They Never Die Quietly (2010) (18 page)

"I don't have to do anything, detective. Now pull your car behind that van."

Not wanting to antagonize the agent further, Al extinguished his fury, kept quiet, and parked the Chevy behind a beatup, light-blue cargo van. Al watched two agents tear through the old Ford like a couple of children wired on an overdose of Cocoa Puffs.

From out of nowhere, a giant figure, a man over six feet tall and as brawny as a professional wrestler appeared outside Al's window. The freckle-faced redhead wore a standard-issue brown Border Patrol uniform. "Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?"

Al pushed the door open hard, almost hitting the hulky man. Standing face-to-face with the agent, Al stood only a few inches shorter. The man's body language was unquestionably hostile.

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Al flashed his ID and detective shield. "Why are you people detaining me?"

"Why are you trying to cross the border with a firearm?"

"I'm a cop."

"Then you should know that nobody is allowed over the border with a weapon."

Al, of course, knew this but had never been hassled before. Professional courtesy had always existed between cops and agents. When Al had been in uniform, he often overlooked an agent driving a little too fast or one slightly intoxicated. Not recklessly, but as long as they hadn't been driving like a maniac or severely inebriated, he looked the other way.

The agent bent over and perused the interior of Al's car. "Tell me about your official business in Mexico."

"I'm investigating a homicide and met with one of our informants."

"In Tijuana?"

Al nodded.

"What's the guy's name?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential."

The agent rested his hand on his holstered pistol. "Don't get cute with me, detective."

Al took a deep breath.

"I'm gonna ask you again: Who did you meet in TJ?"

He glanced at the man's name tag. "Listen, Agent Sullivan, I can appreciate that you have a job to do, and I respect your attention to detail, but I'm sure you're aware that I have to follow strict security guidelines regarding informants. If I were to break the rules and reveal the identity of my source, it would seriously jeopardize our continued relationship."

The agent planted his hands on his hips. "Give me your superior officer's name and phone number. I need to verify your story." Al had heard stories about Border Patrol agents caught up in the majesty of authority, but this guy thought he was Genghis Khan. "Let me put it another way, Agent Sullivan. Maybe I can appeal to your sense of self-preservation."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Have you ever heard the term
obstruction of justice
?"

"Of course."

"Do you read the newspaper or watch the evening news?"

"Every day."

"Then you must be familiar with the nutcase crucifying young mothers, right?"

He nodded. "Guy should get the chair."

"You're absolutely right, Agent Sullivan. The only problem is this: I'm one of the detectives involved with this case, and by detaining me you are obstructing my ability to gather evidence that may help us roast this bastard's nuts. Mayor Stevens is personally involved in this investigation, and I can tell you firsthand, she ain't a happy camper. If you don't stop breaking my balls and let me over the border immediately, I'm gonna have a little chat with the mayor and tell her that some overzealous cowboy fucked me over, and I promise you, Agent Sullivan, Mayor Stevens will see to it that your shiny badge ends up in a recycling bin, and you, my friend, will be picking fucking strawberries for a living."

Sullivan's face turned so red his freckles almost disappeared. "I'm sorry for the delay, detective"--Sullivan spoke with a shaky voice--"the next time you make a trip to TJ, I'll see to it personally that you're moved through customs without a hitch. Um...I'm sorry for the misunderstanding."

The rain started shortly after Al reached American soil. A heavy downpour pounded Al's windshield. The wipers--even on high speed--couldn't keep the glass clear. As usual, when it rained in San Diego the traffic snarled--even midday. Al could never quite understand why wet roads had such a profound impact on traffic. You'd think that ten inches of snow had fallen. While stopped on the gridlocked freeway, listening to the news on KTAK radio, Al closed his eyes for an instant and again tenderly massaged his temples.

The Advil was losing the battle.

He'd fallen again. Hungover and nauseated, he craved a morning beer. Big trouble loomed. Considering Sami and Angelina's disappearance, he had to enlist every ounce of willpower to remain sober. Oh, how he loathed himself right now.

Al's cell phone rang, but when he pushed talk, the line was dead. Suddenly, it occurred to him: Why not call Sami's cellular and pager? Wherever she was--if not incapacitated, a possibility he forced out of his thoughts--perhaps she'd respond. That Al hadn't thought of this earlier, baffled him. The alcohol had diluted his ability to think clearly. He thumbed in her cellular number. Partly from last night's binge, but more from fear, his hand shook.

After two rings: "The cellular customer you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later, or wait for the tone and leave either a numeric or voice message."

"Sami, this is Al. Please call me ASAP." He thought about a lengthier message, but to what avail?

Al now tried Sami's pager. After four rings: "After the beep you may leave a numeric message. When you are finished, please push the star key." He punched in his cell number. Now all he could do was wait.

Al didn't anticipate using the siren and red beacon, but without their help he'd never make it to Josephine Rizzo's house. Unfortunately, all four freeway lanes were jammed with bumper-to-bumper vehicles. If he turned on his siren and flashing red light, where would these cars go? They weren't helicopters. Al placed the flashing beacon on the dashboard, snugged it against the windshield, pulled to the right shoulder, and drove on the narrow apron.

For the entire ride, wild thoughts plagued Detective Diaz. He didn't want to overreact, but his cop instincts were screaming in his ear: Sami and Angelina are in a life-threatening situation. Having a reliable nose for trouble was not always an asset.

He squealed into Josephine's driveway, then raced to the front porch through a torrential downpour. Only thirty paces from his car, Al stood in front of the door dripping wet. Before he could knock, Josephine opened the door. She wore a navy terry cloth bathrobe. Her eyes were red and puffy.

Detective Diaz wiped his feet on the doormat, shook the dripping rain off his head, and stepped into the living room. Josephine dabbed her eyes with a knotted tissue. He removed a notepad and pen from his pocket.

"I'm so glad they sent you, Alberto." Josephine was the only person north of the border who called him by his given name. "I'm worried sick."

They sat on the sofa.

"Tell me about the guy who picked up Sami."

She blew her nose. "I didn't see him, but his name begins with an
S.
It's not a
regular
name."

Al scribbled on the pad. "Did Sami say what he looked like?"

"Handsome and tall. Really tall."

"Did Sami tell you anything about him?"

"He's a physical therapist."

"Do you know where he lives or works?"

"I don't, Alberto."

"Where did they go?"

"Out to dinner, but I don't know where."

Al asked Josephine a series of questions about Sami's date. He filled two pages with notes. Time to switch gears.

"What time did you first notice Angelina missing?"

"Must have been around four."

He didn't want to insult her but had to ask. "You've thoroughly checked the house--under the bed, in closets, anywhere she might hide?"

"She's not here, Alberto," Josephine's lips tightened to a thin line.

Al craned his neck and surveyed the room. He noticed the broken chain on the front door and the splintered wood. As soon as he finished interviewing Josephine, he'd contact Davison, fill him in, and ask the latent fingerprint department to thoroughly examine the premises.

"Don't touch anything until we have a chance to dust for fingerprints."

"Okay."

"Do you have keys to Sami's house?" Al asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"It would be a good idea if I went over there and checked things out."

Josephine went into the kitchen and returned with two keys attached to a panda bear key chain. She tossed them at Al.

Al stuffed the keys in his back pocket. "Anything else you can tell me, Josephine?"

Josephine spoke through grim eyes. "If I lose my Sami and my granddaughter..."

"Sami and Angelina are fine. I promise."

Now all Al needed was to buy into his own promise.

Surprised that Angelina slept most of the morning, Simon sat in the recliner beside the sofa, watching her sleep. He opened his Bible to a passage he'd read several times: Proverbs 22:6 "Teach your children to choose the right path, and when they are older, they will remain upon it." Intoxicated by this little girl, he fantasized about how wonderful it would be if he were her father. He didn't expect that he'd ever father a child; in order to do so he'd have to get married, and his mother would never approve. Besides, as a devoted servant of the Almighty, God had already set his destiny. The Creator had not planned for Simon to be married. But who would be more suited to raise a child than he? Surely God Himself would endorse this admirable ambition. And just like his mother had done, he could introduce Angelina to adulthood on her twelfth birthday. Oh, how proud his mother would be knowing that her only son followed in her footsteps.

He knelt by the sofa and gently stroked Angelina's hair, brushing it away from her face. Such a beautiful child. Did he really have to wait until she turned twelve to show her how much he adored her? Perhaps now, during the quiet hours of the morning would be the perfect time. He carefully removed the blanket covering her. Sleeping in the fetal position, her pink dress barely covered her legs. He gently brushed the back of his hand up and down her milk-white legs. She didn't move.

Don't you dare touch that little girl!

"Mother?"

Just what do you think you're doing?

"I think you know."

She is merely a child, Simon
.

"Does that really make a difference, Mother?"

It does in God's eyes. The time will come soon enough, sweet boy. You must be patient.

He thought for a moment, then covered Angelina with the blanket. "You may be right, Mother."

I'm always right, Simon.

Before Angelina awoke, Simon prepared scrambled eggs, bacon, home-fried potatoes, and buttered toast. He arranged the late-morning breakfast on a dish and set it on the kitchen table. He poured two glasses of milk. Angelina started to stir, so Simon knelt beside the sofa and gently shook her shoulder.

"Good morning, princess." He pushed the hair out of her eyes.

She sniffed the air. "I smell bacon."

"Are you hungry?"

"Really, really hungry." She sat up.

He grabbed her hand and led her to the kitchen. Her two-year-old body could not comfortably reach the table, so Simon piled some magazines on the chair to prop her up.

Angelina examined the plate. She wrinkled her nose. "Eggs are yucky!"

"They're good for you."

She shook her head. "I don't like 'em."

"My scrambled eggs are delicious. Please try just a taste."

"Can I eat the bacon with my hands?"

From a plate in the center of the table, Simon grabbed a piece of bacon and took a big bite. "If you try just a tiny bite of my eggs, you can even eat the potatoes with your hands."

She smiled, forked a small portion of the scrambled eggs, and scrunched her nose. As if she were taking cough medicine, she slowly slipped the fork past her lips. She chewed slowly and rolled her eyes. "I like 'em better than Mommy's."

Simon sat next to Angelina and they quietly ate breakfast. Angelina finished the bacon and potatoes, took two bites of the toast, but she left most of the scrambled eggs.

She rubbed her belly in a circular motion. "That was really good."

"Would you like to see your mommy?"

Angelina nodded. Her eyes opened wide. "Does she got a present for me?"

"Finish your milk and we'll see."

Sami heard the dead bolt turn and sprang off the bed. Instinctively, she brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt and fussed with her hair. Trying to remain calm, she attempted to fill her lungs but could only inhale a shallow breath. Step one of her survival plan was to hide her churning emotions from Simon. She felt as if she were unraveling.

Steady, girl. This is the moment of truth.

The door swung open. Before Sami even realized that her daughter lingered in the shadows just behind Simon--her eyes were fixed on Simon's taunting sneer--Angelina spotted her mother and charged toward her like a three-foot-three sprinter. "Mommy, Mommy! Where's my big present?" Angelina wrapped her arms around Sami's knees and almost knocked her backward onto the bed.

Sami's eyes narrowed with contempt. She glared at Simon and silently mouthed the words, "You bastard!"

Simon grinned from ear to ear. "Thought you could use a little company."

Before Sami could respond, Simon did an about-face and slammed the steel door.

So much for hiding my emotions.

On the way to Sami's house, Al telephoned Captain Davison and told him what he knew thus far.

"I've got every available detective working on this, Al," Davison said. "Any leads on your end?"

"Not yet."

"Think Sami's disappearance has something to do with the serial killer?"

Al thought of this possibility. Her date fit the profile, but he refused to accept it as a valid supposition. What were the chances that Sami's mysterious suitor was the same man they were after? It seemed unlikely. "I think it's a bizarre coincidence, boss."

"After you check out Sami's house give me a call. I want to hear from you on the hour--even if you just breathe in my ear. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And one more thing: If you need anything, call me immediately."

Al parked in front of Sami's house and frisked his pockets for cigarettes. There were only two left in the crumpled pack. In the past, when he'd fallen off the no-smoking wagon, one pack had been enough to set him straight. He had a funny feeling that soon he'd be buying a carton. What worried him most was the lingering taste of Scotch so convincingly wearing away his willpower.

The violent rainstorm dwindled to a light sprinkle. The ominous clouds were losing their grip and odd-shaped patches of blue dotted the sky. The sun started to burn off the stubborn clouds. Soon the sky would be the color of balloon flowers. Al heard on the radio that many streets in Mission Valley were flooded. The engineers who designed the San Diego sewer and drainage system must have believed the song "It Never Rains in Southern California." From March to November you couldn't fill a thimble with rain, but during the winter months, particularly January and February, it often poured with a vengeance.

Parked in Sami's driveway, Al sat in the car, sucking on a cigarette for almost ten minutes. To waste crucial time made no sense. In fact, minutes often made the difference between life and death. Yet Al lingered, feeling almost paralyzed, terrified by what he might find inside Sami's house. He could not dismiss the possibility that Sami was indeed inside. Perhaps unconscious. Maybe seriously injured. Or maybe she could be...

Al plodded toward the front door like a man trudging through mud. In his infinite optimism, he rang the doorbell and pounded the side of his fist against the door. No such luck. After steadying his shaky hands and unlocking the door, Al stepped into the living room and looked around, clinging to the quickly vanishing hope that Sami and Angelina were safe and sound. Cupping both hands around his mouth, he yelled.

"Sami. Are you here? Angelina."

Other than the clock on the far wall ticking away, Al heard nothing. One more time.

"Sami, it's Al. Where are you?"

Al's eyes were misty, his throat tight.

The condition of the living room typified classic Sami housekeeping, untidy and cluttered with debris. Al observed two empty pizza boxes on the cocktail table, toys scattered about, empty coffee mugs and glasses, books, newspapers, magazines, and a half-filled Tic Tac container. He hadn't fallen in love with her because of her domestic flair. He loved just looking at Sami, smelling her hair, feeling her leg pressed against his when they stuffed pizza in their faces while watching a Chargers game. Samantha Rizzo rocked Alberto Diaz's world.

He found his way to Angelina's bedroom and poked his head inside. Immediately, Al caught a whiff of baby powder and chocolate. Oh, how Angelina loved chocolate, particularly Tootsie Rolls. He could almost see that exaggerated grin and her baby teeth covered with the sticky brown candy, her tiny fingers navigating the inside of her mouth to break it free. Without entering, he carefully flipped the light switch with his elbow and looked around. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Then again, he thought, how could a single man have a clue as to what was ordinary to a child? Reason took control and he stepped into the room. Hanging to the floor, a Mickey Mouse comforter covered the unmade bed. Pink pajamas lay on the corner of the mattress, and furry Oscar the Grouch slippers sat on the powder-blue carpeting. Although Angelina had been abducted from Josephine Rizzo's home, he still proceeded cautiously, not wanting to contaminate anything until the latent fingerprint department dusted for prints. The top dresser drawer was slightly open, the closet door ajar, toys dotted the floor.

Convinced that Angelina's bedroom offered no clues, he headed for Sami's room.

The bedroom door was closed. Clinging to the last grain of hope, Al gently knocked. Using his sleeve, he carefully twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door. He saw an assortment of clothes piled on top of the unmade bed. Several pairs of shoes sat on the floor. He couldn't help feeling like an intruder, an uninvited guest molesting Sami's privileged world, desecrating the sovereignty of her private domain. On the other hand, Al felt warm all over. This is the bed where she lay beneath the sheets every night. How many times had the full-length mirror reflected an image of her naked body?

Al sat on the bed and touched Sami's pillow. He picked it up and pressed it to his face. Ah. Sami's scent invaded his senses. He could never quite explain what she smelled like. Getting a whiff of Sami was like walking through a lemon grove. She had a fresh, citrus scent. Must be her shampoo, he guessed. For several minutes Al sat in a trancelike state. Like a photo album of their six-year relationship, crisp images flashed through his mind. Every detail so clear. He closed his eyes for a moment and burned an image of her face into his memory bank.

One by one, Al searched her dresser drawers, carefully examining everything with precision. He could not afford to take anything for granted. Somewhere in this room, Al felt certain, a clue waited to be discovered. The contents of the drawers yielded only a momentary departure from reality. In the third drawer he discovered Sami's lingerie. He imagined what she might look like in the black lace bra and matching panties. Granted, Sami didn't have a model's figure, at least not by today's standards. Sami's figure was more like an hourglass. But Al liked a woman with curves. And by God, Sami had plenty of them!

Give it up, Al. Time to be a cop, not a heartsick fool
.

Now the closet. Piece by piece, he rummaged through pockets: blazers, slacks, jeans, jackets--hunting for something. Anything. Again, a dead end. He sat on the bed and stared at the floor, angry, annoyed, helpless. Glancing at the nightstand, Al spotted what looked like a greeting card. Without touching it, he examined it carefully. He noticed Sami's name neatly printed on the face of the envelope. Below her name he saw the address of the precinct. A Pacific Beach postmark was imprinted next to the stamp. He used the corner of the sheet to lift the envelope. No return address, front or back. Touching just the edges of the card, Al strategically slid the card out of the envelope and read the inside greeting.

Simon?

Josephine Rizzo thought that the name of Sami's Thursday evening date began with an
S
. Could be a coincidence, but what else did he have? Josephine also remembered that he worked as a physical therapist. With a Pacific Beach postmark, Al guessed that Simon either lived or worked in the area. If he lived in PB, how could Al possibly find him without knowing his last name? Bayshore was the only hospital in the area, but several stand-alone facilities offered physical and occupational therapy.

For another thirty minutes Al ransacked Sami's bedroom, but to no avail. Having no other lead, he went with his gut and decided to pay the hospital a visit.

"Are we going to live here, Mommy?" Angelina sat in front of the television watching cartoons, munching saltine crackers. Sami paced the floor like a caged animal.

"Only for a few days, honey."

Since delivering Angelina early this morning, Simon had all but vanished. The sound of footsteps above was the only sign of his presence. Sami had no idea what activities occupied him; maybe constructing a crucifix? Can't just walk into your local lumberyard and buy one ready-made.

Although being in the same room with Simon would cause Sami unbearable anxiety, particularly with Angelina present, she hoped that he would spend time antagonizing them. Isn't that what crazed killers lived for, to taunt and tease their victims, like a cat toying with a mouse? Didn't they derive just as much pleasure from psychological cruelty as physical torture?

To survive, Sami had to get into his head, find out what made him tick. He had to have a weakness. All nutcases did. How could she find his hot button if he remained upstairs?

After the shock of Angelina's kidnapping wore off, Sami felt immediate concern for her mother's welfare. Simon didn't merely knock on her mother's front door in the early morning hours and snatch Angelina without a struggle. Sami had to rely on what Angelina had told her--"We didn't wake Grandma 'cause she was sleeping"--and pray it was true.

While the television continued to hypnotize Angelina, Sami examined every square inch of the "living quarters." The forethought Simon employed to design this prison with such exacting detail further proved that he was a calculating sociopath. Only a man mentally deranged could have constructed an area so fastidiously. He thought of everything; the self-contained environment could support life indefinitely. Or for as long as he deemed it necessary. Replenishing the food inventory was Simon's only task. Sami didn't expect she'd be here long enough for the supply of bath towels, linens, and toilet paper to run out. No, by Sunday evening, she guessed, either she'd be dead or rescued.