Copycat. Erica Spindler

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СКАЧАТЬ getting a “boy toy.” She supposed that Danny, at thirty-six, would qualify.

      Kitt gazed into the mirror, imagining taking off her clothes in front of him.

      The thought horrified her. She’d had a baby, for Pete’s sake. Not only had she cleared her fortieth birthday—she was facing her fiftieth. She lifted her tee and stared at her aging body. She wasn’t overweight, but she was out of shape. Falling in all the wrong places. Going soft where she was supposed to be firm. Dear God, what had happened to her knees? When had it happened?

      Kitt dropped the tee and turned away from the mirror. When was the last time she’d worked out? She couldn’t remember exactly. Before Sadie died, for sure. Ditto for going for a run.

      Pitiful. She was a police officer. How would she run down a suspect? Fend off an attacker?

       “Call me Peanut.”

      She narrowed her eyes. This son of a bitch meant business. He claimed to be a killer. And he had singled her out for fun and games, psychotic style.

      She marched to her closet, dug out her running shoes, then crossed to the dresser for socks and jogging pants.

      The time for being soft and vulnerable was yesterday. She meant business, too.

      After dressing, Kitt clipped a can of mace to her waistband and strapped on an ankle holster. She wasn’t about to take any chances, not with a maniac stalking her.

      There was a lighted track at the high school, three blocks away. The route there was fairly well lit and rarely deserted. She collected her keys and headed out.

      The run exhausted her. Toward the end, she felt as if her heart was going to burst from her chest. She never hit that place where the endorphins kicked in and you forgot the pain. Her legs and lower back ached, she was out of breath and sweating like a pig.

      She could imagine Mary Catherine Riggio’s expression if she saw her now. Or any of the guys. She’d be the watercooler joke-of-the-day.

       So unbelievably uncool.

      Kitt made her way home, grateful for the dark. For the opportunity to lick her wounded ego in private. Tomorrow, she would hit the gym. The shooting range wasn’t a bad idea, either.

      As she neared her house, she saw that something had been tacked to her front door. A note, she saw.

      She climbed the stairs, crossed to the door. The note read:

       Saw you on TV. Good girl. I’ll be in touch. Love, Peanut.

      15

       Friday, March 10, 2006 12:30 a.m.

      The angel slept now. Golden hair spread across her pillow. Frilly gown carefully arranged. Just so.

      She slept—but not beautifully. Not perfectly. Her blue eyes were wide with terror; her perfect bow mouth twisted into a sort of howl.

       Horrible. Grotesque.

      Trembling, he applied the lip gloss, smearing it. He attempted to dab up the mess, but his hands shook so badly, he made it worse. Tears stung his eyes and he fought them.

       Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t leave any bodily fluids behind.

      He backed away from the bed, to the wall. He sank to the floor and brought his knees to his chest. He clutched them, hands sweating inside the latex gloves. He felt ill. Light-headed. The angel had awakened. She had been afraid. Terrified. She had fought him. The terror and fight had ruined her. Made her ugly.

      The Other One would be angry. Furious.

      He was always watching. Judging him. Ready to scold. Criticize.

      He was sick of it. And he was tired. So damn tired he sometimes felt he could close his eyes and sleep forever.

      What if he did? Simply went to sleep, never to awaken. Like one of their sweet angels? Or if he disappeared, slipped away into the night? What would the Other One do then? How could he survive?

      His mind raced; his heart beat crazily. The room spun slightly. He rested his head on his knees, struggling for control. He breathed deeply. Slowly. Remembering all the things the Other One had told him.

      Stay calm. Think first, then act. Take care not to leave anything behind.

      He had shown him all the tricks. Remembering them calmed him. Little by little, his heart slowed. His sweat dried.

      The angel’s bedside clock glowed hot pink. He watched as the minutes ticked by. He had to wait. For the hands. To pose them.

      They were his. All his. Important. A surprise.

      Yes, he had surprised the Other One. A difficult, near-Herculean feat. He had weathered the fury that had ensued. The punishments.

      But strangely, in the end, the Other One had been pleased.

      Who knew? Maybe tonight’s surprise would please him as well.

      16

       Friday, March 10, 2006 7:10 a.m.

      M.C. parked in front of the single-story, ranch-style home. The first officers had already cordoned off the area; one stood at the perimeter, the other was in the house with the victim.

      She’d gotten the call as she stepped out of the shower; she hadn’t even taken the time to dry her hair. She needed a shot of caffeine—badly—but would have to make due with the cup of instant coffee she had downed on the way across town.

      She swung out of her vehicle, shivering as the cold morning air hit her wet head. She hunched into her jacket, irritated with the cold, longing for spring.

      Tullocks Woods. An odd choice of neighborhood for the SAK—or his copycat—to choose, certainly different from the last. Located on the far west side, heavily wooded with large lots, the area was well removed from everything else.

      A destination, M.C. thought, frowning. Neither a thoroughfare nor adjacent to one. An unfamiliar vehicle would stick out like a sore thumb.

      She’d had a couple of high school friends who had lived here. They’d hosted parties down at the neighborhood clubhouse—the Powwow Club. One of them had gone on to write murder mysteries.

      A murder here was hitting way too close to home.

      She slammed her car door and started up the walk. Behind her, she heard the sound of others arriving. No doubt the ID guys. Lundgren. The brass.

      M.C. recognized the first officer from the range. Jenkins. Real young. A great shot.

      She signed the log. “What’ve we got?” she asked.

      “Ten-year-old girl. Marianne Vest. Appears to have been suffocated.”

      “Parents?”

      “Divorced. СКАЧАТЬ