Why? He cocked his head. She was blonde and blue-eyed and pretty. But the others had been also.
No, this one was special because of Kitt. He had made a threat. And a promise. A threat to the little girls around his Kitten.
And a promise to himself. To win. At all costs.
She cared about the girls. Hurt them and he hurt her. And this one she would blame herself for.
Funny, now that he had determined her punishment, and realized how utterly effective it would be-he wasn’t angry with her. Yes, she had defied him again. Challenged him again. But he saw it as fighting spirit. And truly appropriate.
He leaned against the park bench and let the sweet breeze flow over him. What a devastating blow it would be to her when this girl died. Poor Kitten. Would she be able to overcome it? Would it send her back to the bottle? Or maybe, this time, for her service weapon.
One shot to the head and all the pain would go away.
A part of him hoped she took that path. She had endured so much already. But another part was rooting for her to fight on.
Interesting how attached he had become. How connected to her struggles.
It was too bad this scenario could only have one outcome-Kitt Lundgren’s death.
38
Thursday, March 16, 2006
6:20 p.m.
M.C. stood at her kitchen window, leftovers Melody had dropped off earlier heating in the microwave. She and Benjamin had stayed for animal crackers and a chat. Ben, of course, had been more interested in the crackers than the talking. M.C. had learned that in her absence at the previous evening’s dinner she had been her mother’s main course.
The microwave chimed and she retrieved the cannelloni. She carried the plate to the table, sat but didn’t eat. Truth was, she wasn’t all that hungry. M.C. hated the position Kitt had put her in. She had overlooked Kitt’s lapse into the bottle. Now she expected her to overlook this. What next?
She had done as she’d threatened and boycotted Kitt’s meeting with the chief. A small thing, but one Sal would make note of. Even so, she wasn’t at all certain that move had been the right one.
Yes, Kitt had acted outside protocol. But it had been a ballsy move. The “no guts, no glory” kind that sometimes paid off big-time.
M.C. wasn’t a gambler. She couldn’t afford to be associated with risky behavior. Brash, ballsy cops weren’t the ones who became chief of detectives, let alone the chief of police. Because those big risks backfired as often as they paid off.
No, the cops who climbed the ladder were steady. They followed protocol, were brilliant strategists and excellent politicians. Admittedly, she had a ways to go in those areas, but she had time. If she kept her eyes on her goals, she would achieve them.
The doorbell rang and for a second she thought it was the microwave again. She made her way to the door, peeked out the sidelight. Brian Spillare stood on her porch, hands jammed into the pockets of his faded blue jeans.
She opened the door. “Brian? What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
She hesitated, then opened the door wider. He stepped through and she closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”
“I needed someone to talk to. Someone I could trust.”
An epidemic, apparently. At this moment no one would be better to discuss Kitt with than Brian. After all, he had been her partner.
She smiled. “Coincidentally, so do I. How about a cup of coffee?”
“You have anything stronger?”
Typical Brian. “Beer?”
“Perfect.”
He followed her into the kitchen. His standing in the doorway that way brought back memories. Ones that weren’t unpleasant, but had no place in their present relationship.
“Something smells awfully good.”
“Leftovers of Mama’s cannelloni.”
She thought about offering him some but didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Sharing a meal in her small kitchen was just a little too intimate for comfort.
She handed him the longneck bottle, eschewing a glass. He had always preferred drinking out of a bottle. She was pretty certain in his case it was somehow a phallic thing-the man really was all about his ding-dong.
“Thanks.” He took the beer. Their fingers brushed and she drew her hand away.
“You’re not drinking?” he asked.
“No. Not tonight.”
He rolled the bottle between his palms. “Ivy kicked me out.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. And she was. Not that she blamed the woman. She had certainly put up with a lot in her years married to the hard-partying cop. “Maybe she’ll take you back? She has before.”
“I might not want her back.” He took another swallow of the brew. “Other fish and all that.”
They had been married twenty-some years and had three children together and “other fish” was what he had to say? No wonder she kicked him out. You go, girl.
“You wanted to talk to me about something?” she asked.
“Us.”
“Oh, please.” She pushed away from the counter, irritated. “I don’t have time for this.”
He caught her arm. “Can you just listen?”
“Brian-”
“I’ve never gotten over you.”
She stood stiffly, working to control her annoyance. “This is so interesting, Brian. Your wife kicks you out and suddenly you’ve never gotten over me.”
“It’s true.”
She shook her head, disgusted. With him, his adolescent behavior. With herself for ever getting involved with him. And for allowing him into her home tonight.
“We shared nothing but a few weeks of sex.”
“But it was great sex.”
She shook off his hand. “Grow up, Brian.”
He took a step forward, weaving slightly. “That’d hurt if I believed you really felt that way.”
He’d been drinking. Dammit, why hadn’t she noticed that before she let him in?
“I think you should go.”
“Don’t be that way, baby.”
He made a move to grab her; she sidestepped him. This situation presented a big problem. The man was a superior officer. Well liked and well connected within the force. He could make trouble for her. The kind of trouble that could affect her climb up the ladder.
She eased toward the front door. “I’m seeing someone. Regularly.”
“It doesn’t have to be love. It can just be fun.”
“Not interested, Lieutenant. Please go.”
M.C. reached the front door. She grabbed the knob; he laid his hand over hers. “Who’re you seeing? Not that
