unusual for around here. Can’t swing a dead cat without hitting ‘family.’ But really, look at me. Do I look Italian?”
He didn’t. Not only did he have red hair, he had the pale, freckled skin to go along with it.
“I was adopted,” he continued. “Go figure. What, did the agency lie? Yeah, he’s Italian. Sure he is, that’s the ticket.
“I’ve seen the baby pictures, folks. I was born with these freckles. And the hair? I affectionately call this shade ‘flaming carrot.’ I mean, instead of looking like a mob enforcer, I look like the match-stick he chews on. Do you think I can get any respect on the street?”
M.C. chuckled. He had a point.
“It just doesn’t work when I say—” He motioned the way one of her brothers would, and she laughed outright. “I was always having my ass kicked.
“I tried, you know. To be Italian. One of the guys. I worked on the walk. It’s a strut. Very macho. Cocky.”
He demonstrated the loose-hipped swagger. Each of her brothers had it. Watching the comic, she couldn’t fault his technique, but on him it looked ridiculous. M.C. laughed loudly.
He looked her way. “That’s right, laugh at my pain. At my pitiful attempts to gain acceptance.”
Sorenstein nudged her, dragging her attention from the comedian’s schtick. “I hear Lundgren heard from someone claiming to be the Sleeping Angel.”
“Yeah? Who’d you hear that from?”
“A buddy in CRU.”
And she knew which one. She narrowed her eyes at Brian, who was flirting outrageously with the too-young-for-him bartender. “Passing along a crank call? Some people have way too much time on their hands.”
“You so sure it was a crank?” That came from Snowe.
“Makes a hell of a lot more sense than the real killer calling and confessing. Come on.”
“Strange things happen.”
Suddenly irritated, she wished she had gone home. “Give me a break.”
M.C. swung her stool to face the stage.
“Did we hit a nerve?” Sorenstein teased.
Snowe snickered. “What? Is Lundgren getting to you?”
“Not at all, boys, just enjoying the show.”
She ignored their laughter, sipped her wine and listened to the rest of the comic’s routine about growing up outside the Italian circle, looking in on them.
When he finished, she clapped loudly. He shot her a big smile, bowed and exited the stage. A moment later, he joined them at the bar. M.C. smiled at him. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Thank you. I need that.” The bartender set a beer in front of him, obviously on the house. He took a long swallow, then glanced back at her. “Let me guess, you’re family.”
He was referring to her ethnicity, she knew. And with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin tone, she knew she looked the part. One hundred percent. She smiled. “You were very funny. Right on target.”
“Thank you, Mary Catherine.”
“Call me M.C. So tell me, how has your family reacted to your choice of comedic subject matter?”
“They hired Uncle Tony to take care of me.”
“Uncle Tony?” she repeated, lips lifting. “An enforcer?”
“Much worse. An ambulance-chasing shark in a suit. He threatened me with a defamation of character lawsuit.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. I told him to bring it on.” He took a swallow of his beer. “So what’s your story?”
“I’m the youngest of six. And the only girl.”
“I’m sitting next to royalty, then.” He mock bowed. “Princess Mary Catherine.”
“In the form of a cop.”
He held up his glass in a mock toast. “To a fellow rebel and outsider.”
An outsider? She had never thought of herself quite that way, but it certainly fit. She was one of them and loved, but different. And not just because she didn’t fit the mold of her ancestors. Her profession made her different, as well. The way she lived. The violence and inhumanity she saw on a daily basis.
“Is this a private party, or can anybody join in?”
That came from Brian, who seemed to have given up on the bartender. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood. “It’s your party now, guys. I’m beat.”
As she walked away, she looked back at Lance Castrogiovanni. He caught her glance and smiled. She returned the smile, wondering if she would see him again—and hoping that she would.
11
Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:20 a.m.
Kitt stood at the grave site, shivering in the early-morning chill. The stone read:
Our Beloved “Peanut” Sadie Marie Lundgren September 10, 1990—April 4, 2001
Kitt visited Sadie at least once a week. Laid fresh flowers on her grave, removed the dead ones. Today it was daisies.
She looked up at the gray sky, longing suddenly for real spring. Bright sun and blue sky.
“Something bad’s happened, sweetheart. He’s back. That man who killed those girls. And I’m—”
She struggled to speak past the lump that formed in her throat. Even after all the time that had passed, she still choked up at moments like this.
“I’m afraid,” she went on. “For other girls. But for me, too. I can’t … start drinking again. I can’t let it … let him take over my life.
“Not that I have—” She shook her head and bit off the thought. She wouldn’t go there. Wouldn’t burden her sweet child with her problems.
“I hope you’re happy. That it’s good there.” She paused. “I think about you every day, baby. I love you.”
She bent and straightened the flowers, hating to go. Wishing with all her heart that staying would bring her daughter back. Finally she forced herself to take a step back from the grave site. To turn, walk away.
Her cell phone rang as she reached the walkway. She simultaneously answered and glanced back.
“Lundgren here.”
“Hello, Kitt.”
The hair at the back of her neck prickled. The Sleeping Angel
