Copycat. Erica Spindler

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      “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.”

      10

       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.

      “That so?” he asked, taking a swallow of his draft.

      She ordered a glass of red wine, then turned back to him. “Thought you could update me on the Entzel evidence.”

      “And here I thought it was my personality that interested you.”

      “Yeah, right.”

      “There’s not much to update, unfortunately. The window proved a bust. Only prints on it were on the inside and belonged to the girl and her parents. Our perp no doubt wore gloves.”

      “Any hair? Fiber?”

      “Not my area. Ask about the photos.”

      “Consider yourself asked.”

      “Dropped them on your desk on the way out tonight. Where were you? Little girls’ room?”

      She ignored that. “How do they look?”

      “Works of art. What did you expect from a master?”

      She rolled her eyes. “Nice ego.”

      “Yo, Riggio,” Sorenstein said, interrupting the two. “I like a bar that caters to the city’s underbelly.”

      “Bite me, bug man,” she shot back.

      Nick Sorenstein was ID’s forensic entomologist. He was the lucky one who got to collect bugs and larvae from corpses. It was an area that had required considerable advanced training—and earned him never-ending ribbing.

      Snowe took a swallow of the beer. “Riggio here was just asking about hair and fiber from the Entzel scene.”

      “Some interesting dark-colored fiber,” Sorenstein said. “Retrieved from the bedding and the window casing. Our guy was wearing black.”

      “Now, that is unusual.”

      “A lot of cat hair,” Sorenstein continued, ignoring her sarcasm. “They have a long-haired cat named Whiskers. It’s all at the lab. Analysis takes time.”

      “Time I don’t have.”

      Brian, yuking it up with the man she didn’t recognize, saw her then and grinned. “Hey, M.C. Meet our new friend. Lance Castr’gi’vanni.”

      The way he mangled the name told her he had been at the bar longer than was healthy.

      “Castrogiovanni,” the man corrected, holding out a hand.

      She took it. “Mary Catherine Riggio.”

      “Nice meeting you, but I’ve got to go. I’m on.”

      A moment later she understood what he meant. It was Comedy Night and Lance Castrogiovanni was the entertainment.

      She hoped he was funny; she could use a good laugh.

      “Bet I could bench-press that guy, he’s so thin,” Snowe said. “Think he’d be pissed if I tried?”

      That brought a round of drunken yuks. Guy humor, she supposed. But he was probably right. Detective Scott Snowe wasn’t a big man, but he was strong. She regularly saw him in the gym; a couple of times they had spotted each other at the bench press. He pressed something like two-fifty.

      And the comic, now monologuing about his pathetic childhood, was tall, rail thin and redheaded.

      “Actually,” СКАЧАТЬ