They Never Die Quietly (2010) (10 page)

Sami eased her car across the flow of freeway traffic to the farther-most left lane. She paid no heed to speed limits. When she encountered a motorist unaware that the passing lane wasn't for lazy Sunday afternoon sightseeing, she flashed her lights and engaged the siren. The intimidating power of that ear-piercing whine always amazed her. She could feel perspiration trickling between her breasts, and soon her favorite silk blouse would have sweat-soaked stains under her arms. That Al would not openly talk via cellular heightened her angst.

As Sami raced toward downtown San Diego, reevaluating Al's tense voice, she felt overwhelming alarm. Only a monumental event of a personal nature could force her partner into such an uncharacteristic tailspin. Al was a rock. Almost nothing rattled him. He knew something and couldn't muster the courage to share it with her.

Suddenly, Sami felt certain either her mother or Angelina had been injured. Perhaps both. Maybe there was a fire or a household accident. Possibly her mother suffered a heart attack. But how could this be? She'd left the two of them only fifteen minutes before she'd gotten Al's panicky call. She reached for her cellular and thumbed in her home telephone number.

After four rings the answering machine picked up and she heard her own voice. Now wild thoughts raced through her mind.

She exited at Front Street, checked the cross traffic at Ash, then rolled through the red light. She peeked at her watch: seven-twenty-eight.

"Shit," she whispered. In her fury she'd forgotten about Simon. She had no way to reach him. She had only his work number.

As she pulled into the ramp garage, she flipped open her cellular and dialed 411.

The operator spoke with a southern drawl. "What city, pa-lease?"

"San Diego."

"How may I help you?"

"The number for Romano's Cafe."

Simon was sporting a charcoal Armani double-breasted suit, a white shirt, and an amber tie, and feeling rather dashing. He sat at a corner table sipping kiwi-strawberry sparkling water, anticipating his impending date with great exhilaration. He enjoyed people-watching, an activity he found quite enlightening. Observing human behavior was an adventure. Simon was fascinated with the art of studying body language and trying to read people's thoughts.

The restaurant, crowded and noisy, buzzed with activity.

Next to Simon, snuggling together like Siamese twins was an intriguing couple. The gentleman, graying only at the temples--strong evidence he belonged to the Grecian Formula club--looked about fifty and appeared to be trim and fit. An executive going through an extended midlife crisis, Simon concluded. The young brunette, giggling uncontrollably, barely in her twenties, was pawing at him and burying her face in his neck like a kitten intoxicated with a sock full of catnip. She was attractive, Simon thought. In fact, she was stunning, but obviously a trollop. Her skirt rode high on her bare thighs and her skimpy blouse offered an unobstructed view of man-made breasts. Although Simon would never intoxicate his body or mind by overindulging, he was quite a connoisseur. He recognized the unique label on the champagne bottle the couple was drinking: Dom Perignon.

Sinners have no place among the godly
.

Just as Simon lost himself in thoughts of how he'd purify the souls of the couple he'd been observing, a tuxedoed blond waiter approached him.

"Excuse me, sir, is your name, Simon?"

Moderately concerned, Simon eyeballed him curiously. Why would a stranger ask such a question? No one except the homicide detective knew he was here. Simon's uneasiness heightened. His first inclination was to deny it. But to do so would serve no purpose.

"It is."

The waiter handed Simon the cordless telephone. "You have a call, sir."

Before speaking into the mouthpiece, Simon wiped it clean with his napkin. "Get caught in a traffic jam, detective?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"You're the only person walking the planet who knows I'm here."

"I've got some rather bad news."

"Let me guess. Some urgent police business has taken precedence over dinner."

"You must be clairvoyant."

Oh, how he wished he were. "And to think that I took my best suit out of mothballs just for you."

"How about a rain check?"

Yes. But only if you promise to bring your daughter.
"Of course."

"I'll call you at the hospital early in the week."

"That would be fine." Feeling somewhat paranoid, Simon wondered if the urgent police business had anything to do with him. Perhaps his carelessness had given them a lead? "Does your change in plans have anything to do with the serial murder investigation?"

"Not really free to discuss that, Simon."

He curled his free hand into a fist. "I understand."

"Sorry about tonight," Sami said.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. You go catch the bad guys."

He dropped the telephone on the table and could feel that menacing rage churning inside him, the unharnessed passion to retaliate, a familiar need to release the stranglehold of a demon within.

Bonnie Jean Oliver.

He looked at the brunette, almost gawked at her ruby-painted lips. He knew that soon she would reward her sugar daddy for his self-serving generosity. Those pouty lips would do what they did best. Inside, a storm raged.

Slut. Harlot. Sinner
.

He wanted to pick up a chair and smash it into her face until her flesh looked like a bowl of strawberry Jell-O. And her boyfriend? He drove the enticing vision from his thoughts. He motioned for the waiter. The young man hurried to the table.

Simon handed him a twenty-dollar bill. "I guess I'll be passing on dinner."

When Sami walked into the almost-vacant precinct, she spotted Al in Captain Davison's office. Al's arms were flailing like a newborn eagle's wings. Considering how rarely anything affected him, his antics were not a good omen. Sami almost ran down the aisle toward the office. Her lower back, which had miraculously healed without medical intervention, suddenly tightened. When she walked into the office out of breath, she took one look at Al's chalky-white face and knew that a devastating announcement loomed moments away.

"You'd better have a seat," Davison suggested.

She ignored him. "What's going on?"

Davison eyed Diaz.

Al nervously combed his fingers through his hair. "About an hour ago, the Scuba Squad fished Tommy DiSalvo's body out of the bay."

Not having realized her deepest fear--hearing Angelina's or her mother's name--Sami felt a fleeting moment of relief. But then the wink of deliverance was overpowered by devastating guilt.

She wobbled toward Davison's desk and fell into one of the chairs. "It's my fault," Sami whispered.

Al moved the other chair next to Sami, sat down, and clutched her shoulder. "How could your ex-husband's murder be your fault?"

Murder?

Davison puffed his cigarette. "His body was in pretty bad shape."

"What do you mean?" Sami asked.

"Sami," Al said, "do you really want the gory details?"

A valid question. Nonetheless Sami had to know everything. "Please stop treating me like a child."

"Cause of death has not been determined." Davison said. "He may have drowned, but our initial feeling is that he was murdered before they dumped him in the water."

Sami had little patience for their evasiveness. "Gunshot wound, stabbing, strangulation--how?"

Al let out a deep sigh and looked at Davison. "His face was bludgeoned," Al said, "all of his fingers were fractured...and..."

Sami bolted upright and knocked over the chair. "Will you just...fucking...tell me!"

Al stared at the floor. "It wasn't pretty, Sami. Do you
really
want to hear more?"

No, she didn't. Detective Samantha Rizzo suddenly felt detached from her colleagues. She felt as if she'd drifted into another dimension. Alone she sat in her guilt-riddled world. All she could see was Tommy's often-playful smile, a side of him she dearly missed. There were times when he could actually be charming, mischievous in an innocent, almost childlike manner. Struggling to maintain her composure, Sami told Al and Davison about Tommy DiSalvo's gambling debt and the threat on his life, that she had refused to help him.

"You can't blame yourself, Sami," Al said.

How she wished she could find solace in his words. "I have no illusions about Tommy DiSalvo." She paused for a moment, wiping her eyes. "But in spite of his shortcomings, he was still Angelina's dad."

Simon left the restaurant and stepped out into the cool dry evening. Only three blocks from the Pacific, a gentle breeze of salty ocean air filled his lungs. The cloudless sky looked crowded with stars and the sidewalks were jammed with Friday evening carousers hopping from bar to bar. Alcohol--one of Satan's most insidious servants--flowed freely tonight. By two a.m., when the local watering holes announced last call, Simon guessed that the area would be infested with drunken heathens tarnishing their souls through sins of the flesh.

Still reeling from his violent thoughts of the couple he'd seen at the restaurant, Simon decided that an invigorating walk on the beach would ease his tattered nerves. Episodes of stone-blind anger terrified Simon. He did not enjoy the disconcerting feeling of losing control. Periods of this unnerving condition plagued him more frequently of late, particularly since his first cleansing. He could not predict this eerie metamorphosis, nor could he manage it. The episode in the cafe had not been severe; he had dealt with his anger without incident. Yet Simon feared that the momentary lapse of reason merely represented a dress rehearsal, that he stood on the threshold of something momentous. He didn't want to get careless; he needed clarity to continue God's work. And a prudent man would heed this warning and remove himself from potential danger. But he felt drawn to the ocean by a powerful force, beckoned by some visceral connection to something.

As he weaved through groups of rowdy people, few he passed paid much attention to him. He brushed by them on the narrow sidewalk, favoring his throbbing right foot as he walked toward Crystal Pier. His dress shoes were much too tight for his ailing foot. He passed outdoor cafes, coffeehouses, secondhand clothing stores, souvenir shops, racks of postcards, T-shirt and sweatshirt kiosks, an ice cream parlor, a pastry shop, and of course an assortment of pubs and saloons.

The gate at the entrance to Crystal Pier locked at sundown, but the almost-endless concrete boardwalk following the coastline both north and south remained open and well lit, allowing crowds to wander at their leisure. Simon followed the path until he reached the stairway offering access to the beach. The moon, a sliver shy of full, illuminated the sand well enough for Simon to see that other than two clusters of party-loving lawbreakers, gulping beer and slamming shots of tequila, the beach was relatively deserted.

In the distance he could hear the faint sound of a radio tuned to the local jazz station. Sade proclaimed that hers was no ordinary love. Low tide widened the sandy beach, and the ocean calmly slapped the shoreline. Moonlight danced on languid waves.

Before making his way down the sand-covered stairs, Simon, not wanting to lose his footing and risk tumbling to the bottom, removed his Valentino loafers and Gold Toe socks. The wound was still sore but improving every day. Wrapped with gauze, it was protected from the sand. He rolled up his slacks to just below his knees. At the bottom of the stairway a fortyish man, his full beard wiry and untrimmed, sat on the second last step, sipping something out of a brown paper bag. Sporting badly worn Army fatigues and a heavy camouflage jacket, the man's torn sneakers completed the tattered ensemble.

"Hey, bud, got any spare change?" His raspy voice typified alcohol-damaged vocal cords.

The sand felt cool under Simon's bare feet. "What exactly is spare change?"

The man gave Simon a cold stare. "You know. The coins jingling in the pockets of that fancy suit."

"Tell me something, my friend," Simon said. "If I were to give you some spare change, what would you do with it?"

The man cocked his head as if he were carefully considering Simon's question. "I ain't gonna bullshit you, bud." The man stood up and brushed the sand off his pants. "I'm about seventy-five cents short of a pint of Wild Turkey."

Simon guessed that the almost-six-foot man weighed barely a hundred and thirty pounds. "How long since you enjoyed a good meal?"

"Look, bud, if you got a few coins, I sure would appreciate it. But I ain't one for interviews."

"If you want me to give you money, the least you could do is answer a civil question."

The man pondered this for a minute. He licked his lips and took a swig from a paper-concealed bottle. "Lots of competition here in the beach area. Tourists are a little more generous than the locals. This time of the year, Christmas and all, it's tough. On a good day I can scrounge enough money to stay shit-faced and keep me out of the morgue."

"What do you usually eat?"

The man smiled and shook his head. "Surf and turf."

Simon turned away from the man and headed for the water. "If you're going to insult me, I guess there's no need for us to continue with this conversation."

"Look, bud, what do you want from me? Wanna hear my hard-luck story? That I lost my job? That my wife left me? That I'm a victim of the system?"

"Just looking for honesty."

The man tipped back his head and poured the remaining alcohol into his mouth. Like a basketball player shooting a foul shot, he lofted the empty bottle into the nearby trash can. "Mostly I chow down at Pancho's--a Mexican joint a few blocks away. They got five tacos for two-fifty. It ain't exactly the Ritz, but it keeps me on the breathing side of the dirt."

"So all you eat are tacos?"

"A Big Mac now and then. I love Mickey-Dee's French fries."

"If you didn't buy liquor you'd be able to eat better meals, right?"

The man scratched his beard. "You some kinda social worker, or an AA member?"

"Just a servant of God."

The man stepped back, almost as if he were shoved. "Is that right? Well, maybe you'd be kind enough to give your God a message from John T. Williamson." The man paused for a moment and fixed his eyes on Simon's face. "Tell him that the world he created in six days really sucks. And for some folks, living on this Earth ain't no Garden of Eden."

Surprised that the man's blasphemous accusation did not enrage him, Simon smiled. "Do you really believe that God should be held accountable for your chosen lifestyle?"

"Look, bud, all I asked for was some spare change, not a Sunday sermon."

Simon dropped his shoes and socks on the sand, reached in his pants pocket, and removed a wad of cash folded neatly in half and held with a gold money clip. He moistened his fingers and peeled a fifty-dollar bill from the stack. "Are you a man of integrity, Mr. Williamson?"

The man squinted, as if he were trying to see the denomination of the bill Simon held between his thumb and index finger. "I don't rape, pillage, or steal, if that's what you mean."

"Promise me three things"--Simon waved the fifty--"and this fifty-dollar bill is yours."

The man studied Simon suspiciously. "You ain't one of those butt pirates, are you?"

Annoyed with the insinuation, Simon shook his head. "Interested or not?"

"As long as there ain't nothing kinky going on."

"On Christmas Day," Simon said, "I would like you to attend the ten o'clock services at Saint Michael's Church on Reed Street. It's right next to the library, only four blocks from here."

"My wardrobe ain't exactly fit for church."

"What you wear does not concern God."

He nodded. "Okay."

"After the services, assemble as many of your homeless friends as possible, catch the southbound bus on Grand Avenue, and take it to Katie's Kitchen in South San Diego. I want you and your buddies to enjoy a traditional Christmas dinner."

"I heard of the place but never been there." A strong wind blew in from the west. The man zipped up his jacket. "And what's the last thing?"

"From midnight Christmas Eve to midnight Christmas Day, promise me that you won't touch a drop of alcohol."

The man scratched his beard. "That's a mighty tall request, bud."

"I won't be looking over your shoulder, but if you agree I expect you to keep your word."

The man stepped toward Simon and held out his hand. "You got a deal, mister."

Simon handed him the fifty. He bent over and picked up his shoes and socks. "What size shoes do you wear?"

Williamson stuffed the fifty in his jacket pocket. "Eleven."

Simon handed him the two-hundred-dollar loafers. "You have a Merry Christmas, Mr. Williamson."

The man clutched the shoes to his breast as if they were a newborn baby. "You're a solid citizen, sir. God bless you."

Williamson watched Simon head north, noticing that the generous man walked with a limp.

Only inches from the waves splashing the shoreline, Simon moseyed northward toward La Jolla. He had no particular destination in mind, only wanted to benefit from the ocean's salutary peacefulness. The farther he strolled, the fewer people he encountered. When he reached a remote area of rock formations, a cape of sorts, Simon, his right foot now aching from negotiating his way over jagged stones, found a boulder with a flat surface, sat down and elevated his foot. The wind had picked up and the air felt much too cool for his lightweight suit. He pulled up the collar and closed the front of his jacket. In spite of the unfriendly air, a feeling of tranquility soothed Simon. His body warmed from within. He felt good about himself and his purpose in life. He had made some mistakes. Like all weak mortals, Simon had broken God's laws. But in the Master's plan for mankind, He had provided divine forgiveness. Simon inhaled the salty air and felt his heart swell with excitement. One day soon he would be eternally rewarded for his intrepid crusade.

Simon had always felt an innate connection to water. With its sophisticated ecosystem and innumerable species--many yet undiscovered, others having survived centuries of evolution--the vast oceans dramatically represented God's masterful and unlimited creative genius. Not that Simon needed proof to support God's all-good and all-knowing qualities, but the ocean offered countless examples of His wisdom.

Simon had lived most of his life in Corpus Christi, Texas, on the Gulf of Mexico, and his affinity for water began at an early age. As a child he would sit on the pier in the harbor and watch fishing boats for hours, imagining what it would be like if he could breathe underwater and swim with whales and dolphins and manta rays. He had become a certified open-water scuba diver before his fifteenth birthday. By the time he turned eighteen, he had earned the status of dive master and had completed specialty courses in wreck diving, night diving, and underwater naturalist.

The wind whistled in his ears. The moon slipped behind one of the few clouds in the jet-black sky.

You have betrayed me, my impious son
.

Her words exploded in his ears like a gunshot. "Leave me alone, Mother. Haven't you hurt me enough?"

Such a naive little boy. Did you think that I would let you dismiss me like some cheap whore?

"You are a sinner, Mother, a woman unworthy of a loving son."

Oh, but you are so wrong, Simon. Remember those nights in my bed? Those long, lazy afternoons? Tell me that you did not enjoy the sweetness of my lips? Tell me that I did not taste like honey?

He pressed his palms against his ears, but he could not silence her.

Prove to me that I am the only woman you will ever love
.

"Please, Mother, leave me be."

Know this, Simon: I will never leave you. You cannot wave your hand and banish me. I will be with you forever. I will live in your head till Judgment Day
.

With his acute peripheral vision, Simon saw an indistinct figure approaching from the north. He quickly dismissed his mother's taunting words. Turning his head, he noticed a woman tiptoeing over unstable rocks, her arms held out like someone walking a tightrope. As she moved closer, only twenty feet away, he could see her youthful face. The gusty wind disheveled her long blonde hair. Wearing blue jeans and a bulky sweater, the tall lean woman approached him. She stopped only feet away from Simon, staring at him in a peculiar way. The moon broke free from the cloud formation. The woman had the face and figure of a fashion model.

She smiled and stuffed her hands in her Levi's. "Thought I was the only one crazy enough to be out here tonight." Her voice was marked by a Scandinavian accent.

Watch out for this one, son. She will corrupt your pure heart
.

"I don't think there's anything crazy about listening to the ocean," Simon said.

"I'm Brigetta. Any room on that rock for another lonely soul?" Her soft words sounded pitifully desperate.

Simon moved over and she sat beside him. He immediately felt warmth radiating from her body pressed against his side. He thought it odd that a woman would be so forward on a dark deserted beach. "My name's Simon."

"Let me guess--your fiancee just jilted you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Only a deeply depressed man, lost in troubled thoughts, would be sitting here alone, freezing his butt off, staring at the ocean."

Simon moved a few inches away from her. "I'm afraid that my story will not live up to your rather melodramatic premise."

For the second time, she adjusted her body against him. "So there's no heartbreaking story?"

He sensed her dissatisfaction with his inability to deliver a tale of woe. Maybe she herself felt melancholy and searched for comfort through another's damaged heart. "You sound disappointed that I'm not wallowing in sorrow."

She planted her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on folded hands. "Misery does love company." He noticed her staring at his bandaged foot.

"What happened to your foot?"

"Broke my toe." Simon felt a compulsion to put his arm around her but fought off the instinct, believing it best not to give her the wrong idea. Especially after his mother's warning. "What's your story, Brigetta?"

She cocked her head and stared past Simon. A seagull gracefully landed on a rock to their left. The curious bird cautiously studied them. "The doctors tell me if I'm lucky, I'll live to see my nineteenth birthday."

At first Simon thought he hadn't heard her clearly. But when he looked into her eyes he could see only morbid blankness. "What do you mean?"