Rather than cock her head back to meet his eyes, she stood. They were nearly nose-to-nose. “That is right, Detective Peters. You’re very astute.”

If he noticed the edge in her voice, he didn’t comment. She turned toward her superiors. “Brian and I had an affair, years ago. I was a rookie, he was a detective. It was a mistake and didn’t last long. I really didn’t want to share that. I’m not proud of it. That’s why I didn’t come forward.”

For a moment the men were silent. Then Sal spoke. “You weren’t the first rookie to fall under Brian’s spell, nor were you the last.”

She nodded. “With all due respect, knowing others were as stupid as me doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Peters cleared his throat and redirected them. “Is it true that you threatened Lieutenant Spillare?”

“Actually, he threatened me. When I told him if he didn’t back off, I intended to report him, he said he would spread that I slept my way into the VCB.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I told him he had better not.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t threaten to shoot him?”

“Absolutely not.”

“We’ll need your weapon for ballistics testing.”

She slipped the Glock.45 from the holster and handed it over. She knew the drill. Upon firing, every gun created a sort of “fingerprinted” bullet, marks on the metal caused by tiny imperfections in the gun’s barrel. And like human fingerprints, no two weapons left identical impressions on their bullets. Likewise, with cartridge casings.

To obtain the comparison casing or bullet, they would fire it into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet or casing, then compare it to any that had been recovered from the scene of Brian’s murder.

Sal accepted her weapon. “You’ll have it back this morning.”

“Thank you.” She moved her gaze between them. “Was there anything else?”

They said there wasn’t and she exited the office. Word of her being questioned by IA-and no doubt why-had traveled fast. A number of other officers milled around Sal’s office, hoping for some dish. A few of them had the decency to avert their gazes, but others openly stared at her.

This was just the kind of attention she had worked hard to avoid.

Recalling Kitt’s advice about going with the flow, she shook off her irritation and passed by them with her head high.

She found that Kitt had made it in and was at her desk. “Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked from the doorway.

Kitt looked up. “Excuse me?”

“You made it in. Finally.”

“I heard about Internal Affairs. How was it?”

M.C. ignored her question and crossed to Kitt’s desk. “Where were you this morning?”

Kitt shifted her gaze slightly and M.C. frowned. “That’s what I thought. Thanks a lot.”

“I’m totally lost now. You want to clue me in?”

“You wanted to get back at me for Joe, didn’t you? I hope we’re square now, because I don’t think I’m up for another sneak attack.”

Kitt stood, placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward her. When she spoke, her voice was low and vibrated with anger. “You think I went to the sarge and Sal about your argument with Brian?”

“Didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t me, M.C. I don’t go for that behind-the-back crap. I said what I needed to last night. If another issue comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

The other woman gazed at her a moment. “Then who?”

“Someone overheard you. Or Brian told someone about it, which I find pretty unlikely.” She lowered her voice. “How deep in shit are you?”

“Slap on the wrist for not stepping forward. They’re going to run ballistics on my weapon. Most of all, I just look bad.”

“We all make mistakes. I certainly have.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She said it deadpan and Kitt laughed. “I suppose it’s not, is it?”

“No.”

“Look, Peanut called me last night. He-”

“Detective Riggio?”

They looked up. Sal stood in the doorway. He held out her Glock. “Your weapon.”

“That was fast.”

“Got the preliminaries back on the type of gun used to kill Lieutenant Spillare. The bullet was fired from a standard-issue,.45 caliber Smith amp; Wesson revolver.”

Most urban forces had begun switching from revolvers to the semiautomatic pistols in the 1970s. RPD officers had the choice between two, both.40 caliber-the Glock or the Smith amp; Wesson 4046.

She took her weapon and holstered it. “The old policeman’s favorite,” M.C. said, referring to the revolver. “An interesting choice.”

Sal nodded. “No self-respecting gangbanger or street thug’s going to choose the revolver.”

“Can we have a minute?” Kitt asked.

The deputy chief checked his watch. “Can it wait until after-”

“I heard from Peanut last night. He left a trophy from one of the original killings. A lock of blond hair, tied with a pink ribbon.”

Kitt had his full attention. He nodded tersely. “My office. Now would be good.”

58

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

10:40 a.m.

Once they had all assembled in Sal’s office, Kitt described the events of the evening before, starting with finding the package on the doorstep and finishing with Peanut ending their call.

“He claimed the hair was from one of the original Sleeping Angels. He wouldn’t tell me which one. Told me ‘DNA’ would tell the tale. ID has it and the phone already. They were going to photograph and catalog them, then send the hair to the crime lab.

“I asked him several questions point-blank,” she continued. “If he was the Copycat. If he knew who the Copycat was. He answered that he was not, but that he did know who he was. In addition, he claimed no knowledge of Brian’s murder.”

“What do you think?” Sal asked. “Was he being honest?”

“I think so. Let’s face it, he hasn’t had a problem claiming responsibility for other crimes.”

“But Brian was a cop,” Sal pointed out.

“And the Angels were children,” Kitt countered. “I accused him of being a cop himself. It unnerved him.”

That brought silence. After a moment, Sergeant Haas cleared his throat. “But if he didn’t kill Brian-”

“Maybe the Copycat did. Maybe the Copycat’s a cop. Maybe they both are.”

It was the first time she had considered it aloud. She suddenly realized that she had also speculated that the Copycat was a woman.

Considering both she and M.C. fit that relatively rarified category, she didn’t particularly like the option.

Sal frowned, obviously unimpressed with her suggestions. “Maybe neither of them are. Maybe Brian’s murder had nothing to do with your investigation.”

He turned his gaze to her. “Kitt, I want you to retrace Brian’s steps yesterday, from the time you spoke with him until you found him dead. Get into his computer, see what files he accessed. I want a log from his cell and desk phones. Get Allen to assist you.”

“You want me on it as well, Sal?” M.C. asked.

“No. You stay on the Copycat. When we’re finished, call down to ID. They should have a bead on the cell phone number already.”

As if on cue, Kitt’s phone buzzed. It was Sorenstein in ID. She listened, thanked him, then turned back to the group when she had ended the call. “The phone belonged to a dead guy. He was killed in a car wreck over the weekend. With everything going on, the family hadn’t realized it was missing.”

“Our UNSUB seems to have a pretty good grasp on acquiring untraceable numbers,” M.C. said. “Nobody can call this one dumb.”

Sal sent M.C. an irritated glance. “But how did he get the device?”

“Could be someone at the scene, like an EMT. Or someone at the hospital. Could be our UNSUB lifted it before the wreck even happen-”

“I don’t give a damn about all the ways he could have gotten it. I want to know definitively how he got it!”

He all but roared the last at them and they both jumped to their feet. Sal rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was advantageous to take note and respond.