They Never Die Quietly (2010) (11 page)

"Leukemia." She picked up a small stone and heaved it at the seagull. The bird let out a sequence of loud screeches, sounding more like faulty brakes on an old car than the protest of an angry bird. Clumsily it flapped its wings, and with graceless alarm the bird lifted off the rock and flew away. "The incurable kind that strangles your liver."

Simon felt an impulse to harshly scold her for the blatant display of cruelty to one of God's creations. But considering her ill-fated future he sat quietly, without comment.

"If I had even an ounce of courage, I'd swallow a bottle of sleeping pills. But I'm too much of a wimp."

In spite of his common sense, Simon put his arm around her and pulled her closer. He could smell alcohol on her breath. "How much time do you have?"

"Six, maybe eight months."

Moved by her hopelessness, Simon squeezed her shoulder. "I don't wish to stick my nose where it doesn't belong, but I have to ask you, Brigetta, are you saved?"

"I don't think you get it." Her timid voice grew impatient. "I'm dying."

"What I'm asking is if your soul is saved."

"You want to know if I believe in God?"

"Believing is not enough. Have you made peace with the Almighty?"

She didn't answer at first. Instead she stared at the ocean. "When I first heard the diagnosis, I spent most of my time--when I wasn't crying of course--praying to God, Saint Jude, and the Blessed Mother, asking all of them for a miracle." Her eyes welled with tears. "They didn't hear me."

Oh, how Simon wanted to reassure her. Didn't she realize that God had indeed answered her prayers? He had sent her to him. "I can help you, Brigetta."

Her head snapped toward him. "Are you a physician with a miracle cure for leukemia?"

"I'm not talking about curing you physically."

Brigetta stood and steadied herself on the boulder. "You seem like a really nice guy, Simon, but what I need--"

"What have you got to lose?"

She pondered his words for a few moments. "Everything."

He stood and faced her, gripping her shoulders. "Trust me, Brigetta."

She gazed at him with haunted eyes. "Simon, I've got to cram a lifetime of fun into less than a year. If you really want to help me..."

Be careful, son
.

"What do you want from me?" Simon asked.

She brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. Standing on her tiptoes, she leaned into him, cupped her hand around the back of his neck, and tried to kiss him, but Simon stepped back.

Told you, son. She's like all the rest
.

Simon could feel his compassion for the young woman begin to fade. His face felt warm. "I'm flattered, Brigetta, honestly, but I don't think this is a good idea."

"You don't find me attractive?"

"That's not it at all. You're a beautiful young--"

"Then why?"

Silence.

She shook her head and snickered, then pushed her hair out of her eyes. "What man in his right mind would turn down a sure thing?"

"A man with integrity and moral fiber."

"Are you gay?"

His anger swelled. "Of course not."

"Then why are you being so difficult?"

"I can only help you spiritually."

Brigetta's face contorted. "Is it because I'm dying? Does that sicken you? Afraid you'll get infected or something?"

"Brigetta, please don't do this."

She didn't sense the danger. "Are you impotent?"

Simon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Brigetta, please."

"I'm not asking for an engagement ring."

Are you going to let her humiliate you, son
?

"I have a great deal of empathy for you, Brigetta, but I don't appreciate what you're trying to do."

"What I'm trying to do is have a little fun before I fucking die!"

"You picked the wrong guy. If I've misled you in some way--"

"You're really serious, aren't you?"

"I think it's time for me to go."

"I'll bet you're a fag, right?" Now she was almost screaming.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

She taunted him with a mocking laugh. "You're not man enough for a woman like me."

"Please don't yell."

She loosened her belt and unzipped her jeans. "Let's get down and dirty right here on the sand."

He turned and moved away from her. She grasped his shirtsleeve, her long fingernails digging into his skin.

"Let go of me, Brigetta."

Without saying a word, she cocked her arm and slapped him hard. He shook it off, but his face was on fire.

As if he were standing in a dark tunnel, Simon's eyes went black for a moment. When he opened his eyes, Bonnie Jean Oliver stood in front of him.

Not all souls can be cleansed, my sweet boy
.

Saturday evening at eight-fifteen, after reading Angelina Doctor Seuss's
Green Eggs and Ham
, struggling with every word as if English were Sami's second language, she tucked her daughter in bed. "Mommy, your voice sounds funny," Angelina had said. "Read it the good way." In spite of Sami's troubled state of mind, she couldn't help but laugh at Angelina's carefree innocence.

Sami flipped on the night-light, and just as she partially closed the bedroom door, she heard the doorbell chime.
God, no
. It had to be her mother. She had insulated herself from the world for the entire day--hadn't answered the telephone, ignored her pager, even turned off the cellular. And most remarkably she hadn't spoken to her mother. For all Sami knew, an asteroid could be hurling toward Earth, potentially ending all life. She seriously thought about ignoring the doorbell, but there were limits to her irresponsible hiatus from humankind.

She had spent the entire day with her daughter but hadn't found the courage to tell her. Amid a punishing feeling of guilt, Sami's anguish was almost unbearable. At the mere thought of revealing to Angelina that her father had died, Sami broke out in a cold sweat. How could she explain to a two-year-old that she'd never see her dad again? How could she ever expect to compose a speech so delicately diplomatic that her daughter might be spared just an ounce of the misery associated with having to spend the rest of her life as a fatherless child?

Sami walked by the mirror mounted on the wall in the foyer and reluctantly glanced at her unkind reflection. She hadn't showered today, and her hair looked matted and greasy. She wore an oversize terry robe that should have been cut into rags years ago. Without makeup she looked like she could play the lead in
Night of the Living Dead.

The doorbell chimed again.

As Sami twisted the doorknob with one hand and unlocked the dead bolt with the other, she expected that her mother, annoyed and ready for a brawl, would be standing on the other side of the door with that agitated look she'd seen so often. When Sami saw her partner's friendly face, she felt a touch of relief.

Alberto Diaz grinned. His ivory-white teeth were flawless. "Thought before we issued an APB, I'd knock on your front door."

"It's been a rough day."

"Is it safe to come in?"

"Enter at your own risk."

Sami sat on the sofa and Al seemed content pacing the floor.

"You look like shit," Al said.

"Thanks, Al, I can always count on you to lift my spirits."

"It gets worse." Al shook his head. "Davison yanked us off the investigation."

"Son of a
bitch
!"

"Guess Chief Larson crawled up the captain's ass."

"He didn't have the courtesy to tell me himself?"

"Have you checked your messages? He's been trying to reach you all day."

Not only had she ignored incoming telephone calls, she'd turned down the volume on her answering machine. "But he said we had until next Friday before he'd pull the plug."

"There's been another young woman murdered. It doesn't fit the serial killer's M.O., but there are enough similarities to make Davison panic. He's yanking us and letting the special task force lead the investigation."

Sami wanted to scream, to pick up the crystal candy dish sitting on the corner of the cocktail table and heave it across the room. Oh, how she wanted to break something! "I don't need this shit today, Al."

"I'm sorry, partner." Al sat next to Sami and rubbed her back. "Hope you're not pissed with me."

"It's not your fault. You're just the courier."

They sat quietly for several minutes. Al's gentle hands massaged the taut muscles along the top of Sami's shoulders. His hands felt soothing, yet unsettling, reminding her of the tender moments she'd had with Tommy, moments in their early relationship that had faded so quickly.

"Davison wants us to investigate this most recent murder," Al said.

"And what happens if we find out that the woman was victim number five?"

Al lifted a shoulder. "Don't know."

Sami finally realized that Al had never seen her so slovenly. "So what do you think of my new hairdo?"

Al made a yummy sound. "If I were into alien refugees, you'd be first on my list."

"You
are
the charmer, aren't you?"

He smiled briefly, but then his lips tightened. "I thought you might want to know that Davison assigned Anderson and McNeil to Tommy's murder investigation."

Al's announcement, somewhat nonchalant, struck Sami in a peculiar way. Investigating Tommy's murder? It all seemed so unreal. "Tell them not to waste their time."

Al stopped rubbing her shoulders.

"Unless our extradition agreement with Mexico has improved," Sami said, "I doubt that they'll ever find the murderers."

"Why do you say that?"

"Tommy was a brainless gambler. A not-so-bright gambler. After burning every bookie from here to L.A., constantly hiding from those goons threatening to break his fingers, he found what he believed to be a windfall in Tijuana. He started placing bets with a group of Mexican hoodlums. Wannabe mafiosi. These guys were a lot more liberal than American bookies. They let Tommy get into their knickers for thousands without hassling him."

"Something must have happened for them to murder him."

"Tommy had no sense of fair play. His motto was, 'You play ball with me, and I'll stick the bat up your ass.' When the Mexicans realized that Tommy had no intention of paying back the debt, they threatened to kill him."

Al grabbed Sami's hand.

Sami tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "I should have helped him."

"You weren't his keeper, Sami. Besides, the last time you bailed out his sorry ass he promised to seek help through Gamblers Anonymous. And what did he do?"

Sami didn't say a word.

"He blew you off, Sami. You can't blame yourself. Even if you'd been crazy enough to borrow against your home and save his hide, how long before he got himself into another life-threatening jam? Let it go, Sami. He's not worth it."

She didn't need to hear it from Al to know that Tommy was a worthless liar. Still, she couldn't help but feel that in some indirect way she'd betrayed Angelina. "Think you could find it in your heart to give this not-so-lovely woman a hug?"

"You got it, partner."

Al's loyal friendship was much-needed therapy for Sami. It warmed her to feel affection. It had been such a long time since Sami had felt so safe and secure. She didn't want Al to let go.

"I hate to break up this party," Al whispered in Sami's ear, "but we've got a witness to interview."

"You mean tonight?"

Al glanced at his watch and nodded. "How fast can you shower and make yourself presentable?"

"It'd be easier if the folks from
Extreme Makeovers
made house calls." Sami's mother was the only babysitter she could summon at a moment's notice. She dreaded calling her but had no choice. "Why don't you brew a pot of coffee while I make arrangements for Angelina and get ready as quickly as I can?"

"Sure thing." He winked at her. "Welcome back, partner."

Quite to Sami's surprise, her mother agreed to babysit without comment or inquisition. Sami strongly suspected that her mother hadn't yet figured out how to approach her on the subject of Tommy's murder--a topic sure to be overanalyzed for decades to come. So Sami felt certain that instead of making small talk, her mother was quietly plotting. In due time, Josephine Rizzo would launch a relentless attack, and Sami would pay a painful price for this momentary pardon from hell.

For the first time in months, Al drove and Sami navigated. Usually Sami took on both responsibilities, not by choice but necessity. On the many occasions Al had hopelessly tried to offer directions, he'd always found a way to get them lost. And Sami could never quite pass an opportunity to harass her partner. "Al," she had said the last time they were lost somewhere in east San Diego County, "you couldn't find your ass with a detailed road map."

Bogged down in heavy Saturday evening traffic on the main strip of Pacific Beach, the detectives crawled along Garnet Avenue, neither having much to say, each of them caught up in private thoughts. Two blocks from Crystal Pier, they drove by Romano's Cafe, and Sami got an eerie feeling knowing that the murder had taken place only a short distance from where Simon and she had intended to have dinner. A meaningless coincidence, yet it added to her edginess.

Simon.

Since hearing about Tommy's murder, Sami had little time to think about Simon. In a twisted sense--considering that Tommy's funeral hadn't even taken place yet--she actually felt guilty enjoying the little fantasies that often danced through her mind. But why should she feel guilty daydreaming about the charming man who had stirred her womanly emotions, feelings she'd given up for dead? Didn't she have a right to these visions? She now understood that guilt came easy to her. She embraced it like a treasured heirloom.

Unable to find a legal parking space, Al pulled next to a red curb, a no standing zone, and flipped down the sun visor, displaying the Official Police Business sign in the windshield.

Al turned off the ignition. "Rank sure has its privileges."

"And you enjoy every one of them."

"Hey, for the paltry sum we get paid, we have to take full advantage of the fringe benefits."

About to get out of the car, Al grasped the door handle, but Sami grabbed his right arm. "Tell me about the victim."

In the dim light Al studied her critically. "Sure you want to know?"

"No. But tell me anyway."

He hesitated for a moment. "She was young, Sami, born in Sweden, eighteen years old. Her parents told me she had recently signed a contract with Models Inc. Would have had a promising career as a fashion model. The sad thing is, she had leukemia--had less than a year to live."

Sami thought about that for a minute. "Could it have been suicide?"

Al grasped the steering wheel and adjusted his body. "She died from repeated blows to the face with a rock the size of a cantaloupe."

Sorry she had asked for details, Sami took a breath. "What details of her death are similar to the serial murders?"

"The assailant cut a cross into her stomach. It might not be a connection, but then again, you never know."

"Are we interviewing a witness?" Sami asked.

He shook his head. "Not exactly. At the scene of the murder, the Crime Scene Unit found a Gold Toe sock. That information somehow ended up in a newspaper article. We got a call from some homeless guy." Al fished through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "John Williamson. Last night he spoke with a tall man walking barefoot on the beach in a business suit. Said that the guy gave him fifty bucks and a pair of expensive loafers. In return, the guy asked Williamson to attend services on Christmas Day and to promise not to drink. While they were talking, our homeless guy noticed that the suspect was holding a pair of socks with gold toes."

Anyone could have carved a cross into the young woman's body. Perhaps to further incriminate the serial killer. But asking the homeless man to attend church on Christmas Day might suggest that the suspect was religious.

"Where are we meeting Williamson?" Sami asked.

"Near the beach."

John T. Williamson, ex-marine, former father, husband, and taxpayer, waited under a bright mercury vapor light in front of the entrance to Crystal Pier, exactly where he'd agreed to meet the detectives. There were other people in the area--a few joggers, several rollerbladers, people casually strolling along the boardwalk--but Al recognized Williamson immediately from the description he'd given over the telephone. The homeless man looked fidgety. Headphones dangled around his neck and the wire disappeared in his jacket pocket. He held a backpack in one hand and a cigarette in the other, puffing on it nervously. He was pacing like a caged hyena when the detectives approached him. The man stood tall, skinny as a pencil, and walked with a slight limp.

"Are you John Williamson?" Al asked.

"John T. Williamson, if you please."

"I'm Detective Diaz and this is my partner, Detective Rizzo."

Careful not to damage the half-smoked cigarette, he extinguished it and put it in his jacket pocket. "I'm not in any sort of trouble or anything, am I?" Williamson's voice cracked.

"Not unless you're an accomplice to the murder," Al said.

Williamson didn't connect with Al's twisted humor. "Well, God knows I'm not. What I meant was, being homeless and all...you know, panhandling. That sort of thing. It's not a crime, is it?"

"Only if you're harassing people," Sami said.

The witness looked relieved. "Don't know that I can help you. Can't believe the guy I spoke to could hurt anybody. He was weird but not the murdering type."

"Why don't you let us make that determination, Mr. Williamson," Al said.

Williamson pointed to a row of concrete benches lining the boardwalk. "Mind if we sit over there and talk?" He grimaced and rubbed his knee.

"Are you injured?" Sami asked.

"Got this trick knee that flares up in the cool weather."

Al and Sami followed the witness to a vacant bench sitting under a cluster of tall palm trees. From where they sat, they could hear the ocean washing the shoreline.

Sami removed a pad and pen from her jacket pocket. "Can you give us a detailed description of the man in question?"

"Well, you know, it was dark on the beach and I didn't really pay much attention to his face." He played with his grisly beard. "He was big, built like a brick shit house. Broad shoulders. Looked like a linebacker."

"What color was his hair, eyes? Any distinguishing features?" Sami asked.

"Geez, I'm really sorry, but I can't remember." He licked his lips and twisted his neck as if his collar were overstarched. "I was a little under the weather last night."

"You mean intoxicated?" Al asked.

"Not drop-dead drunk. Just a little tipsy. It helps take the bite out of the chilly nights."