Would a man with so much anger toward his ex-wife keep photographs of her displayed this way?

If he was smart, yes. If he was a cool customer, acting with his intellect instead of his emotion.

Which brought her right back to her problem. She didn’t see him as that man. And it certainly didn’t fit her theory.

Nor had they found the proverbial “smoking gun.”

Her thoughts turned to her argument with Brian. Had Kitt overheard it? M.C. hoped not. Depending on what or how much she had heard, she could have a big-time wrong idea.

Now, unless she brought it up, she would never know. And Kitt could continue to have the wrong idea.

Should that bother her? Yes, she decided. For despite not fully trusting the woman or her methods, she had grown to admire her. And in a strange way, they didn’t make too bad a team.

It was almost five-thirty by the time M.C. made it back to the bureau. Sal looked up from the report on his desk. “How’d it go?”

“It’ll take a while to sift through the minutiae, but not great.”

“What now?”

“Put Kitt back on.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re certain that’s wise?”

“Lundgren’s not our man.”

“That’s a big reversal from earlier today, Detective.”

“Yes, it is. But I’m standing by it.”

He sat quietly a moment, then nodded. “Limited role until all the ‘minutiae’ is studied. I can’t allow even a hint of impropriety here.”

“You’ve got it. I’m going to break for dinner, then begin picking through it.”

What M.C. hadn’t told Sal was that she didn’t plan on eating alone. Lance had been in her thoughts all day; she had decided seeing him was just what she needed.

She didn’t call, simply stopped at Wok to Go, then headed to his place. “Hey,” she said when he opened the door. She held up the take-out bag. “I brought Chinese.”

“My angel of mercy.”

She entered his apartment. The normally pin-neat living area looked as if a tornado had struck. She moved her gaze over the disaster. Books. Photos. Notebooks. Papers that had been crumpled and tossed. Empty coffee cups, soda cans, an extra-large pizza box and an overflowing ashtray.

She frowned. “You smoke?”

He grimaced. “A friend stopped by. He chain smokes.” He crossed to the couch and cleared a space for her, then collected the pizza box and a half-dozen cans and cups.

“Sorry about the mess. I’m working on some new material. It’s a painful process.”

“Apparently. Looks like you hosted a World Wrestling Federation event in here.”

“An apt analogy. Creation. Birth. Demon wrestling.”

“You want to pass anything by-”

“No. Thanks.”

Stung by his gruff reply, she didn’t comment.

Moments later, they were eating in silence. After a while, he set down his chopsticks. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“What I said…about my stuff. The process is so raw…I’m just not ready. Thanks, though, for offering to listen.”

She smiled, touched by the apology. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t think it is.”

Something in his eyes and voice told her he was no longer talking about his apology. “What is it, Lance?”

“I’m falling in love with you.”

Just like that, she thought. He laid the words between them. Gave form to whatever was growing between them.

What did she say to that? How did she feel? Elated. Terrified. Hopeful. Confident. Vulnerable.

“What are you thinking?”

“That you must be crazy.”

“To be falling in love with you? Or just in general?”

She smiled. “To be falling in love with me.”

“That makes you crazy.”

Was she? She thought yes. Definitely.

She laughed. “I might be falling in love with you, too.”

A smile pulled at his mouth. He stood, held out his hand. She took it and they went to the bedroom. And there they made love.

Afterward, they lay quietly, holding each other. M.C.’s thoughts whirled with the events of the day-Kitt’s response to her bringing Joe in for questioning and her temporary removal from the case. The evidence awaiting her at the bureau. Her argument with Brian, his threat.

Remembering it, a knot formed in her stomach. He would do it, too. She didn’t know why, after so long, he was behaving this way. It was as if Brian had become another person.

“What’s wrong?” Lance rubbed her back. “You’re tense.”

“Remember that guy from the bar? The one you saved me from?”

“The pushy creep?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s been following me.”

Lance propped himself up on an elbow, expression concerned. “When did this start?”

“A couple days ago. Last week he showed up at my house, drunk. He came on to me again. When I turned him down, he started following me.”

“What’s this asshole’s problem?”

“I don’t know, it’s weird. I cornered him today. Told him to back off.”

“Or else?”

“Pretty much.”

He searched her gaze. “And he didn’t take that well?”

“No.” She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “He threatened to start a rumor that I slept my way into the VCB.”

“With him.”

“Yes.”

“So he can smear you and boast at the same time. What a jerk.”

“He’s a superior officer. Decorated. Well-thought-of. People will be more likely to believe him than me.”

“Maybe I should have a man-to-man with him?”

She had a big picture of that. Lance would end up in jail-with an emergency room stop on the way. “Thanks, hero. But I think I’ve got it covered.”

“I want to be your hero, Mary Catherine Riggio. Just say the word.”

M.C. liked the sound of that and leaned across and kissed him, then drew regretfully away. “I can’t stay,” she murmured. “I wish I could.”

“Duty calls?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So, that’s the way it is-eat and run.”

He was teasing; she teased back. “More than just eating, or have you already forgotten?”

“Never. Just an insatiable appetite, that’s all.”

She smiled and kissed him again. “I’ve got to go.”

As she climbed out of the bed, he caught her hand. “When will I see you again? Tonight?”

“I don’t know how late I’ll be. Call me?”

“You call me. I’ll be here.”

M.C. agreed she would try, then she hurried to dress.

51

Monday, March 20, 2006

6:30 p.m.

The RPD evidence room was located in the building’s basement. Kitt had spent the day there, sifting through the items collected from the storage unit Peanut had directed them to.

His comment, “You have to have faith,” suggested she had given up on it too quickly. Of course, it could be his way of sending her on another wild-goose chase.

She sat back, frowning. She had hardly made a dent in the locker’s contents, yet a theme had already begun to emerge. The items were decidedly feminine in character-they had either belonged to a woman or a woman had selected them to create this tableau.

Interesting. All along, they had assumed the SAK to be a man. Most serial killers were men, true. But women who killed typically chose “softer” means of death, like poison or suffocation. They eschewed guns, knives, clubs and anything else that caused a mess.

The Sleeping Angel deaths were nothing if not “clean.” In fact, the SAK took great pains to “prettify” his victims.

Or was that her victims?

Kitt rubbed her forehead. Big problem: The three bludgeoning deaths Peanut had claimed responsibility for.

The SAK wasn’t a woman.

The Copycat was.

The truth hit her like a ton of bricks. She stood up quickly. Was this the clue? What Peanut had meant for her to find? He expected good detective work out of her. He refused to make it easy.

This made sense. Didn’t it?

She retrieved her bottle of water and sat on a carton filled with books. She took a swallow of the water, mind racing.