To make it to Romano’s Cafe on time—allowing for the usually insane Friday evening freeway traffic—Sami had to leave her home in fifteen minutes.
Decision time.
As promised, Simon had called at precisely seven p.m. to confirm their dinner plans.
Wearing only pink panties and a matching bra, Sami stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door and proceeded to torture herself. She turned from side to side, critically appraising her figure, wishing that the halogen lamp in the corner wasn’t so bright. Her untanned skin looked pasty white.
How could she have lived in San Diego all her life, a community heralded to be the fittest city in the country, a virtual utopia of sun-rich landscape, and look like she should be milking cows in some Midwestern hick town? She folded her arms across her chest in disgust and shifted her eyes to the more immediate problem: what to wear.
The black skirt, simple yet never out of style, slenderized her figure, and the slit in front was just naughty enough to expose a tasteful portion of her still-shapely legs. Okay, she thought, we’re making some headway. She loved the feel of her powder-blue silk blouse against her skin. With the top two buttons left open, Simon might get a peek at her Wonderbra cleavage, but not an eyeful. Now for the roadblock. Sami wished she could wear sheer, nude-colored panty hose, but two varicose veins—gifts from Angelina’s nine-month visit inside her womb—forced Sami to choose black, concealing hose, which defeated the whole purpose of the slit up the front of the skirt.
Go with it, girl, it’s the best you’ve got.
After brushing her hair, Sami grabbed the almost-full bottle of Obsession perfume and dotted a few strategic locations on her body: both sides of her neck, just below her ears, in the bend of her elbows, and right above her cleavage. She finished her ensemble with a pearl choker and matching earrings. When she walked into the living room, she expected her mother to give her a disapproving scowl.
“You look very nice, Sami,” her mother said. “This young man must be someone special.”
Dumbfounded, Sami said, “We’ll soon find out.”
Angelina dragged her blanket across the room, struggling not to trip as she walked awkwardly toward her mother. “Mommy, you look sooo beautiful!”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Is Grandma Josephine gonna watch me tonight?”
“That okay, honey?”
“Um-hum. Will you read me a story before you go?”
“I’m sorry, baby, but I’ve got to leave in a couple of minutes. If you’re a good girl”—Sami glanced at her mother—“maybe Grandma will read you a story.”
“How about if we watch Happy Feet?” Josephine Rizzo said. “Would you like that, Angelina?”
She nodded her head vigorously.
Sami guessed that her mother had watched that movie at least fifty times with Angelina.
“What time is your gentleman friend picking you up?” Josephine asked.
“I’m meeting him at the restaurant, Ma.”
Josephine fiddled with her apron. “Oh, a real gentleman, huh?”
“It’s easier that way,” Sami said.
“Easier for him.”
Did she always have to meddle in her affairs? “Dating isn’t what it used to be.”
“I guess not.”
Sami looked at the octagonal clock above the television. “I’ve really got to go.”
“You’re gonna make him think you’re some kind of cheap date.”
Sami kissed Angelina on the forehead. “Maybe I am, Ma.”
Quite to Sami’s pleasant surprise, the freeways were running smoothly. No ten-car pileups or reduced-lane construction areas. Occasionally she encountered some nitwit so busy chatting on his cell phone that driving safely seemed to be an afterthought, but overall, traffic cruised along without incident. When Sami exited Freeway 5 at Grand Avenue, about twenty blocks from Romano’s Cafe, her cellular rang.
She pawed through her purse, finding it just as she screeched to a stop for a red light at Grand Avenue. Ironic, she thought, that a detective would ignore the hands-free cell-phone law. She’d been meaning to buy a Bluetooth headset but hadn’t gotten around to it. “Detective Rizzo.”
“It’s me, Sami.” Al’s voice was edged with tension. “Where are you?”
“Didn’t take you long to forget about my dinner date.”
“Sorry, partner, but you have to cancel.”
“Unless you’ve got our favorite perp cuffed and ready to confess, you haven’t a prayer.”
“Sami…this is serious.”
She couldn’t remember the last time Al sounded so businesslike. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Not over the telephone.”
“Tell me.”
“Get to the precinct as quickly as you can.”
She wanted to argue, but the urgency in his voice begged for her to cooperate. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Drive carefully, partner.”
Squealing a tire, Sami made an illegal U-turn and raced toward southbound 5. Other drivers, unaware that she was a cop, honked their horns. One woman waved an angry fist and gestured with her middle finger. Sami’s thoughts inundated her. Maybe the killer had kidnapped another victim, perhaps even murdered her? But this didn’t make sense. In the past, victims didn’t end up in the morgue until at least three days after their abduction. The killer followed a pattern. Then Sami remembered Peggy McDonald’s autopsy. Unlike the first three victims, Peggy had a bruise on her face, her heart had not been removed, and she’d been violently raped. The murderer’s methods were changing, which could mean the time line of the murders might change. She remembered what Sally Whitman, the FBI profiler, had said: “…when a murderer is driven by some perverse religious belief, his cruelty has no limits…”
Sami eased her car across the flow of freeway traffic to the farther-most left lane. She paid no heed to speed limits. When she encountered a motorist unaware that the passing lane wasn’t for lazy Sunday afternoon sightseeing, she flashed her lights and engaged the siren. The intimidating power of that ear-piercing whine always amazed her. She could feel perspiration trickling between her breasts, and soon her favorite silk blouse would have sweat-soaked stains under her arms. That Al would not openly talk via cellular heightened her angst.
As Sami raced toward downtown San Diego, reevaluating Al’s tense voice, she felt overwhelming alarm. Only a monumental event of a personal nature could force her partner into such an uncharacteristic tailspin. Al was a rock. Almost nothing rattled him. He knew something and couldn’t muster the courage to share it with her.
Suddenly, Sami felt certain either her mother or Angelina had been injured. Perhaps both. Maybe there was a fire or a household accident. Possibly her mother suffered a heart attack. But how could this be? She’d left the two of them only fifteen minutes before she’d gotten Al’s panicky call. She reached for her cellular and thumbed in her home telephone number.
After four rings the answering machine picked up and she heard her own voice. Now wild thoughts raced through her mind.
She exited at Front Street, checked the cross traffic at Ash, then rolled through the red light. She peeked at her watch: seven-twenty-eight.
“Shit,” she whispered. In her fury she’d forgotten about Simon. She had no way to reach him. She had only his work number.
As she pulled into the ramp garage, she flipped open her cellular and dialed 411.
The operator spoke with a southern drawl. “What city, pa-lease?”
“San Diego.”
“How may I help you?”
“The number for Romano’s Cafe.”
Simon was sporting a charcoal Armani double-breasted suit, a white shirt, and an amber tie, and feeling rather dashing. He sat at a corner table sipping kiwi-strawberry sparkling water, anticipating his impending date with great exhilaration. He enjoyed people-watching, an activity he found quite enlightening. Observing human behavior was an adventure. Sim
on was fascinated with the art of studying body language and trying to read people’s thoughts.
The restaurant, crowded and noisy, buzzed with activity.
Next to Simon, snuggling together like Siamese twins was an intriguing couple. The gentleman, graying only at the temples—strong evidence he belonged to the Grecian Formula club—looked about fifty and appeared to be trim and fit. An executive going through an extended midlife crisis, Simon concluded. The young brunette, giggling uncontrollably, barely in her twenties, was pawing at him and burying her face in his neck like a kitten intoxicated with a sock full of catnip. She was attractive, Simon thought. In fact, she was stunning, but obviously a trollop. Her skirt rode high on her bare thighs and her skimpy blouse offered an unobstructed view of man-made breasts. Although Simon would never intoxicate his body or mind by overindulging, he was quite a connoisseur. He recognized the unique label on the champagne bottle the couple was drinking: Dom Perignon.
Sinners have no place among the godly.
Just as Simon lost himself in thoughts of how he’d purify the souls of the couple he’d been observing, a tuxedoed blond waiter approached him.
“Excuse me, sir, is your name, Simon?”
Moderately concerned, Simon eyeballed him curiously. Why would a stranger ask such a question? No one except the homicide detective knew he was here. Simon’s uneasiness heightened. His first inclination was to deny it. But to do so would serve no purpose.
“It is.”
The waiter handed Simon the cordless telephone. “You have a call, sir.”
Before speaking into the mouthpiece, Simon wiped it clean with his napkin. “Get caught in a traffic jam, detective?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“You’re the only person walking the planet who knows I’m here.”
“I’ve got some rather bad news.”
“Let me guess. Some urgent police business has taken precedence over dinner.”
“You must be clairvoyant.”
Oh, how he wished he were. “And to think that I took my best suit out of mothballs just for you.”
“How about a rain check?”
Yes. But only if you promise to bring your daughter. “Of course.”
“I’ll call you at the hospital early in the week.”
“That would be fine.” Feeling somewhat paranoid, Simon wondered if the urgent police business had anything to do with him. Perhaps his carelessness had given them a lead? “Does your change in plans have anything to do with the serial murder investigation?”
“Not really free to discuss that, Simon.”
He curled his free hand into a fist. “I understand.”
“Sorry about tonight,” Sami said.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. You go catch the bad guys.”
He dropped the telephone on the table and could feel that menacing rage churning inside him, the unharnessed passion to retaliate, a familiar need to release the stranglehold of a demon within.
Bonnie Jean Oliver.
He looked at the brunette, almost gawked at her ruby-painted lips. He knew that soon she would reward her sugar daddy for his self-serving generosity. Those pouty lips would do what they did best. Inside, a storm raged.
Slut. Harlot. Sinner.
He wanted to pick up a chair and smash it into her face until her flesh looked like a bowl of strawberry Jell-O. And her boyfriend? He drove the enticing vision from his thoughts. He motioned for the waiter. The young man hurried to the table.
Simon handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “I guess I’ll be passing on dinner.”
When Sami walked into the almost-vacant precinct, she spotted Al in Captain Davison’s office. Al’s arms were flailing like a newborn eagle’s wings. Considering how rarely anything affected him, his antics were not a good omen. Sami almost ran down the aisle toward the office. Her lower back, which had miraculously healed without medical intervention, suddenly tightened. When she walked into the office out of breath, she took one look at Al’s chalky-white face and knew that a devastating announcement loomed moments away.
“You’d better have a seat,” Davison suggested.
She ignored him. “What’s going on?”
Davison eyed Diaz.
Al nervously combed his fingers through his hair. “About an hour ago, the Scuba Squad fished Tommy DiSalvo’s body out of the bay.”
Not having realized her deepest fear—hearing Angelina’s or her mother’s name—Sami felt a fleeting moment of relief. But then the wink of deliverance was overpowered by devastating guilt.
She wobbled toward Davison’s desk and fell into one of the chairs. “It’s my fault,” Sami whispered.
Al moved the other chair next to Sami, sat down, and clutched her shoulder. “How could your ex-husband’s murder be your fault?”
Murder?
Davison puffed his cigarette. “His body was in pretty bad shape.”
“What do you mean?” Sami asked.
“Sami,” Al said, “do you really want the gory details?”
A valid question. Nonetheless Sami had to know everything. “Please stop treating me like a child.”
“Cause of death has not been determined.” Davison said. “He may have drowned, but our initial feeling is that he was murdered before they dumped him in the water.”
Sami had little patience for their evasiveness. “Gunshot wound, stabbing, strangulation—how?”
Al let out a deep sigh and looked at Davison. “His face was bludgeoned,” Al said, “all of his fingers were fractured…and…”
Sami bolted upright and knocked over the chair. “Will you just…fucking…tell me!”
Al stared at the floor. “It wasn’t pretty, Sami. Do you really want to hear more?”
No, she didn’t. Detective Samantha Rizzo suddenly felt detached from her colleagues. She felt as if she’d drifted into another dimension. Alone she sat in her guilt-riddled world. All she could see was Tommy’s often-playful smile, a side of him she dearly missed. There were times when he could actually be charming, mischievous in an innocent, almost childlike manner. Struggling to maintain her composure, Sami told Al and Davison about Tommy DiSalvo’s gambling debt and the threat on his life, that she had refused to help him.
“You can’t blame yourself, Sami,” Al said.
How she wished she could find solace in his words. “I have no illusions about Tommy DiSalvo.” She paused for a moment, wiping her eyes. “But in spite of his shortcomings, he was still Angelina’s dad.”
TEN
Simon left the restaurant and stepped out into the cool dry evening. Only three blocks from the Pacific, a gentle breeze of salty ocean air filled his lungs. The cloudless sky looked crowded with stars and the sidewalks were jammed with Friday evening carousers hopping from bar to bar. Alcohol—one of Satan’s most insidious servants—flowed freely tonight. By two a.m., when the local watering holes announced last call, Simon guessed that the area would be infested with drunken heathens tarnishing their souls through sins of the flesh.
Still reeling from his violent thoughts of the couple he’d seen at the restaurant, Simon decided that an invigorating walk on the beach would ease his tattered nerves. Episodes of stone-blind anger terrified Simon. He did not enjoy the disconcerting feeling of losing control. Periods of this unnerving condition plagued him more frequently of late, particularly since his first cleansing. He could not predict this eerie metamorphosis, nor could he manage it. The episode in the cafe had not been severe; he had dealt with his anger without incident. Yet Simon feared that the momentary lapse of reason merely represented a dress rehearsal, that he stood on the threshold of something momentous. He didn’t want to get careless; he needed clarity to continue God’s work. And a prudent man would heed this warning and remove himself from potential danger. But he felt drawn to the ocean by a powerful force, beckoned by some visceral connection to something.
As he weaved through groups of rowdy people, few he passed paid much atte
ntion to him. He brushed by them on the narrow sidewalk, favoring his throbbing right foot as he walked toward Crystal Pier. His dress shoes were much too tight for his ailing foot. He passed outdoor cafes, coffeehouses, secondhand clothing stores, souvenir shops, racks of postcards, T-shirt and sweatshirt kiosks, an ice cream parlor, a pastry shop, and of course an assortment of pubs and saloons.
The gate at the entrance to Crystal Pier locked at sundown, but the almost-endless concrete boardwalk following the coastline both north and south remained open and well lit, allowing crowds to wander at their leisure. Simon followed the path until he reached the stairway offering access to the beach. The moon, a sliver shy of full, illuminated the sand well enough for Simon to see that other than two clusters of party-loving lawbreakers, gulping beer and slamming shots of tequila, the beach was relatively deserted.
In the distance he could hear the faint sound of a radio tuned to the local jazz station. Sade proclaimed that hers was no ordinary love. Low tide widened the sandy beach, and the ocean calmly slapped the shoreline. Moonlight danced on languid waves.
Before making his way down the sand-covered stairs, Simon, not wanting to lose his footing and risk tumbling to the bottom, removed his Valentino loafers and Gold Toe socks. The wound was still sore but improving every day. Wrapped with gauze, it was protected from the sand. He rolled up his slacks to just below his knees. At the bottom of the stairway a fortyish man, his full beard wiry and untrimmed, sat on the second last step, sipping something out of a brown paper bag. Sporting badly worn Army fatigues and a heavy camouflage jacket, the man’s torn sneakers completed the tattered ensemble.
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