling against the duct tape. Joe stirred and moaned, and even as her heart leaped with joy that he was alive, she acknowledged the emotion would be short-lived.
Her only hope was that the sheriff’s deputy would swing by, realize something was amiss and investigate.
Every moment counted. If she could keep him talking, buy them some time, maybe they would live through this.
It was a slim chance, but it was the only one they had.
“You seem pretty cocky for someone who’s going to be arrested for serial murder.”
He grinned. “Now you’re talking crazy. Nobody besides the people in this room know I had anything to do with this. Lance was neck-deep in it, but not me.”
“The Smith amp; Wesson,” she reminded him. “Traced to you. Traced here-”
He cut her off with a laugh. “Traced to Lance. I was sent to a home for kids. I was fourteen, too old to be adopted. As soon as I was old enough, me and a buddy were emancipated. He came to an untimely end, very sad. I took his identity. It was no big deal. A couple of kids with no family to speak of.”
“I was wondering how-” she struggled to focus her scrambled thoughts “-how your family history had flown under the RPD…radar. No way they would have hired you if…known your old man was doing life for-”
“Whacking my mother. Exactly.”
“So what’s your plan?” M.C. asked.
“You all die. Lance takes the rap. It’s all sown up nice and neat.”
“What ab’t th’photos?” Kitt slurred the words and she wondered how much blood she had lost. How long before she lost consciousness.
“What about them?” he asked.
M.C. jumped in. “They have your signature all over them.”
“They go with me, of course. I couldn’t leave them, they’re my masterpieces.”
Visual trophies.
“The lock of hair,” Kitt asked, “was it from one of the angels?”
Snowe didn’t respond and she realized she hadn’t actually voiced the thought.
“Disobeying the chief’s direct order,” Snowe was saying, as if from a great distance. “Now you’re all going to die. What were you thinking?”
“I know why Lance did it,” M.C. said. “Why he resurrected the SAK.”
“That so, genius?”
“To get away from you. He wanted to get caught. Because you’re as bad as your father. No, you’re worse. Mean. A bully and a brute.”
He swun
g toward her, trembling. “You don’t know dick.”
“You grew up to be just like him. How does it feel to-”
“I’m not like him,” he said, leveling his gun at her. “Time to shut up, Detective Rigg-”
The sound of a gun discharging drowned out his words. Not Snowe’s gun. Lance’s. He had dragged himself to his knees and shot his brother. The bullet tore into Snowe’s chest; he brought his hand to the wound, face blank with shock. He made a move, as if to try to aim; Lance squeezed off another shot. It hit Snowe lower this time, his abdomen. His body jerked and he sank to his knees.
Kitt tried to call out, to beg Lance to free M.C. With horror, she saw him swing toward Joe. He was sobbing. Stumbling. He meant to kill them.
She closed her eyes, drifting, flying. She heard voices, an explosion, a scream…
And then nothing at all.
74
Thursday, March 23, 2006
10:50 a.m.
“Hey, partner,” M.C. called softly, tapping on the door to Kitt’s hospital room. “Can I come in?”
Kitt looked up and smiled. She had awakened in a hospital bed, disoriented and hooked up to all sorts of bells and whistles.
And confused. How had she gone from the Dekalb safe room to OSF St. Anthony Medical Center in Rockford?
Turns out, Lance had freed M.C., then turned the Smith amp; Wesson on himself. A single shot to the head.
She waved the other woman in. “Please.”
“You look good,” M.C. said. “Considering.”
“Considering” was right. After awakening, she’d learned that due to blood loss, she’d fallen unconscious. Luckily, M.C.’s 911 call had yielded a near immediate ambulance. The EMTs had done their thing, then the doctors. One surgery and a boatload of meds later, there she was.
“What’s the latest?” she asked. M.C. pulled a chair over to the bed and sat. “Sal’s ass is so chapped at you. Deep shit, Detective.”
“I figured the worst. He hasn’t been in.”
M.C. grinned. “Actually, you’re going to be okay. He’s using a medicated ointment that consists mostly of self-aggrandizement and credit-hogging. I expect you’ll get a slap on the wrists for disobeying a direct order. More for show than anything else. If not for you, Snowe might have gotten away with it.”
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