The interior hallway was dimly illuminated by the one bulb that wasn’t burned out. It smelled musty, as if it needed a good airing out, and of someone’s dinner.

Cabbage, M.C. guessed. Nasty stuff. Luckily, Italians didn’t eat a lot of cooked cabbage.

“Third floor,” Kitt murmured. “Unit D.”

They climbed the stairs and made their way down the corridor to D. Music spilled from the apartment across the hall. Kitt rapped on Todd’s door. It creaked, then swung open.

Kitt glanced at M.C., who nodded. Kitt drew her weapon, then rapped on the door again, pushing it wider with her foot. “Derrick Todd?” she called. “Police.”

Nothing. M.C. snapped on the pencil light and directed it into the interior. A crappy dump. Kid was no housekeeper, either.

Kitt looked at her again, for confirmation. M.C. nodded. “Door was open. Justifiable entry. We were concerned about the man’s health.”

Kitt turned back to the apartment. “We’re coming in, Mr. Todd. Just to make sure you’re okay.”

Yeah, right. M.C. drew her weapon. They made their way into the apartment.

There was little to it other than the front room. Kid slept on a dirty-looking futon. The small bathroom didn’t even have a tub, just a stand-up shower. The place was a mess, but not the kind that indicated foul play.

M.C. itched to take advantage of the situation and initiate a real search. But anything they found would then be inadmissible-and their asses would be in a major, big-time sling.

If Todd proved to be a good suspect-which she believed he would-securing a search warrant would be a piece of cake.

Back in the hallway, Kitt belted the flashlight. She repositioned the door as they had found it. Music still blasted from the neighbor’s apartment. Other than that the floor was quiet.

They made their way downstairs and outside. After they had climbed into the SUV, Kitt turned to her. “Want to hang around? See if Todd shows up?”

“I’m game.”

“You got anything to eat in this vehicle?”

“Bag of nuts and some soy chips.”

“Soy chips?” Kitt repeated. “Very uncoplike. Now, if you’d said pork rinds or pretzels, I might have bought it.”

M.C. opened the console compartment, pulled out two snack bags. “Something’s got to balance all my mother’s pasta. They’re actually not bad.”

“I’ll take the nuts. Thanks.”

M.C. watched the woman rip open the bag and begin to eat. She most probably hadn’t had a thing since the sandwich and chips late that afternoon.

She was an interesting woman, M.C. decided. Certainly not the “head case” she had labeled her. She was extremely focused. Smart. Ambitious. She could see how those traits could, under the right circumstances, mushroom into obsession.

The right circumstances. The death of your own child, the murder of several others, an elusive killer and a pressure-cooker investigation.

Kitt shook out some nuts, popped them into her mouth. “Cashews. My favorite.”

“Mine, too. A guilty pleasure.”

Kitt nodded as she munched on the nuts. “Weight’s never been one of my issues. Don’t know why. I enjoy eating.”

“It’s my heritage,” M.C. said. “Italian women get to a certain age and unless they’re careful, they get round. Very round.”

“Your Mom?”

“Round. Very.”

“My Mom was svelte until the day she died.”

“When was that?”

“A couple years ago.”

Her daughter. Her marriage. Her mother. She had lost them all in a matter of a few years. M.C. couldn’t imagine. “I’m sorry.”

She said the words, though they felt lame to her own ears. Inadequate.

Kitt didn’t reply. They fell silent.

After several moments, Kitt asked, “How do you want to do this? Shifts?”

“Okay by me.” M.C. glanced at her watch. “One hour or two?”

“Let’s shoot for two. You sleep first. I’m wide-awake.” M.C. agreed, though she wasn’t sleepy, either. Mind racing, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Beside her Kitt hummed very softly under her breath. A lullaby, M.C. realized.

As she listened, she wondered what made Kitt Lundgren tick.

22

Saturday, March 11, 2006

8:30 a.m.

Derrick Todd never showed. Kitt could offer a number of different scenarios for why, but she feared any minute she would get a call informing her that another girl was dead.

After all, the Copycat didn’t just kill his victims, he spent the night with them.

She and M.C. had decided that their best course of action would be to station a uniform at Todd’s apartment, freeing them to move on. They needed to fill in the chief, acquire both a search and arrest warrant for Todd, and interview the Fun Zone’s owner. Food, a shower and change of clothes were high on Kitt’s list of priorities as well. They arranged to rendezvous back at the PSB.

Kitt beat the younger woman there and used the time to retrieve Mr. Dale’s address from the computer.

“I’m starting to get a complex.”

Kitt looked over her shoulder at M.C. “About what?”

“You outwork me last night, this morning you manage to eat, shower and change clothes at the speed of light. How’d you do it?”

Smiling, Kitt stood. “I keep a change of clothes in my locker here. I showered in the ladies’ dressing room, ate peanut-butter crackers from the vending machine and fortified myself with a cup of been-sitting-in-the-pot-all-night coffee.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re an overachiever?”

“Once or twice.” Clearly, M.C. had a competitive streak. Amused, Kitt crossed to her. She held out the address. “Brandywine Estates, just like ZZ’s wife said. You want to drive or should I?”

“I will.” M.C. snatched the paper from her. “And snack crackers for breakfast is not a healthy start. You’ll be hungry in an hour.”

Roy Lynde, the detective at the desk across the aisle from Kitt’s, chuckled and M.C. sent him an annoyed glance. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” He held up his hands as if warding off an attack. “Just hanging out, watching the show.”

That brought guffaws from a couple of other guys. One of them said, “Looks like somebody’s met her match.”

Roy piped up again. “Don’t take it personal, Riggio. Even Wonder Woman comes up short sometimes.”

Kitt saw her partner’s jaw tighten but didn’t comment until they were headed down the corridor for the elevator. “Want some advice?” she asked.

“Not particularly.”

“You know I’m going to offer it, anyway.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Don’t take it all so seriously. Lighten up, sometimes.”

M.C. stopped, looked at her, expression incredulous. “You’re telling me to lighten up?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“For obvious reasons, yes.”

“Obvious reasons?” Kitt said, keeping her voice low. “You mean ones like outworking and out-investigating you? Or being able to take a joke?”

M.C. flushed. “Let’s see, Detective Intensity, you basically ‘go postal’ over the SAK case, blow it and several others, climb into a bottle and end up suspended. By the grace of God-or some mighty powerful strings-you’re back at work and I’m stuck with you. Yeah, I have a problem with you telling me to lighten up.”

They glared at each other. Kitt acknowledged being angry-as much at herself as Riggio. For letting the woman engage her and for stepping into the “wise mentor” role in the first place. If Mary Catherine Riggio wanted to be humorless and unlikable, it was her life.

“You know what, Riggio? We have to work together, so get over it.”

Kitt didn’t give her a chance to respond; she turned and started for the elevator. M.C. fell into step beside her. They reached the elevator and simultaneously moved to punch the call button. Same for the floor number.

They didn’t speak again until they were halfway across town. Kitt broke the silence first. “My daughter died. My marriage fell apart. I didn’t handle it well. You called it ‘going postal.’ Whatever. It’s in the past. Or at least, I’m working hard to put it there.”