Copycat by Erica Spindler

frien—” She looked up at the pastor. “How am I going to tell her about…she doesn’t…dear God.”
    M.C. waited, letting the woman cry, the pastor comfort her. When she appeared to have regained some composure, she asked again, “Did you have a visitor last night?”
    â€œI’m sorry, what?”
    â€œDo you have to do this now?” the pastor asked.
    â€œWe do,” Kitt replied softly. “I’m so sorry.” She squatted in front of her. “Mrs. Vest, I know how hard this is. But we need your help catching the person who did this. Just a couple more questions. Please?”
    The woman nodded, clinging to the pastor’s hand. M.C. continued. “There were two wineglasses on your nightstand, Mrs. Vest. You’re certain you didn’t have company?”
    She stared blankly for a moment, as if she didn’t understand, then nodded. “They’re both mine. I didn’t…I’ve been so busy, I haven’t straightened up.”
    â€œDid you hear anything last night?”
    She shook her head, miserable.
    â€œThink carefully. A car passing? A dog barking?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you awaken at all in the night?”
    Again, she indicated she hadn’t.
    Kitt stepped in. “Had your daughter expressed any concern about being followed? Or mention a feeling of being watched? Or having seen the same stranger more than once?”
    That had been the case with one of the original SAK victims, as well as the almost-victim whose house she had staked out. When the mother answered “No,” she tried again.
    â€œAnything odd occur over the past weeks? Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood? An unusual number of solicitors or other calls? Sales people coming to the door? Hangups?”
    Nothing. There was nothing.
    Later, as they left the scene, M.C. looked at Kitt, frustration pulling at her. “Who is this guy? Houdini?”
    â€œHe’s got no special powers,” she replied, sounding weary. “Only the ones we give him.”
    M.C. stopped, faced her. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œWe’re all so comfortable with our hectic lives, we don’t notice anything. We’re sleepwalking, for God’s sake! He depends on that. Without it he couldn’t hurt these gir—”
    She sucked in a sharp breath. “Like that mother in there. Kicking herself. Wishing for a second chance. If my daughter was alive and this animal was still out there killing girls, I’d never take my eyes off her. Not tuck her in? She’d sleep with me! But it’s not an issue for me, is it? Not anymore.”
    Kitt’s voice shook. She visibly trembled. Inside the house she’d handled herself with absolute professionalism, not revealing to M.C. even a glimpse of the depth of her pain. How close to the emotional edge she was.
    Now M.C. saw; she didn’t know how to respond.
    Kitt didn’t give her the chance to come up with anything. She spun on her heel and walked away.

17
    Friday, March 10, 2006
3:00 p.m.
    K itt sat at her desk. Her stomach rumbled and her head hurt. She felt as if she had been chasing ghosts all day. Ghosts, plural. Not just a killer who seemed able to manage the impossible, but her own personal ghosts, the ones that tormented her.
    She hadn’t had a face-to-face with Riggio since her emotional outburst. They had gone different ways—she to canvas the neighborhood, Riggio to interview the father, sister and others who’d had a relationship with the victim.
    Kitt dreaded their meeting. M.C. had probably spoken with both Sal and Sergeant Haas by now; she herself had provided all the ammo needed to undermine their confidence in her.
    Hell, she’d undermined her confidence in herself.
    Kitt brought a hand to her head and massaged her aching temple. It was laughable, really. That first day, at the Entzel murder, she’d warned Riggio