Copycat by Erica Spindler

Kitt. I wasn’t thinking, I—”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” she said, looking away. M.C. noticed Kitt’s hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to kick herself. Of all the stupid, graceless and insensitive things she could have said. “I’m such a jerk. Really, I’m sorry.”
    Kitt shook her head. “Forget about it. Let’s talk about the case.”
    M.C. jumped at the familiar—and comfortable—territory. “It’s going on seven. Your choice. Keep going or call it a night?”
    â€œI vote we run these names through the computer. See how far we get.”
    â€œYou got it,” M.C. replied, heading for the Whitman Street Bridge. “To hell with Friday night.”

20
    Friday, March 10, 2006
10:35 p.m.
    T hey made it three-quarters of the way through the list before M.C. suggested they call it quits. She was tired and hungry, and the most exciting thing they had turned up was a DWI, Driving While Intoxicated. Kitt had agreed and they’d planned to resume the next morning—there was no such thing as a weekend off when neck-deep in a high-profile homicide investigation.
    M.C. was beginning to think they’d gotten their hopes up for nothing. Truth was, the Fun Zone could still be the link, but their UNSUB could be some freak with kids of his own. He brings his own kid in, looks like Dad of the Year; whole time he’s scouting his next pretty little victim.
    That scenario would make him much more difficult to nail. M.C. eased into her driveway, shifted into Park, but made no move to kill the engine or get out of the car. She’d left Kitt at the computer only because she had assured M.C. she would be on the road five minutes behind her. M.C. let out a long breath, thinking of the day. Of Kitt. The pain in her eyes and voice as she had spoken of her daughter—and of her regrets.
    And of her parting words tonight, as M.C. had headed home.
    â€œHey, Riggio.” She had stopped, looked back at her. “For the record, being a mom was the best thing I ever did.”
    A lump formed in M.C.’s throat. The image of Marianne Vest filled her head, followed in quick succession by one of Julie Entzel’s mother in her robe and slippers at four in the afternoon.
    They made all her little dramas seem pretty insignificant. M.C. swallowed hard, gazing at her dark house. She hadn’t left a porch light on. She didn’t own a dog, cat or any other creature.
    Growing up in a house with five boisterous brothers and a constant menagerie of pets, friends and relatives underfoot, she had looked forward to someday living alone. To having her personal space, to using the bathroom whenever she needed to, no waiting. To spending as long as she wanted in the shower, without fear of running out of hot water.
    Quiet. Calm. Just the way she liked it.
    So why didn’t she want to go inside?
    Because she couldn’t face the quiet tonight. Not yet, anyway. She needed people. A few laughs. A drink or two. Or four.
    But where to go? Buster’s Bar, she decided, and acted on the impulse. She checked her rearview mirror, shifted her SUV into Reverse and backed down the drive.
    She made it across town to Five Points in fifteen minutes. Unlike the other night, the place was packed. And instead of funny man Lance Castrogiovanni on the stage, a country-western singer was attempting a version of Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine.”
    M.C. wound her way through the crowd to the bar. There she saw Brian Spillare and several of his RPD buddies. Judging by the decibel of their laughter, they had been there a while.
    Brian caught sight of her and waved her over. The group made room, and Brian ordered her a glass of wine. “I was just thinking about you,” he said.
    She let that pass, though it set her teeth on edge. “Really, Lieutenant?”
    â€œSo formal?” He swayed slightly on his feet. “It’s Friday night,