Resuscitation (30 page)

Spencer slid down in the seat, trying to hide the best he could, all the while fixing his eyes on “John Smith.” Spencer’s client got out of the car and almost jogged to the main entrance of Post Office Plus. He yanked on the door handle but it was still locked. Both Spencer and his client looked at their wrist watches at the same time. Seven forty-five. He watched his client pace back and forth, checking his watch every sixty seconds. Clearly, he was uneasy. At one point, his client even knocked on the door, perhaps hoping they might open a little early if they saw an anxious customer waiting outside. But the doors remained locked.

At precisely 8:00 a.m., a middle-aged blonde woman unlocked the front door and let Spencer’s client, along with three other patrons, into the facility. Spencer couldn’t observe the activities on the other side of the door, but guessed that his client would pick up the package Spencer had left, and quickly be on his way. Fortunately for Spencer, he could see the rear license plate on the Ford Fusion without having to get out of his car, so he made note of it.

Waiting for over fifteen minutes, Spencer wondered why his client hadn’t come out yet. How long did it take to pick up a nine-by-twelve envelope? Maybe he was buying stamps? Mailing a letter? He dismissed his curiosity as inconsequential and tried not to give it another thought. But Spencer generally over-reacted to most situations. And his suspicious nature had saved his hide many times. Better to be safe than sorry had always been his motto.

At eight twenty-five, carrying a manila envelope under his arm, his client walked out the front door of Post Office Plus and got into his car. Spencer started his engine, ready to follow his client. He waited and waited, but his client’s car didn’t move. Ah, Spencer thought, “John Smith” must be so anxious to read the information on Detective Rizzo that he couldn’t wait until he got home. Finally, twenty minutes later, Spencer heard the hum of the engine and saw the backup lights. Careful to keep a safe distance, Spencer followed his client as inconspicuously as possible. If following someone in a car without being noticed was an art, then Spencer was Michelangelo.

While tailing “John Smith,” following him through Bird Rock and Pacific Beach toward Freeway 5, Spencer contacted Detective D’Angelo, and without incriminating himself, almost talking in a secret code that few people would be able to decipher, he asked the detective to run the license plate number of his mysterious client. So anxious to find out who the mystery man was, Spencer felt like a kid on Christmas morning, waiting for the sun to rise so he could open the presents Santa left under the Christmas tree.

“John Smith” exited Freeway 5 at Del Mar Heights and headed toward the ocean. After traveling a mile or so, the mystery man parked his Ford Fusion in a small parking lot on 10
^th
Avenue, next to a small, freestanding building. Spencer pulled to the curb across the street. When he saw his client walk in the front door, Spencer noticed the business name on the sign in front of the building, and had to look twice to be sure his eyes were not playing tricks.

Del Mar Fertility Center?

There were many things about detective work that Sami disliked, but at the top of the list, she despised interviewing relatives of a homicide victim. She’d never found an easy way to ask the questions she needed to ask. And no matter how diplomatic or tactful she was, the family members always misconstrued these questions as insensitive and inappropriate.

“I haven’t had much experience interviewing family members,” Osbourn admitted.

“Well I have,” Sami responded. “It never gets any easier.”

Osbourn drove and Sami gave directions from her worn-out
Thomas Guide
. The budget restraints were so tight in the San Diego Police Department that not even detectives could requisition a GPS system. The fact that higher-ranking officials like Captain Davidson and Chief Larson, superiors who did very little fieldwork, could enjoy this perk irritated Sami Rizzo to tears.

“Go straight past Orange Avenue,” Sami said. “E Avenue is your second left. We’re looking for number 2264.”

Once over the bridge, Coronado Island looked and felt like a different world than San Diego, another dimension. Quaint and lacking a big-city feel, outdoor cafés and unique gift shops dotted the main streets. Kings, queens, movie stars, and presidents were frequent guests of the Hotel Del Coronado.

Osbourn pulled to the curb—first rule of etiquette was never to park in anyone’s driveway—and let out a quivering sigh.

“You ready for this?” Sami asked.

“As ready as I’m going to be.”

Approaching the front porch, she noticed a solid-wood swing hanging from brass chains. The wood looked as shiny as a gymnasium floor. Ceramic pots of geraniums, petunias, and coleus surrounded the entrance. The front door, accented with stained glass, looked like solid mahogany.

Before she could knock on the door, it squeaked open.

“Detective Rizzo?” the woman asked. Her dirty-blonde hair looked as if she’d just returned from the beauty salon. Her perfectly applied makeup could not conceal the dark circles under her puffy eyes.

Sami offered her hand. “Mrs. Stevens?”

“Please call me Elizabeth.”

Sami gestured to her partner. “This is Detective Osbourn.”

Elizabeth Stevens cocked her head to one side and studied Osbourn’s face. “You’re quite young to be a detective,” she said. “You must be very bright.”

“Thank you,” Osbourn said.

Elizabeth Stevens invited the detectives into her home. She pointed to the Victorian sofa. “Please have a seat.”

Surveying the pristine sofa, Sami felt like she was the first person ever to sit on it. She was surprised it wasn’t covered with plastic.

“Can I get you some tea or a soft drink?” Elizabeth offered. “Ice water perhaps?”

Sami couldn’t remember the last time a victim’s relative extended so much hospitality. “Thank you, but we’re fine.”

Elizabeth Stevens sat on the matching chair adjacent to the detectives.

“Is Mr. Stevens joining us?” Sami asked.

“I’m afraid not.” Elizabeth folded her hands on her lap in a proper manner, sitting upright with perfect posture. She looked like a tutor at an uppity charm school. “Connor’s death has knocked the wind out of my husband. Joseph is currently under doctor’s care, and he sleeps more than he’s awake.” She paused for a moment, noticeably choked up. “I’ve been able to function only through the grace of the Almighty.”

Considering that her mom had expressed a desire to attend Sunday mass and Al had been recently praying to God to help Aleta, Sami wondered if God was indirectly sending her a message. He did work in strange ways, or so she’d been told.

“I’m deeply sorry for your loss,” Sami said. “And I’m truly sorry that Mr. Stevens is having such a difficult time.”

She gave Elizabeth a minute to regain her composure. “May we ask you a few questions?”

“Certainly.”

Sami set the digital recorder on the cocktail table and removed a pen and notepad from her jacket pocket. “May we record this session?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“When did you last see Connor?” Sami asked.

“We had dinner with him the night he disappeared. He had just celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday, so we invited him over for his favorite dish. Turkey meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli. My son wasn’t vegetarian, but he never ate beef or pork.”

“Any idea where he went that evening or who might have been with him?”

“Connor had more friends than someone who’d just won the Lotto, so it could have been any number of them.”

Sami felt a bit annoyed that Osbourn was sitting there like a stuffed animal, but she didn’t have time to hold his hand. If he was as sharp as everyone claimed, he’d learn from this experience. “Is there any way you can provide us with a list of all his friends and possibly contact information?”

“All I can tell you is that my son spent hours on Facebook. Last he told me, he had over one thousand friends.”

“I’m thinking more of personal friends who live locally. Friends he might hang around with.”

“I don’t have contact information, but I can give you some names.”

“That would be great.” Sami gave Osbourn a quick glance to be sure he wasn’t sleeping. “Do you have any idea where your son went after having dinner with you?”

Elizabeth Stevens’s amiable facial expression tightened. She looked angry. “I would guess he went to Henry’s Hideaway.”

Sami never heard of the place. “Have you been there?” she asked Osbourn.

He shook his head. “It’s a gay bar in Hillcrest.”

Sami didn’t believe that the perpetrator was gay because unlike with his last female victim, he did not sexually assault Connor Stevens. “Elizabeth, was your son…gay?”

“Dreadfully gay. It was difficult for my husband and me to accept Connor’s chosen lifestyle—and make no mistake about it—it
is
a choice. The Bible is very clear on this issue.” She paused for a moment and reached for the box of tissues on the end table. “We begged our son to get help, but our efforts only made him more defiant. The more we tried, the more he’d rub it in our faces. You should see his wardrobe. He dressed like some flamboyant movie star.”

“Did he have a steady partner, Elizabeth?” Sami asked.

She wiped the corner of her eyes and shook her head. “Sometimes I think every gay man in San Diego was his partner at one time or another. Connor lived a dangerously promiscuous lifestyle.”

Obviously, Sami thought. That is likely why his bruised body lay on a cold slab. It sounded as if Connor Stevens hopped from bed to bed without discretion or fear. “Is there anything else you can tell us that might be useful?”

“I just want my son back. And that’s never going to happen.”

“Again, Mrs. Stevens,” Sami said. “Our deepest condolences.”

“Find this evil person, Detective, before another parent has to live this nightmare.”

Peter J. Spencer III sat on a bench overlooking Sail Bay, enjoying the cool breeze blowing off the water. The sky was perfectly blue, without even a trace of a cloud. He sipped his strong Arabian coffee and inhaled the smell of freshly cut grass. The mud hens had returned from their yearly migration. In large numbers and with carefree arrogance, they waddled across the boardwalk shoulder to shoulder in an organized fashion, stubbornly refusing to yield to joggers, cyclists, and rollerbladers.

From the corner of his eye, Spencer noticed Chuck D’Angelo approaching the bench. Without saying a word, D’Angelo sat beside Spencer.

“Lovely day,” D’Angelo said.

“It’s why we live here,” Spencer responded. “What have you got?”

“A couple of interesting facts. First off, that license plate number you gave me? The car’s registered to Southwest Auto Rentals. Their office is on Grape Street in Banker’s Hill.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“’Fraid not. Here’s the kicker. This guy claims he and Sami Rizzo were an item? Bullshit. The only one who’s gotten into her knickers since she divorced that scumbag husband of hers is Al Diaz. And he works in homicide with me.”

Spencer digested these surprising bits of information for a minute. “Wonder why this guy would lie.”

“Not sure. But I can tell you this. He’s up to no good and I think we ought to check him out. Next time you meet him, I’ll tail him and find out where he lives, works, or plays.”

“We’re not going to meet face to face again.”

“Ever?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Then give me his phone number. I can work with that.”

Spencer lifted a shoulder. “Don’t have one.”

“I don’t mind helping you out here, Spence, we go back a long way. But this whole thing reeks of foul play. I’m too close to retirement to fuck it all up. I think you’re in over your head. I can’t be part of it.”

“I understand,” Spencer said. “I hope this conversation is just between you and me. I mean, no one else needs to know, right?”

“If you’re asking if I’m going to tell Detective Rizzo that someone’s got her number, the answer is no.”

“Think
I
should contact her?”

“That’s your call,” D’Angelo said. “The only thing I know for sure is that on August first, I’m going to clean out my office and put my personal things in a little cardboard box. And when I walk out that precinct door, I couldn’t care less what happens. I’m going to spend the rest of my life sleeping in, smoking cigars, fishing, and occasionally fucking the old lady.”

“Hi, Emily,” Sami said. “Everything okay?” Sami had just left the precinct and was on her way to Henry’s Hideaway. She hated working after the dinner hour, but when you were a homicide detective there was no such thing as a forty-hour workweek.

“Your mom nodded out on the couch watching an old Humphrey Bogart movie,” Emily said. “And Angelina and I were playing Chutes and Ladders.”

“Who’s winning?”

“Angelina is kicking my butt.”

“Does she laugh every time you slide down a chute?”

“Uncontrollably.”

Oh, how Sami wished she were home, wearing her baggy sweats, sipping a cold Corona, and playing Chutes and Ladders with Emily and Angelina. “I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.”