54

Monday, March 20, 2006

11:57 p.m.

It was nearly midnight when Kitt arrived home. She pulled into her driveway, shut off the engine and sat. The sky rumbled ominously. The weather forecast had called for thunderstorms tonight; they had been threatening for hours.

Brian was dead. Her friend and confidant. Her champion.

And she had gotten him killed.

Tears burned her eyes and she didn’t fight them. They rolled down her cheeks. Slowly at first, building until the force of her sobs shook her.

He had made her laugh. Had reminded her daily of the good things about being a cop. He’d been like family.

Family. Three daughters, now fatherless.

Kitt pressed her lips together, thinking of Ivy. Sal had decided he should be the one to tell her. Sergeant Haas had offered to accompany him. More than likely, they were doing it now.

She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Why had she approached him with her “cop with a grudge” theory? Why hadn’t she investigated it herself?

Maybe it would be her in the morgue now, two bullet holes in her chest.

Better her than Brian. She wouldn’t have left anyone behind.

The minutes ticked past. As they did, her tears abated, her grief twisting into a kind of exhausted anger. The kind that brought thoughts of revenge, of finding the son of a bitch who pulled the trigger and making him pay.

She had used grief to fuel her anger many a time before. As a way to keep going, do her job, face a new day.

She climbed out of the car, made her way up the walk. A package waited for her on the front steps. A brown-paper grocery sack. As if some kindhearted neighbor had brought her a meal, and finding her not home, had left it for her. The way they had when Sadie died.

Kitt stared at the bag, anger building, tightening in her chest. A neighbor hadn’t left this. Peanut had. She knew without looking.

The bastard wanted to gloat.

She turned and strode back to her car for her investigation kit. It contained latex gloves and evidence bags, among other things. She unlocked the car, retrieved a pair of gloves and a couple of bags from the kit, then the flashlight from her glove box. She stuffed the bags into her jacket pocket, then tucked the Maglite under her arm. As she walked back to the porch stairs, she fitted the gloves on.

“Okay, you bastard,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”

She carefully opened the bag, then aimed the flash-light’s beam inside. A cell phone, she saw. She also saw by its blinking green light that it was on. And she had a message waiting.

She drew the device out of the bag. Her fingers brushed against something attached to its back.

She turned it over. A lock of blond hair, she saw. Tied with a slim pink ribbon.

A little girl’s pretty blond hair. The hair of an angel.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her breath with it. She worked to control both. What was she looking at? A lock of hair from one of the Sleeping Angel victims? Or from a future victim?

Or was this simply another of Peanut’s head games?

Kitt carefully loosened the tape, then removed the hair. After sealing it in an evidence bag, she flipped open the phone. It was a Verizon phone, same service she used. She accessed the message service, and a prerecorded voice asked for a password. Possibilities ran through her head: Peanut, Kitten, Sadie. He wanted her to be able to retrieve the message, so it would be something easy.

Angels.

Of course.

She punched in the password, exchanging letters for numbers-2-6-4-3-5-7.

The password accepted, the message began to play.

“You were wrong,” he said. “I did take trophies. I’m sharing one with you.”

Kitt began to shake. Revulsion rose up in her. As she held the phone to her ear, it rang.

“Hello, you son of a bitch,” she said.

“Kitten,” he admonished, “name calling? I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah,” she said, scanning the street, the dark cars and windows, the pools of shadows. He was here, somewhere. Watching her. Amused. “We are friends. Come on out and play.”

He laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you. Where’ve you been all night?”

“Cut the crap. Did you call to gloat about Brian? About killing him?”

“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about.”

“Lieutenant Brian Spillare.” To her horror, her throat closed over his name. “My friend. My former partner.”

For long moments he said nothing. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I should believe you, right? A liar and a murderer? Are you a cop, too? Are you, Peanut?”

He sucked in a sharp breath. She pressed on. “Did he get too close? Ask the wrong question? So you killed him.”

“Not mine, Kitten. You’ll have to look elsewhere this time.”

He attempted to be flip, but Kitt detected the slightest tremor in his voice. She had shaken him. Why? If he was being honest and hadn’t killed Brian, why care?

Because she’d asked if he was a cop?

“A child killer and a cop killer.” She paused. “But I forgot the little old ladies. We could rename you the Granny Basher.”

“The cop’s not mine,” he said again. His voice rose. “That’s not why I called.”

“Why did you call, Peanut? Not to gloat? Then why? Why bother me?”

“To talk.” His voice shook. “To make you understand. Without others listening.”

She laughed at him, at the tremor and the notion that she should listen to him. “Understand what? That you’re a yellow son of a bitch. A chicken-shit who murders children and grandmothers?”

“Careful-”

“Why should I be? No one’s listening, remember?” She spun around, facing the dark street. She held out her free arm. “Come get me, asshole! Here I am!”

“You’re hysterical. Calm down.”

“And you’re a monster. Go to hell.”

“I’m not a monster!” He fell silent; she heard the crackle and hiss of flame touching tobacco. His deep inhalation. “I’m not one of those animals who kills for pleasure. I get no thrill from taking a life.”

“Then why?” she asked.

“It’s an intellectual pursuit. Like chess. Crime and investigation. Criminal and cop. Don’t you see?”

“Nobody dies in chess.”

“Higher stakes, that’s all.”

Kitt thought of the dead children, their families. She thought of the three old ladies he claimed were his victims, that they’d been someone’s mother, sister, grandmother. She made a sound of disgust. “Those girls were playing a game with you? Give me a break.”

“No, Kitten.” She heard the admonishment in his voice, the disappointment. “You and I are playing. Now. And five years ago.”

“I’m not playing with you now. I wasn’t then.”

“You are. You were. Five years ago, I won.”

“Winning is getting away with the crime?”

“Yes. Outsmarting and outmaneuvering you. The police.”

“And if I win, I catch you.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We both want to win. I have the edge, of course.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not emotionally involved. You are.”

He wasn’t, she realized. Which made him a true psychopath. No remorse. No empathy. No moral sense of right and wrong.

It also made him that much more difficult to catch.

“Taking a life is not a game move.”

“To you,” he said softly. “Exactly why I have the advantage.”

“Are you the Copycat?”

He paused. “No. I’m not.”

No innuendo this time, no infuriating maybe. She sat down hard on the front steps as the realization hit her: Two killers. Six dead children. A span of five years. And she was no closer to an answer.

She couldn’t do this.

She didn’t have a choice.

“Giving up, Kitten?”

He knew her so well. Did he read her mind? Or the tone of her voice? Or was he a distorted version of herself, a cop obsessed with committing crime instead of stopping it.

“Never. I’ll never give up or stop searching for you.”