They Never Die Quietly (2010) (17 page)

Simon.

Her body shivered.

She did not need bright light to know that she lay in Simon's holding room, where Jessica and Linda and Molly and Peggy had lain before he crucified them. Now it was her turn. But not without a fight.

Sami swung her legs off the edge of the bed and tried to sit upright, but she could not find the strength. Whatever potent drug Simon had used to knock her out caused her muscles to feel like oatmeal. She hung her head over the side of the mattress and vomited on the floor. Her stomach felt ablaze.

How could I be so stupid?

All along, a cautionary voice had whispered in her ear, but Sami's desire to prove to Captain Davison and the other members of the task force that she could crack this case before the Friday midnight deadline pushed her to act irresponsibly. She could not fathom the level of reckless arrogance that led her to devise such a naive plan. To have dinner at the home of a likely serial killer without backup proved to Sami that her once-reliable cop instincts had vanished! She now realized that Simon had planned their meeting, and everything he did had been a means to an end. Now so obvious, she couldn't believe her gullibility.

Keep your wits, girl. Panic now and you're dead meat
.

In spite of feeling dizzy and nauseated, she tried to ignore her ornery gut and forced herself to stand. She felt certain her stomach would betray her again. If she had any hope of surviving this ordeal, she had to assess the situation before he returned. And that could be at any moment. Who could possibly know how his twisted mind functioned? To protect her bare skin from the chilly air, she wrapped the bedspread around her body and wobbled her way toward the dim light. The concrete floor was cold and hard against her bare feet. She couldn't help wondering if the other four women had clung to this same bedspread. The thought sent a chill through her.

In the far corner, she found a halogen floor lamp and turned it on. She first noticed the steel door. Not a surprise. Next, she spotted a round hole in the floor filled with dirt, about the diameter of a beach ball. Why would he dig a hole in the concrete floor? Then Sami saw her clothes neatly folded, sitting on the corner of the bed. Strange.

Still hazy, Sami didn't need all her faculties to deduce that Simon had imprisoned her in his strategically designed basement for only one reason. She suspected that such a calculating sociopath soundproofed the room as well, so screaming like a maniac or pounding on the door would be fruitless. Besides, she didn't want to rile him.

Standing near the light, surveying the room, Sami listened for any sign of him somewhere in the house. She couldn't hear footsteps or faint music above her. For all she knew he could be standing outside the steel door with his ear pressed against it. Perhaps he slept peacefully, dreaming about his next crucifixion, grinning hideously. She noticed the play area, the assortment of children's toys and games.

Angelina.

At least her daughter was safe. Or was she? Sociopaths rarely changed their killing patterns. She remembered Peggy McDonald. Her wounds were the same as the other three victims, and Simon undoubtedly crucified her, but he had not cut out her heart. Patterns can change. Simon had proven that. But to what extent? With each victim Simon had kidnapped mother and child. Had this been planned or a coincidence of circumstance? Suddenly, a feeling of alarm settled in the back of Sami's throat, closing off her windpipe. All she could do was wait.

Angelina slept the entire ride back to Alpine in the backseat of Simon's Explorer. Without waking her, Simon carefully lifted the child and carried her into the garage. A blustery wind blew from the west; thick clouds covered the stars. The air smelled damp. Southern California was near the threshold of its rainy season. As he searched for the key to unlock the door, Samson, overwhelmed with curiosity, stood on his hind legs and sniffed Angelina's sneakers. The Labrador's tail wagged furiously. Simon patted the dog's head, then unlocked the door. He laid Angelina's limp body on the living room sofa and covered her with a thick cotton blanket. She immediately rolled onto her side, curled into a ball, and stuck her thumb in her mouth. For several minutes Simon stood over her, staring at the little girl, almost mesmerized by the child, who looked nothing like her mother.

He felt an eerie hollowness, as if his body had no organs. Flesh stretched over bones. He'd experienced this emptiness before. He often wondered why God had chosen him. To serve his Creator unconditionally, Simon had to forgo many of life's mortal pleasures. To forfeit parenthood was a considerable sacrifice. Why couldn't he be a father? Would it really interfere with his divine duties? A part of him longed to be a father. Not in the traditional sense, but as a single parent. He looked at Angelina. Perhaps he could be a father and still carry on with God's work.

With the back of his hand, Simon gently stroked Angelina's soft cheeks. Such a precious child, he thought. Who would assume the role as Angelina's guardian after he had purified Sami's heart and cleansed her soul? Her father had been murdered. And her grandmother? Too old and physically incapable of raising an energetic child, the old woman could never handle such a demanding responsibility. Besides, Josephine Rizzo was not qualified to direct Angelina in the Christian way. Simon would indeed rear a child under God's careful supervision. How would anyone know if he adopted Angelina? No doubt he would be an exemplary father--read her the Bible every day, teach her about God and salvation and how to live in God's grace. Maybe meeting Sami would prove more bountiful than he had originally thought.

Josephine Rizzo opened her eyes and tried to focus on the clock radio digital display. Without her glasses she could not clearly see the time. It made no difference. Her bladder was full. To disregard nature's warning would be unwise. Especially at Josephine's age. Josephine knew better than to drink coffee after seven p.m., but last night she could not deprive herself of such a simple pleasure. Particularly when her homemade butter cookies tasted so much better with a strong cup of Colombian.

The sun hadn't risen yet, and she could hear a garbage truck roaring outside. She guessed it was early morning. If she went to the bathroom and did her business, she'd never fall back to sleep. Such were the challenges of old age. She closed her eyes for a minute, trying to ignore nature's call. No use. If she didn't hurry, she'd dribble a trail to the toilet.

After using the bathroom and washing her hands, Josephine tiptoed to the end of the hallway to look in on Angelina. The door was ajar, enough for her to peek inside. Usually, Angelina slept sideways with the covers twisted in a ball. Sometimes Josephine would find them on the floor. Such a restless sleeper. Quite to Josephine's surprise, the pink comforter neatly covered her entire body. Even her head. Josephine walked toward the bed and gently folded down the comforter to uncover Angelina's face. She read stories about young children suffocating. Never a quick-minded woman, Josephine stood with her hands perched on her hips, staring at two pillows neatly arranged under the covers. "Angelina?"

Josephine didn't panic. Of course, she thought, Sami's date had been a disaster, so she decided to pick her up last night instead of in the morning. Sami didn't wake her mother because she didn't want to hear Josephine say, "I told you so."

Suddenly, Josephine felt the pang of alarm. Why did Sami lay two pillows under the comforter? She pondered for a moment.

After considering all logical reasons--none of which made much sense--Josephine went into the kitchen and dialed Sami's number. The telephone rang four times, then Josephine heard Sami's recorded message. Why couldn't she hear the telephone ringing? Now she could feel her gut tightening; the quiet panic and cold sweat she once felt when Dr. Shepard announced that her husband, Angelo, had less than a week to live. She inhaled a quivering breath. Then her eyes wandered to the broken chain on the front door and she felt paralyzed with fear.

At five-twenty a.m., Alberto Diaz--dreaming of selling Chiclets at the San Diego-Tijuana border as a child--jumped when he heard a siren passing by outside his bedroom window. Normally a light sleeper, the alcohol he consumed last night served as a strong sedative, making him dead to the world. He switched on the lamp, and the light assaulted his eyes. Squinting, he looked at the empty pint of Dewar's White Label sitting on the nightstand. How he remembered the violent hangovers. That only a pint of booze could cause so much agony bewildered him. He took a moment and gently massaged his hammering temples. He always slept in the nude, so when he tossed the covers the cool December air turned his skin to goose flesh.

Considering that he wouldn't be able to look into Sami's eyes for fear she'd pick up on his still-bruised ego, today was the perfect day to proceed with his covert operation. Suffering from a hangover that Sami would surely recognize reinforced Al's decision. He knew that the serial murder investigation beckoned him but didn't think a few hours would make much difference. Besides, he'd be back from Tijuana before noon, and seven of his fellow detectives, including Sami, were working feverishly on the case. No one would miss him.

He brushed his teeth in record time, threw on some clothes, and swallowed three Advil. Before bolting out the door, he called Captain Davison's private number and left him a message. Still groggy and light-headed, Al secured his shoulder holster, put on his jacket, grabbed his cell phone, and bolted out the door, forgetting that he'd turned off the phone.

Droopy-eyed and still a little groggy, Sami tried to organize her thoughts. Whatever Simon used to drug her packed a wallop. Fully dressed now, she sat on the corner of the bed, fidgety as a teenager waiting for the results of a home pregnancy test. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Not ready to be victim number five, Sami searched for a way to outwit Simon. For the past hour she enlisted every ounce of strength to suppress her fear and concentrate on a survival plan. She did not want her obituary read by an eleven o'clock newscaster.

No matter how calculating, all killers had a hot button. A weakness. Through her extensive training she had learned this fundamental concept. This battle would not be won by the most fit gladiator but by the more astute chess master. Sami had to outsmart Simon, catch him unawares, and exploit his vulnerability just long enough for him to let down his guard.

Simon's past victims were crucified three days after their abduction. If his timeline didn't change, Sami guessed that Sunday would be the day of reckoning--less than seventy-two hours away. The mere thought of Simon's diabolical plan filled Sami with dread. Unlike the other victims, who might not have clearly understood the depths of evil in Simon's plot, Sami had examined detailed photographs of the crucified victims. She observed part of an autopsy. She knew that their deaths were grisly. She did not wish to share their fate. And of course, the thought of Angelina alone terrified her. How would she survive in such a hostile world without her biological parents?

For the first time since awakening in this prison, Sami heard footsteps above her. Heavy footsteps. Soft footsteps. The creaking floor of an old house. Wild images flashed through her mind. She sat quietly and listened, forcing her self-preservation instincts to devise a plan.

Al left his apartment in Chula Vista, filled his gas tank at the local Shell station, bought a giant-size cup of black coffee, and hopped on the southbound 5. When he thought about the message he'd left on Captain Davison's voicemail he couldn't help but grin. Using his most convincing "sick voice," which was not difficult considering his raspy hangover throat, he had said, "Sorry, boss, I'm getting a bad case of the flu (
sniff, sniff, cough, cough
) and don't think I'll be in today. Tell Sami I'll speak with her later." To avoid the captain's inquisition, Al had purposely telephoned Davison before the captain normally arrived in his office.

The international border was only a fifteen-minute ride from his apartment, but often the number of cars converging on the inspection booths created heavy congestion. As always in the morning, most of the border traffic headed northbound, into the United States, so Al found the shortest line and inched his way toward the next available inspection booth.

"Good morning, sir." The short, stocky Mexican agent bent forward, removed his Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses with Hollywood style, and his molasses-colored eyes scanned the interior of Al's old Chevy. The young man couldn't have been twenty-five.

To save time and avoid a lengthy exchange, Al pulled out his police ID and detective shield from his back pocket and held them out the window. "I've got official police business in Tijuana."

The Mexican eyeballed Al for a moment, then waved him on.

To Alberto Diaz, leaving U.S. soil and entering Mexico felt like visiting an ancient civilization. The contrast between the opulent lifestyle of Southern Californians and the third-world poverty of our Latin neighbor startled even Al, a native. He saw this economic disparity everywhere he looked. While many West Coast Americans drove pricey cars, lived in amenity-enriched environments, and enjoyed the opera and exquisite cuisine, the majority of Mexicans lived in ramshackle homes, survived on beans and rice dishes, and were sentenced to an impoverished, substandard existence. There were, of course, destitute Americans, but poverty was as much a trademark of Mexico as pinatas, and unlike those living in the United States, where opportunities to elevate yourself from pauperism to prosperity abound, Mexicans could rarely improve the condition of their lives through hard work and ambition. Privation perpetuated itself as an axiom of Mexican culture.

Whenever Al returned home, the eye-opening transition--almost like going back in time--rubbed a raw nerve. He no longer had animate roots in Tijuana. Al's life was now in the States, but there still existed a patriotic connection to this picturesque country. He struggled with a bittersweet love for a Mexico that evoked bittersweet memories.

The early morning traffic in downtown Tijuana was snarled with impatient drivers, most of whom were angry Mexicans blaring their horns and yelling Spanish expletives. By the way they drove, most Mexicans could easily secure a job as a New York City cabdriver. Although most of downtown TJ had been revitalized with newly constructed buildings to support tourism--boutiques, restaurants, designer shops, and a variety of specialty stores--just on the fringe of the central area existed an unmolested third-world Tijuana, a poignant reminder that American intervention had its limitations.

Al drove south, about a mile from the pulse of the city, to a small tavern called Lorenzo's. The owner, a longtime friend of Al's, kept his eyes focused and ears tuned to the rhythm of criminal commerce and occasionally dabbled in a particularly lucrative enterprise. He knew more about the dynamics of Tijuana than the mayor.

Al pulled into the dirt parking lot and a cloud of dust whirled around his Chevy. He waited for the air to clear before stepping out of the car. The gloomy, overcast sky, pale as granite, threatened rain on an unusually humid day. The wind whirled out of the west, and Al inhaled the faint smell of cosmos. Al didn't expect the tavern to be open this early. Lorenzo, a nighthawk, never awoke before noon. He walked to the adobe structure set about fifty feet behind the saloon and knocked on the front door, hoping to awaken his old friend. If Lorenzo, known to empty a quart of tequila on occasion, suffered from a hangover, not even a fire siren could stir him.

Al waited a minute, then with the side of his fist he pounded with more conviction.

He was about to knock a third time when the severely weathered door creaked open just enough for the barrel of a shotgun to poke out and greet Al's face.

"Lorenzo? It's Alberto." Al wanted to speak Spanish, but he no longer rolled his tongue with the precision of a native, and nothing insulted a Mexican more than hearing his language desecrated.

The door squeaked open a little farther and Lorenzo's heavy-jowled face appeared. As always, his meaty cheeks were dotted with a three-day stubble. His shaggy black hair, longer and more unruly than Al remembered, hung below his ears.

"Alberto?" Wearing only baggy tan shorts, so soiled they looked like he used them as a drop cloth, the three-hundred-pound Mexican bulldog swung the door wide open and stepped out onto the landing. His naked barrel chest was covered with curly black hair. Even the tops of his broad shoulders were hairy.

"How are you, my friend?" Al said.

Like a sumo wrestler, Lorenzo wrapped his beefy arms around Al and lifted him off the ground, almost crushing his ribs. "Have you forgotten your way back home,
amigo
?"

Al could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

Lorenzo released Al and kissed him on both cheeks. The burly Mexican smelled like cigarettes.

"It's been a long time, Lorenzo."

"Too long, my friend. Come into
mi casa
."

Lorenzo's lack of personal grooming did not reflect the condition of his home. Although not spacious when compared to the average American home--barely eight hundred square feet--the modest two-bedroom structure, lavishly furnished and impeccably neat, impressed Al. The living room looked like a photograph out of a furniture store's autumn catalog.

Lorenzo invited Al into his private den. Al eased into the leather armchair and Lorenzo sat at the mahogany desk. The big man opened a wooden box on the corner of his desk. "You still like Cuban cigars?"

Al shook his head.

Lorenzo lit a thick cigar and puffed a cloud of blue smoke. "So what brings you back home, my friend?"

"I need your help, Lorenzo."

"Tell me what I can do for you."

Al explained the details of Tommy DiSalvo's murder, the mutilated condition of his body, Tommy's history of gambling, and suspected involvement with the Mexican Mafia.

"Carlos and his
pendejos
are
animales
, but they do not like blood. One bullet. Behind the ear. Quick and easy."

"That's what I thought."

Lorenzo leaned over the desk. "You are sure he was killed because of gambling?"

"Why do you ask?"

"The way this man was murdered sounds like the work of Flavio Ramirez. It is...how you say? His..."

"Trademark?"

Lorenzo nodded vigorously. "You fuck with Flavio and he cuts off your
huevos
."

"You know the guy?"

"He is a drug dealer. Big operation in L.A." Lorenzo looked confused. "Nobody owes Flavio money. All cash. No credit."

"If Tommy DiSalvo didn't owe Flavio money why would he murder him?"

"Maybe he wanted a piece of Flavio's drug business. He does not like..."

"Competition?"

Lorenzo nodded.

It was possible that Tommy had asked Sami for money to make a drug buy. Perhaps he'd given up gambling and decided to go into business for himself? "Do you have any connections in L.A.?"

Lorenzo smirked. "Alberto, why would you ask such a question?"

"Can you make a few calls?"

"Anything for my
amigo
."

Al left his lifelong friend and headed for the border. He thought it a good idea to call Captain Davison, just to check in. He removed the cell phone from his belt and realized he'd turned it off.
Shit!
He punched in the captain's private number.

"This is Davison."

"I'm feeling a little better, captain. I should be there in about--"

"Where the hell are you, Al?"

"Didn't you get my message?"

"I've been trying to reach you since early morning. If you're sick, why aren't you answering the telephone?"

"Sorry, captain, I guess my cell phone was turned off."

"And your home phone?"

Al remembered smashing it against the wall. "Guess it was turned off too."

"Well, your timing was just...fucking...perfect."

"I'm sorry, captain, if I'd known--"

"Sami and her daughter are missing."

"Missing?"

"We got a call from Sami's mother early this morning. Sami never made it home from her date Thursday evening, and Angelina mysteriously disappeared from Mrs. Rizzo's home sometime during the night."

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Who's working on this, captain?" He could see the international border just ahead.

"Hicks and Robinson are en route to Mrs. Rizzo's house as we speak. And I've got Anderson and McNeil questioning Sami's neighbors."

"Find something else for Hicks and Robinson. I'll be at Mrs. Rizzo's in twenty minutes."

"You sure you can handle this, Al?"

"Positive."

Quite to Al's dismay, the volume of cars converging on the inspection booths was heavy. In the shortest line at least ten vehicles waited their turn to be carefully scrutinized by the Border Patrol agents. Feeling great anxiety and painfully aware that time was precious, Al planted the flashing beacon on the dashboard, engaged his siren and raced to the front of the shortest line. Sitting parallel to a beat-up Dodge pickup truck, waiting to be inspected next in lane six, Al glared at the driver and waved his arms, trying to make the obviously confused Mexican understand what he was trying to do. The man backed up his truck, almost hitting the Lexus behind him, and Al wedged his Chevy in front of the truck. A symphony of horns protested Al's actions. Watching Al carefully, a noticeably upset agent waited to hear Al's story.

Border Patrol agents paid particular attention to foreigners--especially those even remotely appearing to be Latino. In spite of the Department of Homeland Security's efforts, which included a campaign to recruit additional agents, more than three million illegal aliens lived in California. Various plans to control the influx of illegals had been initiated. Nonetheless, the problem grew more chronic every year. Consequently, many Border Patrol agents took their jobs too seriously.

The tall agent with sun-bleached hair and a perfect Coppertone tan folded his arms across his chest and gawked at Al over his sunglasses. "What's your story, buddy?"

Al didn't waste a moment. He flashed his badge and ID. "Sorry, sir, but I'm a homicide detective and I just received an emergency call from my captain. Would you hurry me through, please?"

Unimpressed, the agent ignored Al's attempt to expedite the interview. "Are you a U.S. citizen?"

Didn't he know that only bona fide citizens are hired as law enforcement officials? "Yes, I am."

"And how long were you visiting Mexico?"

Al felt like screaming at the agent but forced himself to remain calm. "For a few hours."

The agent considered Al's answer for a minute. "Are you carrying firearms, alcohol, or controlled substances?"

Is this guy kidding?
Al grabbed the lapel on his leather jacket and gave the agent a glimpse of his Glock 9mm. "I'm a homicide detective, sir. I don't even go to Sunday Mass without a weapon." Al huffed. "Would you
please
let me through?"

"Please pull your car over there." He pointed to an area to the right of the road where believed-to-be drug dealers and other suspicious characters watched in horror as specialized employees of the INS systematically reduced their vehicles to a mountain of nuts and bolts, searching for contraband.

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I've been called to a
police emergency
and you have to let me through.
Now!
"