Resuscitation (43 page)

Sami and Al drove separately from the precinct to her home, but they pulled into the driveway at nearly the same time. To avert another emotional conversation with Al, Sami had hoped to beat him home, retire to her bedroom for a few hours sleep, and then head back to the precinct. Considering her aversion for Al, she hadn’t a clue why she’d invited him to sleep on the sofa. Obviously, she had not thought things through carefully enough before making the offer, and had no idea of how uncomfortable she’d feel. At this juncture, she didn’t want to ask him to leave, but she would do everything in her power to keep away from him—except, of course, during the course of police business.

Wanting to avoid lengthy dialogue with any household member, Sami kissed her mom on the cheek, gave Emily a quick hug, and bent over and kissed Angelina on the forehead.

“Sorry to abandon you guys,” Sami said, “but I’ve had a long night and need to get some rest.” Sami looked at her watch. “If I’m not up by ten thirty, please wake me.”

Sami walked in her bedroom and sat on the bed for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Just about to rest her head on the down pillow, her cell phone rang.

“This is Detective Rizzo.”

“Hi, Sami, it’s Richard Osbourn. Sorry to bother you—I know Al and you pulled an all-nighter at the hospital, but this is really important.”

Sami’s first thought was that something happened to McKenzie O’Neill. “Don’t ruin my morning, Richard. It’s already on its way to sucking.”

“Actually, I think this might
make
your morning.”

“I’m listening.”

“We got a call from some guy who claims he has information that will reveal the identity of our guy, but he won’t talk to anyone but you. He insists that he remain anonymous.”

Sami wanted to get excited, but over the years, how many times had she heard this story only to discover that the call was a hoax? “Did the call come in on the hotline?”

“It came in on
your
work line.”

“
My
line? So this hot lead came in from a guy who wants to remain anonymous and forfeit the ten-thousand-dollar reward?”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Was he on the phone long enough for us to trace the call?”

“Negative.”

“How do I contact him?”

“He said he’d call back at twelve noon sharp.”

“Thanks, Richard. I’ll see you around eleven.”

Julian arrived at the hospital at eleven thirty, an hour before his scheduled meeting with Doctor Hastings to review McKenzie O’Neill’s chart, to discuss the proposed surgery, and to coordinate the help of Doctor Fisher in San Francisco. He put on his lab coat, clipped his photo ID to the front pocket, draped a stethoscope around his neck, and headed for the ICU. Feeling nervous and a little jittery, he hoped he didn’t run into any other cardiologists on his way to McKenzie’s room. He felt certain that a look of guilt covered his face.

Twenty paces from her room, he spotted a policeman sitting next to the entrance.

Shit
.

He nodded at the policeman and smiled as if they were old friends, and walked past him toward the entrance to the room, acting as if he had every right to be there. He was about to push open the door, when the officer sprang up and blocked the doorway. Julian stood over six feet tall, but still he had to look up at the towering cop.

“Can I help you, Doctor?” the officer said, his tone soft and polite.

Julian pointed to his badge. “I’m one of the physicians treating Ms. O’Neill. I need to examine her.”

Squinting to focus his eyes, the policeman studied Julian’s ID badge, then fixed his stare on his face. He looked at his clipboard, and stepped to the side. “Your name is on the list, Doctor. You’re cleared to go in.”

“Thank you.”

“But I have to accompany you.”

That’s not what Julian wanted to hear. Suppose McKenzie was awake? One look at him and surely she’d remember. He’d given her various drugs during his experiments, but hadn’t found it necessary to give her one that induced amnesia. He had hoped to be alone with her. Now he felt trapped. His only hope was that she still remained unconscious.

Sami programmed her office telephone so that all calls would automatically ring in Captain Davidson’s office. Two communications technicians had already set up the wiretap, hoping that Sami could keep the anonymous caller on the phone long enough to trace the number. For all she knew, the guy could, in fact, be the serial killer.

Four of Sami’s colleagues sat in the office with her, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring, none of them having much to say. If legitimate, this phone call could break the investigation wide open. The captain sat at his desk, rocking back and forth, sucking on a cigarette. Al sat slouched in the corner of the office, looking like a schoolboy punished for unruly behavior. They had decided that Al would monitor the call and try to trace the location. Sami wasn’t shocked to see D’Angelo joining the party. In fact, she would have bet on it. Based on her prior experiences with the asshole, she expected him to break her balls with that patronizing grin and snarky remarks. But she had a little surprise for him. Richard Osbourn, sitting next to her, was there to learn.

“This could be your big day, Detective Rizzo,” D’Angelo said. “Your name might be written across the sky as Homicide Detective of the Year.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she answered, “but my ego doesn’t require fanfare.”

“C’mon, Sami,” D’Angelo said. “We all enjoy a little pat on the back.”

She could no longer hold her tongue. “And tell me again why you’re here, Detective, when you explicitly declined to be any part of this investigation?”

Davidson sat forward, seemingly anxious to hear D’Angelo’s answer.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder. I’ve had my share of glory days. I’ve come to the end of my career and want to go quietly.”

Quietly?

“You know what I find rather curious, Chuck?” Sami said. “You understand how our new telephone system works, right?”

D’Angelo looked confused. “To be honest, I do the basics and don’t give a rat’s ass about all the newfangled gizmos. Are you going to give me a demonstration?”

“Actually, I’d like to tell you about a very interesting feature.” she gestured to the captain and pointed to his phone. “May I, Captain?”

“Be my guest.”

She turned the telephone 180 degrees and started pushing buttons. She directed her attention to D’Angelo. “These new phones have a memory. They can track the last twenty calls and identify whether a call came in directly, was transferred, or was forwarded.” She pushed a few buttons and pointed to the display. “Curiously, when the call came in from the anonymous guy, it didn’t come directly to my line, nor was it transferred from the main operator.” Sami locked her eyes on D’Angelo.

“What does this have to do with anything, Sami?” D’Angelo said. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Well, Chuck, perhaps you would be kind enough to explain how the call I received from the anonymous guy was forwarded from
your
telephone.”

D’Angelo’s face flushed with blood.

“How did this anonymous caller get your number, Chuck?”

“What the hell do I know? The fucking call came in on my line, the guy asked for Sami Rizzo, and I forwarded the call. What’s the big deal?”

“Why didn’t you say something about this, Detective?” Davidson asked.

“Because it’s bullshit. Should I keep a log of every fucking call I transfer?”

“Chuck,” Sami said softly, “you do realize that every call that comes in or goes out is recorded, right?”

D’Angelo looked like his bones had just turned to Jell-O. Before he could utter another sound, the captain’s telephone rang. Sami looked at her watch and it was exactly twelve noon.

“This is far from being over, Chuck,” Davidson warned. “Get your sorry ass out of here and wait for me in the conference room.”

The conversation with the anonymous caller ended much quicker than Sami had hoped. Obviously, the caller purposely cut the conversation short. The moment she hung up, she looked at Al, hoping he’d traced the call, but he shook his head.

“Not long enough to get the location.”

“Replay the call,” Captain Davidson said.

Al pushed a few buttons, turned on the speaker, and they all listened.

“This is Detective Rizzo.”

“If you want the identity of the Resuscitator, match his DNA sample with the database at the Del Mar Fertility Center.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I believe he’s a donor.”

“I’m not sure we have his DNA. Why can’t you give us his name?”

“’Cause I don’t know his name.”

“Do you have any idea where he lives, or where he works?”

“Look, all I’ve got for you is the fertility center. Check it out and you’ll track down the killer.”

“Can you give us—”

Click.

Fortunately for Julian, McKenzie remained unconscious. He put on a little show for the policeman and examined her from head to toe.

Looking at McKenzie, studying her chalky complexion, Julian felt no remorse or sadness for her. Only anger. She had placed him in a very incriminating position. She had unwittingly sabotaged his research and now forced him to search for one more ideal subject. He looked at her chart and felt a bit relieved. Her prognosis was grim to say the least. Stress-induced cardiomyopathy. Valve repair or replacement. Possible heart pump. Possible transplant. From what he’d read and from what he remembered about the experiments he had conducted, her only hope was a transplant. He didn’t know how, but he wasn’t going to let that happen.

Immediately after a little powwow in Davidson’s office to devise a plan of attack, Sami and Al nearly jogged to the crime lab on the fifth floor to see Betsy, Forensic Crime Scene Investigator.

When they walked into the lab, Betsy was sitting in the corner of the room, alone, sipping a Starbucks coffee.

“Nice life,” Sami said. “They actually let you guys take a break up here?”

“Been here since six a.m.,” Betsy answered. “Without a little caffeine boost, I’d be out cold.” She finished the last of the coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“Can we talk?” Al said.

Betsy led them to a tiny room that served both as a supply room and mini conference room. It was barely big enough to be a closet.

Betsy closed the door. “Hope neither of you is claustrophobic.”

Noticing only two chairs and a beat-up table, Sami folded her arms and leaned against a metal file drawer. “You two can sit. I need to stretch my legs.”

“What can I do for you?” Betsy asked.

“We want you to help us catch the Resuscitator,” Al said.

“Nothing would please me more.”

“Is there an easy way for us to get our hands on a fertility center’s database so we can see if our guy’s DNA sample matches one of their donors?” Sami asked.

“Are you talking about a private center?” Betsy asked.

“It’s the Del Mar Fertility Center,” Al said.

Betsy thought for a moment. “Have you approached them?”

“We wanted to talk to you first,” Al said. “You always have a bag of tricks up your sleeve.”

“I’m afraid my bag is empty. If they don’t voluntarily agree to share this information with you—and it is highly unlikely they will—the only alternative is a court order. I’m sure you were already aware of that.”

Yes, Sami suspected that this is exactly what Betsy would say, but she was hoping for a miracle. No matter how compelling the argument, no fertility center would voluntarily share proprietary donor information with anyone. Not even cops.

“Sorry,” Betsy said. “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear.”

“No worries,” Sami said. “I still have one trump card left.”

Believing that it would be a waste of time to contact the Del Mar Fertility Center and ask them to disclose confidential client information, Sami, with Al trailing behind, rushed straight to her desk.

“Any chance you’d like to share with me why you’re in a foot-race?” Al asked.