LITMIR.BIZ

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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,” he said. “I want to get her hands bagged, then I’ll give her a look-over.”

      They thanked him and left him to his work.

      “Talked to the mother yet?” Kitt asked.

      “No. Let’s do it.”

      Mrs. Vest was still in the kitchen, only now a tall, middle-aged man was with her. The pastor, M.C. decided, judging by the cross hanging from a chain around his neck and the Bible on the table in front of him.

      “Mrs. Vest?” she asked. The woman looked up, her expression naked with pain. “We need to ask you a few questions. You think you’re up to that?”

      She nodded, looking anything but.

      “When did your daughter go to bed last night?”

      “Nine. That was her … that was her regular time.”

      “Did you tuck her in?”

      Her eyes welled with tears and her lips quivered. She shook her head. “I didn’t … I was working, so I—”

      She broke down sobbing. The pastor laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. M.C. noticed that Kitt looked away.

      “So you what, Mrs. Vest?”

      “I just … I just told her good-night.”

      “Where were you working?”

      “In bed.”

      “And when did you turn out the lights?”

      “Eleven.” M.C. had to strain to hear her small choked reply.

      “When you turned out the lights, did you peek in on her?”

      M.C. knew the answer by the woman’s tortured expression. Her heart went out to her. “Mrs. Vest, did you have company last night?”

      “Company?” She pressed the crumpled tissue to her eyes. “I don’t understand?”

      “A visitor.”

      She shook her head. “It was just us. Janie, that’s my oldest, spent the night with her best frien—” She looked up at the pastor. “How am I going to tell her about … she doesn’t … dear God.”

      M.C. waited, letting the woman cry, the pastor comfort her. When she appeared to have regained some composure, she asked again, “Did you have a visitor last night?”

      “I’m sorry, what?”

      “Do you have to do this now?” the pastor asked.

      “We do,” Kitt replied softly. “I’m so sorry.” She squatted in front of her. “Mrs. Vest, I know how hard this is. But we need your help catching the person who did this. Just a couple more questions. Please?”

      The woman nodded, clinging to the pastor’s hand.

      M.C. continued. “There were two wineglasses on your nightstand, Mrs. Vest. You’re certain you didn’t have company?”

      She stared blankly for a moment, as if she didn’t understand, then nodded. “They’re

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