Now Sami heard pounding above her.
Was Simon building a crucifix?
While waiting for Davison to return his call, Al spotted a Starbuck’s in the strip plaza. Caffeine. That’s what he needed. Lots of it. He managed to totter over to the coffee shop, order a gigantic cup of Colombian, and find his way back to the car before his cell phone rang.
“This is Diaz.”
“Tell me you have good news, Al.”
Al started his car and turned on the air conditioning. “It’s a long shot.”
“I’m listening.”
“If our perp owns a home in San Diego County, he pays property taxes, right?”
“Unless he owns a church, he does.”
“Then his name and real address have to be recorded on the trust deed.”
It took a moment for Al’s theory to sink in. “You may be cooking with oil, Al.”
Al filled his mouth with the hot coffee and swallowed. “Do we have an in with the assessor’s office?”
“Don’t need one. It’s public record.”
“So I can call the county, give them our perp’s name, and get his address?”
“If he owns property in the county you can.”
“I’m on it, captain.”
“If you find this guy let’s not overreact and storm the fort like a one-man wrecking crew. Call me before you do anything.”
Al couldn’t hang up quickly enough. He dialed 411 and got the number for the county assessor’s office. Nerves ablaze, he fumbled with the keypad.
One ring.
Two rings.
“Assessor’s office, this is Jodie speaking.”
“This is Detective Alberto Diaz calling. I’m trying to locate a piece of property owned by, Simon”—he spelled the last name—“K-W-O-S-OK-O-W-S-K-I.”
She repeated the spelling to be sure she’d written it correctly. “Give me your telephone number, detective, and I’ll get back to you in the morning.”
“That’s not going to fly, young lady. This is a police emergency.”
“I see. Um…let me talk to my supervisor.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds.”
By the sound of the garbled conversation, Al guessed she covered the mouthpiece with her hand so she could tell the supervisor that some asshole detective with a bad attitude was trying to rough her up.
“Well, detective, I guess I can help you. But you’ll have to be patient for a few minutes while I access our database. It’s an old system and sometimes—”
“I don’t need an explanation. Just do it as quickly as possible.”
Helpless, Al waited. He sat in his car overwhelmed with anxiety, sipping the hot coffee as quickly as he could without burning his mouth. In spite of the cool air fanning his skin, beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Hurry,” he whispered.
In the solitude of Al’s car, the world no longer existed. He couldn’t feel the sun reflecting through the windshield, nor could he hear the traffic and activity churning around him. He couldn’t smell the lemon-scented deodorizer hanging from the brake release. The taste of Scotch whisky and cigarettes no longer lingered in the back of his throat. He lived in a solitary world of self-recrimination.
During these quiet moments of waiting, Al again felt overpowered with a feeling of regret for never revealing his love to Sami. Why had he acted like a teenager? How many times in a man’s life does he truly fall in love? He worked in a volatile environment, never knowing when he awoke in the morning if this would be the day a criminal’s bullet might snuff him out. He’d always been somewhat fatalistic, never believing in saving for the future or planning for his golden years. In almost every aspect of Alberto Diaz’s life, he subscribed to the credo of carpe diem. But not with his hopeless love for Sami. He had tucked it away in a secure corner of his heart, foolishly thinking that one day when the timing was perfect he would offer it to Sami like a gift. The day had never come.
Now it seemed that it never would.
Jodie’s voice thundered in his ear. “Could you please spell the last name again.”
Al could barely contain himself. “K-W-O-S-O-K-O-W-S-K-I.”
“Just another minute.”
Unless the air-conditioning had been designed to make a body drip with cold sweat, it wasn’t doing its job. Al’s shirt was almost wringing wet.
“I may have something for you, detective. According to my records, Simon Kwosokowski owns a single-family home in Alpine. 8751 Clearwater Road.”
The air slowly escaped from Al’s lungs. “And that’s the only listing you have?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Jodie. Sorry if I was…a little pushy.”
“Don’t mention it.” Her voice was like ice.
Al checked his weapon for the second time today to be sure he had a full clip. His hands were shaking, his mouth dry as sand. Not having a GPS system, he grabbed the Thomas Guide from the backseat. Alpine was about twenty miles away. Other than heading east on Freeway 8, Al wasn’t quite sure how to find Clearwater Road. He made a U-turn in the parking lot, chirped a tire turning into the street, and barreled for the freeway ramp.
Once on the freeway, again taking control of the left lane, testing the resolve of the Chevy five-liter engine, Al telephoned Captain Davison and gave him an update.
“Wait until I can send some backup, Al.”
“Send all the troops you want, but I’m not waiting, captain.”
“I’m not giving you the choice. That’s an order.”
“That lunatic could be nailing Sami to a fucking cross as we speak, I’m not going to sit here with my thumb up my ass while—”
“What’s your plan, Al? You going to knock on the front door? Bust it open with your shoulder? Break into a window? It’s broad daylight. Don’t you think our perp is wise enough to be on the lookout for unwanted visitors?”
Al thought about that for a minute.
“I know what you’re going through, Al, but if he spots you, Sami doesn’t stand a chance. You can’t tackle this thing half-cocked. You’re too emotionally involved.”
“Do whatever you want, captain, but I’m not waiting.”
“He’s methodical, Al. He’s waited at least three days before murdering the last four victims. Sami’s got some time.”
“How long did he wait to rape them, captain? How many times did he rape them? How long does it take to crucify someone? How long before they die?”
The captain had no retort. “Okay, Al, go with your gut. But I want you to think about this: If Sami dies because of your reckless heroics are you prepared to deal with the guilt?”
“That’s not something I can think about right now.”
“I’ll contact the El Cajon and Alpine police departments. Backup is on the way.”
Simon hadn’t eaten anything all day. He’d paced the floors. Tried to read the Bible. Took a long hot shower. Nothing eased his frayed nerves. Something gnawed at his subconscious. He didn’t feel the usual exciting anticipation. In the past, when the final hours whittled away, his body erupted with fever. All he felt now were doubts and apprehension. He knew that he made a mistake by indulging Sami’s futile attempts to get into his head. At the time he found it entertaining but hadn’t realized how insidious its residual effect was.
You’re such a pathetic fool.
“Please don’t taunt me, Mother.”
You are so weak, my son.
“I have done everything you’ve asked.”
Ah, but this one troubles you.
“It doesn’t feel the same.”
The longer you wait, the more difficult it will become.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Do it now, my son, before Satan’s grip on your soul forces you to defy God’s will. Redeem yourself, Simon.
In less than twenty minutes Al reached the Alpine exit on the freeway, but not without first scaring a few years off the lives of at least six motorists. Slowing down, approaching
a stop sign at the exit ramp, Al spotted a convenient store half a block south. Rather than waste valuable time flipping the Thomas Guide every which way trying to find the quickest route to Clearwater Road, it made more sense to ask a local for directions. Al left the motor running while he jogged inside the store. Behind the counter stood an emaciated teenage girl, a modern-day Twiggy wearing more makeup than a circus clown. Her strawberry-colored hair was overdosed with gel, and she looked like a poster girl for anorexia nervosa.
One look at her and Al prepared himself for the defiant attitude so prevalent in teenagers today. Despite her appearance, she cheerfully obliged. In fact, with articulate prose and a friendly demeanor she tried her hardest to elicit a conversation with Al, but he dashed out the door with a quick wave. Perhaps, Al thought, he should reconsider his snap judgments based on appearance only. But then he remembered the punk in the post office.
Clearwater Road—the teenage girl had said—was less than a ten-minute drive. He glanced at the directions she’d written, took a deep breath, and headed south.
After driving five miles, Al saw the street sign for Clearwater Road on the left. When he turned onto the road he drove slowly so he could read the address on the first mailbox. Twenty-one-twelve. Simon lived at eighty-seven-fifty-one. Al didn’t expect the sequence of numbers in a rural area to increase gradually like they did in heavily populated urban areas. The houses were separated by acres of land. He guessed that addresses would ascend by hundreds rather than tens. Sure enough, the next mailbox he passed had twenty-eight-twenty printed in bold box letters. Next to the mailbox he observed a man wearing brown overalls and a badly soiled John Deere baseball cap, sorting through a fistful of mail. The man robustly waved to Al as if they were dear friends. If Al were driving past a home in the city, gawking in the same fashion, the only wave he’d get would be a raised middle finger.
Al continued driving just fast enough to read the addresses on the passing mailboxes. In less than five minutes, he saw Simon’s house. Just looking at the home sent chills through his body. He didn’t stop the car. Instead, he drove slowly past while absorbing as much as he could. The unremarkable home looked much like the other century-old structures in the area, most of which hadn’t seen fresh paint or a face-lift in decades. The original clapboard siding was severely weathered and the paint peeling. The windows were trimmed with sun-bleached black shutters, and the front door, painted red, was badly faded. There were mature shade trees scattered around the property. Cedars. Cypresses. Elms.
The lawn was overrun with weeds and dandelions, their yellow flowers standing tall.
In the gravel-covered driveway, Al spotted a white Explorer without license plates. He could see the temporary registration scotch-taped to the rear window. He didn’t need to compare the vehicle identification number to the one he’d gotten from the DMV to be certain the vehicle belonged to Simon.
This was no doubt the house.
Al continued driving for another half mile. He made a U-turn and parked on the shoulder of the road. What now? How would he get in? Was Sami even inside?
TWENTY-FIVE
The moment Sami heard the key turn in the dead bolt lock, she charged over to Angelina, grabbed her hand, and almost yanked the little girl to her feet.
“Ready to play hide-and-seek, honey?” She was almost panting.
Angelina didn’t take her eyes off the television. “Not now, Mommy. Babe is gonna fight with the bad dog.” Angelina had watched Babe: Pig in the City a dozen times but never grew bored with the movie.
“You can finish watching it later. You don’t want Simon to find you, do you?” Her plea was desperate.
Sami heard pounding on the door.
Angelina shook her head. “No, Mommy. Then I would be it! I don’t wanna be it.”
“Then you better hide.”
Without further protest, Angelina crawled into the broom closet and sat as far back as possible.
“Remember what I told you, honey. No matter how much yelling or noise you hear, don’t come out of the closet. Okay?”
The pounding got louder and Sami could hear Simon screaming, but she could not make out his words. With trembling hands she picked up the makeshift weapon and assumed her position beside the door.
Totally dumbstruck, Simon stood in front of the steel door shaking his head. That the naïve detective believed she could save herself by barricading the door insulted him beyond words! He leaned against the door with his shoulder and shoved for the third time, but the door opened only slightly. He held his face close to the crack so Sami could hear his warning. “If you don’t open this door right now, Sami, I promise you, Angelina will feel my wrath.”
No answer.
Simon picked up the longer of the two four-by-fours he would use to build the crucifix, held it like a harpoon and rammed it into the center of the door. With an echoing thud, the steel buckled slightly and the painted surface cracked and split. But the door yielded only an inch. His rage was so intense that his eyes were out of focus. Again he used the lumber like a pile driver and slammed it into the door.
It opened another inch.
A curtain of blackness fell in front of Simon’s eyes; an event more frequent of late. He moved only by instinct, as if he were a machine programmed by a mad professor. He did not think about God or his mother or the Bible or his sacred mission. All he could think about was pounding his fists against Sami’s face. He urgently wanted to teach her a lesson.
Bonnie Jean Oliver.
He spoke into the slightly open door. “This is your last chance, wench. If you don’t open this fucking door right now, I’m going to cut out your daughter’s heart and stuff it down your throat!”
Sami held her ground and remained quiet. All she could hope for was a clean shot the moment he burst through the door. Her barricade had worked well, but soon he’d break through. One shot to the base of his skull. That’s all she needed. No second chance if her aim wasn’t perfect. To knock him out, the impact had to be pinpointed with near precision and the force extreme. The blow could kill him. But Sami had to thrust forward and focus all her weight against the weapon. The time had come to abandon second thoughts or regret.
From the sound of his wild voice, she felt certain Simon boiled with anger. Good. That’s what she’d hoped for. Sami knew that if he lost control and all sense of reason, her plan might work. One instant of disorientation, a split second of hesitation is all she needed. But Sami had other concerns. How could she stop her hands from shaking? What if Angelina wandered out of the closet? Suppose Simon didn’t give her a clean shot?
Al thought it through carefully, considered every possible scenario, then, reluctantly, he decided to knock on Simon’s front door. Any other less-direct approach would most certainly raise suspicions. If Simon spotted him poking around outside of the house, he would surely conclude that Al was either a cop or thief. Either way, the perp would be spooked and take precautionary measures. If Al simply knocked on the door, he could be anyone: a man soliciting magazine subscriptions, taking a survey, or selling Girl Scout cookies for his daughter. Maybe, just maybe, Simon would be foolish enough to open the door. If not, Al would have no choice but to break in and hope for the best.
Another issue perplexed Al, one he had thought about earlier. He couldn’t know for certain that Simon held Sami and Angelina captive in this house. Having his Explorer parked in the driveway was a good sign, but still, Simon might own another vehicle and Sami and Angelina could be hidden away in some remote cabin miles from here. Al tried not to think about this disheartening twist but could not deny that it was a viable possibility.
He parked behind the Explorer, quickly checked his weapon one last time, and briskly walked toward the front door. He heard a dog barking and it sounded like the yelps were coming from behind the closed garage door. Almost to the front steps, Al noticed small windows built into the cinder block foundation. He knew little about construction but recognized that the windows meant the
house had a basement, or at least a crawl space below ground level. It made sense for Simon to keep his victims in a basement. Perhaps in a soundproof room? Considering that only a handful of homes in Southern California even had basements—most were built on concrete slabs—it seemed appropriate that a murderer who kidnapped his victims and held them hostage before crucifying them would buy a home with a basement.
Al lifted the heavy brass knocker and tapped it against the door three times.
After repeated blows to the center of the steel door, it yielded enough for Simon to stick his head through the open space. He twisted it from side to side but could not see Sami or Angelina. The furniture piled against the door obstructed part of his view.
“Angelina is dead meat, Sami. You just signed her death sentence.”
Frantic, Sami could not steady her hands. Suddenly, she realized that her plan was ridiculous. Not only would Simon murder her, but now she had placed Angelina’s life in jeopardy. But at this point, it was too late to abort or alter her plan.
Two more thrusts with the butt end of the four-by-four, and the steel door opened nearly wide enough for Simon to squeeze through.
Al knocked more aggressively this time, pounding the door knocker repeatedly.
They Never Die Quietly Page 28