He had no idea what to say.
Sami walked into the precinct and headed straight for Detective Osbourn’s desk. He had a telephone pressed to his ear and rocked back and forth in the chair. When he spotted Sami, he acknowledged her with a quick wave. He held the telephone away from his ear, but standing a few feet away she could still hear whoever was on the other end of the line speaking loudly.
Osbourn covered the mouthpiece. “Judge Foster,” he whispered. “And he ain’t happy.”
Sami gestured for him to give her the phone.
“Judge Foster, Detective Rizzo just walked in. Please hang on.” He handed the phone to Sami and mouthed, Good luck.
“This is Detective Rizzo, Judge.”
“Why did I have to read in the newspaper that you are now heading the serial killer investigation? What happened to Detective Diaz?”
“He got called away to a family emergency.”
“What could possibly be more important than finding my daughter’s killer?”
“I can understand your concern, Judge, but I am perfectly capable of taking over.”
“Have you found him yet? Is the son of a bitch behind bars?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“You’d better be afraid, Detective. Afraid for your job. Detective Diaz convinced me to give my consent for a thorough autopsy, and even though it went against my better judgment, I agreed.” He huffed. “I let them fillet my daughter like a laboratory animal and what did it yield? Did it get you even one millimeter closer to apprehending this maniac?”
“We’re piecing lots of things together right now, and I really believe we’ll arrest this guy soon.” If only she could believe her own words.
“Don’t patronize me, Detective. I’ve been in this business way too long. Do you have any suspects at all?”
“Not at this time.”
“So, thus far, four young people have been brutally murdered, and you don’t even have a lead?”
“I truly understand your frustrations, Judge Foster, however—”
“Frustrations, Detective? Let me make my frustrations perfectly clear. If this monster isn’t behind bars in the next week, I strongly suggest you update your résumé. Is that clear enough?”
Sami heard a click.
Osbourn rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “So, Detective Rizzo, how was your day?” He grinned like a crazed chimpanzee.
“Oh, I’ve had better. But then again, I’ve had worse.” She leaned against his desk and folded her arms. “I don’t suppose you made any headway today.”
He shook his head. “All we’ve got is Katie Mitchell’s description of this guy. The autopsies yielded nothing we can sink our teeth into, except that the perp is probably some renegade doctor. Where do we go from here?”
“We pray, Detective Osbourn. We pray.”
Using the most reliable and sophisticated Web sites available, and utilizing his extensive resources, in less than two days of intense research, Peter Spencer learned just about everything there was to know about Sami Rizzo and her entire family. What he couldn’t find in public records, he found through a network of “back-door” cronies. He knew more about her than about his own brother. Unlike the average citizen living a quiet life away from the public limelight, Detective Rizzo’s visibility in the media made it much easier for him to access even the most obscure facts.
He knew when Sami had made her confirmation, where she made it, and who sponsored her. He knew the amount of life insurance she received when her ex-husband was murdered, and where she deposited the check. He knew the exact hour her father, Angelo Rizzo, died; how long he’d been a cop; and whom he’d partnered with for eleven years. He knew Angelina’s birth date and that Detective Diaz currently occupied her bed. He learned that her mother, Josephine Rizzo, just underwent open heart surgery, and he knew where she had the operation. He found out that her cousin, Emily Rizzo, just received her nursing degree from the Bay Area College of Nursing and maintained a 3.8 grade point average. He even discovered that Sami had been in therapy with Doctor Theresa Janowitz for more than a year. He uncovered details about Samantha Marie Rizzo that her mother didn’t even know.
Peter J. Spencer III could write Sami Rizzo’s biography.
Now that he had this information, the next step was surveillance, the part of PI work he hated most. Although the Internet yielded significant personal data on everyone from a garbage collector to the president, PI work still required some hands-on responsibilities. But considering Sami Rizzo’s reputation and her keen detective instincts, he couldn’t merely park his sedan across the street from her home, monitor her actions, and observe the activities of the people who shared her home. No, Spencer had to take a different approach. And at this particular moment, he wasn’t sure what that might be.
Maybe Spencer’s longtime friend, Detective Chuck D’Angelo, a man who consistently walked a narrow line between ethical police work and self-indulgence, might offer some assistance as he’d done so many times in the past. D’Angelo was always looking for some action on the side. Short of homicide, he was game for almost anything—as long as the price was right. D’Angelo would retire soon and surely he could use a little mad money.
“You need help, Julian. Serious fucking help.” Nicole massaged her shoulders right where his hands had left black and blue marks.
“I’m so sorry. I have no idea what came over me.” He knew exactly what had come over him. He reached for her hand but she retracted as if a rattlesnake was trying to bite her.
“If my parents see these fucking bruises on my shoulders—”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” he said. “I just lost control.”
“You could have seriously hurt me. I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week. Is that the way you want sex? Are you into S and M?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, something isn’t right. And I can tell you firsthand that until you see a sex therapist about this fixation, don’t even think about touching me. For now, consider our relationship platonic.”
She was right. He was out of control. And he had to protect Nicole. After all, she had given birth to his beautiful daughters. Didn’t he owe her something? “Would you feel more comfortable if we separated for a while?”
She fixed her eyes on him. “Seriously?”
“Maybe it’s best.”
She stood quietly for a minute, examining her fingernails. “Where would you stay?”
She knew nothing about his loft apartment. “There are lots of extended-stay hotels.”
“What about the kids?”
“I’ll pick them up a couple nights a week and take them on weekends. They don’t have to know we’re separated.”
Nicole touched her shoulders again and let out a soft moan. “I think you should leave today.”
Julian never dreamed that he’d have to take such drastic measures. But at this particular moment, he felt overwhelmed with both apprehension and anticipation. Being separated from Nicole was manageable. It gave him the freedom to aggressively pursue subjects for his research. But the thought of not seeing his daughters every day gnawed at him. Somehow, he had to focus.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
It had been over a week since Ricardo, his sister’s lover, had summoned Al to Rio. Except for the few nights Al rented a hotel room out of sheer exhaustion, and the short breaks to get some fresh air or grab a quick bite of cafeteria food, he hadn’t left Aleta’s side. He spent hours talking to her, holding her hand, gently stroking her arm, but with each day that passed and she remained in a coma, he felt more and more hopeless.
He had even lost track of time. One day blended into another. He wasn’t sure if today was Wednesday or Sunday. What difference did it make? He spoke to Sami every day, if for nothing else than to hear her voice. Thus far, he hadn’t had anything new to report. He felt deep concern for Sami’s welfare. He guessed that the capta
in, Chief Larson, and the mayor herself, would have little patience with the investigation. They didn’t want to hear about dead-end streets, lack of evidence, or sketchy details. They wanted results. No excuses. No sob stories. In spite of his confidence in Sami’s skills as a competent detective, Al couldn’t help but feel that she might be in over her head. If she didn’t apprehend the serial killer soon, her future as a homicide investigator would be in serious jeopardy. But as much as Al wanted to support Sami and be there for her, right now he had to focus his attention on Aleta.
He had always believed that South American coffee was the world’s best. But the cafeteria convincingly disproved this theory. Never had he tasted such bitter rotgut. He only drank it to jump-start his brain.
Al walked into his sister’s hospital room, sipping the last of the coffee, his face puckered as if he were drinking burnt molasses. He glanced at the heart monitor. Aleta’s blood pressure was a little low, but her vitals were holding steady. He assumed his position on the uncomfortable steel chair next to her bed and as he had done every time he walked in the room, he kissed her on the cheek. Just then, Nurse Sofia walked in.
“Hello, Mr. Diaz.”
He had told the head nurse repeatedly to call him Al, but she continued to address him formally. He guessed it was just part of the Brazilian culture.
“You’re back again?” Al asked. Sofia had already been in to check on Aleta twice today, which alarmed Al. “Has anything changed?”
“Your sister is stable.”
As the nurse checked Aleta’s IV bag and performed other duties, Al noticed that she seemed a bit jittery. “Are you okay, Sofia?”
She continued with her tasks and looked at Al over her shoulder. “Everything is fine.”
When Sofia finished with her duties she lingered as if she didn’t want to leave. She approached Al and stood in front of him, obviously nervous. Tall and shapely, her eyes were as dark as espresso beans. When she smiled, her teeth looked like they could be in a Colgate commercial.
“Mr. Diaz, I hope I do not offend you, but I have watched you sitting here every day, hour after hour, by your sister’s side. She is very lucky to have you as a brother.”
“Thank you.”
“I have heard that you are here alone without your family, and I feel sad that you are by yourself. Please excuse me for being forward, but I would like to invite you to my family’s home for dinner. It would be very good for you to get away from the hospital for a short time. Our home is very close to the hospital, so if there was an emergency, you could return quickly.”
Sofia had caught Al completely off guard. “That is so sweet of you, but—”
“My mother makes the best feijoada in all of Brazil. Please say yes.”
“Let me think about it, okay?”
“As you wish.” She smiled warmly and left the room.
It took Al a few minutes to gather his thoughts. He moved the chair closer to the bed, the sweet scent of Sofia lingering in the air.
“Good morning, Sunflower.” He had given her this nickname when she was just a child. Their parents, impoverished as they were, had managed to save enough money to take a short weekend vacation. They went to a beautiful park with acres of six-foot-tall sunflowers. Aleta, barely four feet tall, was totally intrigued with these golden flowers towering over her. Since that day, he’d affectionately called her Sunflower.
Holding her hand and occasionally talking to her as if she were conscious, he felt his eyes growing heavy. He was about to stand up and stretch his legs when he felt Aleta squeeze his hand ever so slightly. He had held her hands for hours and hours, and never had she responded with even the slightest sign of life. Was it merely a reflex?
Al could barely find his voice he was so startled. “If you can hear me, Sunflower, squeeze my hand again.”
Nothing.
“You can do it, Sweetheart. Please squeeze my hand.”
Still nothing.
He sat quietly for a minute, guessing that he had dozed off and it was just his imagination. But then she squeezed his hand again. This time with a little more force.
“Sunflower, this is Alberto. I’m here, Sweetheart. Can you hear me?”
Again she squeezed his hand.
Al studied her face carefully, looking for any sign of consciousness. Her face looked frozen. No eye movement. No twitches. No nothing.
Not wanting to leave her for even a second, Al pushed the nurse’s call button clipped to the side of the bed. In less than a minute, a nurse dashed in the room.
“Do you speak English?” Al asked.
“Little bit.”
“Where is Dr. Souza?”
“He is making rounds.”
“Find him and tell him to get here immediately!”
Julian had just finished unpacking his three Vuitton suitcases, and neatly placed his clothes in closets and dresser drawers. Happy to be relaxing in his loft, the place he’d now be calling home for who knew how long, he poured himself a glass of Jordan Cabernet and sat on the sofa.
He wasn’t yet sure how he would handle visits with his daughters. He certainly couldn’t let them see his loft, particularly if he was conducting experiments. Perhaps when he picked them up he’d have to rent a hotel room. He’d take them out to dinner, of course, but wasn’t quite sure what other activities would satisfy them. If it were up to him, just sitting next to his kids, sharing a bowl of popcorn, watching a movie would suit him just fine. He had promised Nicole that he’d pick them up two nights a week and on weekends. But depending on his activities, he might have to change the schedule. There was no way for him to predict when his research would conflict with his visits.
As content as he felt at this particular moment, flashbacks of what he had done to Nicole still troubled him. Was he losing control? Had his cousins warped him forever? For the last couple of years he had been struggling with his marriage. Hating any kind of altercation, he never confronted the difficult issues with Nicole. He just let them fester. But unlike Julian, Nicole loved a verbal showdown.
If he felt reasonably comfortable that his kids would be okay and not suffer from the deep emotional wounds so often inflicted by divorce, he might have had the nerve to hire a good attorney a long time ago. But he understood all too well what it felt like to be unloved. And he didn’t ever want his kids to deal with the same psychological damage.
His unhappiness with their marriage still didn’t address his motivation to hurt Nicole. Why would he force himself on her with no regard for her welfare? Had he been so caught up in the moment that for one brief period of time he got lost in his emotions? Was Nicole merely a vessel that allowed him to punish Marianne and Rebecca? One thing was certain: No matter what the circumstances, he could never let it happen again.
Julian gulped the last of the wine and flipped open his cell phone. He dialed the number he’d already memorized. “Have you made any progress?”
PI Spencer knew better than to discuss anything sensitive over the telephone. “Big Brother” was always listening. “The wheels are in motion.”
“Do you have anything for me yet?” Julian asked.
“I’ve got a whole package of goodies.”
“Are you familiar with Post Office Plus on Girard Street in La Jolla?”
“Next to the Italian bakery?”
“That’s it. Would you mind dropping off the package this afternoon? I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning. Do you still have my PO box info?”
“I do, Mr. Smith,” Spencer said.
“Terrific. Anything else?”
“Call me tomorrow.”
“How’s your sister?” Sami asked, squeezing her eyes shut, preparing herself for his answer.
“Well, believe it or not, she’s slightly improved.” Al explained how his sister had squeezed his hand and that he requested the doctor perform another EEG.
“I am so glad to hear that.”
“She’s still in a coma, but her brain activity is almost norm
al.”
“So what happens now?”
“It’s still a waiting game,” Al said.
“Is the doctor optimistic?”
“Cautiously.”
“I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through,” Sami said.
“How you holding up? What’s going on with the investigation?”
Al had enough on his mind, so Sami carefully filtered her answer. “I’m hanging tough. No major breakthroughs in the case, but I’m piecing things together.”
“So, in other words, you’ve got nada, right?”
“Guess I can’t bullshit a cop.”
“Are the captain and chief turning the thumbscrews?”
“Not yet, but I expect to get bludgeoned at any moment,” Sami said.
“Don’t let ’em intimidate you.”
“I can deal with them. I’m not so sure I can handle Mayor Sullivan.”
“She’s a tough cookie.”
Silence.
“I have something I want to share with you, Sami.”
How she hated when people started sentences like that. “Should I fasten my seatbelt?”
“You may need to.”
Her mind flooded with a range of possibilities, all of which were unsavory. Did he meet some Brazilian hottie? Have a change of heart about their relationship? “Okay, now that my armpits are all sweaty, what’s going on?”
“Since flying down here, I’ve had nothing but time on my hands. Time to think. Time to evaluate my life. Time to look at things from a different perspective.”
She didn’t like the way this was heading. But she held her breath and listened. She was hopelessly in love with Al, and if he was about to dump her from six thousand miles away…
“I’ve expressed how I feel about God and religion and evolution,” Al continued.
“I know. God and religion are fairy tales and evolution is scientific.”
“Well, maybe I’ve been wrong.”
“In what regard?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve been praying. And the strange thing is, I haven’t any idea who I’m praying to. Watching my sister lying helplessly in that hospital bed, fighting for her life—”
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