They Never Die Quietly (2010) (20 page)

Simon poured a tall glass of milk and guzzled it.

She's getting to you, my son.

"Is it true, Mother?"

If it is, I would be truly disappointed, Simon.

"Tell me, Mother, please."

I cannot watch over you every minute.

"What should I do, Mother?"

Pray, dear boy. Fall on your knees and pray.

Al pulled the Chevy to the curb in front of 850 Felspar Street. From a crumpled pack of Winstons he shook out the last cigarette and lit it. Sitting quietly, he puffed and observed, trying to unsnarl his tangled thoughts. From where he parked, he could see the Pacific Ocean. Whitecaps rolled toward the shoreline; surfers fought for parking spaces close to the beach; traffic on Mission Boulevard--a quarter block away--whizzed by. The sun now dominated the morning overcast.

After speaking with Captain Davison, Al could no longer deny the compelling truth: Sami's captor, Simon Kwosokowski, was indeed the serial killer. Al's brain thundered with haunting premonitions, vivid visions of Sami's violent demise. But if Detective Diaz didn't suppress these thoughts, any hope of saving Sami and Angelina would be lost. Al didn't need morbid thoughts clouding his mind. He had to stuff these distracting emotions in a leakproof vault and seal it shut.

The building Al observed had eight apartments. If Simon lived there, Al asked himself, how could he hold two people captive without neighbors hearing or seeing something unusual? How could he possibly crucify his victims, transport their bodies to East County churches, and drop off the children at local department stores four times without attracting attention? The area, like most beach communities, throbbed with activity from early morning until the local pubs and restaurants closed. Surely someone would have seen something. If Simon did live in this apartment building, Al doubted that Sami and Angelina were inside. The killer, Al felt certain, performed his diabolical deeds somewhere remote and less populated.

Wearing old blue jeans and a flannel shirt, Al didn't look like a cop. In fact, with his unkempt hair and unshaven face, he looked exactly the way he wanted: inconspicuous and unremarkable. After carefully considering the possible risk, he decided to ring Simon's doorbell. Why not? What could happen? Al pulled the Glock 9mm from the glove box, checked the clip to be sure it was fully loaded, cocked and locked it, stuffed it in front of his jeans, and covered it with his shirt.

Standing in front of the center entrance to Simon's apartment building, Al noticed eight doorbells to the right of the main door. Next to each doorbell, haphazardly scribbled on withered paper, barely legible, were the occupants' names. Curiously, Simon's name had not been posted next to the apartment three doorbell. Instead, Al read the name Stella Anderson. To be certain his mind had not deceived him, he fished the copy of Simon's driver's license out of his shirt pocket and examined it carefully. Sure enough, Simon--at least in theory--lived in apartment 3.

Al rang the doorbell.

No answer.

He rang it again.

Through the dirty glass on the front door, he could barely make out a silhouette moving toward the entrance. He heard the lock click, and the door swung wide open. The elderly woman, wearing a shabby lavender robe three sizes too big, couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. Her wild hair, pure white, looked as if it hadn't been brushed in days. Dark, puffy bags of flesh hung under her bloodshot eyes. Her total lack of caution struck Al more than her corpselike appearance. She opened the door not knowing who waited outside. What if he were a thief, or worse? As a homicide detective, he knew firsthand how vulnerable elderly people were. He'd investigated more robbery-homicides than he wished to think about.

The hunched-over woman looked up at Al and squinted. "You got my medicine?"

"Pardon me, ma'am?"

"Medicine! Where's my pills?" The woman looked frail but barked like a pit bull.

"I think you're mistaken."

She studied Al's face. "Ain't you the delivery guy from"--she paused and shook her head--"Grand Pharmacy?"

"Afraid not, ma'am."

"And stop calling me, ma'am. It's Mrs. William Anderson. If my William were still alive, next month would be our fiftieth anniversary. But after three heart attacks..." Again she squinted at Al. "Who the hell are you?"

He held his police ID close to her face. "I'm Detective Diaz. May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Am I in trouble with the cops?"

"No, Mrs. Anderson. I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

"You're not here because of those parking tickets I never paid, are ya?"

If people like her were allowed to drive, Al thought, he would surely start taking the bus. "You have nothing to worry about."

"Wanna come in? My apartment ain't nothing fancy, you know." Without waiting for Al to answer, she turned around and shuffled away. Al followed close behind.

Her apartment was tiny but impeccably tidy. No dishes in the sink, the worn out thick pile carpeting looked freshly vacuumed, and the kitchen floor glistened. A hint of Pine-Sol hung in the air.

They sat at the kitchen table.

"I'd offer you coffee, but it gives me the jitters, so I don't buy it anymore. Really miss a good cup of coffee in the morning. Can I get you some herbal tea?"

"No, thank you."

"How's about some butter cookies? They're not the store-bought kind. Got 'em at D'Angelo's bakery. They melt in your mouth. Gotta hide 'em from my daughter. She barely leaves me the crumbs."

"No, thank you." Al found the old woman charming. But this wasn't a social visit. "Would you be kind enough to answer a couple of questions?"

She folded her wrinkled hands and rested them on the table. "I'll do my best."

"How long have you lived here?"

"When William died in September of eighty-eight, I sold our paid-for home in La Jolla. Too much upkeep for an old crow like me. Lived near the ocean most of my life, so I got me this here apartment right after the deal closed. I about died when the home William and I paid fifty-thousand dollars for sold for over a million dollars. Don't that beat all? Gave some of the money to my daughter, the rest I invested in mutual funds. Never live long enough to spend it. I suppose my daughter wouldn't at all mind if her mom died."

If she's the one eating all your butter cookies, Al thought, you're probably right. "Do you know a gentleman by the name of Simon Kwosokowski?"

"Are you a detective or postal inspector?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I warned Simon that someday he'd get in trouble."

"So you know Simon?"

"Such a sweet man. Lived here for a couple years. Treated me better than my own flesh and blood. A real gentleman."

"He doesn't live here anymore?"

"Been gone for a long time."

"Do you know where he lives?"

She shook her head. "I suppose in the country somewhere."

"You warned him that he was going to get in trouble?"

"With the post office."

"Why?"

"I suppose it's okay to tell you cause you're a detective." Stella Anderson drummed her crooked fingers on the table. "I used to live in unit number two, but when Simon moved out, he convinced me to take his unit. It was a little bigger than mine, had newer appliances, and a nice view of the ocean from the bedroom window. So I said, 'What the heck?' I didn't lift a finger. Simon moved everything for me."

"What did moving into his apartment have to do with upsetting the post office?"

"Simon asked me if it would be okay if all his mail was still sent here--to 850 Felspar, apartment number 3. I don't know why he would want to be inconvenienced, but I couldn't see no harm in what he was asking. Only thing is, I thought it was temporary. But seeing as how this little deal's been going on forever, I told Simon not too long ago that he better watch out for the postal inspectors. You can't pretend you live somewhere when you don't."

Bewildered, Al asked, "So what you're saying is that Simon's mail still comes to this address even though he hasn't lived here in years?"

"That's what I just said."

"So how does he get his mail?"

"Every Wednesday, after he gets out of work, he swings by and picks it up."

"Only on Wednesdays?"

"You can set your watch by him."

Al felt a twinge in the back of his neck. Today was Friday. The last four victims were murdered less than seventy-two hours after their abduction. By Wednesday, it would be too late. "Do you have a telephone number for Simon?"

"Only his number at the hospital."

Al pondered for a moment.

"Is Simon in trouble with the police?"

"Possibly, Mrs. Anderson."

"Can hardly believe that." The woman looked at Al, her eyes distant. "Every Wednesday, without fail, when Simon picks up his mail, he takes me to dinner. And I'm not talking about some cheap fast-food place. Always someplace fancy. Never once did he let me pay." She was lost in her thoughts. "I don't know what you think this young man did, but sure as my name is Estella Abigail Anderson, that boy's heart is as pure as mountain snow."

Al's head was reeling with disjointed thoughts. He couldn't stop thinking about Mrs. Anderson's final words: "pure as mountain snow." If only she knew. It could be possible that he followed the wrong trail, but he didn't think so. In fact, Al felt even more convinced that Simon Kwosokowski and the serial murderer were one in the same. Al knew that most serial killers suffered from multiple-personality disorder and often displayed split personalities. That Simon lived several distinctly different lives made sense. It explained how such an evil murderer could show such kindness to an elderly woman and possibly to J.T., the homeless man.

The Pacific Beach post office stood only three blocks from Mrs. Anderson's, so Al decided to have a little chat with the supervisor. The parking lot was jammed, but Al found a spot on the street a block away. When he approached the main door, a line of people snaked outside. At first, he didn't understand why the post office would be so busy Friday afternoon. Then it hit him: He'd forgotten about Christmas. He brushed past a long line of people struggling with packages and bundles of envelopes, and he walked up to one of the clerks as if he had a special pass. He could feel the angry stares of the patiently waiting patrons quietly accusing him of cutting in front of them. The clerk pointed to the end of the line, but before he could reprimand Al, Detective Diaz stuck his ID under the man's nose.

Al's mood grew more ornery by the minute. "I need to speak to your supervisor right away."

"Yes, sir." The tall skinny man almost ran to the private office off to the side. The defiant-looking teenager standing next to Al, obviously unimpressed with Al's credentials, glared at Detective Diaz; a rebellious attitude was painted on his face. Al stared back. The bleach-blond punk, shirtless and barefoot, wore a pair of jeans so oversize that the crotch hung to his knees. The waist of his pants rested on the young man's hips, exposing more of his festive red and green boxer shorts than any decent citizen cared to see. Wouldn't take much for Detective Diaz to grab the young punk by the nape of the neck and introduce his wiseass face to Al's clenched fist.

Al might be able to live with the lad's nonsensical attire if he didn't exude such an air of antiestablishment arrogance. Al could ignore the ridiculous clothes. But not the attitude. The punk continued to stare at him.

"Excuse me, son," Al said. "Did you happen to read the sign posted on the front door regarding shirts and shoes?" He forced himself to be polite.

"I'm not your son, pal."

Wrong answer. Al grabbed the punk's biceps and squeezed. The man grimaced. "Excuse me,
asshole
, did you read the fucking sign posted on the front door?"

The punk squirmed. The audience mumbled and gasped. "No, I didn't."

"Well, the next time you come into the post office, don't forget your shoes and a pair of pants that fit you. Understand?" He let go of the punk's arm.

"Yes, sir."

The postal clerk returned with the supervisor, a fortyish woman barely five feet tall. "My name is Mary Beacham, how may I help you, detective?"

Al didn't think it prudent to put on another exhibition. "Can we talk privately?"

She opened the security door and Al followed her to a small office adjacent to the main counter. The office, cluttered with piles of legal-size envelopes and manila folders, had one-way, smoked glass, apparently so the supervisor could monitor the activity in the main lobby. The office smelled like a high school locker room.

"I'm trying to find out if you have any forwarding information on a man who once lived at 850 Felspar, apartment 3."

She scribbled on a yellow pad. "Can I have his name, please?"

Al spelled it. "Simon K-W-O-S-O-K-O-W-S-K-I."

"Wow, that's quite a handle."

"How quickly can you check?"

"It'll take me no more than ten minutes."

While Al waited for her to return, a wave of helplessness gripped him. Again his stomach felt like an alien creature would explode through his flesh at any moment. Time burned away, and he hadn't a clue how to find Simon. Yes, he had a plan and would facilitate it through a series of inquiries--more a process of elimination--but his effectiveness was hampered by a draining hourglass. Time was his enemy. At any moment, Simon could decide to make Sami his next sacrifice. The killer wasn't bound by a timetable. There were no rules. Only Simon controlled Sami's destiny. Al could only hope that Sami would find a way to outwit Simon and derail his plan. At least long enough for Al to rescue her.

Another issue gnawed at Al's subconscious: Why had he spent the last six years hiding his love for Sami? Such foolishness. He had no delusions about Sami's love for him. Her feelings were driven purely by friendship. But even if she felt a sliver of what he felt, it could have been a start. He knew now, sitting in this smelly office, that fear had silenced him. Fear of rejection. Fear that their friendship would be jeopardized. Fear that she'd never act quite the same. By his own hand he had issued a verdict and sentenced himself to a loveless existence.

As he thought about his less-than-exciting life, Al bitterly realized that he lived the life of a lonely man. He didn't really participate in life; he stood on the sidelines as a spectator. Other than his sister, Alita, who lived in Brazil, traveling the world, after having her dream of marrying a man of means, Al had nobody. If he could turn back the clock, just for a moment, Al would look into Sami's beautiful blue eyes and tell her exactly how much he loved her.