“Did we hit a nerve?” Sorenstein teased.
Snowe snickered. “What? Is Lundgren getting to you?”
“Not at all, boys, just enjoying the show.”
She ignored their laughter, sipped her wine and listened to the rest of the comic’s routine about growing up outside the Italian circle, looking in on them.
When he finished, she clapped loudly. He shot her a big smile, bowed and exited the stage. A moment later, he joined them at the bar. M.C. smiled at him. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Thank you. I need that.” The bartender set a beer in front of him, obviously on the house. He took a long swallow, then glanced back at her. “Let me guess, you’re family.”
He was referring to her ethnicity, she knew. And with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin tone, she knew she looked the part. One hundred percent. She smiled. “You were very funny. Right on target.”
“Thank you, Mary Catherine.”
“Call me M.C. So tell me, how has your family reacted to your choice of comedic subject matter?”
“They hired Uncle Tony to take care of me.”
“Uncle Tony?” she repeated, lips lifting. “An enforcer?”
“Much worse. An ambulance-chasing shark in a suit. He threatened me with a defamation of character lawsuit.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. I told him to bring it on.” He took a swallow of his beer. “So what’s your story?”
“I’m the youngest of six. And the only girl.”
“I’m sitting next to royalty, then.” He mock bowed. “Princess Mary Catherine.”
“In the form of a cop.”
He held up his glass in a mock toast. “To a fellow rebel and outsider.”
An outsider? She had never thought of herself quite that way, but it certainly fit. She was one of them and loved, but different. And not just because she didn’t fit the mold of her ancestors. Her profession made her different, as well. The way she lived. The violence and inhumanity she saw on a daily basis.
“Is this a private party, or can anybody join in?”
That came from Brian, who seemed to have given up on the bartender. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood. “It’s your party now, guys. I’m beat.”
As she walked away, she looked back at Lance Castrogiovanni. He caught her glance and smiled. She returned the smile, wondering if she would see him again-and hoping that she would.
11
Thursday, March 9, 2006
7:20 a.m.
Kitt stood at the grave site, shivering in the early-morning chill. The stone read:
Our Beloved “Peanut”
Sadie Marie Lundgren
September 10, 1990-April 4, 2001
Kitt visited Sadie at least once a week. Laid fresh flowers on her grave, removed the dead ones. Today it was daisies.
She looked up at the gray sky, longing suddenly for real spring. Bright sun and blue sky.
“Something bad’s happened, sweetheart. He’s back. That man who killed those girls. And I’m-”
She struggled to speak past the lump that formed in her throat. Even after all the time that had passed, she still choked up at moments like this.
“I’m afraid,” she went on. “For other girls. But for me, too. I can’t…start drinking again. I can’t let it…let him take over my life.
“Not that I have-” She shook her head and bit off the thought. She wouldn’t go there. Wouldn’t burden her sweet child with her problems.
“I hope you’re happy. That it’s good there.” She paused. “I think about you every day, baby. I love you.”
She bent and straightened the flowers, hating to go. Wishing with all her heart that staying would bring her daughter back. Finally she forced herself to take a step back from the grave site. To turn, walk away.
Her cell phone rang as she reached the walkway. She simultaneously answered and glanced back.
“Lundgren here.”
“Hello, Kitt.”
The hair at the back of her neck prickled. The Sleeping Angel Killer. How had he gotten her cell number?
“I’m at a disadvantage,” she said. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
“You know who I am.”
“I know who you say you are.”
“Yes.” He paused. “So, did you arrange what I asked?”
“I talked to my chief.”
“And?”
“He’s taking your request seriously.”
“But not seriously enough to give you the case.”
“PDs don’t work that way.”
“Another girl’s going to die,” he said. “You can stop it.”
“How?” she asked, heart beating faster. “How can I stop it?”
“I committed perfect crimes. This one’s a cheap imitator. He’ll move fast. Too fast. He won’t plan. The Copycat doesn’t know my secrets.”
“What secrets?” She gripped the phone tightly, working to keep excitement from her voice. To keep it cool, even. “Tell me, so I can help.”
“I know your secret, Kitt.”
His voice had turned sly. She frowned. “What secret would you be referring to?”
“You could have caught me. But you were drunk. That’s why you fell. It was a stupid mistake on my part. But I didn’t make another, did I?”
Kitt couldn’t speak. The past rushed up, choking her. A call had come into the department. A mother, insisting her daughter was being targeted by the SAK. That she was being stalked.
During that time, they had gotten so many calls like that, hundreds. The department checked them all out, but they simply didn’t have the manpower to watch every nine-and ten-year-old girl in Rockford.
But something about this mother’s claim, about this girl…she’d had a feeling. The chief had refused to fund it, had reminded Kitt of her fragile emotional state.
They had buried Sadie the week before.
So, she had broken one of the cardinal rules of police work-she’d gone solo. Set up her own after-hours stakeout.
Night after night she had sat outside that girl’s house. Just her and her little flask. The flask that chased the cold away.
At least that’s what she had told herself. It had been a lie, of course. The flask had been about chasing the pain away.
A week into it, she had seen him. A man who didn’t belong. She should have called for backup. Instead, she’d given chase.
Or tried. By that time, she had been stumbling drunk. She’d fallen, hit her head and been knocked unconscious. When she’d come to, he’d been long gone.
He had never given them another chance.
The chief had been furious. The SAK could have killed her. He could have taken her gun, used it on her or others.
