“No, but it’s wrong for you to coddle me like I’m a nitwit.”
As always, Josephine sulked.
“Yes, Ma. The mystery man is going to knock on the door like a real gentleman.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a physical therapist.”
Josephine nodded. “Ah, like Stella’s daughter?” Stella was Josephine’s lifelong friend.
“That’s right, Ma.”
They sat silently for almost five minutes.
“Do you think it’s right for you to go on a date so soon?” Josephine asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, only three days ago, Tommy…”
“I don’t think there are rules regarding acceptable periods of mourning over ex-husbands.”
Josephine evaluated Sami’s logic for a few seconds. “But what would people think if someone saw you?” Always the case with Josephine Rizzo, she never did anything without first weighing how it would be judged by society. Consequently, her life had been unremarkable and humdrum.
“To be honest, Ma, I couldn’t care less what people think.”
Josephine struggled off the sofa and without saying another word disappeared into the kitchen. For the next ten minutes Sami sat quietly, thinking about Al’s uncharacteristic behavior and Captain Davison’s candid reminder that the hourglass was quickly draining. At six p.m., Sami said goodbye to her still-sulking mother, gave Angelina a hug and started toward the front door.
“How late will you be?” Josephine asked.
“Not sure.”
“Want Angelina to sleep here?”
Sami hadn’t asked for fear of yet another lecture. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Pick her up in the morning. I’ll make breakfast.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
At six-twenty-two, Sami pulled into the Bayshore Hospital parking lot, parked facing the entrance so she could watch for Simon to pull in, and turned off the ignition. It occurred to her that she had no idea what kind of car Simon drove, but she knew if he was indeed the serial murderer he’d be much too clever to drive the Supercab pickup. In the dark parking lot, lit only by scattered sodium vapor lights, he might be hard to spot. Sami was reasonably sure that Simon would find her. She barely had a moment to compose herself and check her weapon to be sure it was secure in her purse when headlights flooded the inside of her car. A white Ford Explorer pulled next to her. Leaving the engine running, Simon got out of the sport utility vehicle, and limping slightly, he approached Sami’s car. She eased out of the car and watched Simon walk toward her. Handsomely dressed, razor-sharp creases punctuated his tan slacks, and he wore a jade-green V-neck sweater. Sami caught a whiff of his citrus-scented cologne.
“Well, Sami, we meet again.” He extended his right arm.
When she grasped his hand, Simon sandwiched it between both of his and gently pumped her arm. His hands were as soft as satin. “It’s good to see you, Simon.” Her voice was a little unsteady.
“You look smashing, Sami. Ready to take a ride into the country?”
“Want me to drive?” Sami offered.
He shook his head. “I’d rather, if you don’t mind.”
He opened the passenger’s door on the shiny white Explorer and carefully helped Sami step up into the sport utility vehicle. Conscious of her short skirt, Sami maneuvered into the passenger’s seat in ladylike fashion. Dark stockings or not, she didn’t want Simon to get an eyeful. Or did she? The potential for awkward silence concerned Sami. During dinner, no doubt, they’d have plenty to talk about—she hoped—but how could she keep the dialogue moving during this long ride?
She noticed the “new vehicle smell.” For lack of a more sophisticated opening, Sami said, “I like your Explorer.”
“It’s new. Finally decided to get rid of my rickety old pickup. When you live in the country, a truck’s pretty handy.” Simon turned out of the parking lot and headed for Mission Bay Drive.
“So where exactly do you live, Simon?”
“On the outskirts of Alpine.”
“You like it out in the boonies?”
“When I first moved here from Texas, I figured that if you’re going to live in Southern California it would be silly not to be near the ocean. I tried a beach community but just couldn’t deal with the traffic and the all-night party animals.”
“Are you a native Texan?”
“Born in Corpus Christi.”
“Did you move here when you were a child?”
He shook his head. “Ten years next month.”
“How did you manage to lose the Texas accent?”
Simon put his foot into the accelerator and headed for the Freeway 5 on-ramp. “For some reason I never acquired that Texas twang. To be honest with you, I’d rather listen to fingernails dragging across a blackboard than a southern drawl.”
Or you could be lying through your teeth. “Y’all can’t be serious.”
Simon gave Sami a sidelong glance and grinned. “I reckon that’s true just as sure as bacon comes from hogs. And that be the gosh-darn truth.”
Sami leaned back and rested her head against the headrest. For a fleeting moment she thought about Al and wondered if he decided to watch NBC’s lineup alone. Considering his stable of women, he probably found a more stimulating way to enjoy Thursday evening.
“What’s your story? Are you a surfer girl?”
Apparently he hadn’t noticed her pale skin. “I’m a native San Diegan, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve dipped my toes in the Pacific.”
“Really? I would think a local would have gills.”
“The weather here is to die for, but our ocean never gets warm enough for me. Seventy-five degrees max. And that’s only in summer.”
“Tell me about it.” As they approached the on-ramp for Freeway 8, the traffic was almost at a standstill. “I love to scuba dive and I’m accustomed to the warm Gulf waters. The first time I dove here I thought I was in Antarctica. Immediately bought a dry suit.”
Simon turned on the radio and slid a CD into its slot. “You like Basia?”
“As a matter of fact I do.”
In spite of Simon’s ability to conceal his true feelings, engaging in idle chitchat with a chosen one sickened him. Until he had her locked safely in his Room of Redemption, he’d have to pretend that their encounter was a date and play the role of captivated suitor. If only she knew what he had in store for her. Detective Sami Rizzo would not be easy to overcome. With the others, it had been child’s play. He had shown the frantic mothers his hunting knife and whispered in their ear that he’d fillet their kids like a fresh salmon if they even thought about fighting him. Without resistance, all the mothers complied with his wishes. With Detective Rizzo, he didn’t have her daughter for leverage, and unlike his other guests, she was well trained in the art of self-defense. And more than likely that oversize purse concealed a firearm. Simon couldn’t take anything for granted. He enjoyed a challenge, and choosing Detective Rizzo as an honored guest presented a dichotomy of exhilaration and concern.
He wondered about the investigation, curious if anyone in the homicide division had uncovered anything that might incriminate him. He knew she’d never answer direct questions. Perhaps he could find a back door?
“How long have you been a homicide detective, Sami?”
“For more than six years.” She paused. “Sometimes it feels like a century.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look the part.”
“Is that a compliment or otherwise?”
“Believe me, it’s a compliment.”
She thought about his observation for a minute.
“I could never deal with all the blood and guts. How do you sleep at night?”
Blood and guts? Interesting choice of words for a could-be killer. “Mostly I don’t.”
“Then what drives you?”
“I often ask myself the same question, Simon. I never intended to bec
ome a homicide detective, it just happened.” She thought it unwise to share a tale about her father’s dying wish.
“Trying to track down a serial killer must be difficult.”
“He’ll make a mistake. They always do.”
Her comment excited Simon, making him believe that he hadn’t yet made a mistake and she had no viable leads. “According to the newspaper, there are no suspects as of yet.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true.”
Simon glanced at Sami with a peculiar look on his face.
The tangled traffic on Freeway 8 finally started to move. Simon put on his signal, eased over to the left lane, and engaged the cruise control. “Are you going to arrest me if I exceed the speed limit?”
“As long as we get to your home in one piece, you can kick it into warp drive.”
They sat quietly. Basia sang a tune called “Time and Tide.”
Simon exited the freeway and turned left. “Who’s babysitting Angelina?”
Sami dug her fingernails into the soft leather seat. You got no shot at finding out, pal. “She’s sleeping at my partner’s home.”
The bumpy country road was dark and winding, lit only by the moon and an occasional mercury vapor light mounted on a garage. It gave Sami an eerie feeling. There were no palm trees in sight, a trademark synonymous with Southern California. So far from the ocean, Alpine looked like anything but part of the Golden State. For a moment, Sami felt panic-stricken.
What the hell am I doing? If Simon was the serial murderer, she was on her way to his home. When she’d devised the plan, it had made sense. Now, sitting next to him, moments from turning into his driveway, she realized that pride and stubbornness had colored her thinking. How did she propose to search his home? If he offered a tour, surely he’d exclude any area that might incriminate him. Even if his home were abundant with evidence, he most certainly would have sterilized the interior to protect himself. Instead of acting so headstrong, she should have arranged for backup, organized a plan with Al and the task force. Unless she could find a way to contact her fellow detectives via cell phone, Detective Samantha Rizzo was on her own.
I must be out of my friggin’ mind.
The Explorer slowed and Simon turned into a driveway. Sami watched the garage door open. Light poured out onto the gravel surface.
“Home sweet home,” Simon said.
In the garage a stocky brown dog went berserk. “Is that your watchdog?”
“More like a pussycat. If anyone ever broke in, Samson would lick them to death.”
Still upholding his urbane demeanor, Simon got out of the Explorer and opened the door for Sami. “I must warn you,” Simon said as he grasped her hand and led her toward the entrance, “my humble abode will never make the cover of Architectural Digest.”
Simon stopped briefly to quiet Samson. They walked into the kitchen and Simon turned on the light. He secured the dead bolt, pushed in the lock button on the doorknob, and fastened the chain lock. He helped Sami remove her jacket and hung it in the closet. That he’d secured the door like Fort Knox troubled her.
“Are you hungry?” Simon asked.
“My belly button’s playing tiddlywinks with my backbone.”
He laughed. “We’ll handle that problem right away.” Simon opened the refrigerator, removed a plate of assorted cheeses and crackers, along with a bottle of Robert Mondavi chardonnay. He set the plate on the kitchen table and held up the chilled bottle of wine. “Do you like white or red?” He pointed to a wine rack in the corner.
“Actually, I’m a beer-out-of-the-bottle kind of gal. But I could manage a glass of red.”
Sami, of course, was terrified to eat or drink anything. She would have to watch Simon carefully to be certain he did not doctor what she consumed. If she observed him opening and pouring wine into a glass from a sealed bottle, he would be unable to contaminate it without her knowing. As much as she needed to remain levelheaded, a few sips of wine could help calm her frazzled nerves. She could feel perspiration dripping from her armpits.
“Cabernet, merlot, or malbec.”
“Malbec, please.”
Simon popped the cork on a 2004 bottle of Catena and half filled two wine goblets. “Everything’s prepped. All I have to do is add a few finishing touches, pop the main course in the oven, and we’ll be eating in twenty minutes.” He handed Sami a glass. “To serendipitous beginnings.”
Sami gently clicked her glass against his, waiting for him to drink the wine before she took a tiny sip herself.
As Simon wrestled with the plastic wrap covering the cheese and crackers, Sami noticed his shiny brown shoes. Except for the color, she’d recently seen loafers just like them. They were a popular men’s style: low-profile heels, little tassels, and slightly pointed toes. But what distinguished these particular shoes from most loafers was the rough-textured leather, looking like alligator or lizard skin. She took another sip of the wine, more convinced than ever that she was about to share an intimate dinner with a serial killer. A rush of warm blood filled her face. She suddenly felt flu dizzy.
Calm down, girl.
“I’m afraid we’re stuck with dining in the kitchen,” Simon said. He sipped the wine. “This matchbox house doesn’t have a formal dining room.”
The rectangular oak table was set with a vase of fresh calla lilies, crystal candleholders, and an off-white linen tablecloth.
Is there no end to this masquerade? “How can I help?”
“You can set the table.” He pointed to a lower cupboard. “You’ll find place mats and napkins in the bottom drawer, silverware in the top drawer, and dishes in the upper cabinet.”
Simon’s china was exquisite: ivory dinner plates with gold trim; simple yet elegant. The silverware felt heavy and masculine. Sami wasn’t surprised. Everything fit. Many serial killers were not only handsome and refined, they were regular Martha Stewarts around the house. When they sat for dinner, Simon dimmed the lights, lit candles, and delivered two plates of steamy cuisine that looked like presentations from the Food Network. She had carefully watched him spoon the lobster thermidor to the plates and felt certain he had not tampered with her portion.
Again he offered a toast. “Here’s to good food, vintage wine, and a captivating lady.”
Goose bumps covered Sami’s skin. She held up her glass. “To an elegant host.”
As they ate dinner and exchanged carefully edited biographies, each playing the role of would-be lovers, Sami felt profound sadness that the evening was a ruse. She could not suppress her primal attraction to Simon. Her life had been devoid of intimacy for so long it was hard for her to disregard her womanly desires. It was possible that all of the circumstantial evidence, no matter how compelling, had led Sami to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps her unrelenting drive to solve this case skewed her usually rational thinking to the point of total make-believe. That Simon was actually as charming and well-bred as he represented himself could indeed be a viable possibility. When was the last time anyone prepared such an exquisite meal for her? The one time Tommy DiSalvo had even attempted to cook dinner he tossed a plate of leftover meat loaf in the microwave and delivered the lukewarm food to the kitchen table as proud as a man who had just won the gold medal for best entrée at a world-renowned culinary competition. She could not afford to get careless, but if the evening proved that Simon was not the serial killer, she surely would not be disappointed.
The lobster thermidor was a triumph, a dramatic departure from Sami’s usual fare. She hadn’t enjoyed wine in quite some time and after only a few sips her head was reeling. Not wanting to numb her senses further and potentially place herself in danger, she finished the lobster but did not drink the rest of the wine.
“Well, do I have a shot at a feature recipe in Food & Wine?”
So preoccupied with her intense thoughts, Sami hadn’t bothered to compliment him on the extraordinary meal. “Forgive my inability to comment earlier, Simon. I was too busy savoring your creation.”
“Is that a thumbs-up?” He gestured with his hand.
“You win first prize for culinary excellence.”
Simon stood. “Did you leave room for dessert?”
Her skirt—tight before she’d eaten—felt dangerously close to choking her midsection. “You must be joking.”
Simon cleared the table, set fresh wineglasses on the counter and filled them with a slightly chilled Sauternes. From the refrigerator he removed a chocolate cake covered with whipped cream and raspberries.
With her mouth agape, Sami watched him deliver the impeccably designed mountain of decadence to the center of the table. “So that my feminine ego isn’t forever bruised, please tell me you bought that cake.”
“Baked it myself.” He held up his arms like a magician showing the audience that his hands were empty. “With my own two hands.”
Simon set the half-filled wineglasses on the table. Condensation had already begun to form on the outside of the glasses. He cut two small wedges of the luscious cake and carefully placed them on dessert plates. “Hate to leave you alone, but I need to use the little boy’s room. You can sip your wine, but promise me you won’t taste the cake until I return.”
“Take your time, Simon.” This was the opportunity she’d been hoping for.
As she watched him limp to the bathroom, she couldn’t help wondering what might happen tonight if Simon proved to be nothing more than a delightful man wanting to impress a woman he felt attracted to. If his intentions truly were honorable and his motivation sincere, how could she ever deal with the guilt of falsely suspecting that he was a diabolical serial killer?
Time to depart from her fantasy world and put on her detective badge. Sami guessed that she had about two minutes before Simon took care of business. If he caught her snooping around she would say that she had decided to tour his home. A believable story, she thought. It didn’t make sense to search open rooms or visible areas. After all, it seemed unlikely that Simon would have incriminating evidence lying on the cocktail table or his next victim gagged and bound to a bed. She didn’t expect to find a crucifix erected in the living room either. No, somewhere in this house was a sanctuary, a room or closet or private area that told a chilling story.
They Never Die Quietly Page 18