LITMIR.BIZ

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      For Rita J Spindler

      mother, mentor, best friend

      AUTHOR’S NOTE

      When I decided to set Copycat in my childhood home town of Rockford, Illinois, I didn’t fully realise what a great setting Rockford would prove to be, or how much I’d enjoy making that “trip home.” Nor would I have been able to guess that I would actually finish this novel while living in Rockford, displaced by a she-devil named Katrina.

      I discovered that much about Rockford has changed in the years I’ve lived away—but much has not. It’s still a close-knit community of hardworking folks who don’t put on airs. Families come first, people are welcoming and really good pizza can be found on almost every block. With all that in mind, I offer an apology: sorry, but in this type of novel people have to die, neighbourhoods must be singled out for murders to occur in and yes, somebody has to be a really twisted bad guy—even in a breadbasket community like this one.

      Everyone I spoke with at the Rockford Police Department was welcoming, and they were consummate professionals. Special thanks to Deputy Chief of Detectives Dominic Iasparro, Officer Carla Redd and Identification Bureau Detective Gene Koelker.

      Huge thanks to my sister-in-law Pam Schupbach, the most big-hearted woman I know. Not only did she act as hotelier, tour guide and chauffeur while I refamiliarised myself with Rockford, but she housed me again after hurricane Katrina, even taking on the role of babysitter so I could finish this novel.

      On the home front, thanks to Mariea Sweitzer, former St Tammany sheriff’s deputy, for the information on phone trace technology—great help for a technology-challenged writer.

      Finally, appreciation to the people who provide day-to-day professional support: my agent Evan Marshall, editor Dianne Moggy and assistant Kari Williams. And as always, last but first, thanks to my family for the love and my God for the blessings.

part one

      1

       Rockford, Illinois Tuesday, March 5, 2001 1:00 a.m.

      The girl’s hair looked silky. He longed to feel it against his fingers and cursed the latex gloves, the necessity that he wear them. The strands were the color of corn silk. Unusual in a child of ten. Too often, as the years passed, the blond darkened until settling on a murky, dishwater color that only bleach could resuscitate.

      He cocked his head, pleased with his choice. She was even more beautiful than the last girl. More perfect.

      He bent closer, stroked her hair. Her blue eyes gazed lifelessly up at him. Breathing deeply, he let her sweet, little-girl scent fill his head.

       Careful … careful …

       Mustn’t leave anything for them.

      The Other One insisted on perfection. Always pushing him. Demanding more. And more.

      Always watching. Every time he looked over his shoulder, the Other One was there.

      He felt himself frown and worked to smooth the telltale emotion from his face.

       My pretty baby. Most beautiful creation. Sleeping Angel.

      The woman detective, Kitt Lundgren, had coined the name Sleeping Angel Killer. The media had jumped on it.

      The name pleased him.

      But not the Other One. Nothing, it seemed, pleased him.

      Quickly, he finished arranging the scene. Her hair. The nightgown he had chosen just for her, with its pink satin bows. Everything had to be just so.

       Perfect.

      And now for the finishing touch. He took the tube of pale pink lip gloss from his pocket. Using the wand, he applied a coat of the gloss to the girl’s lips. Carefully, smoothing, making certain the color was even.

      That done, he smiled at his handiwork.

       Good night, my little angel. Sleep tight.

      2

       Tuesday, March 5, 2001 8:25 a.m.

      Violent Crimes Bureau detective Kitt Lundgren stood in the doorway to the child’s bedroom, a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. Another girl was dead. Murdered in her own bed while her parents slept just down the hall.

      Every parent’s worst nightmare.

      But for these parents, this family, a nightmarish reality.

      The sounds of a scene being processed swirled around her. The click of a camera shutter, a detective on his cell phone, a muttered expletive, conversations.

      Familiar sounds. Ones she had become accustomed to along with losing her squeamishness years ago.

      But this was a child, the second victim in six weeks. Another ten-year-old girl.

       The same age as her Sadie.

      At the thought of her daughter, her chest tightened. Kitt fought the sensation, fought to keep focused on this child. On nailing the monster who had killed her.

      He’d left the first scene eerily clean. Now they had another chance. Maybe this time the bastard had screwed up.

      Kitt entered the bedroom. She moved her gaze over it, taking in the girlish interior. Walls painted a delicate blush pink. White provincial furniture, a canopy bed. Ruffled white eyelet curtains that matched the canopy. A shelf of American Girl dolls. She recognized Felicity; Sadie owned the same one.

      In fact, the room was a near replica of Sadie’s. Move the bed from the right side of the room to the left, add a desk in the corner and change the paint color from pink to peach.

       Focus, Kitt. This isn’t about Sadie. Do the job.

      She glanced to her right. Her partner, Brian Spillare, had already arrived. He stood with Detective Scott Snowe, one of the Identification Bureau detectives. There were nine detectives and a supervisor in the ID Bureau. Unlike most big, urban PDs, crime scene techs in the Rockford Police Department were sworn officers, highly trained in all areas of evidence collection. ID processed the scene for fingerprints and trace evidence, collected blood and analyzed blood splatter and spray, retrieved bullets and casings, and ran ballistic checks. They had also been known to collect insects and larvae from corpses, whose life cycles aided in the determination of time of death. In addition,

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