They Never Die Quietly (2010) (16 page)

Calm down, girl
.

"I'm afraid we're stuck with dining in the kitchen," Simon said. He sipped the wine. "This matchbox house doesn't have a formal dining room."

The rectangular oak table was set with a vase of fresh calla lilies, crystal candleholders, and an off-white linen tablecloth.

Is there no end to this masquerade?
"How can I help?"

"You can set the table." He pointed to a lower cupboard. "You'll find place mats and napkins in the bottom drawer, silverware in the top drawer, and dishes in the upper cabinet."

Simon's china was exquisite: ivory dinner plates with gold trim; simple yet elegant. The silverware felt heavy and masculine. Sami wasn't surprised. Everything fit. Many serial killers were not only handsome and refined, they were regular Martha Stewarts around the house. When they sat for dinner, Simon dimmed the lights, lit candles, and delivered two plates of steamy cuisine that looked like presentations from the Food Network. She had carefully watched him spoon the lobster thermidor to the plates and felt certain he had not tampered with her portion.

Again he offered a toast. "Here's to good food, vintage wine, and a captivating lady."

Goose bumps covered Sami's skin. She held up her glass. "To an elegant host."

As they ate dinner and exchanged carefully edited biographies, each playing the role of would-be lovers, Sami felt profound sadness that the evening was a ruse. She could not suppress her primal attraction to Simon. Her life had been devoid of intimacy for so long it was hard for her to disregard her womanly desires. It
was
possible that all of the circumstantial evidence, no matter how compelling, had led Sami to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps her unrelenting drive to solve this case skewed her usually rational thinking to the point of total make-believe. That Simon was actually as charming and well-bred as he represented himself could indeed be a viable possibility. When was the last time anyone prepared such an exquisite meal for her? The one time Tommy DiSalvo had even attempted to cook dinner he tossed a plate of leftover meat loaf in the microwave and delivered the lukewarm food to the kitchen table as proud as a man who had just won the gold medal for best entree at a world-renowned culinary competition. She could not afford to get careless, but if the evening proved that Simon was not the serial killer, she surely would not be disappointed.

The lobster thermidor was a triumph, a dramatic departure from Sami's usual fare. She hadn't enjoyed wine in quite some time and after only a few sips her head was reeling. Not wanting to numb her senses further and potentially place herself in danger, she finished the lobster but did not drink the rest of the wine.

"Well, do I have a shot at a feature recipe in
Food & Wine
?"

So preoccupied with her intense thoughts, Sami hadn't bothered to compliment him on the extraordinary meal. "Forgive my inability to comment earlier, Simon. I was too busy savoring your creation."

"Is that a thumbs-up?" He gestured with his hand.

"You win first prize for culinary excellence."

Simon stood. "Did you leave room for dessert?"

Her skirt--tight before she'd eaten--felt dangerously close to choking her midsection. "You must be joking."

Simon cleared the table, set fresh wineglasses on the counter and filled them with a slightly chilled Sauternes. From the refrigerator he removed a chocolate cake covered with whipped cream and raspberries.

With her mouth agape, Sami watched him deliver the impeccably designed mountain of decadence to the center of the table. "So that my feminine ego isn't forever bruised, please tell me you bought that cake."

"Baked it myself." He held up his arms like a magician showing the audience that his hands were empty. "With my own two hands."

Simon set the half-filled wineglasses on the table. Condensation had already begun to form on the outside of the glasses. He cut two small wedges of the luscious cake and carefully placed them on dessert plates. "Hate to leave you alone, but I need to use the little boy's room. You can sip your wine, but promise me you won't taste the cake until I return."

"Take your time, Simon." This was the opportunity she'd been hoping for.

As she watched him limp to the bathroom, she couldn't help wondering what might happen tonight if Simon proved to be nothing more than a delightful man wanting to impress a woman he felt attracted to. If his intentions truly were honorable and his motivation sincere, how could she ever deal with the guilt of falsely suspecting that he was a diabolical serial killer?

Time to depart from her fantasy world and put on her detective badge. Sami guessed that she had about two minutes before Simon took care of business. If he caught her snooping around she would say that she had decided to tour his home. A believable story, she thought. It didn't make sense to search open rooms or visible areas. After all, it seemed unlikely that Simon would have incriminating evidence lying on the cocktail table or his next victim gagged and bound to a bed. She didn't expect to find a crucifix erected in the living room either. No, somewhere in this house was a sanctuary, a room or closet or private area that told a chilling story.

As soon as she heard the bathroom door click shut, Sami tiptoed past the living room, down the hall. She noticed three rooms off the hallway, two with their doors wide open, one closed. She didn't bother with the two that were open. But the room at the end of the hall with the door shut heightened her curiosity. Walking as softly as she could, the hardwood floors creaking with each step, she inched toward the farthest room.

She grasped the doorknob, hoping that the door was unlocked, and turned it clockwise. Click. Sami pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold into the darkness. Light from the kitchen poured down the hallway and spilled into the room. An unidentifiable object stood in the middle of the room, but there wasn't enough light to determine what it was. She caught a whiff of scented candles or flowers or perhaps one of those deodorizers that plug into a wall socket. Something floral. She groped for a light switch on the wall next to the door molding. Nothing. Now the opposite side. Her fingers found the switch. For a moment, Sami hesitated. She had no idea what she'd see in this room. It might just be a spare bedroom, or a utility room, or maybe a catchall for seldom-used possessions.

She flipped on the light.

For an instant that seemed like an eternity, Sami's eyes--not yet adjusted to the bright light--darted around the room in a frantic frenzy to absorb everything at once.

"
My God!
"

In that one sobering moment Sami Rizzo clearly understood how utterly foolish she'd been, how her ego had triumphed over reason. Everything she knew about logic and discretion she'd treated as if it were a fairy tale, as if what she'd been taught about prudent detective work was optional, a mere suggestion. She had made a horrendous tactical error and her poor judgment had placed her in a life-threatening situation with a madman. Her only hope was to dash out the door and call for help. She slipped her hand inside her purse, searching for her handgun.

The floor squeaked behind her.

One of Simon's powerful arms wrapped around her torso, chest high, and restrained her arms. Before she could utter a sound or jam her heel into the instep of his injured right foot, he covered her face with a damp cloth and pressed it firmly against her mouth and nostrils, making it impossible for her to draw a breath of fresh air. As she fought to break free, unable to loosen his grip, the vapors from the ether-soaked cloth assaulted her lungs. The bleachlike odor immediately made her woozy. The room began to spin like a carousel, and Sami lost the strength to fight, her body feeling as if it were a rag doll. For one crazed moment, she clawed at his hand, digging her fingernails into his flesh. But his grip only tightened. At a point when Sami's legs could no longer support her weight, Simon let her go and she collapsed to the floor. Before her vision blurred to blackness and her consciousness yielded to the powerful anesthetic, Sami glanced at Simon and saw the face of the devil himself.

Certain Sami was out cold, Simon went back into the kitchen, finished the wedge of chocolate raspberry cake, and swallowed the last mouthful of wine. He cleared the table, rinsed the dishes and silverware, and neatly arranged them in the dishwasher. Still favoring his sore foot, Simon carefully lifted Sami off the floor, bent her limp body over his shoulder, and as if he were doing squats with a two-hundred-pound barbell, balanced her weight, flexed his powerful legs, and stood upright. He negotiated his way down the stairs and laid her on the bed in the Room of Redemption. For several minutes, Simon stood over Sami and stared at her.

You will be my most cherished offering
.

Suspecting that she might have an easy-to-conceal weapon on her person, he stripped her to bra and panties and carefully searched her clothing. He found nothing. He sat on the bed and gently pushed the wisps of hair away from her eyes. Simon could not deny that Detective Rizzo was a striking woman. Her skin was like ivory, off-white and smooth to the touch. Her lips were full and inviting. But in spite of her pleasing external appearance, she was an infidel, a sinner, a detective trying to thwart God's work. Knowing that she'd been skillfully trained to defend herself, he considered handcuffing her to the bed. But when he'd done the same to Peggy McDonald, she'd rubbed her wrist raw. Simon didn't wish to treat his guests like animals, but to prevent her from attacking him he needed leverage.

He covered Sami with a blanket, locked the steel door, and went upstairs. On the floor near the doorway to the room where Sami met her fate, he spotted her handbag. Simon shook the contents onto the kitchen table and pawed through the pile of her possessions: wallet, cell phone, pager, two makeup bags, pens, tissue, gum wrappers, business cards, snub-nosed revolver. Attached to a fob the size of a quarter, he found a metal ring with a dozen various keys. On one side of the fob was a balance scale, the astrological symbol for Libra. On the other side was a picture of Angelina.

You've done well, my sweet son. I'm proud of you
.

"Thank you, Mother."

I must caution you, Simon
.

He listened carefully.

You look at this one with lust in your eyes
.

"That's not true, Mother."

You cannot hide your weakness of the flesh from me, dear boy.

"You are the only one, Mother."

Don't disappoint me, son.

"Never."

Simon wrapped the cell phone and pager in a dish towel and set them on the floor. He searched through the drawer next to the sink and found the metal hammer he used to pound veal and chicken breasts. With repeated blows he smashed the cell phone and pager until they were reduced to tiny pieces. Then he shook them out of the towel and into a plastic bag. Simon flipped the cylinder open on the .38 special, poured the hollow-point bullets into the palm of his hand, stuffed the revolver in the kitchen drawer, and tossed the bullets into the bag with the remains of the pager and cell phone. He examined Sami's assortment of keys, focusing on Angelina's photograph.

Leverage
.

Alberto Diaz had quit smoking over ten years ago, and with Sami's encouragement and the help of AA, he stopped drinking more than three years ago. On this particular evening, just before midnight, unable to sleep and as jumpy as an expectant father, Alberto Diaz ventured to the corner twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven. Buying a pack of Winstons did not prick his conscience too severely. But the adjacent aisle, with its endless assortment of booze, tested his resolve. Ah, California. Where else could a man buy a bottle of salvation from the neighborhood convenient store in the wee hours of the morning?

Al left the Winstons on the glass checkout counter and moved toward the display of alcohol. As if hypnotized, his eyes fixed on an impressive variety of scotch. One particular brand caught his eye and immediately evoked bitter memories. He reached for the bottle of Dewar's White Label and held it like delicate crystal.

Need to take the edge off. Just a pint. Sixteen ounces. Can't possibly hurt
.

He ran his thumb over the label as if he were stroking velvet.

One drink. Just one
.

He remembered the throbbing hangovers, his stomach on fire, kneeling in front of the "porcelain throne" and puking his guts out. He'd never forget waking up in the middle of the night and hanging his foot off the bed onto the floor to stop the room from spinning. Was it worth it? He set the Dewar's on the counter next to the Winston's and dropped a twenty-dollar bill in front of the clerk.

Fuck it
.

When Al returned home, he poured the Scotch over ice, sat in his favorite recliner, set the glass on the cocktail table, and lit a Winston. In the dark, he puffed away. Oh, how marvelous to fill his lungs with the soothing smoke. He'd forgotten that wonderful high. Sucking on the cigarette did not cause Al too much angst. The booze, on the other hand, jabbed at his conscience and sense of well-being like a hot poker. Several times, Al held the glass in his hand. He even sniffed the seductive aroma and licked his lips. He could not take a sip. Yet.

He'd picked up the telephone a dozen times in the past hour but couldn't muster the courage to dial Sami's number. What if the answering machine picked up? That would mean she was still with him. How long did it take to have dinner? If she did answer, how would he justify calling so late?

His behavior was adolescent. Al knew this but couldn't help himself. He'd known that one day Sami would start dating again. Until now, Sami felt uncomfortable with the whole concept of dating, even though she and Tommy were divorced. Al believed it had something to do with Angelina. But now everything had changed and Sami was with another man, a man Al knew nothing about.

The scotch beckoned again, and without further evaluation Al emptied the glass with three long gulps. He could feel the warm alcohol slowly blaze a trail to his stomach. Almost immediately, his face felt aflame, and his head spun as if he were riding on a merry-go-round. After a second drink, a strong dose of alcohol courage overwhelmed Al, so he reached for the cordless telephone, pushed talk, speed dial, then the number four. After three rings he heard Sami's recorded message.

He heaved the telephone across the room and it ricocheted off the wall.

Al sat on the recliner and his eyes were drawn to a photo album sitting on the cocktail table. He made the mistake of picking it up and glancing through the timeworn pages. He saw old photos of his mother and father and sister.

Memories from Al's upbringing flooded his mind. Booze was always such a reliable time machine.

He drifted back to his childhood, reflecting on a Christmas past, the only time of the year when, thanks to the holiday magic, the oppression of poverty seemed diluted.

Cesar and Lucita Diaz, Al's parents, struggled to provide for Alberto and his older sister, Alita. Although Cesar worked steady, seven days a week as a short-order cook in a small restaurant in the heart of Tijuana, he earned barely enough to survive. The family lived in a three-room home on the outskirts of the city. Lucita could no longer contribute financially to the family. She suffered from two herniated disks, the result of a life laden with strenuous work as a housekeeper for a local hotel. Twelve-hour days of backbreaking work, flipping mattresses, vacuuming miles of carpeting, scrubbing showers and toilets, had finally taken their toll. Mexican employment laws were much less stringent than in the United States; they virtually didn't exist. The few that did were not enforced.

In spite of their meager existence and often insurmountable challenges, the Diaz family tried to live a spirited life. For the entire year, Cesar and Lucita deprived themselves of anything but the essentials of a simple existence. Each week they stashed away a small portion of Cesar's paycheck. At Christmastime, they used the savings to buy Alita and Alberto a wonderful Christmas gift.

The last December Al's mother was alive--Al had just become a teenager--he had gotten a Huffy ten-speed bicycle for Christmas. Considering their paltry lifestyle, to receive such a gift was an epic event. But Al, too angry to appreciate the significance of his parents' generosity and sacrifice, had not properly thanked them. They had scrimped all year to buy such an extravagant gift, and Al did not receive their unselfish gesture in the spirit in which it had been offered.

Al was pissed off at the world, fed up with poverty, tired of selling Chiclets to rude Americans at the international border. He could not find the words to thank his parents.

In later years, when Al fully understood the altruistic nature of his parents and the depth of their love, he wept for them often, regretting his lack of gracious gratitude. Whenever he visited their graves, he cried. Memories of Christmas choked him up. While kneeling beside their graves, he asked them to forgive him for never appreciating how wonderful they were.

With blurry eyes, Al remembered. He never got the chance to thank his parents for their devotion and uncompromising love. These were not the memories he wished to elicit. Not now. Alberto Diaz knew for certain that his past relationship with alcohol would once again be intimate.

To ensure that Sami's mother was sound asleep, Simon waited outside her home until after two a.m. The house was dark, and except for an occasional car whizzing by, the street deserted. There were several assorted house keys on Sami's key ring, and Simon guessed that one fit her mother's door. He could easily break in, but that could be risky. Using keys made him less conspicuous. He got out of the Explorer and looked up and down the street. No one in sight. Walking swiftly, he crossed the street and hopped up the steps leading to the front entrance of Josephine Rizzo's home. The only glitch in his plan would be if Sami's mother secured the door with a chain lock. Not that he couldn't effortlessly snap a thin chain, but any unnecessary noise could attract attention.

The screen door squeaked when he opened it. He held his breath for a minute. The first two keys did not fit the dead bolt lock; the third one did. Simon turned it clockwise. He tried to turn the doorknob, but it had also been locked. This time the first key he chose slid neatly into the slot.
Click.
He craned his neck and surveyed the landscape. Still no visible activity on the street. Perspiration dotted his upper lip. He twisted the doorknob and slowly opened the door, but as he suspected, the old woman had secured a chain lock. Simon owned two pairs of bolt cutters, one of which was in his Explorer.

Leaning into the wooden door with his shoulder, Simon planted his left foot for leverage and pushed hard against it. The wood split with a cracking sound and the chain broke free easier than he'd expected. Such a foolish deterrent. A child could have broken the chain. A night-light spilled from the kitchen into the living room; just enough light for Simon to find the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He had no way of knowing in which bedroom Angelina slept. He stood in the hall and listened. From the door on the right he could hear Josephine Rizzo snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He eased past her open door. At the end of the hall a dim light shone through the partially opened door, casting a ceiling-to-floor rectangle of light on the wall. He tiptoed toward the bedroom. With each step the old wooden floor creaked in protest.

Simon poked his head into the bedroom. Angelina looked sound asleep. He knelt beside the little girl's bed. He didn't wish to harm or frighten her, but if she didn't cooperate he'd have to restrain her. He removed a roll of duct tape from his pocket and set in on the floor. Just in case.

Gently, he grasped her shoulder and shook. Angelina's body twisted and she rubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. She yawned and her eyes opened just a slit.

Simon held his index finger to his lips. "Shhh. We have to whisper so we don't wake your grandma."

Angelina didn't utter a sound.

"Your mommy has a present for you."

She leaned on an elbow. "She does?"

"Yep. She's waiting for you right now."

"Where is she?"

"At my house."

"Can we go there?"

"Only if you promise to be very quiet."

Angelina rolled her eyes and smiled. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, "Is it a big present?"

Simon extended his arms. "It's this big."

Her eyes were like saucers.

Simon pawed through the chest of drawers and found an adorable pink dress. Then he helped Angelina put it on, grasped her hand, and led her toward the door. Suddenly Angelina stopped.

"Mommy told me not to go with strangers."

Simon knelt down and gently grabbed her shoulders. "Do you remember when you and your mommy came to the hospital to visit me?"

She nodded.

"And remember when your mommy got all dressed up last night?"

"She went on a date."

"That's right, Angelina. Your mommy came over to my house for dinner. She wouldn't have dinner with a stranger, would she?"

She thought about that for a moment. "Can we bring Grandma?"

"She's really tired, so we're going to let her sleep."

At first, only a glimmer of disoriented consciousness interrupted Sami's stupor. She had no concept of time, no immediate recollection of what happened, and didn't know where she lay. The only thing she knew for sure was that at any moment she would throw up. Her head, feeling as if it were floating above her body, spun out of control. The damp room smelled musty, adding to her nausea. From a small adjoining kitchenlike area, dim light spilled into the room, barely enough for Sami to see. It looked like a studio apartment, equipped with all the essentials to live a modest life: TV, microwave, small refrigerator, and a large cardboard box overflowing with toys. Toys to occupy the children. Ah, yes, he had thought of everything.

She lay on the bed beneath a blanket, caressing her bare skin, trying to rub the chill away, searching her not-too-keen memory. Why was she wearing only a bra and panties? The obvious conclusion sickened her. Lucidity didn't come quickly; it took several minutes for Sami to reconstruct the foggy puzzle. When she did, a feeling of chaotic frenzy overwhelmed her.