Without saying a word, the portly manager double-timed his hefty body to the main office. He returned with the deal folder in less than three minutes, cheerfully escorted Al to an unoccupied salesman’s office, and welcomed him to take as much time as he needed.
Al closed the door and dumped the contents of the folder on the desk. He could not believe the quantity of papers. It looked more like Simon had bought a home than a car. He examined the buyer’s order, DMV forms, mileage affidavits for both the traded and purchased vehicle—every form showed the Felspar address. Finally, near the bottom of the pile he found the Experian credit report. He couldn’t bear to look at it. As Al painfully suspected, not even the credit bureau knew his current address.
He may have been a sociopath, Al thought as he studied the credit report, but the son of a bitch had stellar credit—a seven-fifty rating, which put him in an elite class. Next Al searched for a mortgage lender. Assuming of course that Simon owned a home. For all Al knew, Simon might live in a broken-down barn in East Bumfuck!
Line by line he studied the printout. Three Visa cards: all paid accounts. A Sears card: zero balance. American Express: paid in full. Nowhere on the credit report did Al see a mortgage lender, which meant that either Simon still rented a place or he’d paid cash for his house.
Now Al looked at the credit application, which profiled Simon’s vital statistics. Banks required this information before approving an auto loan or lease contract. Much of the information was incidental: name, address, employment, income. Al paid particular attention to the area near the bottom of the application that asked for nearest relative. The only thing written was a bold N/A. Below this area Al noticed a section entitled personal references. Blank.
He returned the deal folder to the men on the platform. “Can either of you tell me why his credit application is incomplete?”
Having learned their lesson, neither manager dared harass Detective Diaz any further. The well-dressed manager huffed and gave Al an evil look. He pawed through the folder and scanned the credit application. “Normally we require completed apps, but when a guy with golden credit pays cash for a thirty-thousand dollar vehicle, we try not to hassle him.”
“He paid cash?”
“Not cash-cash. He wrote a check.”
“Do you still have the check?”
“Already been deposited.”
Al asked them what had happened to the vehicle Simon traded in. The portly manager promptly made a telephone call and informed Al that the Ford Supercab sat in the reconditioning shop. He gave Al directions and he dashed out the door.
As Al approached the detail area, where mechanically reconditioned cars were washed, waxed, vacuumed, and made “front-line-ready” for the used-car lot, he spotted the black Supercab sitting in the last stall. Because unfriendly weather rarely befell San Diego, the long building had only three sides and a corrugated roof, but the front was completely open. A short Hispanic man busily vacuumed the interior of the truck. Al prayed that he hadn’t yet cleaned out the glove compartment. After his futile attempt to communicate with Lorenzo in Spanish, he hoped the man spoke English. How embarrassing to have been born and raised in Mexico, Al thought, and struggle with his native tongue.
The man gave Al a quick glance but kept busy. Al tapped him on the shoulder. The man flipped the switch on the deafening vacuum cleaner and stood in front of Al fidgeting like a man with a hornet in his underwear. A broad smile seemed to be frozen on his face.
“Habla ingles?”
The man rocked his head from side to side. “Little bit.”
Al identified himself, told the man he needed to check out the truck, and suggested he take a quick coffee break. Without question, the man vigorously retreated a few steps away. Al hopped in the truck and immediately popped open the glove box. Brand-new clean. He flipped open the center console. Empty. Sitting behind the wheel where Simon had sat innumerable times gave Al an eerie feeling. Actually, he felt repulsed. Masked by the perfume of chemicals used to make the interior smell showroom-new, Al could still smell evil. In spite of the sun-drenched day, he felt chilled from the inside out.
Al spotted the Hispanic man leaning against a bench, puffing heavily on a cigarette, still grinning like a stoned orangutan. Al had seen wiry little Mexicans like him before. They had two speeds: hyper and warp. American companies loved hiring energetic Latinos. They worked their butts off for much less money than Americans, never complained and, unless they were deathly ill, were as dependable as a Maytag washing machine.
He summoned the man with a wave. The man couldn’t get there quickly enough. Al glanced at the name tag embossed above the pocket of the man’s light-blue shirt. “Arturo, were there any papers in the glove box or console?” Al didn’t know why, but he pantomimed as if he were communicating with a deaf man.
Still grinning, he nodded.
“What did you do with them?”
He pointed to a rusty, overfull barrel the size of a garbage can with a Quaker State motor oil logo on its side.
The last thing Al wanted was to dig through a trash container. “Are the papers on top?”
Arturo shrugged.
Not wanting to overlook even the most insignificant remnant from Simon’s truck, Al rolled up his sleeves and examined the contents of the barrel one item at a time. Most of what he found was generic pieces of paper and trash, nothing that indicated it once occupied Simon’s glove compartment. Al dug deeper and discovered a receipt for a lawn mower repair. East County Lawn and Garden was located in El Cajon, a community about twenty miles east of San Diego. Al saw Simon’s name scribbled across the top, but he’d left the designated address area below blank. Al stuffed the receipt in his back pocket. More junk. The remains of a Big Mac. Coffee cups. An oily rag. Wet, smelly rubbish. A myriad of debris.
He spotted a colorful brochure. The cover looked like a Théodore Rousseau painting. Snowcapped mountains. A blue sky. A crystal clear pond. Windmills? It had been distributed by a company called Blue Mountain Energy. Al leafed through the pamphlet.
Then it hit him.
A few years ago California lawmakers deregulated the utility industry, crushing South Coast Gas and Electric’s hundred-year stronghold on the market. This consumer-driven legislation allowed independent utility providers to compete for a piece of the billion-dollar industry. Blue Mountain, an environmentally minded company, claimed to offer all-natural energy at a lower cost.
Of course. That’s where the son of a bitch is getting his electricity. Maybe not from Blue Mountain, but from somebody. And whatever company provides his energy most certainly knows Simon’s address.
For the first time since sitting opposite Josephine Rizzo, staring at her sullen face, Al felt just a thimbleful of relief. He needed to dig further, to search for other treasures, but once again he had to enlist the services of the department. He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans and called Captain Davison. As Al expected, Davison was equally as dumbfounded that neither of them had thought of this angle. In fact, the entire detective squad had overlooked this significant lead.
Davison’s voice resonated with a positive tone. “I’ll get back to you within the hour with the fucker’s address.”
Al spent another fifteen minutes playing the role of Trash Can Annie, but found nothing else worthwhile. Until he heard back from Davison, he could do nothing but wait. As unappealing as the thought was, he had to force some food into his body.
TWENTY-THREE
Still fuming and injured from her confrontation with Simon, Sami stepped into the shower stall and let the warm water soothe her skin. So inflamed with anger, she grit her teeth fiercely. The mere fact that she stood naked washing her hair and body as nonchalantly as she might at home, completely disregarding the distinct possibility that Simon could wander in at any minute, proved beyond a reasonable doubt that her rational mind was nowhere to be found. Was she as mad as he?
As Sami showered, she kept one eye on Angelina’s blurry image
through the cloudy glass doors, occasionally sliding the door open and asking if Angelina was okay. Her daughter sat on the bathroom floor playing with Legos. A quick shower was all she needed. Just enough to clear the cobwebs and tend to her injury.
The muscles in her lower back, which had been feeling fine, were again throbbing. When Simon twisted her wrist and forced her to the floor, she had felt a twinge in her pelvis. The twinge subsided but not before the muscles twisted into a knot. If she wasn’t careful, the knotted muscles would spasm and bring her to her knees. She could not afford to be physically impaired. In the past, pulsing hot water loosened the taut muscles. She hoped that once again her home therapy would be successful.
If ever she needed to rouse instincts for self-preservation and tap her sense of reason and logic, it was now. She had lost control, and that posed great danger. To survive, Sami had to tame these incensed emotions and proceed logically. The mere thought of Simon “adopting” Angelina infuriated her beyond any rage she’d ever felt. He had now signed a declaration of war, and Sami wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. Her motherly instincts shifted into a no-holds-barred frame of mind, but she had to harness these emotions and focus her energy on a strategy.
As she turned in lazy circles, she couldn’t help but marvel at the quality and craftsmanship Simon had employed when designing this self-contained studio in the basement of a madman’s home. To her it represented a prison. Why would he spend so much money on a facility whose only purpose was to accommodate “sinners” awaiting execution? Further proof that the depths of his insanity had no boundaries.
The psychotherapy was over. Sami would now engage in a bare-knuckles fight. She already learned a bitter lesson: trying to outwit Simon and beat him at a game of chess proved futile. He was too shrewd for an easy checkmate. This battle would indeed be won by the most fit gladiator; a clash to the death. As much as she abhorred the thought, her only chance of survival—unless Al and a posse of detectives showed up with a battering ram and rescued her—would be to physically defend herself, even if that meant fatally injuring Simon. Somewhere in this prison she had to find something she could use as a weapon.
Under the circumstances, the act of violence itself did not bother Sami. She had been placed in a life-threatening situation, and any measure of self-defense, no matter how brutal, would never be questioned. It wasn’t in her nature to harm another human, but when she thought about the women Simon had crucified, about the children who were left motherless, about the irrevocable damage to which Angelina had already been exposed, her blood ran cold. Yes, Samantha Rizzo could indeed kill this vile monster. In fact, a part of her derived great excitement in anticipating how it might feel to strangle the bastard with her bare hands. She was no longer a detective governed by rules of conduct. She now assumed the role of hostage and potential victim. And any measures she employed to defend herself would never assault her conscience.
There was, however, another alarming issue flashing through Sami’s thoughts: How could Sami protect Angelina from witnessing such a savage act of violence? She could not predict how events would unfold. As of yet she didn’t even have a plan. In her mind’s eye Sami saw an image of herself bludgeoning Simon to death like a wild woman, while Angelina stood to the side watching in horror. How could a young impressionable mind ever erase such a horrific image? Sami had no choice. She didn’t know how, but she would find a way to shield Angelina from watching her mother assaulting another human. If she could not, she’d face the consequences later.
Simon didn’t know how extensively Sami had been trained in self-defense. She knew exactly where to hit an assailant to incapacitate him. Her earlier exhibition had been driven by anger instead of logic, and the first commandment of self-defense was to remain calm and clear-minded. The second, equally important, was to wait for your opponent to attack first. To maintain her composure and suppress a flood of out-of-control emotions would prove to be a monumental task.
When Sami stepped out of the shower, she dried herself with a thick bath towel, then wrapped it around her body and dried her hair with a smaller towel.
She cringed at the mere thought of wearing her dirty underwear. As she slipped them over her feet her face puckered like she just bit into a lemon. Disgusting, she thought. After quietly dressing in front of Angelina, who still occupied herself with the Legos, Sami found a hair dryer in the vanity and dried her hair.
In less than three hours, Simon would walk through the steel door with intentions of crucifying Sami, and here she stood like a teenager getting ready for a prom.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart?”
Angelina vigorously nodded. “Really, really hungry, Mommy.”
“Want lunch?”
“Can we go to McDonald’s?”
“Maybe tomorrow, honey. How about some chicken noodle soup?”
Angelina wrinkled her nose. “Okay.”
After lunch, Sami planned to check every square inch of this prison. Six p.m. drew near. Somewhere in the confines of these soundproof walls were a weapon and a plan.
Al forced two bites of the grilled ham and cheese sandwich down his throat, dropped it on the plate, then nibbled on cold French fries. Of all the terrific places to eat in Mission Valley, he’d chosen Nikolos’ Diner, a fast-food restaurant heavy on the grease and light on the quality. Al would be willing to wager a hefty bankroll that the chewy ham had once belonged to a pig old enough to collect Social Security. Sometimes he wondered if he purposely punished himself.
With the innumerable resources available to the police department, Al could not fathom how Simon’s home address remained such a mystery. The lunatic had to live somewhere! It was possible that Simon lived with a roommate. And if his roommate was the primary resident, Simon’s name might not appear on anything. Based on what Al had learned about sociopaths, it seemed unlikely that a man as antisocial as he could tolerate a roommate. Then again, who could figure out the pretzel logic of a serial killer?
Even more than trying to locate Simon’s mysterious residence, the possibility that Simon held Sami and Angelina in some remote cabin or abandoned barn, miles away from civilization, troubled Al even more. If Davison called back with good news, it did not guarantee that Sami and Angelina were held captive in Simon’s home. Another reason for Al to temper even the slightest optimism.
The waitress, a woman in her mid-twenties who looked like she could star in an MTV video, pink hair and all, topped off his coffee cup for the third time in ten minutes. Her flirtatious smiles and constant doting were less than inconspicuous.
She stopped chomping on a wad of bubble gum long enough to speak and pointed to his sandwich. “Anything wrong with your lunch?”
“It’s a culinary triumph.”
She set the coffeepot on the corner of the table and planted her hands on her hips. “You’re not a regular, are ya?”
“Not hardly.”
She glanced over both shoulders checking to see if anyone stood within earshot. “The food really sucks here, doesn’t it?” She bent forward and spoke softly. “I get my meals for free but bring a sandwich from home. Can you believe that this joint’s been in business since the early sixties?” She shook her head. “Amazing what crap people’ll put in their bodies.”
Al found her candor amusing.
“Bet you can’t guess who ate here yesterday.”
“A critic from Food & Wine?”
She giggled. “Carlos Valdez.” He was the all-star second baseman for the San Diego Padres. “Right where you’re sitting. In this exact booth.”
“What did he eat?”
“Apple pie à la mode.” She whispered again. “The desserts are good cuz they’re from Leo’s Bakery.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Know what? He left me a fifty-dollar tip.”
“I’m afraid twenty percent is the best I can do.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t hinting that you—”
“Can I have
the check, please?”
She licked her ruby-painted lips. “Sure thing.” She tore it off the pad. “Um…I get off work at six. Can I buy you a beer?”
“I don’t drink.”
“How about a cappuccino?”
He glanced at her name tag. “I’d love to, Lisa, but I’ve got other plans.”
“Married?”
He shook his head.
“Got a main squeeze?”
He shook his head again.
“You’re not that kind of guy?”
“Precisely. I’m gay.”
It took Lisa less than ten seconds to drop the guest check on the table and beeline for the kitchen.
Al sat in his car, staring at the cellular telephone, urgently wishing it would ring. His instincts were again warning him of the unthinkable: the possibility that neither technology nor desire could rescue Sami and Angelina. He felt the helpless desperation quietly eroding away at the little remaining optimism. He neared the crucible, a point of no return, a time at which the glass would be half empty instead of half full. If Davison’s call wasn’t positive, Al would slip into a state of utter shock.
The cell phone rang and Al snatched it and flipped it open.
“This is Diaz.”
“We checked with every California utility provider, Al, and came up with a goose egg,” Captain Davison said.
These were not the words Al wanted to hear. “Is this some kind of perverse fucking joke?”
“I wish the hell it was. I’ve had a powwow in my office for the last thirty minutes, trying to brainstorm how to find this slimeball. Even got the FBI involved.” There was a long pause. “We’re lost, Al. I don’t know where to go from here.”
From his back pocket, he removed the receipt he’d found in the trash barrel at Benson Ford. He stared at it blankly. East County Lawn and Garden in El Cajon was about a twenty-minute ride. If someone there didn’t know where Simon Kwosokowski lived…
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