Resuscitation (9 page)

Al wanted to jump up and down and yell, “Yippee!” But from past experiences, he had learned that many promising leads led nowhere.

“You do have a warrant, correct?”

“It’s in process as we speak. I can have one in your hands in an hour.”

“I’m afraid that places me in a rather difficult situation. Saks Fifth Avenue is very rigid on customer confidentiality. I could lose my job if I gave you this information without proper authorization.”

“And another young woman could lose her life while you and I debate company policies and procedures, Ms. Levy. I can appreciate your situation. Truly. And I’ll be happy to get you a warrant, but time is absolutely critical. How would you feel if Genevieve Foster’s murderer abducted another woman while I was chasing down a warrant? I give you my word that I’ll—”

“I’ll be right back, Detective.”

After several minutes, Katherine Levy returned to the office and shut the door behind her. Instead of sitting at her desk, she plopped down next to Al and crossed her legs. “Unfortunately, the gentleman who purchased the cocktail dress paid cash.”

“So what does that mean?”

“The name on the sales receipt is ‘John Smith,’ and the address he gave us is a post office box.”

“John Smith? That doesn’t give me a cozy feeling.”

“Then this should ruin your day,” Levy said. “The address he gave us is PO Box 1234, Vancouver, Canada. No zip code.”

No need to check out the name or address, Al thought. Obviously, both were bogus. Then again, he couldn’t take anything for granted. “Can I speak to the salesperson who sold him the dress?”

“I figured you might want to speak to her, but her shift doesn’t start for another two hours. So, I called her and asked if she could come in immediately.”

“And?”

Levy glanced at her watch. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“Terrific. Mind if I hang around until she shows up?”

“Not at all. In fact, our lounge is on the second floor. Grab a coffee or muffin—whatever you like—and I’ll come get you when she arrives.”

“I really appreciate your cooperation.”

“No problem.”

“Do you want to come with me when I speak to your mom?” Doctor Templeton asked. “Or would you prefer that I go solo?”

“I think you might have more impact one-on-one,” Sami said.

“Make yourself comfortable in the visitor’s lounge while I speak to your mom.”

She was no stranger to this lounge. “Thank you, Doctor. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“It’s part of what I do, Ms. Rizzo. You’d be surprised at the number of people who have to be pressured into consenting to surgery.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, have you been successful in convincing reluctant patients?”

“At the risk of sounding pompous, I have a pretty impressive track record. I can only think of two holdouts that stood firm and refused.” The doctor’s lips tightened. “Their outcomes were not pleasant. They both died within weeks of being discharged.”

“Do you have a special dialogue that you use to persuade them?’

“Yes, I do.” Doctor Templeton adjusted the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “I simply tell them in no uncertain terms that by not signing the consent form, they just signed their death certificate. It’s harsh, and might even violate my Hippocratic Oath, but if it saves even one life, I’m willing to push the envelope.”

Sami thought about that for a moment, rather stunned at Doctor Templeton’s candor. “And if my mother refuses, what is her prognosis?”

“It’s not good, Ms. Rizzo.” The doctor shook his head. “I give her six months.”

“Well then, you have my permission to hit my mother with a two-by-four if necessary. Whatever works.”

“So you don’t mind if I rough her up a bit?”

“I’m more concerned about her roughing you up.”

“I love a challenge.” Doctor Templeton looked at his watch. “I’ll be back in less than thirty minutes with a signed consent form.”

“That sounds like a promise.”

“It is.”

As she watched him walk away, she found herself surprised by his casual, easy-going demeanor. Her experiences with doctors in the past, particularly while her father lay in a hospital bed dying of cancer, had been unsavory to say the least. Most of the doctors she’d encountered had been arrogant and cold. Dr. Templeton was anything but self-centered. She hoped that he remained this cooperative and pleasant.

“Detective Diaz,” Katherine Levy, Saks manager, said. “This is Robin Westcott, one of our sales associates.”

“It was kind of you to come in early,” Al said.

“I just hope I can be of assistance to you.”

Katherine’s cell phone rang. “I have to take this call. I’ll be right outside my office if you need me.”

“No problem,” Al said. He reached in his pocket and removed a photo of the designer dress and showed it to Robin. “Do you recall selling that dress?”

Robin pinched her chin between thumb and index finger. “I distinctly remember the dress—and the guy who bought it.”

“What did he look like?” Al asked.

“He wore a Chargers baseball cap but took it off a couple of times and ran his fingers through his hair. He had a full head of pitch-black hair.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“His eyes were sky-blue. Just beautiful. And to be honest, Detective, he was a real looker. I’m talking Hugh Jackman, George Clooney good-looking. He was tall—over six feet. And he had an average build.”

“How old would you say he was?”

“I’d say fortyish.”

“Could you pick him out of a lineup?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Do you think you could sit down with a sketch artist and help us with a composite drawing?”

Robin’s face tightened. “If I saw him again I’m pretty sure I’d recognize him, but his face just isn’t clear in my mind. I’m afraid if I tried to help you with a drawing, I’d be wasting your time.”

“Tell me about your conversation with him.”

“The one thing that stuck out in my mind is that he was really nervous. Looked like he just drank a pot of high-test coffee. Strange thing was, he hadn’t a clue what size to buy. That seemed odd to me. I mean how do you
not
know the dress size of someone you’d buy a three-thousand-dollar dress for? I didn’t want to jeopardize the sale, so I guessed the size based on his description of her.”

“How did he land on that particular dress?”

“Well, the first thing he said when I approached him on the sales floor was, ‘I’m looking for a stunning cocktail dress. And money is no object.’ When a commissioned salesperson hears a customer say that, which isn’t very often, what they really hear is, ‘cha-ching.’ Not that we would ever take advantage of a customer, but hey, a gal’s gotta make a living, and when a guy opens up his wallet…what can I say?”

“Anything else you can tell me about the way he looked or acted?”

She shook her head. “Nothing unusual rings a bell.”

“Did he have any scars, a tattoo, a limp—anything at all that might distinguish him?”

She contemplated his question for a moment, then shook her head. “Nothing that strikes me.”

Al reached in his pocket and handed Robin a business card. “If anything pops into your head, anything at all, please call me right away.”

Al left Saks and headed downtown.

When he walked into the precinct, Al all but ignored his fellow detectives, and headed straight for the break room. After his conversation with Robin Westcott, he needed a pick-me-up before he could find the strength to interview another witness. At this time of day, it seemed unlikely, but he hoped that he’d find a freshly brewed pot of coffee. When he entered the break room, he spotted the red light on the base of the coffee maker glowing like a laser pen. As he approached the coffee maker with high hopes, he could see the almost empty pot. He flipped up the lid on the cardboard donut box and found the remains of a cinnamon twist that pretty much looked like it had been attacked by a hungry rat. Slightly annoyed, he headed for the interrogation room.

Genevieve Foster’s best friend, Katie Mitchell, curly red hair resting on her shoulders, freckles highlighting her cheeks, and prominent lips painted with pink lipstick, sat nervously on the metal chair, twisting a tissue as if it were wringing wet. Her hazel eyes looked like they were covered with a clear glaze.

Al extended his hand. “Ms. Mitchell, I’m Detective Diaz.” Her hands felt cold and clammy. “Thanks so much for coming. Can I get you some water or a soda?”

“No thank you.”

Al pulled out the chair, turned it 180 degrees, and straddled the seat. Normally, two detectives would conduct an interview, but evidently, Ramirez had better things to do than track down a serial killer. He set a digital tape recorder on the desk and pushed the “Record” button.

“Do we have to record this conversation?” Katie Mitchell asked.

“Is there something you’re going to say that you don’t want recorded?”

The question seemed to stun her. “Well, um, I just don’t want to get myself in trouble.”

“Did you do something that
might
get you in trouble?”

“No. No. Of course not.”

“Then there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

She fingered her curly hair. “Can we get this over with, please?”

“That ball is in
your
court, Ms. Mitchell.”

“I’m sorry if I seem a little…a little nervous. I still can’t get past what happened to Genevieve.”

“I totally understand. And believe me, I will try to make this as painless as possible.” He pulled a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket and flipped open the notepad. “What was your relationship with Ms. Foster?”

“She was my best friend in the whole world. We went to the same elementary school and high school together and lived only a few blocks away from each other.”

“How often did you see her?”

“Not much during the workweek, although we texted each other regularly. Neither of us had boyfriends—at least not recently—so on the weekends we’d do some bar-hopping.”

“Did you go to the same bars every weekend?”

“Not usually. But Tony’s was our favorite.”

“Tony’s Bar and Grill in the Gaslamp District?”

She nodded.

“Why was it your favorite?”

“Can I be really, really honest?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You’re going to think I’m some superficial dingbat, but Tony’s has the hottest guys.”

“And by ‘hot’ I assume you mean attractive, right?”

“Totally to die for.” Katie Mitchell covered her mouth and gasped, looking like she’d just seen a ghost. “Oh, my God. I didn’t mean that. I was just—”

“No need to apologize, Ms. Mitchell. It was merely a slip of the tongue.”

Al gave her a moment to regain her composure. “Are you okay?”

“As okay as I’m going to be.”

“Were you with Ms. Foster the night she disappeared?”

“Yes. I picked her up at her parents’ home and we went to Tony’s for drinks.”

“Tell me everything you remember about the evening.”

“Well, Gen and I were sitting at the bar, sipping a couple of martinis, and talking about things that girls talk about. A few barstools away, this gorgeous guy—and I mean drop-dead gorgeous—keeps smiling at Gen and making eye contact. They were definitely checking each other out. Before I even realized what was happening, Gen leaves me and walks over to the guy. I was a little pissed, but it wasn’t unusual for us to go our separate ways if one of us…”

“Met a hot guy?”

“Exactly. So anyway, they talk for a bit and without even saying a word to me, I see Gen and this guy heading for the exit. A couple of minutes later I get a text message from her.”

“And what did it say?”

“‘I think I’m in love. Call me tomorrow.’”

“And that was the last time you heard from her?”

All teary-eyed, Katie Mitchell nodded.

“Other than saying that the man Ms. Foster left with was ‘drop-dead gorgeous,’ can you tell me what he looked like. Any striking characteristics?”

“Like most bars, the lights are pretty dim. That’s so average-looking girls like me rank a couple of notches higher than we are. Dim lights can do wonders for those of us not blessed with high cheekbones and a cute little turned-up nose. I do remember that he was a tall guy—over six-foot—and his hair was jet-black.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I remember his navy-blue Chargers cap.”

“If you sat down with a sketch artist, could you give us enough detail of his face for us to do a composite drawing?”

“I doubt it, Detective. I only remember what I told you.”

“Do you think you could pick him out of a lineup?”

“Not sure. But I’d love to give it a whirl.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Only that I want you to find this asshole and cut his dick off.”

“Nothing would please me more.”

Late for dinner with Sami and company, Al left a voice mail for her so she wouldn’t get worried. He walked into a crowded Starbucks, craned his neck, and spotted Maggie sitting at a table for two, waving her arm.

“We meet again,” Maggie said. “Get yourself a drink. On me.” She handed Al a ten-dollar bill. He ordered a double espresso and sat opposite Maggie, dropping her change in the middle of the table.