Big sister spent the night at her best friend’s house.”
“Lucky her. Anything else I should know?”
He hesitated. “No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re certain?”
“It’s just, it’s—” He shifted his gaze. “It’s pretty horrible.”
She nodded. “Let’s keep access to the inner scene as limited as possible. Any questions about that direct them to me. Or Detective Lundgren.”
M.C. said the last grudgingly; she heard it in her own voice and wondered if he did, too. She stepped into the house. It smelled of burned toast. The mother sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee, expression blank with shock.
The neighbor stood awkwardly behind her, looking ill.
M.C. turned right, heading down a hallway. Finding the victim’s bedroom wasn’t difficult—an officer stood outside the door.
She reached him and nodded. “Anybody else been in?”
“No, Detective.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“Took her pulse, that’s it.”
M.C. glanced toward the child’s bed. From this position she could see the victim’s hands were once again posed oddly, the right hand with the three middle fingers extended, the left in a fist.
She experienced a quiver of excitement, of expectation. They had a fresh scene. A new, best chance for catching this guy.
Maybe this time he’d slipped up.
“Morning, Detective Riggio.”
She turned. Detective Scott Snowe. The first detective from ID. No doubt the chief would send the entire bureau. Snowe had his camera and video recorder. He wanted to get his initial shots before the room filled up. And before anything was disturbed.
“Detective.”
Snowe motioned toward the bedroom. “This is a pretty fucked-up way to start the weekend. So much for TGIF.”
“No joke. You want to get your shots?”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll be quick.”
“Have at it.”
He stopped just inside the door. “Lundgren’s on her way in. She and a Channel 13 news van pulled up at the same time.”
“How’d the press hear so fast?”
It was a rhetorical question and the detective didn’t answer.
While he went to work, she quickly inventoried the other bedrooms. There were three in total. The teenager’s looked as if a tornado had struck. The master was only slightly less chaotic, but for different reasons. Baskets of clean clothes, yet to be folded. Several stacks of paperback books on the nightstand. Romances. Mysteries. Typical genre stuff. Two empty wineglasses beside them.
M.C. frowned. Had the woman had company last night? She bent and without touching either of the glasses, sniffed. Wine, definitely. Both white.
She shifted her gaze to the other side of the bed. Clearly, if the woman had had company, they hadn’t slept on that half of the queen-size bed. It was neatly made—and covered with stacks of paperwork. She crossed to them. Mama Vest must be a Realtor. The paperwork consisted of flyers, listings, comps, things like that.
“Anything jump out as wrong?”
M.C. turned. Kitt stood in the doorway. “Not yet. You’re late.”
“The media’s all but erecting a big top out there. Or should be.”
“You wanted the job of ringmaster, you got it. Congratulations.”
To her credit, Kitt let that pass. “Apparently, the local affiliates of all three networks received an anonymous call about the murder.”
“Anonymous calls seem to be popular these days.”
“So do murders of ten-year-old girls. Is this another SAK copycat?”
“Looks that way, though I haven’t been in yet. Gave Snowe a few minutes to get his shots.” She paused. “He posed her hands again. Saw that from the doorway.”
Kitt nodded, and together, they headed for the victim’s bedroom. M.C. noticed that the other woman was limping. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re moving like a lame horse.”
Kitt sent her an irritated glance. “I went for a run last night. Had a message waiting for me when I got home. Thumbtacked to my front door.”
“Peanut?”
M.C. saw her wince at the name. “Yup. Said he saw me on TV and would be in touch. Bagged the note and brought it to ID this morning. Which, by the way, is why I’m late.”
M.C. didn’t comment. They reached the child’s room, stepped inside. Several more ID guys had arrived; they all stood silently by the bed.
Kitt and M.C. joined them. Snowe looked over at them, visibly shaken.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said.
M.C. didn’t have to ask what. The Sleeping Angel they had expected to find was, instead, a work of horror. The child’s once-beautiful face was screwed into a terrible scream.
Kitt took a step backward, as if propelled by strong emotion. M.C. held her ground, though not without effort. They had all worked grislier crime scenes, seen bodies mutilated beyond recognition, victims who had been subjected to vile indignities, pre- and postmortem. But this child, the terror frozen on her face, was somehow more chilling, more horrible.
“This one saw him coming,” Snowe muttered.
M.C. cleared her throat. “If we’re lucky, she got a good whack at him. Scratched him, pulled out some hair.”
Snowe squatted, examining the oddly bent fingers. “Nothing to the naked eye. Pathologist will scrape the nails. Here he is now.”
She turned, grateful when she saw it was Frances Roselli on call. She wanted all the experience she could get.
The older man reached the bed, made a sound.
“It isn’t pretty, is it?”
He slipped off his glasses, cleaned them, then slipped them back on. M.C. sensed he was composing himself.
“You got your shots?” he asked Snowe.
He had, and he and the rest of the identification team moved on. He looked at M.C. and Kitt. “Detectives?”
“Anything jump out at you, other than her expression?” M.C. asked.
“Not yet,”
