Copycat (35 page)

“Where are you?” she asked again.

“I don't know.”

The sound had definitely come from behind the wall. Another room. A hidden room behind this one.

But where was the door?

From the room above came the sound of footfalls. He was coming back! Quickly, she snapped off her light and ducked behind a group of moving boxes.

A moment later, he trotted down the stairs. Humming again. A tune from
Oklahoma!

He carried a can of Coke and a straw.

She studied the tall, thin man. She recognized him from his DMV photo she'd called up, though he was better-looking in real life. She saw why M.C. had been attracted to him—he possessed a kind of boyish good looks. Very nonthreatening. Like a redheaded Peter Pan.

Further confirmation her mother had been right—
never judge a book by its cover.

He crossed to the battered bookcase, crowded with a mishmash of junk. He picked up what appeared to be a television remote control, pushed a button and the bookcase swung open.

A safe room. Shit.

Most safe-room doors were made of reinforced, bulletproof steel. Once he closed the door behind him, short of dynamite, she wouldn't be able to get inside until he opened it again.

She would not allow him to lock himself inside that room with M.C.

Luckily his back was to her. Kitt eased from her hiding place, weapon out. She took aim, preparing to fire.

Still humming, he tossed the remote back on the shelf and stepped through the doorway.

Kitt let out a relieved breath. Now she knew how to get in. All she had to do was wait for the right moment.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006
12:35 a.m.

A
t the soft swish of the door opening, M.C. braced herself. Not Kitt, she knew. Not yet. She had heard Lance on the stairs, his humming. Kitt would wait. Until she was certain M.C. was safe. Until she was confident she could take Lance down.

Until she was certain she had no other choice.

“Mary Catherine,” he called softly. “I've got your drink.”

He came to her and knelt before her. He held the can and straw to her lips. She sipped the sweet, cold drink. It washed away the taste of the blood. She could almost feel the rush of the sugar entering her system.

“I was so thirsty.”

“More?”

She nodded and took several more sips, then pulled back. “Thank you.”

He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. She saw he had the revolver jammed into the waistband of his pants.

“I hope you have the safety on,” she said. “If not, you'll have a whole new set of one-liners for your act.”

“That's what I loved about you, Mary Catherine. You always got me, you know?”

Loved. Past tense.

Not good.

He looked genuinely regretful. “I wish things could have ended differently between us.”

Different than me dying or you going to prison? Gee, Lance, you think?

“We can write our own ending,” she said. “Our very own happily-ever-after.”

“Happily-ever-after,” he repeated, tone wistful. “I believed in those, a long time ago.”

“Believe again,” she said. “It's not too late.”

“It is. It's…You don't understand.”

“You keep saying that. Tell me about the Beast. And about your family.”

He was quiet a moment, then began. She saw that he trembled. “Mother was special.”

“Deaf?”

“Yes. She never heard. Even when we told her. She didn't protect us from him.”

“Who?”

“Father.”

“He hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry. That was wrong. No one should ever hurt a child.”

“No. Never.”

“You hurt children, Lance. You killed them.”

“No. The angels are sleeping.”

“Dead,” she corrected him.

“Beautiful. Peaceful. No more pain.”

“What about Marianne Vest?”

He grimaced. “I don't want to talk about her.”

“Who are you, Lance? The Sleeping Angel Killer? His Copycat?”

“We're one. It was always just the two of us.”

“You and the Beast.”

“Yes. The Other One. He protected me. As best he could.”

He. A brother.

“He came up with the plan to save us.”

“What was it?”

“We killed her. After.”

“After what?”

“After he beat her.”

“So, your father hurt her, too?”

He nodded. “We used his gun. He loved his gun.”

The Smith & Wesson.

“Then we hid it. Nobody ever suspected us.”

“They do now, Lance.” She said it softly. “Because of the gun. You used it to kill Brian, didn't you?”

“I killed him because he was bothering you. I tried to talk to him first, explain that you and I were together. He laughed at me. So, I followed him to that motel and I shot him.”

“Your brother, was he angry?”

“He doesn't know.”

“He's going to know now. They traced the gun.”

He sat quietly, face expressionless. She went on, “That call I took, at your apartment. It was a woman from the Walton B. Johnson Center. She remembered your name. They're going to look for me; people knew we had been seeing each other.”

“It's over, isn't it?”

His words came out choked. She felt for the little boy whose life had gone so terribly awry. That such evil existed, that it was so often directed toward children, broke her heart.

“It doesn't have to be,” she said. “Free me. We'll go to the police. I'll try to help you.”

He curled into himself and rocked back and forth, like a small child seeking comfort. “It's my fault, all my fault. I'm stupid. And careless, just like he says.”

“You're not stupid, Lance.”

“He's all I have. He's going to be angry, so angry.”

“I'll protect you.”

“You can't.” He met her eyes, the expression in his hollow and hopeless. “Only he can.”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. He meant to kill her. He was sweating and shaking.

Lance Castrogiovanni didn't enjoy killing; weirdly, he felt it was his duty.

“Don't do this, Lance!” she cried loudly, to signal Kitt. “We can make it work. I'll go to my chief and—”

Sobbing now, he stood and went for the Smith & Wesson.

The same moment her cop's sixth sense alerted her that Kitt was in the room, she stepped out of the shadows.

“Put your gun on the floor at your feet, Lance,” Kitt said softly. “Then turn around slowly, hands in the air.”

Wednesday, March 22, 2006
12:45 a.m.

L
ance did as Kitt asked. Gun at his feet, he turned to face her. She was surprised by his expression—he looked relieved, almost grateful.

Lance Castrogiovanni didn't want to kill anyone else.

“That's good,” she said. “Keep your hands up and step away from Detective Riggio.” Again, he did as she requested. She motioned him toward the wall. “Hands up. Feet apart.”

She frisked him for another weapon, then cuffed him. “You have the right to remain silent, you son of a bitch. You have the right to—”

Her cell phone vibrated. She let it go while she finished reading him his rights, then flipped it open as she crossed to free M.C. “Lundgren here.”

“Hello, Kitten.”

She had expected to hear Sal's very angry voice. She had expected to be sharing this good news and minimizing the trouble she was in.

She smiled grimly. This was a very satisfying runner-up. “How nice to hear from you now. This very minute.”

“And why's that?”

“Because I've won. I know who you are. I have your accomplice, the so-called Copycat here with me. Or should I call him your brother?”

He laughed softly, the sound unconcerned.

“Perhaps you think I'm joking,” she said. “I assure you, that's not the ca—”

“Do you have your weapon, Kitten?”

“Of course. And it's aimed at your brother's head.”

“What a coincidence. But you'll understand why in a moment. For now, I'd like you to lay down
your
gun. Then turn around with
your
hands in the air.”

This time it was she who laughed. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because, once again, I hold all the cards.”

The lights snapped on. Kitt made a sound of surprise. And revulsion.

They were standing in a kind of art gallery. On display were photographs, matted and framed. Very professional.

Of all the little angels.

Photos of them very much alive—at school and at play, shopping with their mothers, exiting church, daydreaming, laughing.

Six beautiful little girls, their whole lives ahead of them.

Tears swamped her. That wasn't all. On the wall were images of them in death. She recognized each girl; this vision of them had been burned onto her brain long before today.

She shifted her gaze. The grandmothers were represented as well. In life—and in their gruesome deaths.

They reminded her of crime scene pho—

“Hello, Lundgren.”

He stepped into the room. She heard M.C.'s sharply drawn breath, even as she registered her own shock.

Kitt turned slowly to face him.

Snowe from ID.

She choked back the cry that raced to her lips.
And he had Joe.

He held a gun to Joe's head. He had sealed Joe's mouth with duct tape and shackled his wrists behind his back. Judging by Joe's bloodied face, he had put up a fight.

“I see by your expression that I am, indeed, the one in charge here.” Snowe lowered his voice. “You shouldn't have told me what you cared about, Kitten.”

He meant Joe. That night on the phone, she had told him how much she loved him. “Let him go, Snowe. Please, he—”

“Lay the gun on the floor, then kick it my way.”

She did, though he didn't make a move to retrieve it. “Do you like my memorial gallery?” he asked, sounding pleased with himself. “Beautiful, aren't they?”

“They're vile.”

“Capture the memories,” he mused. “Didn't some photographic company use that as a slogan?”

“You're a sick bastard.”

“Remove the handcuffs from my brother's wrists.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Bad idea, Kitten. If I undo the cuffs myself, you and your ex here won't be alive to see it.”

She obeyed, thoughts racing, searching for a way out of this. She glanced at M.C. and saw by her intent expression that she was doing the same.

“Back up,” Snowe ordered. “I want you where I can see you.”

She did. He nodded. “Lance, take her gun. Give it to me.”

Lance hurried to do what he asked, flushing at the disgust in his brother's voice.

“Now pick up the Smith & Wesson. Stick it back in your pants, little man. We'll talk about
that
later.”

“Why are you talking to him like that?” M.C. demanded. “He's not a child. He's not stupid.”

“You,” Snowe said, “can shut the fuck up. Or be shot.”

Kitt jumped in, not putting it past M.C. to test Snowe's resolve. She knew from their conversations, he would neither hesitate nor show mercy. “Let Joe go,” she begged. “He has nothing to do with this. Please, he—”

“Of course he's a part of this. He was my last move, my final bargaining chip. Grow up, Kitten.”

M.C. snorted with disgust, struggling to free herself. “You're a police officer. How could you betray your oath this way?”

Kitt held her breath, wondering if Snowe would shoot the other woman; instead he laughed.

“A police officer? Law enforcement? You think I give a shit about our
oath?
” He released Joe with a shove that sent him stumbling forward. He landed face-first with a sickening crack.

Kitt screamed his name and leaped forward. The blast of Snowe's gun discharging ricocheted off the walls, drowning out a second scream—M.C.'s.

It took Kitt a moment of blinding pain to realize that Snowe had shot her. Just like that.

Kitt's legs gave and she sank to her knees. She brought a hand to her chest, near her collarbone. It was wet, sticky. She felt light-headed.

Room spinning, she shifted her gaze to Joe. He lay completely still. Blood leaked from his nose. Not dead, she prayed. Please, not dead.

She'd always vowed she'd solve the Sleeping Angel case, if it was the last thing she ever did.

It looked like it just might be the last thing.

“A nonfatal wound,” Snowe said, tone conversational. “Of course, you could bleed to death, if you don't get treatment.”

Her stomach rolled, and she fought being sick.

“Our old man was the law. Oh, yeah, carried a gun and wore a badge. He was smarter and stronger than everyone else. Especially me and Lance.”

He glanced at his brother. “Isn't that right, Lance? We were stupid and worthless and weak. Isn't that what he told us? He proved it with his fists.”

Lance didn't reply. Kitt saw that he was staring at her, a kind of horror in his eyes.

Snowe didn't seem to notice. “Who's stupid now? We outsmarted them all, little bro. You and me.”

“But we didn't,” Lance whispered. “They know who we are. What we did.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Mine.”

“That's right. Stupid little shit. What was the first rule?”

“Never use the gun.”

“That's right. But you did. And now we're fucked.”

Lance hung his head. Kitt stepped in. If she was going to die, anyway, at least she would die having learned not just who had murdered the angels—but why as well.

“So you killed all those girls…and the three grandmothers, simply to prove you could? That you could outsmart us all with your so-called ‘perfect crimes'?”

“Glad to know you were listening.”

“Why girls? Why ten-year-olds?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“You just picked.”

“Yep. That's the key, right? Randomness.”

She pressed a hand to her wound in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. “Why me?”

“That's a rather complicated question and I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea. The Sleeping Angels were mine,” he said. “My idea, my perfect crimes. Every aspect of the planning and preparation.

“Lance here got the bright idea to resurrect the Sleeping Angel Killer. So you see, I was being honest, there was a Copycat. My brother and partner.”

It had been one of her and M.C.'s theories.

“I don't know why he did, I guess he wanted to prove to me that he could pull it off on his own. That he was his own man.” There was no denying the disgust in his tone. He made no secret of the fact he had little respect for his younger brother. “He added his own twist to the murders.”

“The hands,” she said.

“The hands,” he agreed with a sneer. “Felt like he had to express himself. But we both know, when a killer starts expressing himself, it's the beginning of the end.”

“Maybe he wanted to be caught,” Kitt said. “And be free of you?”

He ignored that. “So I decided to play along. Kick the competition up a notch.”

“By calling me.”

“Yes. He had nothing to do with that. He had nothing to do with the clues.”

“The storage locker and its contents. They were your mother's things, weren't they?”

“Yes.”

“And Buddy Brown?”

“That was me. My red herring. I'd busted him years ago, knew he'd gotten out. I paid him a little visit. All care and concern for his future.” He smiled. “Mentioned I heard Joe Lundgren hired ex-cons. That Valerie Martin's little girl is deaf was sheer, beautiful serendipity.”

Kitt thought of how he had played her—how she had fit the pieces together just as he had expected her to. “And Joe's number on Brian's phone log?”

“Never there. I put the log together, simply added his number. Who was going to check up on
me?
”

She glanced at Joe again, sick with guilt. How could she have suspected him of this?

“Don't feel too bad,” Snowe said softly, as if reading her mind. “You got the locker contents belonging to a woman right, that the SAK was a cop. So you scored a few rounds. Which, by the way, brings me to you.

“In our calls, I was honest with you. I chose you because we're two of a kind. We've been hurt by those who should have loved us. We're fighters. Fallen cops. And because, despite being broken, there's so much strength in you.”

“You were in my house.”

“Several times.”

“You read my journal.”

It wasn't a question, but he grinned and answered anyway. “Yes. Very enjoyable reading, by the way.” He lowered his voice, tone becoming almost tender. “This could have gone either way.”

“It went my way. It's over for you.”

He shook his head. “I so admire your spunk. You're going to die, Kitten. And so is Riggio and your beloved Joe. I'm sorry.”

Lance looked sick. “I don't want us to hurt them, Scott.”

“Of course you don't. Because you're weak. I'll take care of them. I'll take care of us. The way I always have. It's you and me, buddy. Like it's always been.”

“But Mary Catherine—”

“You don't love her. She used you—”

“That's not true!” M.C. said, sounding desperate. “Don't listen, Lance, he's—”

“You, shut up!”

“She said she'd help me,” Lance said. “That she'd help us.”

“She's a liar.” Snowe all but spat the words. “Did Mother ever help you? Did she ever help us?”

When Lance shook his head, he went on, “Who was the only one who ever helped you?”

“You, Scott. But—” He drew a deep breath, as if screwing up his courage. “We're not going to kill them.”

“We're not?”

“We're going to let them go.”

Snowe narrowed his eyes. “And why would we do that? Don't be such a pussy, Lance. Jesus, you disgust me.”

“Don't let him talk to you that way!” M.C. cried. “You're not stupid! Not worthless! I loved you.”

“It's over, Scott. I'm going to free them.” He started toward M.C. “You can run if you wa—”

Snowe pulled Kitt's gun from the waistband of his pants, aimed and shot Lance in the back.

His brother stopped dead and looked back at his brother. “Scott?” he said. “Sco—”

Then he went down.

Snowe stared at him a moment, blinking against tears. “You always needed my direction and I respected that. I took care of you. But since you don't need me anymore…Too bad, little bro.”