She prayed she was wrong.
Lance tightened his arms. “Ignore it?”
“I can’t.” She stepped out of his arms. The phone screamed again.
She hurried to the other room, grabbing her gun on the way. When she snatched up the phone, she saw from the display that it was, indeed, headquarters.
She answered. “Riggio.”
“We’ve got another girl, Detective.”
She hated it when she was right.
While the dispatcher filled her in, she turned to the doorway. Lance had followed her. He stood there watching, expression concerned.
“I’m on my way,” she finished, then ended the call.
“You have to go.”
“Yes. I wish I didn’t but-”
“I understand. Go.”
She collected the remainder of her clothing, started toward the bathroom, then stopped and looked back at him. “Another girl is dead.”
He spread his hands, expression helpless. “I’m sorry. What can I do?”
“Think of me while I’m gone?”
“Nothing but you.”
She crossed to him, pressed a kiss to his mouth, then went to dress.
41
Friday, March 17, 2006
5:20 a.m.
When M.C. arrived at the scene, she saw that Kitt was already there. She parked beside the Taurus and got out. She gazed at the vehicle, at the words scraped into its dark gray paint and frowned. Don’t blink? What was that all about?
She found Kitt sitting on the home’s front step. “What the hell happened to your car?”
“Peanut. He left me a message.”
The other woman’s voice was curiously devoid of emotion. “When?”
“Last night, I guess. I noticed it around midnight.”
M.C. wanted to ask what occasion led her to her car at 12:00 a.m. but let the question pass in favor of another. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a warning about the little girls. To stay on my guard. To watch them carefully. If I don’t, one will-”
She bit back the word. M.C. knew what it was-die. “This isn’t your fault, Kitt.”
She lifted her face. Her eyes were red. “This is number three.”
M.C. nodded. “You’ve been inside?”
“Briefly.”
“Detective Riggio?” That came from the officer standing at the edge of the sidewalk.
She turned. “Yes?”
He held out a clipboard. “Could you sign in, please?”
She’d walked right past him, she realized. “Of course. Sorry.”
She signed in, scanning the log as she did. ID. Sal. The Sarge. Looked like everybody but the chief of police himself. She wouldn’t be surprised if he made an appearance, too. “Anything I should know?” she asked.
“I’ve filled Detective Lundgren in.”
“Good. Thanks.”
M.C. turned back to her partner. “Kitt? Are you all right?”
“Puked in the bushes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I threw up.” She dragged a hand through her hair. M.C. saw that it shook badly. “You going to go to the chief with that? Have me pulled from the investigation?”
“Do I need to?”
“Fuck you.”
M.C. didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched between them until Kitt cleared her throat. “Victim doesn’t fit the profile. She’s a brunette. Very brunette. Brown eyes.”
“A brunette,” M.C. repeated, processing what this meant. “His ritual is changing.”
“Or maybe he’s just giving up the pretense of being the SAK. He knows we’re onto him.”
“We suspect he’s not,” she corrected. “Is everything else the same?”
Kitt stood. With the light directly on her face, M.C. saw how tired she was. “From what I could tell, yes. The nightgown, the lip gloss, the posed hands. She was smothered. It looks as if he came in the window.”
“The scene?”
“Looks clean.” Kitt took a deep breath. “Mother thought she heard something and came to check on her daughter.”
“When was that?”
“Fourish. Found her this way. Called 911.”
“Father?”
“MIA. Six years now.”
“Any reason to suspect him?”
“From what I’ve heard so far, no. He took off and the mother said ‘good riddance.’ She never even tried to tap him for child support.”
“Name?”
“Webber. Catherine. Mother’s Marge. A friend’s with her.” Kitt stuffed her hands into her windbreaker’s pockets. “I don’t think he’s going to stop with three.”
“We don’t know that, Kitt.” M.C. said it as firmly as she could, but Kitt didn’t respond. M.C. sensed she was mired in her own dark thoughts.
They headed into the home. Modest. Neat. Tiny foyer. Equally tiny dining room to the right, family room to the left.
Two women sat on the couch. M.C. had no trouble picking out the victim’s mother. She caught M.C.’s eyes before she could look away.
Their gazes held. Something in the mother’s affected her like a slap. Before she realized what was happening, Marge Webber was on her feet and across the room. She grabbed M.C.’s right arm. “You let this happen!” she cried. “How could you do that?”
M.C. stared at her, shocked.
“She’s not blond!” The woman tightened her fingers; they dug into M.C.’s arm. “Her eyes are brown! Not blue!”
Mary Catherine couldn’t find her voice. Even if she could have, she didn’t know what she would say.
“Marge, honey,” the friend cooed, crossing to them, “come on, sweetheart.”
“No! No!” Her voice rose, taking on a hysterical edge. “My baby!” she wailed. “He’s taken my baby!”
After prying the woman’s fingers from M.C.’s arm, she drew her away. As M.C. watched, Marge Webber crumbled, sobbing in her friend’s arms.
M.C. realized she was shaking. That her chest was tight. She struggled to breathe evenly. Past the guilt that had her in a choke hold.
Now she understood Kitt, her obsession, her actions. Marge Webber had made her understand.
“Any means necessary,” she muttered.
“What?”
