Resuscitation (33 page)

“Sounds like a hefty undertaking to me,” D’Angelo said.

“Between all departments, we have lots of help,” Sami said.

“Still,” D’Angelo said. “It could take forever.”

“Not if we work around the clock. And that’s exactly what we’re fucking going to do.” She fixed her eyes on D’Angelo. “Any more stupid questions or asinine comments should be directed to Police Chief Larson.”

Just as he’d done repeatedly for the last two weeks, Al sat beside his comatose sister holding her hand, stroking her cheek, and softly talking to her. Eating very little and rarely three meals a day, he knew that he’d lost weight because he had to tighten his belt an extra notch to hold up his slacks. He had packed only a small suitcase, so every couple of days he had to use the motel Laundromat to wash and dry his clothes.

“Hello, Sunflower,” Al whispered in Aleta’s ear. “It was a beautiful day today. Warmer than normal for this time of year. The temperature hit eighty degrees. As soon as you’re better, we’ll grab a couple of cups of coffee and go for a long walk on Copacabana Beach. Would you like that, Sunflower?”

Exhausted and operating on reserve power, he sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, the recurring nightmare that haunted him from the first day he landed in Rio de Janeiro played in his mind.

His sister lies in bed, unconscious. Plastic tubes snake out her mouth and nose. Her left arm is stuck with an IV. More than fifteen relatives, alive and dead, stand around the bed. Al sees his mother and father, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Their faces are chalk-white, walking corpses. As if they are given a cue from a movie director, each of them in harmony points to the electric cord plugged into the wall socket that powers the respirator keeping Aleta alive. In a chant-like manner, their declaration in unison, they say, “Pull the plug, Alberto!” Over and over they repeat this command. Each time they make this statement, their voices get a little louder. After only a minute or so, they point and scream, “Pull the plug, Alberto! Pull the plug!”

Al presses his palms to his ears but he cannot suppress the chant. He walks over to the electric receptacle, shuffling his feet as if he’s wearing lead shoes, and grasps the power cord with his fingers. Hands shaking, he knows that the only way he can quiet the deafening declaration is to pull the plug. Louder and louder the chant
continues. Just as he is about to yank the plug from the receptacle, ending his sister’s life, he awakes out of a sound sleep.

Sweat covered his entire body and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribcage. Completely disoriented, as if awakening from a nightmare in a strange hotel room, he tried to gather his thoughts. He could not stop his hands from shaking. He tried to focus his eyes on Aleta, but the sweat blurred his vision. He swiped his sleeve across his eyes and looked around the room. No one was there. Just his sister and him. The chanting had stopped and his relatives had disappeared. Each time he had this dream, he awoke just before pulling the plug. He dreaded the day when it would not be a dream, when he might actually face a decision to end his sister’s life.

Still out of breath and feeling unsettled, more than anything, Al needed some fresh air to clear his head. But not yet feeling that his legs would support his body, he thought it wise to remain seated for a few minutes.

“Sunflower,” he whispered, “I’m here with you. Can you hear me?”

Fixing his stare on her face, he noticed the corners of her eyes twitching ever so slightly. He looked more closely and could see her eyes dancing around under her eyelids. In all the hours he had spent by her side, never once had he seen any facial or eye movement.

“It’s Alberto, Sunflower. If you can hear my voice, please open your eyes.”

He grasped her hand and held it firmly. He closed his eyes and prayed the prayer he had repeated over a hundred times, a prayer to a God with whom he had no relationship. Yet a God who Al believed could hear his plea.

He felt Aleta squeeze his hand.

His eyes sprang open and he focused on her face. When he saw her staring at him, her eyes partially opened, he thought that this was surely a dream. He squeezed her hand and she immediately squeezed his.

“Can you hear me, Sunflower?”

She nodded her head and pointed to her throat. Her face looked contorted as if she were in pain. Al figured out what she was trying to say. She wanted the damned respirator removed. He didn’t want to leave her, but ran out the door to commandeer a nurse.

Julian looked at the giant headlines on the front page of the
San Diego Chronicle
:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

Below the headline, Julian glanced at the composite drawing, and at first, he panicked. But the more he looked at the sketch the less alarmed he felt. He could see a slight likeness, but the drawing was nowhere near spot-on. In fact, he guessed that a few thousand people could be more matched to the sketch than he could. It was an unremarkable representation.

Focusing carefully on his hair style in the sketch, it didn’t take Julian long to figure out that whoever fingered him was at Henry’s Hideaway the evening he had met Connor Stevens. That was the only time he had worn his hair in such a trendy, punked-out style.

He tried to recall whom he had encountered or spoken to long enough for them to remember what he looked like. Other than the bouncer checking IDs at the front door and a two-minute conversation with the bartender, nothing struck him. It was obvious, however, that the police had figured out he had met Connor Stevens at that particular bar.

He thought about his conversation with the bouncer, but could only recall that the big man had given him a hard time about his ID, even though he was twenty years beyond the legal drinking age. He studied the sketch again, more carefully this time, looking at the eyes, mouth, cheekbones, and lips.

“Nothing to worry about,” he whispered. Still, maybe the police were getting too close.

Time for him to shift gears, to change his MO.

Time for him to join a yoga class.

Peter J. Spencer III paced the floor of his small office like a caged animal. He kept looking at the front page of the newspaper, shaking his head, unable to believe his eyes. Now it all made sense. The “John Smith” Spencer had met in the little coffee shop, the man who wanted to know everything there was to know about Detective Rizzo, the man who seemed so mysterious and so hell-bent on remaining anonymous, was likely the serial killer the
San Diego Chronicle
had named “The Resuscitator.”

Thinking about his options, all of which seemed incriminating, Spencer wasn’t sure how to proceed. If he contacted the police and told them exactly what had happened, he would be implicating himself as an accomplice—an accomplice to a serial killer. This wasn’t some low-end criminal knocking off little ma-and-pa convenient stores. This was first degree, premeditated murder. And no matter how compelling his defense, trying to prove that he had no knowledge of the killings, Spencer had little doubt that the district attorney would want his head served up on a platter.

Another option was to contact Detective D’Angelo. But considering that the detective had given Spencer proprietary information about Detective Rizzo, D’Angelo would only be concerned about his own hide. And Spencer knew from past dealings with him that the seedy detective would not only play dirty, he’d do anything—including fingering Spencer—to save himself.

Even if Spencer contacted the police anonymously, what could he tell them that might lead them down the right path? He had no idea how to find “John Smith,” nor did he know his real name, address, or where he worked. He wasn’t even sure what kind of car he drove. He could pay a visit to the Del Mar Fertility Clinic, but without some official credentials or a search warrant, they would never betray a client’s confidentiality.

Spencer had never been a squeaky-clean PI. Far from it. He had spent most of his career living in a grey world where nothing was ever black and white. He had done a lot of things he regretted, things that made him ashamed. But never had he been indirectly involved with a murderer. At least to his knowledge.

At this juncture, Spencer was unclear on how to handle the situation. But what he did know was that he couldn’t just stand by and let this monster kill another innocent person.

“Good evening, Sami,” Al said.

Sami hadn’t heard his voice this animated since he’d arrived in Rio. “Please tell me you have good news.”

“I have
extraordinary
news!”

She held her breath.

“Aleta has come out of the coma! And it’s looking real good! Her vital signs are stable, and they’ve had her up and walking around. She still looks like shit, and she’s really wobbly, but she’s talking fine and the doctor doesn’t think she has any permanent injuries.”

“I am so happy to hear that. Thank God.”

“Yes, we have to thank God.” Al’s voice sounded a little unsteady.

“Any idea when she’ll be discharged from the hospital?”

“Once her appetite’s improved and she can walk without assistance, the doctor will let her go home. But she will likely be here for a while. Ricardo has already made arrangements for in-home care until she is completely recovered.”

“Terrific.”

“How are you holding up?” Al asked.

“We’ve got a promising lead a bunch of us are working on right now. In fact, I just stopped home to check up on the gang, but I have to get back to the precinct in a little while.”

“Graveyard duty, huh?”

“Pulling out all the stops.”

“Chief Larson and Captain Davidson busting your stones?”

“Actually, they’ve been surprisingly supportive. They did try to strong-arm me on your medical leave, unaware that we’re a step ahead of them. But I straightened them out.”

“I’ll bet you did.” He let out a heavy breath. “I miss the shit out of you.”

“You’ve always been such a smooth talker.”

“That’s what happens when you flunk out of charm school.”

This was the first lighthearted conversation they’d had since he went to Rio. Sami almost forgot how much she loved the playful banter. “Don’t worry. You may not be charming, but you’re a good lay.”

“You ain’t so bad yourself.”

Under the circumstances, she didn’t even want to broach the subject, but she had to ask the obvious question. “Speaking of good lays—and I’m not trying to pressure you—do you have the slightest inkling when you’re coming back to San Diego?”

“Once my sister is discharged I’d like to spend at least a few days with her. That okay?”

“Nothing is more important than your sister right now. You take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“That’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

If only he realized just how much she needed to hear him say that. “I really have to get the show on the road, Honey.”

“I’ll speak with you tomorrow,” Al said.

The moment the call disconnected, she felt utterly alone. She hadn’t been feeling great lately. Queasy stomach. Indigestion. A little bloated. She’d felt this way before when stress had gotten the best of her. She needed to track down the Resuscitator. And she needed Al to warm her bed.

Driving another rental car from Southwest Auto Rentals, a hole-in-the-wall establishment run by three Iranian brothers who didn’t require credit cards, only cash and a valid driver’s license, Julian arrived at the Yoga for Life Center thirty minutes early and parked in a spot where he could watch the main entrance. He thought it wise to check out the ladies as they entered the building just in case someone in particular caught his eye. Julian assumed that the parking lot would likely be full, and when class let out there would be a mad scramble for cars. The situation left little opportunity for Julian to snatch anyone without someone noticing. He wasn’t yet sure how he would proceed, or even if tonight would work, but without a clear plan, he figured he’d let his charm lead the way.

Five minutes before the scheduled starting time of the yoga class, Julian saw a faded red Sentra pull into the parking lot. The car looked like the owner had just come from a demolition derby competition. He could see that nearly every panel and door that
could
be dented
was
dented. Except for the roof. But how do you dent a roof?

He waited for the driver to get out of her car so he could get a good look at her. Wearing black capri pants and a tight-fitting sports bra, the young woman was about as muscular as a woman could be without looking masculine. As she briskly walked toward the entrance, he stepped out of his car and followed her toward the building. Using the name John Smith, he signed up for the class as a guest, paid the twenty-five-dollar registration fee, and grabbed a complimentary yoga mat. As discretely as possible, he watched the woman unroll her pink yoga mat on the hardwood floor, hoping that he could find a spot close to her. She wasn’t much to look at, but her body was sculpted with distinct cuts between her triceps and deltoids. As she was small-breasted, her well-developed pectoral muscles showed clearly. If there was anyone in this place who had the strong, healthy heart he was searching for, she was the one.