Resuscitation (45 page)

“I’ll do anything not to lose you. Just ask. All I want is another chance to prove to you how much I care for you and how deeply sorry I am. If you tell me to hit the road, I totally understand. I’ll move out today. I’ll even get transferred to another precinct. I’ll do whatever it takes to ease your pain.”

He could see her eyes welling with tears. During his entire speech, she hadn’t once looked at him. She blankly stared out the windshield.

“Sami, I beg you to forgive me.”

She turned her head and faced him. He searched her eyes but had no idea what she was thinking or what she might say.

“This isn’t about forgiveness. And it isn’t about love. I know you love me. This is an issue of trust. You, more than anyone, know my history with Tommy. You know how difficult it is for me to trust a man—any man.” Now tears were running down her cheeks. “I need some alone time. Time away from you. I can’t work with you every day, live under the same roof, and think this through clearly. We have to work together, but we can divide our tasks. If I need help, I’ll ask Osbourn. The captain doesn’t need to know this. I’ll keep you posted and you do the same. All it takes is an e-mail or phone call. My Blackberry is on twenty-four-seven.”

“Fair enough. I’ll move my stuff out today.”

“Just take your essentials. For now anyway.”

That she wasn’t booting him out completely gave him a glimmer of hope.

“Where will you go?”

“I’m not sure right now. I’ll manage.” He touched her hand but she recoiled. “What are you going to tell your mother?”

“The truth.”

When Peter J. Spencer III heard a gentle knock on his office door, he grabbed his wallet and rushed to open it. He hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning and felt ravenous. He wasn’t crazy about Domino’s Pizza, but at least it would stop his stomach from growling. Besides, they delivered.

When he opened the door, he expected to see a young kid holding a pizza box. Instead, two men dressed in dark suits stood shoulder to shoulder. With a couple of pairs of sunglasses, Spencer thought, they could easily audition for the next
Men in Black
movie. He’d been around long enough to recognize who they were.

That
fucking
D’Angelo
.

“What can I do for you?” Spencer asked, well aware why they were there.

“Are you Peter Spencer?” the younger cop asked.

“The one and only. In the flesh.”

“I’m Detective Osbourn and this is Lieutenant Ramirez. May we speak to you for a minute?”

Spencer stepped to the side and invited them in. He pointed to a beat-up leather sofa in the far corner. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

Spencer wheeled his high-back executive chair across from the detectives. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“This is not a social call, Mr. Spencer,” Ramirez said.

“How did you guys find out?”

Osbourn and Ramirez looked puzzled. “Find out what?” Osbourn said.

“That I was the anonymous caller.”

“We got a tip,” Osbourn said.

“And that tip’s name wouldn’t happen to be Chuck D’Angelo, would it?”

“Why do you ask?” Ramirez said.

“A couple of suits show up at my door a few hours after I speak with Detective Rizzo. I don’t need to be Einstein to figure it out.”

“What’s the guy’s name?” Osbourn asked.

Giving them carefully edited information, Spencer told them about his mysterious client and his long-time association with Chuck D’Angelo.

“So this ‘John Smith’ hired you to get personal information on Detective Rizzo?” Ramirez asked.

Spencer nodded. “That is correct.”

“And you didn’t have any ethical issues with his request, or suspect he was up to no good?”

“First of all, I didn’t break any laws. Much of the information I shared is public knowledge—if you know where to look for it. Second, I
did
suspect the guy was shady. Hence the call to Detective Rizzo.”

“Do you have any idea what John Smith’s real name is?” Ramirez asked.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be calling him John Smith.”

“When you spoke to Detective Rizzo,” Osbourn said, “you told her she could get the Resuscitator’s true identity through the Del Mar Fertility Center. Where did you get this information?”

“When I suspected something wasn’t kosher, I tailed the guy one day and saw him walk into the place. I figured he was a sperm donor, and that the center would likely have his real name—not to mention DNA.”

“What’s D’Angelo’s part in all this?” Osbourn asked.

“Only that I had a prior relationship with him, so instead of calling in the tip on the hotline, I called Chuck and he put me through to Detective Rizzo. No mysteries. No huge conspiracy.”

“Are you wealthy, Mr. Spencer?” Osbourn asked.

The question came from nowhere and caught Spencer off guard. “Well, if I were, would I work out of a shit-hole office like this?”

“I find it rather curious,” Osbourn said, “that a man who surrounds himself with such an austere environment wouldn’t be the least bit interested in the ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the Resuscitator. Why is that, Mr. Spencer?”

Spencer fixed his eyes on Osbourn and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not answering any more questions, fellows. If you want to arrest me, go ahead. Otherwise, this conversation is over.”

“It may be over, Mr. Spencer. But as soon as we listen to the recording of your conversation with D’Angelo, you just might be unemployed.”

The room went silent. For the first time since the detectives walked in the door, Spencer felt rattled. Having no skills worthy of any other career, if he lost his PI license, he’d be lucky to find a position at a 7-Eleven. He knew all too well how the police department worked. A simple philosophy governed the world of law enforcement and it was called the barter system. Even if there were no grounds to pull his license, if the detectives talked to the right people, Spencer’s PI license wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on.

He could not remember verbatim what D’Angelo and he had discussed on the telephone prior to speaking with Detective Rizzo, but he feared that the conversation would ultimately incriminate him in some way. Time to play Let’s Make a Deal.

“If I come clean on D’Angelo, and give you a little history lesson of his extracurricular activities, can I walk?”

Osbourn gave Ramirez a quick glance as if he were asking for approval, and the lieutenant nodded. Obviously, Spencer thought, he was still a wet-behind-the-ears detective, and couldn’t wipe his ass without permission.

“As long as you haven’t committed a felony,” Osbourn said, “I think we can work out something.”

“But that’s not a guarantee,” Ramirez added.

Sami and Al walked into the Del Mar Fertility Center and approached the reception desk. Sami flashed her badge, but the young woman behind the desk paid little attention to it and continued talking on her cell phone.

Sami waved the badge in front of her face. “Please hang up.”

The receptionist finished her sentence and disconnected the call. “I’m sorry, but that was a very important call.”

“Well, I think our business here might be slightly more important,” Sami said. “We need to talk to the manager, supervisor, owner, whoever runs this place.”

“May I ask what it’s regarding?” the young woman said.

“No, you may not,” Sami answered. “It’s confidential police business.”

The receptionist stood and parked her hands on her hips. “Let me see if Ms. Cardoza is available.”

Sami removed the court order from her purse and held it up so the receptionist could see it. “This is a court order. She needs to
make
herself available.”

While waiting for the receptionist to return, Sami checked out the waiting area. By the way the place was exquisitely furnished and decorated, she guessed that the semen collecting business was booming. Other than a young man sitting in the corner, reading a copy of
GQ
, likely waiting for his date with a paper cup, the room was vacant. Just as Sami and Al were about to sit down on a cushy leather sofa, the receptionist returned with a tall, stunning Latino woman who looked like she could win the Miss Universe contest. Oh, how Sami wished her hips were as slender as this young woman’s were. But what really struck her was an image of Al in bed with a woman who looked like this. Did his Brazilian hottie look this good?

“I’m Detective Rizzo and this is Detective Diaz.”

The woman extended her hand. “I am Maria Cardoza. I manage this facility. How can I help you?”

“May we talk privately?” Sami asked.

Cardoza pointed. “Certainly.”

Al followed Sami through the door and Cardoza led them to her office. Like the waiting area, the office was lavishly appointed. Sami was not surprised.

“Our receptionist tells me you have a court order,” Cardoza said.

Sami laid it on her desk. “We are searching for a man who we believe is one of your clients.” Sami handed her the DNA analysis, noticing that Cardoza was looking at Al even though Sami was doing the talking. “We’ve already scanned the FBI’s National DNA Index System and did not find a match. We need to find out if anyone in your database matches this DNA.”

“That might take some time,” Cardoza said.

“We don’t have time,” Al said.

“Our central office is in San Francisco,” Cardoza said. “All of our confidential client information is kept there. Court order or not, I’ll need approval from a higher power to release this information. I’m sure you can appreciate the sensitivity of the situation.”

“And I’m sure you can understand that this information could be a matter of life and death,” Al said. “We’re not just detectives, Ms. Cardoza, we’re
homicide
investigators.”

“Let me make a couple phone calls,” Cardoza suggested. “Would you mind waiting in our lounge area. I’d appreciate some privacy.”

Julian was running out of time. What made things even worse was the call they’d received from Doctor Fisher. Apparently, he’d had a critical surgery scheduled, but the patient died, so instead of having to wait forty-eight hours, Dr. Fisher would be in San Diego mid-morning tomorrow and McKenzie’s surgery was scheduled for early the next day.

Julian’s original thought was to find a way into her room without the policeman shadowing him. He could do what he needed to do and be out of there in five minutes. If he could overcome the cop problem, though, he still faced another obstacle. All ICU patients hooked up to life support and heart monitors were carefully observed at the nurses’ station. If he injected McKenzie with a lethal drug, the moment she arrested, the nurses’ control panel would light up, and the warning buzzers would go off. Even if he found a way in and out of McKenzie’s room unnoticed, the police, no doubt, would perform a thorough autopsy, and they would discover that she’d been murdered. This would initiate a massive investigation that could easily lead the police to his doorstep. No, he hadn’t thought his plan through carefully. This was no longer viable.

Although it would pose great difficulty, the only logical solution to his quandary would be to sabotage the surgical procedures. Granted, it was a tricky undertaking requiring planning and precision that would not attract the attention of his fellow surgeons. This would be next to impossible. Fortunately, the complexity and unusual nature of McKenzie’s surgery did offer him a couple possibilities for covert subversive actions. When dealing with delicate heart surgery, one millimeter can be the difference between life and death. He had lost patients before, and no one ever questioned his competency. Every day, patients died on the operating table, so to lose McKenzie O’Neill, a young woman with only a small chance of survival anyway, would not likely raise any questions. He just had to be careful and not do anything too obvious.

Having explored several options, painstakingly considering the risk and feasibility of each, Julian still hadn’t determined what might work. At this point, he had no idea what little slip of the scalpel would end McKenzie’s life. He wasn’t yet sure if he would cause a total bleed-out and watch her die on the operating table, secretly weaken one of the valve replacements, or do something to affect the heart pump’s ability to function properly. He could only hope that the difficult surgery and multiple procedures involved would offer an opportunity for him to solve this problem once and for all.

When Chuck D’Angelo walked into Captain Davidson’s office and saw David Costello, assistant district attorney, and Oscar Jones, special agent from Internal Affairs, he sensed he was about to be ambushed. He braced himself for what would undoubtedly be a bloodbath.

“I think you’ve met David and Oscar, Chuck,” the captain pointed to the two men. “Have a seat.”

D’Angelo shook their hands ever so briefly and sat in the only available chair.

“Something has bubbled to the surface, Chuck, and we need to have a little chit-chat,” the captain said.

“Well,” D’Angelo said, “let’s get this over with. I’ve got a full afternoon ahead of me.”