He moved his gaze between them, looking uneasy. “When I saw them on TV, I thought they looked familiar, but I see so many kids. Now that I know they…Oh, man, this is really horrible. How can I help?”

“What kind of screening do you put prospective employees through?”

“Criminal-background check with the state police and a drug test. We ask for references, which we check.”

“You get many adults in here without children?”

“We’re real careful about that. The Fun Zone prides itself on being a safe place for kids. We advertise it.”

He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a package of wristbands. “They’re numbered-a family or group all have the same number on their bands. We check wristbands as people exit. A child is never allowed to leave without the adult they registered with.

“In addition, an adult walks in solo, without a kid, my door employee is instructed to ask what party or group they’re meeting. If they’re not, they call me or one of my assistants and we suggest they’ve come to the wrong place. I mean, what kind of adult would come here for fun? Get real.”

“What about video surveillance?” Kitt asked.

“At the front entrance and in both restrooms. Also at the registers.”

“Do you save the tapes?”

He shook his head. “They turn over every seventy-two hours. They’re mainly for insurance liability.”

M.C. leaned forward. “We’ll need any tapes you have. Plus, from this minute on, no rolling over.”

“But-”

She didn’t give him a chance to argue. “In addition, I’m going to need to get a list of your employees. Current and terminated in the past year.”

For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair. “Like I said, M.C., the Fun Zone prides itself on being a safe environment for kids. If-”

“If what, ZZ? If Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest’s killer found them here, you wouldn’t want the press to find out? Afraid it might hurt business?”

He flushed. “Of course not. But our employees are clean. Hell, most of ’em are teenagers.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Right?”

He reached for the phone. “Let me get Mr. Dale. He’s the owner, so it’s his call.”

M.C. ended up speaking with the man herself. She convinced him that actually, in the end, it was their call. He instructed his manager to give them whatever they needed; M.C. promised she would do her best to keep the Fun Zone out of the news.

They left with a list of the Fun Zone’s employees, both part-and full-time; the records from the day of both girls’ parties and forty-eight hours of the play place’s video surveillance.

As they belted into M.C.’s Ford, Kitt looked at her. “Angel of mercy? No offense, but I can’t see it.”

“He’s forgotten I refused to do it unless they each gave me fifteen bucks.”

“There’s the Mary Catherine Riggio I’ve come to know.”

“Hey, it beat the hell out of Mom and Dad finding out. Max would have been grounded for the rest of his life.” She eased away from the curb. “By the way, remind me never to have kids.”

Kitt turned to her. “Why’s that?”

“One visit to that place is enough for a lifetime.”

“It’s not quite as bad when you’re there with your own kid. They love it so much, it sort of eases the pain.”

M.C. grimaced. “Like I said, remind me never to have kids.”

“Do you really mean that?”

M.C. thought of Benjamin, how much she loved him. “Sure,” she said. “Who needs ’em. You’ve got to admit, they’re nothing but troub-”

As soon as the words passed her lips, she realized her mistake. “I’m sorry, Kitt. I wasn’t thinking, I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, looking away. M.C. noticed Kitt’s hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to kick herself. Of all the stupid, graceless and insensitive things she could have said. “I’m such a jerk. Really, I’m sorry.”

Kitt shook her head. “Forget about it. Let’s talk about the case.”

M.C. jumped at the familiar-and comfortable-territory. “It’s going on seven. Your choice. Keep going or call it a night?”

“I vote we run these names through the computer. See how far we get.”

“You got it,” M.C. replied, heading for the Whitman Street Bridge. “To hell with Friday night.”

20

Friday, March 10, 2006

10:35 p.m.

They made it three-quarters of the way through the list before M.C. suggested they call it quits. She was tired and hungry, and the most exciting thing they had turned up was a DWI, Driving While Intoxicated. Kitt had agreed and they’d planned to resume the next morning-there was no such thing as a weekend off when neck-deep in a high-profile homicide investigation.

M.C. was beginning to think they’d gotten their hopes up for nothing. Truth was, the Fun Zone could still be the link, but their UNSUB could be some freak with kids of his own. He brings his own kid in, looks like Dad of the Year; whole time he’s scouting his next pretty little victim.

That scenario would make him much more difficult to nail. M.C. eased into her driveway, shifted into Park, but made no move to kill the engine or get out of the car. She’d left Kitt at the computer only because she had assured M.C. she would be on the road five minutes behind her. M.C. let out a long breath, thinking of the day. Of Kitt. The pain in her eyes and voice as she had spoken of her daughter-and of her regrets.

And of her parting words tonight, as M.C. had headed home.

“Hey, Riggio.” She had stopped, looked back at her. “For the record, being a mom was the best thing I ever did.”

A lump formed in M.C.’s throat. The image of Marianne Vest filled her head, followed in quick succession by one of Julie Entzel’s mother in her robe and slippers at four in the afternoon.

They made all her little dramas seem pretty insignificant. M.C. swallowed hard, gazing at her dark house. She hadn’t left a porch light on. She didn’t own a dog, cat or any other creature.

Growing up in a house with five boisterous brothers and a constant menagerie of pets, friends and relatives underfoot, she had looked forward to someday living alone. To having her personal space, to using the bathroom whenever she needed to, no waiting. To spending as long as she wanted in the shower, without fear of running out of hot water.

Quiet. Calm. Just the way she liked it.

So why didn’t she want to go inside?

Because she couldn’t face the quiet tonight. Not yet, anyway. She needed people. A few laughs. A drink or two. Or four.

But where to go? Buster’s Bar, she decided, and acted on the impulse. She checked her rearview mirror, shifted her SUV into Reverse and backed down the drive.

She made it across town to Five Points in fifteen minutes. Unlike the other night, the place was packed. And instead of funny man Lance Castrogiovanni on the stage, a country-western singer was attempting a version of Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine.”

M.C. wound her way through the crowd to the bar. There she saw Brian Spillare and several of his RPD buddies. Judging by the decibel of their laughter, they had been there a while.

Brian caught sight of her and waved her over. The group made room, and Brian ordered her a glass of wine. “I was just thinking about you,” he said.

She let that pass, though it set her teeth on edge. “Really, Lieutenant?”

“So formal?” He swayed slightly on his feet. “It’s Friday night, loosen up.”

“Looks to me like you’re loose enough for both of us.” The bartender set her wineglass in front of her. After paying for it, she turned back to him. “Is your wife with you? I’d love to tell her hello.”

“Nope. She’s having a girls’ night out. I’m a free man.”

Oh, brother. She couldn’t believe she had fallen for his lines, naive rookie or not. “Lucky her. Excuse me, Lieutenant, I have-”

He caught her arm. “I need to talk to you, M.C. Privately.”