They Never Die Quietly (2010) (13 page)

Kneeling in front of the coffin, Sami faced the same dilemma she'd encountered in the past: What could she say to God? What words could she compose worthy of God's ear? It seemed so paltry and ordinary to simply ask the Creator to have mercy on Tommy's less-than-pure soul. Surely, a more compelling, less mainstream plea for his salvation might capture God's attention.

Sami believed in a higher authority, a supreme power greater than humankind, and that life on Earth served as a stepping stone to an existence more substantial and more permanent. She also felt certain that in the next life, mortals were rewarded for their goodwill and punished for their misdeeds.

Today, kneeling in front of Tommy's coffin, certain that Maria and Vincent DiSalvo were staring at her back, cursing the day she'd been born, Samantha Rizzo could not evoke appropriate words. She could not compose a prayer for the man who was once her husband and lover, the father of her child. She said a Hail Mary and an Our Father, made the sign of the cross, and choked back the tears.

Al stood and waited by her side, but Sami remained kneeling in front of the coffin.

He touched her arm. "You okay?"

She took a deep breath and stood. "Been better."

She dreaded this moment most: paying her respects to Tommy's parents, searching their eyes for hatred. She turned and stepped toward the DiSalvos. Vincent stood several feet away, talking to a bald, hunched-over elderly man. Maria sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap, clutching a wadded tissue, staring at the coffin with a mesmerized, almost possessed look.

Sami forced a smile and extended her hand. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss, Maria."

The slightly overweight, fifty-seven-year-old woman lifted her chin and blinked several times, as if trying to focus her squinting brown eyes. Then her eyes opened wide. With her right hand she grasped Sami's extended hand. With her left, she grabbed Sami's elbow and pulled Sami toward her. Maria's face was inches from Sami's ear.

"We couldn't help Tommy. You know how poor we are. But you could have saved my son, Sami. Instead, you let him die. God curse your soul."

The barely audible words assaulted Sami's ears like a gunshot. She had no retort. This was neither the time nor place for debate or rebuttal. What could she say in her own defense? Al stood in her shadow, waiting patiently, unaware of what the bitter woman had whispered in Sami's ear. Sami waited for Vincent to finish his conversation with the bent-forward man, so she could quickly offer her condolences. Vincent glanced at her several times but seemed uninterested in ending his talk. Sami tugged on Al's sleeve and leaned toward him. "Let's get the hell out of here."

She held Al's hand and almost pulled him behind her as she marched for the exit. The crowd watched her hasty departure with searching curiosity. It seemed that everyone in the funeral home had been corrupted, convinced that Sami was responsible for Tommy's death. She felt like she was walking a gauntlet, their glares silent weapons. If she weren't a civilized woman, a sworn servant of society, she'd stomp back in the room and tell the DiSalvos a couple of choice stories about their beloved son. But doing so would only reduce herself to their level. Nothing she could say or do would temper the conspiracy. They believed what they believed, and no matter how poignant her defense, she could never exonerate herself. At least not in their eyes.

During the ride back to Sami's house, Al knew that silence was the best medicine, that only time could moderate Sami's rage. He abhorred seeing her in so much pain, but other than offer his earnest support, what could he do? For Al, the situation had unleashed his own emotions. They'd been partners for over six years; friends from the moment they met. Al had heard all the details of Sami's troubled marriage and was well acquainted with the likes of Tommy DiSalvo and his family of misfits. On countless evenings Al had sat by Sami's side and consoled her. On numerous occasions, Al's phone would ring in the middle of the night because Tommy had not been home for days, and Sami, frantic with alarm, needed to hear a friendly voice.

Tommy DiSalvo had left an indelible scar on Sami's heart. He had captured a woman with a profound zest for life, held her captive in his dark world, and when he finally released her, she no longer savored life with the same spirit.

Alberto Diaz had been there when Sami gave birth to Angelina. He stood beside Sami in the labor room, holding her hands, wiping the sweat from her brow, helping with her breathing exercises. Until the moment she disappeared through the doors of the operating room, Al had coached her through seven hours of labor. He had asked to accompany Sami during delivery, but when she explained that she might never again be able to look in his eyes, he understood and respected her womanly pride without protest.

As the quiet ride continued, and Al's head flooded with memories, it occurred to him that there was something he could do for Sami. Al had been born just across the border from San Diego, in Tijuana, where the contrast between prosperity and poverty glared like the Mexican sun. The city served as a haven for bargain hunters. Most of the daytime tourists patronized myriad retail stores and street vendors selling everything from handwoven wool blankets to knockoff Rolex watches. But when the sun set, Tijuana's infamous reputation beckoned other visitors, all searching for drugs, sex, and bars that never closed. On Friday and Saturday evenings, the streets of Tijuana were littered with California teenagers, all with the same goal: to get inebriated.

Three classes of people lived in Tijuana: those lucky enough to work for one of many businesses supported by American tourism, others with green cards who were legally employed in the United States but maintained residency in Mexico, and the less fortunate ones forced to beg for a living.

Al would never forget his poverty-stricken childhood. Only steps from the customs gate, where the Border Patrol carefully screened an onslaught of Americans crossing the border into Mexico, Al camped on the sidewalk seven days a week. Many tourists parked their cars in designated lots and walked over the border into Tijuana. This created a great opportunity for enterprising children like Al. With ragged clothing, his face dirty and wearing a pitiful frown, Al stood among a group of children loitering on the busy pathway to Mexico, hoping to collect enough money to help his parents get through another difficult day.

Until his thirteenth birthday--when the competition from younger, more pathetic-looking children captured the soft hearts of Americans more effectively--Al sold Chiclets chewing gum to anyone kind enough to drop a nickel in his rusty coffee can. Al's teenage years were riddled with delinquent activities. He had never committed a consequential crime, but the local police knew him well and were always at his heels. Finally, at the age of nineteen, after repeated pleas from his mother, his Uncle Eduardo, a naturalized citizen living in National City, agreed to sponsor Al's immigration into the United States.

Al was well aware that the Mexican Mafia thrived in Tijuana. And although he had not shared this with Sami, he felt certain Tommy DiSalvo had not been murdered by the hands of this particular group of hoodlums. They were criminals in every sense of the word, heavily involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, and gambling. They had no reservations about snapping a pinky or beating a freeloader to within an inch of his life. And occasionally, when they believed a "customer's" debt was substantial and uncollectible, one of their enforcers would press the business end of a Colt .45 against the deadbeat's temple and end his life. They were an unscrupulous, corrupt pack of
pendejos
, but a peculiar code of ethics existed among them. They would never torture a man before murdering him. This was gospel. And they most certainly would not have castrated Tommy and stuffed his testicles down his throat. Al felt certain that Tommy DiSalvo had not been murdered by the Mexican Mafia, and he intended to prove it.

Al still had contacts in Tijuana, lifelong friends familiar with the dynamics of the underworld. He'd have to be careful with his covert investigation. If Captain Davison learned about his unauthorized detective work, the consequences would be grave. A few telephone calls, a trip to Tijuana, a handful of pesos to warm the palms of those connected to the action, and soon Al would solve the mystery and hopefully help quell Sami's feeling of guilt.

Not as her best friend, and not as her partner, Al reached across the seat and grabbed Sami's hand. She turned her head slightly and smiled at him. He stroked her fingers and could feel that familiar flutter in his upper chest, the tightness at the back of his throat. Oh, how masterfully he had concealed the truth for so many years.

On the Wednesday afternoon they had met, at the exact moment Alberto Diaz had looked into Samantha Rizzo's beautiful blue eyes, he had fallen in love for the first time in his pitiful life. Al had heard the utopian stories about love at first sight, but until the day his heart had swelled with a warmth he had never known, he had always believed that all the romantic tales were food for Gothic novels. How clever he had been: playing the part of a carefree rogue, a user of women. Making Sami believe that he lived the life of a playboy served as his only shelter.

Not a day passed without Al dreaming about making love to Sami. Now, sitting beside her in this car, Al came to the bitter realization that he could never reveal his love, that it would forever be exiled in a secret refuge in his heart. He was not good enough for Sami. She deserved more than a Mexican-born maniac with reckless ambition. Sami needed stability in her life, and Angelina needed a father figure. It was not a role to which Al could ever aspire. His love for her was a romantic tragedy, and Sami would never know.

"Thanks for your support, partner," Sami said.

Drowning in his thoughts, the break in silence startled him. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sure you could have had more fun rock climbing with your friend than babysitting for me."

If only she knew. "What did the old witch say to set you off?"

"I don't remember her exact words, only the insinuation."

"And?"

"She blamed me for Tommy's murder."

Al's hands tightened around the steering wheel, committed more than ever to finding out who murdered Tommy DiSalvo. "Don't let her or anyone else lay that horseshit on you."

"I keep trying to convince myself that even if I had mortgaged my soul and given Tommy the money, eventually he'd run out of resources. It seemed inevitable."

"That's exactly right."

"But suppose this would have been the last straw? What if the threat on his life had been just the dose of reality he needed? You should have seen him, Al, he was terrified."

"There's never a last straw with losers like him. I don't mean to be disrespectful--I know he was once your husband--but you gotta call a spade a spade."

Maybe Al was right.

Al turned into Sami's driveway and switched off the ignition. "I'll walk you to the door."

"It's broad daylight. I don't think I'm in any danger."

More selfish than chivalrous, Al hoped for a coffee invitation; any excuse to spend more time with Sami. "Hey, you never know."

At the door, Sami put her arms around Al and gave him a bear hug.

Like two puzzle pieces, the contours of Sami's body snugly fit against Al's. He thought his heart would leap out of his chest. "So what time tomorrow should I pick you up for the funeral services?" Her hair smelled like coconuts.

She let go of him and searched through her purse. "I'm not going to the funeral."

Her words relieved Al. "You sure about that?"

She found the ring of keys and slipped the brass-colored one in the dead bolt. "The only thing I know for sure is that I refuse to subject myself to more humiliation."

"Bravo. I admire your courage."

"Call it self-preservation." Sami glanced at her wristwatch. "If you're not sick of hanging around a sniveling wench, we can probably catch the second half of the Chargers game."

"Promise not to blow your nose on my one and only dress shirt and you've got a deal."

"Be warned: When my mother drops off Angelina, she'll probably hang around."

"You haven't scared me yet."

"Oh, yeah. Wait until she sits on your lap and asks you to read her a bedtime story."

"Angelina?"

"No, my mother."

Al grinned. "Now you're scarin' me."

Sami and Al walked into the cluttered living room.

"If you're really lucky," Sami said, "I might muster enough ambition to throw some leftover chili in the microwave. But no promises."

"And to think I could have been foolish enough to go home and grill that porterhouse steak in my fridge."

"When you taste my chili, you're gonna beg me for the recipe."

"Or I can just read the ingredients on a can of Hormel's."

"You know me so well."

Not wanting to disturb Angelina, peacefully sleeping past her usual wakeup time on this cloudy Monday morning, Sami telephoned her mother.

"Would you mind driving over here, Ma?"

"Something wrong with your car?"

"I need to get to the precinct early and Angelina's still sleeping." Normally, Sami would drive Angelina to her mother's house at eight a.m. and choke down a quick cup of coffee, so Josephine would not accuse her of being too busy to spend a few minutes with "her only mother." Then she'd fight her way through the snarled freeway traffic, and if she did not encounter gridlock, arrive at the precinct by nine.

This morning, after a surprisingly restful night's sleep, Sami felt remarkably energetic. Considering the recent events, her good spirits seemed like a minor miracle. She had no illusions regarding the much-needed sleep, and attributed her windfall to fatigue and mental exhaustion.

Josephine Rizzo protested. "You know how much I hate rush-hour traffic."

"It's not like you're on the other side of the county. It's a ten-minute ride."

"I haven't had my breakfast yet."

"Eat breakfast here."

"What, Pop-Tarts?"

Why didn't I just wake Angelina
? "Forget it, Ma. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Sometimes I think you take advantage of me, Sami."

"And sometimes I think about moving to Tahiti."

"You're in a mood."

"Why does everything have to be a fight with you?"

Silence.

"Are you there, Ma?"

"I don't know what a mother's supposed to do anymore. I try to help and all you do is yell at me."

Josephine Rizzo could make the Pope feel guilty about the way he said Mass. "I'm sorry, Ma. It's not you. It's me. I guess I'm having a hard time dealing with Tommy's murder. There's a lot of shit going on at work and I'm taking it out on you." Sami couldn't believe that she apologized. "I'll drop her off in a little while."

Josephine's voice rang in triumph. "I'll be waiting."

Sami tiptoed into Angelina's bedroom and sat on the bed. Rather than abruptly wake her, she gently stroked her hair.
What a beautiful child
.

Her rather flowery explanation of Tommy's death had not adversely affected Angelina. Or at least it appeared that way. When Sami had delicately made the announcement, the two-year-old chewed on her lower lip and rubbed her watery eyes but did not shed a tear. That her dad now lived in heaven with God hadn't upset the child. In her mind, he had embarked upon an exciting journey, and although she could no longer see him or hear his voice, she could speak to him often and know that he would hear her words.

The lightheartedness of childhood can often be merciful, Sami thought. But an adult mind cannot find solace in the same safe harbor as a child's heart. In due time, Angelina would come to grips with troubling questions. Losing her father at such an early age represented only a small portion of the issues that Angelina would face. The real tragedy lay in Angelina's dim memory of an obscure man who did not participate in his daughter's life, a father who would tragically fade to oblivion.

In later years, Sami felt sure, Angelina's world would be rocked with a profound feeling of loss. For now, Sami found minor relief knowing that Angelina sought refuge in the safe harbor of her youthful innocence.

Angelina yawned. Her eyes barely opened. "Time to go to Grandma's?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"Can I wear my Winnie the Pooh shirt?"

"Of course."

For a moment Sami's thoughts shifted to her father's death. In an abstract way she had felt as though she were no longer imprisoned by his expectations, or her inability to please him. Overwhelmed with culpability, she wrestled with this feeling for years. How could anyone benefit from a parent's death? It occurred to Sami that Angelina might be better off without her biological father. Perhaps she would be spared the bitter realization that Tommy DiSalvo would never aspire to her daughterly expectations.

Superficially, this presumption seemed coldhearted and utterly callous. And Sami would never share these dark judgments with anyone. But the whole issue of parent-child relationships hovered as controversial a topic as politics or religion. Absolute truths did not exist. To Sami, nothing on earth was clearly right or wrong. Each relationship delicately rested on a balance scale, the position of each side affected by the daily rituals of parent-child interactions.

Angelina sat up and reached for the ceiling with outstretched arms. "Am I gonna get another daddy?"

The jaw-dropping question shook Sami to her core. She had to think carefully before answering.

Parked a block away from Sami's home in the rented Chevy Impala, slumped low and hyped with anticipation, Simon watched. Not knowing when she'd leave her home, he'd been waiting since six a.m. He swallowed the final mouthful of lukewarm coffee and set the stainless steel mug in the cup holder. At seven-forty-five, he saw her walk out the front door wearing a business suit, one a homicide detective would wear to work. The morning was cool, the sun hidden by stubborn clouds. Sami held Angelina's hand, led her to the car, and secured her daughter in the child seat. Simon waited for Sami to back out of her driveway before starting the engine. He followed at a safe distance behind, wearing a Padres cap on his head. Afraid she'd lose him on the freeway, Simon felt relieved when Sami passed the on-ramp to Freeway 805 and continued through residential neighborhoods. She pulled into a driveway on 32nd Street. Simon parked at the curb and waited, snapping a mental picture of the address. He observed Sami leading Angelina to the front porch of the tiny, run-down home. They disappeared behind the front door. Sami emerged five minutes later. Alone.

Sami pushed through the double doors leading to the Detective Division, walked by her desk, waved to three fellow detectives--Alberto Diaz wasn't in sight--marched into Captain Davison's office, and closed the door.

Davison peered at her over his reading glasses. "I thought you'd be at the funeral." The top button of his wrinkled shirt was undone and his black tie hung loosely around his neck.

"So did I," Sami said.

"You're not going?"

"It would appear that way."

Davison rubbed his chin. "So am I to assume you're officially back to work?"

"That depends." She sat in one of the two chairs opposite Davison. In the past, she always waited for an invitation.

The captain dropped a pen on the desk, removed his glasses, and rocked back in the chair. "Okay, Rizzo, what's on your mind?"

"I thought you were a man of your word, captain."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You said we had until Friday before you pulled us off the case."

"So that's why your ass is chapped?" Davison folded his hands. "Diaz didn't fill you in?"

"I'd like to hear your version."

Davison reached for the pack of Camels sitting on the corner of his desk. He stuck his index finger inside and fished around but discovered it was empty. He opened the squeaky center drawer and rummaged through an accumulation of rarely used paraphernalia. Unable to find cigarettes, he stood up and frisked his pockets. "Shit." Davison fell into the chair. "I know you've been through a lot of shit, Rizzo, and you're a good cop, but this case is over your head."

Good cop? Apparently he had forgotten about her commendations. "And you think the boys in the Special Investigation Squad are going to bag the big one?"

"I had to do something."

Sami glared at Davison.

"You're emotionally involved, Rizzo. It's been obvious for weeks. There's no way for you to remain objective."

For a moment, Sami sat silent, thinking about what the captain said. His assessment of her was correct. But she wasn't going to give up her fight yet. "I know you're under a lot of pressure, captain, but--"

"I'm sorry, there's nothing to discuss. The decision's made."

"I'd like your permission to speak with Chief Carson." James Carson, recently appointed Chief of Detectives, supervised all six detective precincts in San Diego County. He had a reputation as a hard-nosed, inflexible tyrant, but Sami had nothing to lose but a little of her hide.

"I won't stop you from going over my head, Rizzo, but Carson is going to chew you up and spit you out."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Like two chess players contemplating their opponent's next move, they sat quietly eyeballing each other.

Davison said, "Do you have one shred of evidence or even a lukewarm lead?"

"We've got a homeless man who can identify a likely suspect."

Davison's eyes narrowed. "You really believe the woman murdered in Pacific Beach was the work of the serial killer?"

"Absolutely."

"What proof do you have?"

She didn't yet want to tell the captain about Simon, so she couldn't offer tangible evidence or dazzle the captain with an argument that might strengthen her position. The only trump card she carried was her proven skills and sound reputation. "When you were a detective, captain, how often did you rely on your gut instincts?"

"I know where you're going with this, Rizzo, and it ain't gonna work."

"Indulge me. Please."

"A cop without good instincts should look for a different occupation."

"How many times have my hunches resulted in an arrest?"

"No one is questioning your record, detective. The problem is--"

"Have I ever asked you for special consideration?"

His voice softened. "Not that I can recall."

"This investigation is a millimeter away from breaking wide open. I can feel it in my bones."

"Is Diaz as passionate as you with this investigation?"

She hadn't asked Al, and for all she knew he might be relieved that it had been reassigned, but she had the captain where she wanted him and had to keep pushing. "Al feels the same way I do, captain. I'm surprised he hasn't thrown a temper tantrum."

Davison set his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. "You do realize that my credibility as a commanding officer will be in the toilet if I reverse my decision."

"You're a big boy. You'll get over it."

The captain exposed a rarely seen smile. "Even if I put Diaz and you back on the case, you'd still have to work with a task force."

"I realize that, Captain. Just give me another shot."

Davison shook his head. "Okay, Detective Rizzo, I'm gonna give you just enough rope to hang yourself." He leaned forward and slapped his palms on the desk. "If this asshole isn't behind bars by Friday at midnight, you'd better update your resume."

"By Friday midnight, you'll owe
me
an apology, captain."

Normally, Sami disliked the enormous amount of paperwork associated with detective work, but today, this tedious task seemed like a godsend, helping divert her thoughts away from Tommy's funeral and Maria DiSalvo's coldhearted accusation. It took almost two hours for her to complete her daily progress report. As a homicide detective, every detail--even those seemingly insignificant--loomed large. And a major part of her responsibility was to record every aspect of an investigation in writing. Not divulging her suspicions about Simon violated her code of ethics. But Sami's instincts, always reliable, urged her not to share her assumptions quite yet. She hadn't decided if convincing Captain Davison to reassign the serial murders to Al and her had been a good thing. By midnight Friday, she'd know for sure if her power play had been a wise decision or foolhardy.

Sami left the precinct at ten-thirty a.m. and drove to the Police crime laboratory located on Broadway in downtown San Diego. Hopefully, the lab work would yield a significant piece of evidence from the Valentino shoes or the Gold Toe sock. The crime lab, officially named the Scientific Investigation Bureau, served as a crucial resource for homicide investigations and offered much support to the detective squads. The SIB consisted of five sections: Biology was responsible for the identification, analysis, and differentiation of body fluids--blood, sperm, vaginal fluids, saliva. It also performed tests on hair to determine origin (human, animal, or synthetic) and race, and in some cases DNA comparisons were done. Criminalistics provided chemical analysis of urine--to detect drug content--blood analysis for DWI, examination of alcoholic beverages, poisons, gunpowder and gunshot residue, paint scrapings, metals, glass fragments, fibers, soil, and identification of foot, heel, and tire impressions. The Document Examination section performed tests to learn the age of documents; they restored charred or water-damaged papers, as well as restored erasures, obliterations, or alterations, and compared hand printing and handwriting. Firearms identified and determined the condition of firearms; examined cartridge casings; analyzed neutron activation of gunshot residue; restored obliterated serial numbers; identified pick marks on lock cylinders; determined distance between victim and firearm; and acted as liaison between law enforcement agencies, gun manufacturers, and dealers. The last section--Controlled Substance Analysis--performed quantitative and qualitative analyses on all narcotics. Even with such a comprehensive resource, apprehending, arresting, and convicting a criminal was still an enormous undertaking.

Instead of waiting for an elevator, Sami took the stairs to the second-floor Biology Lab. When she walked into the lab, Sami spotted Betsy, the technician assigned to analyze the Valentino shoes and Gold Toe sock. Standing only four-foot-eleven, barely ninety-five pounds, the Vietnamese-born woman had the spunk of a Norfolk terrier. Sami had grown particularly fond of her over the past three years.

Betsy sat on a stool in front of a Formica table. There were plastic containers of various size scattered about, and a wooden rack filled with glass test tubes next to a sophisticated-looking microscope. Betsy looked up, her almond-shaped eyes as dark and shiny as chocolate frosting. "Long time no see, Sami." Having moved to America when she was only five years old, she spoke without an Asian accent.

Sami put her arm around Betsy and squeezed her shoulder. "How's my favorite tech doing?"