They Never Die Quietly (2010) (22 page)

Simon stood and headed for the door. Sami charged after him. He turned and doubled up his fists. She took a hardy swing, aiming for his throat, but Simon blocked it with his forearm, latched onto her wrist, and twisted her arm. Sami fell to her knees. Still gripping her wrist, Simon grabbed a handful of hair with his free hand and yanked her head back.

Bonnie Jean Oliver.

He could feel the rage boiling in his gut. Like a slowly closing curtain, a sheet of blackness fell in front of his eyes. He'd been to this place before, a world out of control. In a few seconds, another self would take over and Simon would be a puppet, his actions manipulated by a demonic force. He knew that Sami's life would abruptly end and he would never have the opportunity to follow the word of God. He couldn't let that happen. Desperate and frantic he appealed to his mentor.

Help me, Mother!

Close your eyes, son. Ask the Almighty to strike down Satan's grip
.

Simon squeezed his eyes shut.

Dear God, banish this demon from within. Come into my soul and free me from this evil force.

In the past, he had not been able to summon God's help. Never had he overcome the other self. But today seemed different. Just enough reason remained for him to appeal to his Master.

Sami could feel his grip loosening. Kneeling on the cold concrete floor, she saw his contorted face slowly untwist. Mouth agape, she watched him in stunned silence. An eerie calmness reflected in his eyes, a dramatic contrast from the maniac she observed only seconds before. As if a hypnotist had just snapped his fingers, Simon came out of his trance and looked fresh, like he'd just come back from a brisk walk.

"Such a silly girl. Do you really think you're clever enough to get into my head and outwit me?" He tightened his grip on her hair again. Sami moaned. Tears filled her eyes. "Our foolish conversations are over, Detective Rizzo. I have indulged your fruitless attempts to analyze me long enough. Your low opinion of my intellect insults me. Let me tell you where we go from here, detective. Tonight, at precisely six p.m., I'm going to walk through that door with two four-by-fours, and you're going to watch me assemble a crucifix. Then you're going to lie on top of it, and by the word of God I'm going to drive inch-thick spikes through your wrists and feet. You're going to scream, Sami, scream like never before. But they will be good screams. Cleansing screams." He licked his lips and his eyes were wild. "In that hole in the concrete"--he pointed to the dirt-filled hole Sami had noticed earlier--"I'm going to erect the crucifix upright, sit by the base, and read you Psalms from the Bible. I will be with you all the way as you journey toward salvation. Jesus will come into your heart, sinner. As you struggle to draw your last earthly breath, the Almighty will cleanse your tarnished soul and purify your heart."

He let go of Sami's hair and wrist and she collapsed, her face pressed against the cold concrete floor. Gasping for air, she lay on her stomach with her eyes closed. She heard him slam the door and struggled to stand, feeling drunk, disoriented. From the corner of her eye, Sami saw Angelina sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

"Can we go home now, Mommy?"

Sami couldn't find her voice.

"What an ungodly mess," Al whispered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

Such a bizarre phenomenon that on Friday, traffic in San Diego--for no apparent reason--moved more slowly than on any other day.

Where the hell is everyone going at three p.m
.?

Frustrated and panicky, he got off the freeway and headed east toward Freeway 8. Benson Ford was located on Auto Circle, an area in Mission Valley where a dozen car dealers sat side by side. In an effort to preserve precious minutes, Al thought for an instant about calling the dealer, but how could he prove that he actually was a homicide detective? They wouldn't divulge confidential information about a customer over the telephone. By the time he finished arguing with the sales manager and exercising his Latin temper he'd be pulling into the dealership's driveway.

As Al negotiated his way toward the dealership, weaving from lane to lane, occasionally flashing the beacon and sounding the siren, he was struck by a haunting feeling that he'd forgotten something, as if he just left a supermarket with a cart full of groceries, knowing an item on the shopping list never made it to the cart. An idea ricocheted inside his head, like a bee trapped in a jar, but he couldn't stop it long enough to get a glimpse of what it was. Surely someone knew where Simon lived.

His cell phone rang. He hoped the captain had good news.

"What did you find out, captain?"

"
Amigo?
" Lorenzo's voice bellowed in Al's ear. An image of Lorenzo's rotund body flashed through Al's mind.

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

"I am doing well."

"Have you learned anything about Tommy DiSalvo?"

"Just like I told you, trying to compete with Flavio Ramirez was not good for the
gringo
. I knew that the
pendejos
in Tijuana did not kill him."

"How reliable are your sources?"

"
Amigo
. Believe what I tell you. Ramirez cut his balls off. This is how he does business."

"I appreciate your help, my friend."

"When will I see you, again?"

"Not sure, Lorenzo."

"You are always welcome in my home."

"Behave yourself."

"Maybe in the next life."

Al turned onto Auto Circle and could see the Benson Ford sign. "
Adios,
Lorenzo. Take care."

Taking two spaces, Al parked the Chevy in an area designated for customers only. For a moment he sat in the car, staring at a pack of hungry salesmen gawking at him through the tinted showroom window as if he were a fresh kill. Sucking in labored breaths, a feeling of great anxiety gripped him. He wanted so desperately to tell Sami that she was in no way responsible for Tommy DiSalvo's death. If only he could give her just a sliver of relief. He could never remember feeling such utter exasperation. It felt as if a priceless antique vase were tumbling to the floor just out of his reach. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite rescue it before it smashed into a million pieces. At this particular moment, a grim premonition assaulted Alberto Diaz.

I'm never going to see Sami again
. Today, he hated his intuition and prayed that his instincts were wrong.

His cellular rang again.

This time Al knew he'd hear Captain Davison's voice.

"This is Diaz."

"We struck out, Al. The fucker doesn't have any living relatives, and he doesn't subscribe to the newspaper or cable. Sorry."

"Did you find his cellular provider?"

"He has an account with Mobile Plus, but like everybody else on this fucking planet they have the Felspar address."

Al felt as if he were an overinflated beach ball that was just punctured. "With all of our goddamn resources we can't find this bastard?"

"We'll find him."

"How, captain? I'm running out of ideas."

"Where are you?"

"About to turn a car dealership upside down."

"Keep your cool, Al. Without a warrant they can tell you to go shit in your hat, so you better find a diplomatic way to approach them."

"One way or the other, I'm going to get my hands on the paperwork, even if I have to walk in the dealer's office and hold a gun to his head."

"Don't do anything stupid, Al. I'm warning you."

He didn't have time to debate. "I'll call you in a little while."

"Al--"

"Gotta go, captain."

The door barely closed behind Al and a salesman cheerfully greeted him. "Welcome to Benson Ford. My name is Bob Daily. Are you looking for a new or used vehicle?"

As he'd done so many times this morning, Al showed the grinning salesman his police ID. "I need to speak to your manager."

Daily led Al to a platform overlooking the showroom. Two well-dressed men stood like sentries watching Al with obvious curiosity. Perhaps they were wondering how much profit they were going to make on yet another naive car buyer?

"What can I do for you?" the taller of the two asked. The round-shouldered man looked about thirteen months pregnant. The other man listened passively.

Al explained what he wanted without offering too much detail.

The man shook his head. "Can't let you rifle through a customer's deal folder without the general manager's approval."

"How long will that take?"

"Afraid he's at a convention in Vegas."

"Then let me speak with Mr. Benson."

The man laughed. "He's in Vegas too."

"Then who the fuck is in charge?"

The other man held up his palms as if to say, "Whoa." "No need for foul language, detective."

Al glanced at his watch. "Here's the deal, guys: You've got exactly five minutes to produce Simon Kwosokowski's deal folder. If it's not in my hot little hands at precisely three-ten, I promise that in less than twenty-four hours a DMV inspector is going to crawl up your asses and audit every sales transaction for the last fucking decade. How do you think Mr. Benson would feel about that?"

Without saying a word, the portly manager double-timed his hefty body to the main office. He returned with the deal folder in less than three minutes, cheerfully escorted Al to an unoccupied salesman's office, and welcomed him to take as much time as he needed.

Al closed the door and dumped the contents of the folder on the desk. He could not believe the quantity of papers. It looked more like Simon had bought a home than a car. He examined the buyer's order, DMV forms, mileage affidavits for both the traded and purchased vehicle--every form showed the Felspar address. Finally, near the bottom of the pile he found the Experian credit report. He couldn't bear to look at it. As Al painfully suspected, not even the credit bureau knew his current address.

He may have been a sociopath, Al thought as he studied the credit report, but the son of a bitch had stellar credit--a seven-fifty rating, which put him in an elite class. Next Al searched for a mortgage lender. Assuming of course that Simon owned a home. For all Al knew, Simon might live in a broken-down barn in East Bumfuck!

Line by line he studied the printout. Three Visa cards: all paid accounts. A Sears card: zero balance. American Express: paid in full. Nowhere on the credit report did Al see a mortgage lender, which meant that either Simon still rented a place or he'd paid cash for his house.

Now Al looked at the credit application, which profiled Simon's vital statistics. Banks required this information before approving an auto loan or lease contract. Much of the information was incidental: name, address, employment, income. Al paid particular attention to the area near the bottom of the application that asked for nearest relative. The only thing written was a bold N/A. Below this area Al noticed a section entitled personal references. Blank.

He returned the deal folder to the men on the platform. "Can either of you tell me why his credit application is incomplete?"

Having learned their lesson, neither manager dared harass Detective Diaz any further. The well-dressed manager huffed and gave Al an evil look. He pawed through the folder and scanned the credit application. "Normally we require completed apps, but when a guy with golden credit pays cash for a thirty-thousand dollar vehicle, we try not to hassle him."

"He paid cash?"

"Not cash-cash. He wrote a check."

"Do you still have the check?"

"Already been deposited."

Al asked them what had happened to the vehicle Simon traded in. The portly manager promptly made a telephone call and informed Al that the Ford Supercab sat in the reconditioning shop. He gave Al directions and he dashed out the door.

As Al approached the detail area, where mechanically reconditioned cars were washed, waxed, vacuumed, and made "front-line-ready" for the used-car lot, he spotted the black Supercab sitting in the last stall. Because unfriendly weather rarely befell San Diego, the long building had only three sides and a corrugated roof, but the front was completely open. A short Hispanic man busily vacuumed the interior of the truck. Al prayed that he hadn't yet cleaned out the glove compartment. After his futile attempt to communicate with Lorenzo in Spanish, he hoped the man spoke English. How embarrassing to have been born and raised in Mexico, Al thought, and struggle with his native tongue.

The man gave Al a quick glance but kept busy. Al tapped him on the shoulder. The man flipped the switch on the deafening vacuum cleaner and stood in front of Al fidgeting like a man with a hornet in his underwear. A broad smile seemed to be frozen on his face.

"
Habla ingles?
"

The man rocked his head from side to side. "Little bit."

Al identified himself, told the man he needed to check out the truck, and suggested he take a quick coffee break. Without question, the man vigorously retreated a few steps away. Al hopped in the truck and immediately popped open the glove box. Brand-new clean. He flipped open the center console. Empty. Sitting behind the wheel where Simon had sat innumerable times gave Al an eerie feeling. Actually, he felt repulsed. Masked by the perfume of chemicals used to make the interior smell showroom-new, Al could still smell evil. In spite of the sun-drenched day, he felt chilled from the inside out.

Al spotted the Hispanic man leaning against a bench, puffing heavily on a cigarette, still grinning like a stoned orangutan. Al had seen wiry little Mexicans like him before. They had two speeds: hyper and warp. American companies loved hiring energetic Latinos. They worked their butts off for much less money than Americans, never complained and, unless they were deathly ill, were as dependable as a Maytag washing machine.

He summoned the man with a wave. The man couldn't get there quickly enough. Al glanced at the name tag embossed above the pocket of the man's light-blue shirt. "Arturo, were there any papers in the glove box or console?" Al didn't know why, but he pantomimed as if he were communicating with a deaf man.

Still grinning, he nodded.

"What did you do with them?"

He pointed to a rusty, overfull barrel the size of a garbage can with a Quaker State motor oil logo on its side.

The last thing Al wanted was to dig through a trash container. "Are the papers on top?"

Arturo shrugged.

Not wanting to overlook even the most insignificant remnant from Simon's truck, Al rolled up his sleeves and examined the contents of the barrel one item at a time. Most of what he found was generic pieces of paper and trash, nothing that indicated it once occupied Simon's glove compartment. Al dug deeper and discovered a receipt for a lawn mower repair. East County Lawn and Garden was located in El Cajon, a community about twenty miles east of San Diego. Al saw Simon's name scribbled across the top, but he'd left the designated address area below blank. Al stuffed the receipt in his back pocket. More junk. The remains of a Big Mac. Coffee cups. An oily rag. Wet, smelly rubbish. A myriad of debris.

He spotted a colorful brochure. The cover looked like a Theodore Rousseau painting. Snowcapped mountains. A blue sky. A crystal clear pond. Windmills? It had been distributed by a company called Blue Mountain Energy. Al leafed through the pamphlet.

Then it hit him.

A few years ago California lawmakers deregulated the utility industry, crushing South Coast Gas and Electric's hundred-year stronghold on the market. This consumer-driven legislation allowed independent utility providers to compete for a piece of the billion-dollar industry. Blue Mountain, an environmentally minded company, claimed to offer all-natural energy at a lower cost.

Of course
.
That's where the son of a bitch is getting his electricity. Maybe not from Blue Mountain, but from
somebody.
And whatever company provides his energy most certainly knows Simon's address
.

For the first time since sitting opposite Josephine Rizzo, staring at her sullen face, Al felt just a thimbleful of relief. He needed to dig further, to search for other treasures, but once again he had to enlist the services of the department. He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans and called Captain Davison. As Al expected, Davison was equally as dumbfounded that neither of them had thought of this angle. In fact, the entire detective squad had overlooked this significant lead.

Davison's voice resonated with a positive tone. "I'll get back to you within the hour with the fucker's address."

Al spent another fifteen minutes playing the role of Trash Can Annie, but found nothing else worthwhile. Until he heard back from Davison, he could do nothing but wait. As unappealing as the thought was, he had to force some food into his body.