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 scrawny comic from the bar?”

“Yes, if you must know.”

He snorted. “What do you see in him?”

“He makes me laugh. Let go of my hand, Brian.”

“Bet he’s not as good as I was.”

“You’re a legend in your own mind. But nobody else’s.”

His mouth thinned. He made a grab for her; she swung sideways, grasped his upper arms and kneed him square in the nuts.

He doubled over, moaning and muttering a string of curses, all directed at her and her gender.

“Sorry, Brian. I didn’t want to do that, but you left me no choice.” As he started to straighten, she opened the door and pushed him through it. “I’m willing to pretend this never happened. But if you ever try this crap again, it’ll cost you more than sore balls.”

39

Thursday, March 16, 2006

11:00 p.m.

As she’d threatened Kitt that she would, M.C. had taken a stand. Kitt had faced the chief alone, her partner’s absence pointedly noted. Sal was sharp. He suspected something was up but had supervised detectives long enough to understand the wisdom of giving them space. Most issues eventually resolved themselves, one way or another. And if they hadn’t, he’d stepped in with appropriate action.

What the chief didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. At least at this juncture.

Or so Kitt told herself.

She didn’t blame M.C. her decision. If this blew up in Kitt’s face, her partner didn’t want to be taken down with her. As M.C. had said, she had ambitions.

But if they cracked this case, nailed the SAK and the Copycat, M.C. would take part of the credit. Even if it was directly a result of the “left of protocol” move M.C. so strongly protested, she would move up her rung.

Kitt would be happy for her; everybody would win-but especially the children.

Kitt sat at her kitchen table, files spread around her. Her mind raced. The chief had agreed-study the Olsen, Lindz and McGuire case files, look for a commonality between them and the SAK killings, something the original investigating officers missed. Brian and Sergeant Haas had worked it. That’d been just before she and Brian had been partnered up; Sal had been sergeant then.

Kitt frowned. She was starting to understand this bastard. This time, she was going to nail him. If it was the last thing she did in this lifetime, his ass was going down.

She pushed away from the table, stood and stretched. Her body ached, and the muscles in her neck and back were knotted. She rolled her shoulders in an effort to loosen them, then tipped her head from side to side.

It momentarily relieved the tension, and she began to pace.

Three old ladies, beaten to death. Vicious murders. Gruesome. Scenes surprisingly clean, considering. One had lived in an assisted-living community, one in an apartment, another a home. All had lived alone. None had been sexually assaulted. Robbery had not been a motive. No witnesses. No hair, fingerprints or bodily fluids.

Frustrated, she turned and strode back to the table. Her doorbell sounded and she glanced at the clock. It was after eleven, late for a visitor.

Danny, she saw when she went to the door. He stood in the circle of light, looking tired and tense.

“Danny?” she said as she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” She stepped aside and he entered her small foyer. After she closed the door behind him, she nodded toward the kitchen. “I have a pot of coffee brewed.”

He followed her, though he refused the drink. “I’m coffeed-out.”

She poured herself a cup, aware of him watching her, then turning his gaze to the case files.

“Your hands are shaking,” he said.

She smiled. “I’m probably coffeed-out, too.”

“Then maybe you should cut yourself off?”

“I’ve got a lot to do. I need the caffeine if I’m going to make it.”

“I’m worried about you, Kitt.”

“Me? Why?”

“What day is this?”

She stared at him, realizing she didn’t know. Or rather, she couldn’t access the information.

“It’s Thursday, Kitt.”

AA. She had missed group.

“I’m so sorry. I was working…it totally slipped my mind.”

He took her cup and set it on the counter, then caught both her hands with his, holding them tightly. “The other night, when I called. You’d been drinking.”