Copycat by Erica Spindler Read Free Book Online

wore gloves.”
    â€œAny hair? Fiber?”
    â€œNot my area. Ask about the photos.”
    â€œConsider yourself asked.”
    â€œDropped them on your desk on the way out tonight. Where were you? Little girls’ room?”
    She ignored that. “How do they look?”
    â€œWorks of art. What did you expect from a master?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Nice ego.”
    â€œYo, Riggio,” Sorenstein said, interrupting the two. “I like a bar that caters to the city’s underbelly.”
    â€œBite me, bug man,” she shot back.
    Nick Sorenstein was ID’s forensic entomologist. He was the lucky one who got to collect bugs and larvae from corpses. It was an area that had required considerable advanced training—and earned him never-ending ribbing.
    Snowe took a swallow of the beer. “Riggio here was just asking about hair and fiber from the Entzel scene.”
    â€œSome interesting dark-colored fiber,” Sorenstein said. “Retrieved from the bedding and the window casing. Our guy was wearing black.”
    â€œNow, that is unusual.”
    â€œA lot of cat hair,” Sorenstein continued, ignoring her sarcasm. “They have a long-haired cat named Whiskers. It’s all at the lab. Analysis takes time.”
    â€œTime I don’t have.”
    Brian, yuking it up with the man she didn’t recognize, saw her then and grinned. “Hey, M.C. Meet our new friend. Lance Castr’gi’vanni.”
    The way he mangled the name told her he had been at the bar longer than was healthy.
    â€œCastrogiovanni,” the man corrected, holding out a hand.
    She took it. “Mary Catherine Riggio.”
    â€œNice meeting you, but I’ve got to go. I’m on.”
    A moment later she understood what he meant. It was Comedy Night and Lance Castrogiovanni was the entertainment.
    She hoped he was funny; she could use a good laugh.
    â€œBet I could bench-press that guy, he’s so thin,” Snowe said. “Think he’d be pissed if I tried?”
    That brought a round of drunken yuks. Guy humor, she supposed. But he was probably right. Detective Scott Snowe wasn’t a big man, but he was strong. She regularly saw him in the gym; a couple of times they had spotted each other at the bench press. He pressed something like two-fifty.
    And the comic, now monologuing about his pathetic childhood, was tall, rail thin and redheaded.
    â€œActually,” he was saying, “I come from a big Italian family.”
    That caught M.C.’s attention and she glanced toward the stage.
    â€œI know, that’s 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.
    â€œI was adopted,” he continued. “Go figure. What, did the agency lie? Yeah, he’s Italian. Sure he is, that’s the ticket.
    â€œI’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 matchstick he chews on. Do you think I can get any respect on the street?”
    M.C. chuckled. He had a point.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œI 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