There was still hope!
She dragged out her purse and opened it to see that it was empty. No phone, no keys, no cash. But that didn’t matter right now. What Kelly needed was tucked in the false bottom. She managed to pry up the stiff leather divider and reached into the one-inch recess to find what she was looking for: a syringe pre-loaded with Flumazenil.
She slid the needle into her arm and depressed the plunger, shooting the antidote into her veins. She’d brought it along in case she needed to bring Moretti out of his haze, but since the night had taken a sharply different turn, the drug could end up saving her life.
The Flumazenil worked quickly and Kelly could already feel the haze begin to dissipate. The first message that came through was loud and clear.
Run!
Kelly got to her feet and managed to stay upright. So far, so good. The room was large and the door seemed miles away across a vast expanse of Berber carpet. She took an experimental step toward the door.
Maybe she wasn’t going to die here tonight.
She advanced another step and her outlook seemed brighter than at any time in the past several hours. As she inched closer to freedom, she heard a toilet flush. Panic set in, and at the same time her adrenals kicked into overdrive. She felt a surge of strength. The question was, could she make it all the way across the room to the front door before he came back in? If he caught her trying to run out, she was finished.
And then another thought occurred to her.
A few moments later, Tommy Moretti strode back into the living room, a grin on his face and an erection in his pants. He was ready to party again.
What he wasn’t ready for was getting bashed in the back of his head with a heavy clay Greek funerary urn.
Moretti collapsed, face planting into the thick carpet.
She hoped she hadn’t killed him.
They had unfinished business.
52
Kelly slowly and awkwardly made her way down the street, her steps teetering. While the Flumazenil worked to clear her head, she was still unstable on her feet and appeared either over-medicated or over-served. She’d put on one of Moretti’s sport coats to cover her torn dress, and while she detested the feel of it against her skin, she’d had no other option.
The night was cold and damp, chilling Kelly to her core. She had no money and no phone, but she had an idea. It wasn’t a great idea, but an idea nonetheless. She staggered forward, impelled by a desperate sense of urgency. She hurried her pace, but lacked the mind/body coordination to pull it off and she stumbled, crashing to the pavement with bone-jarring intensity.
Kelly laid there on a sidewalk filthy with city grit and canine waste. The world seemed to turn on its axis, sending her tumbling down a dark well into mental oblivion.
She had no concept of how long she’d been stretched out on the pavement before being propped up to a sitting position, her back against a wall. When her vision came into focus, she was staring straight into the eyes of Gizmo.
“You okay, lady?”
Kelly looked around, straining to figure out if this was a dream or if she was actually face to face with Francisco Ramos. Her sense of normalcy had been turned upside down. She was Alice, aimlessly staggering through Wonderland, and she’d somehow ended up at a tea party with a gangbanger.
“Where… where am I?”
“Dolores Park. What happened to you?”
“I need to talk to Oscar.”
“Oscar who?” Gizmo asked cautiously.
Kelly reached deep to come up with his street name. “Spider. I mean Spider.”
“Spider? How you know Spider?”
“You… you’re Gizmo, right?”
Gizmo had no clue how this drunken guera knew his name. Maybe they partied together some night when he was already baked. He smiled at the notion of making time with someone so fine.
Suddenly, Gizmo’s face went slack. The short black hair, the Goth makeup, the bruises on her neck. She looked nothing like the blonde doctor that was taking care of Diego Sanchez. The same doctor that took care of him many years ago. It was her jade green eyes that gave her away. Those were eyes a young boy never forgot.
“Doctor Kelly?”
She nodded.
Gizmo’s demeanor quickly shifted. This woman had the blessing and protection of the Mission Street Norteños. Mess with her, you mess with the gang. “Who did this to you? We’ll fuck him up bad.”
Kelly shook her head. “I need Spider.”
“Spider’s not around. I can take care of it for you. Just gimme a name.”
She grimaced as she struggled to stand up. “Necessito Spider, por favor. Es muy importante.”
Gizmo didn’t want to be waking up his man at three in the morning. It would be a show of weakness if he couldn’t handle this situation. He’d be labeled a chavala.
“You can trust me. I swear,” he said.
“I know… but tonight… I need to speak to Spider. Please.”
Her desperation was so intense, Gizmo could almost feel its cold tentacles. He pulled out his cell, made the call, and then handed the phone to Kelly.
A short time later, Kelly was slouched against the back door of the clinic. Gizmo stood some twenty yards behind her in the shadows. He’d been instructed to bring her here, watch her back and make sure no one tried to mess with her. He was curious what was going on, but had learned early on that you don’t ask questions. They could get you hurt, or worse.
Kelly spent several minutes blankly staring at the electronic lock on the back door. It took a four-digit code, but recalling that code required a degree of mental keenness that she currently lacked. She tried running number combinations in her head, but nothing was remotely familiar. Damn it! She’d punched the code into the keypad a few thousand times in the past couple of years.
She let her hand hover over the keypad for a moment, hoping that pure muscle memory would kick in and do the work for her. She didn’t need to know the actual numbers if her fingers remembered the pattern. She focused all of her attention on her hand, willing it to perform its magic, but it just hung in the air as if waiting for inspiration of its own.
After a grueling minute that felt like an hour, her fingers finally settled on the keypad and slowly punched in four numbers. A moment later the entry pad light switched from red to green.
Kelly got the pharmaceutical keys from a box tucked away in her father’s desk and entered the tiny room where the meds were locked up. She feverishly sorted through the various drugs until she found more Flumazenil. It was the last dose they had.
Her hands were shaking as she tried to draw the liquid drug into a syringe. Suddenly, the ampoule slipped from her grasp and fell toward the tile floor. There was a split second where time slowed down and she watched in horror as the glass capsule tumbled in the air, then hit the tile floor… and bounced. Real time resumed and Kelly scooped up the ampoule to complete filling the hypo.
Sitting on the floor, she plunged the needle into her arm and injected the fluid into her system for the second time tonight, praying for the strength to finish what she’d started.
Ten minutes later, Kelly got back to her feet, already feeling more alert. She was cautiously optimistic that adrenaline would keep her going for the rest of the night. She still had much to do.
Kelly returned to the office with a handful of items: two ampoules containing a clear, viscous liquid; three syringes, surgical gloves and a length of rubber tubing. She stuffed everything into a bag, along with five banded rolls of her father’s “operating cash” that she’d stored in a small safe in the corner of the office. Once she connected with Spider, she’d have everything she needed.
At least, that was her hope.
She looked around the office, letting the warm memories of her father wash over her. Her father, who she dearly loved, dearly missed, and who had set all of this in motion so many years ago.
Kelly wondered what he’d think if he knew what she was planning.
Kelly stood in the dark outside Moretti’s door. She’d played out a dozen different scenarios in her head how to handle the situation. As the Rohypnol had abated, her sense of violation had snowballed. Not only that, but the knowledge that Moretti had killed her father fueled her outrage and desire for revenge. It wasn’t too late to turn Moretti over to Pete and let things take their due course, but she couldn’t bear the idea of sitting across from Moretti in court, watching his smug-faced grin. And there was always the possibility of him going free.
It had happened before.
Not this time.
Kelly opened the door to find Moretti where she’d left him; tied to a heavy chair with extension cords. She’d wrapped dishtowels around his hands to prevent ligature marks. A sock was stuffed in his mouth and held in place with a sheet she’d torn into strips.
Moretti fiercely struggled against his bindings when he saw her. His face was red with intense strain and seething anger. The avalanche of obscenities that would’ve spewed from his mouth silently died inside him.
Kelly set her bag down and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. Moretti watched with rapt interest as she proceeded to take items out of her bag and line them up on the table. A large silver spoon, a disposable lighter, a hypodermic needle. Moretti’s interest turned to alarm when Kelly pulled out a baggie of white powder. His eyes grew large and he violently shook his head from side to side.
“It’s uncut. Not the usual smack you get on the street that’s been stepped on four or five times with flour or talc. They call this ‘Caballo’, because it’s strong as a horse.”
Kelly dipped the spoon into the baggie and scooped up a hefty dose, making sure to not spill any on the floor. She fired up the lighter and began to cook. “You’re going to tell me how you found out about my father.”
Moretti shook his head defiantly. He wasn’t going to tell this bitch anything. He knew this was only a scare tactic and he wasn’t falling for her bluff.
“I don’t want to do this, but trust me, I will.”
Her hand was shaking as she drew the liquid heroin into the syringe. Could she actually go through with this? At this point, what other choices did she have? If she walked away, he’d hunt her down and kill her. If she called the police, her whole world would come tumbling down.
She could do this. She had to do this.
Kelly laid the needle down on the table and a wave of relief came over Moretti’s face. He knew she wouldn’t do it. Unfortunately, he’d misread her objective. She needed both hands to tie off his arm with some rubber tubing that seemed to magically appear.
Moretti renewed his futile attempt to break free, violently straining against the cords, but there was no escape.
As Kelly knotted the tube around Moretti’s exposed bicep, she whispered in his ear, “Tell me what I want to know or this won’t end well.”
She thumped his forearm and watched as a large vein came to the surface. She plucked up the syringe and held it in front of Moretti’s face. “Your choice. Talk or…?”
Moretti slumped his head forward in defeat. He stopped his rebellion and slowly looked up, nodding.
“Good,” Kelly said. She carefully undid his gag and pulled the sock out of his mouth. The moment she did…
“You fucking cunt!” he screamed.
“Who told you about my father?” she asked, struggling to remain calm.
“Fuck you!”
Kelly roughly grabbed Moretti’s face in her free hand. “Does anyone else know about him?” she asked with a growl.
“This bullshit is weak,” Moretti said combatively. “We both know you’re not going to do this.”
Kelly’s face hardened with resolve. “Try me.”
Her intensity suddenly made Moretti realize he might actually be in danger. He’d gone too far, and now he had to play by Kelly’s rules.
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” he said, doing his best to sound genuine. “I was completely out of line and I apologize. Between the drugs and the alcohol… well, you know. Anyway, you’re right to be pissed off, but I didn’t kill your father. Now, untie me and…”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Untie you? You drug me and rape me, and now you, what… want to be friends? Maybe hang out together?”
“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t kill your father.”
“Fuck you. I gave you a chance, which is more than you gave him.”
Kelly jammed the needle into Moretti’s vein and hit the plunger. His eyes flew open in disbelief. He’d been sure she was bluffing. In fact, he’d bet his life on it. For a moment, he felt nothing. She was bluffing! The powder wasn’t heroin! It must be sugar or…
Suddenly, Moretti’s train of thought derailed. His brain was cranking out dopamine, flooding his body with sheer bliss.
Kelly watched as he went through the phases of a heroin injection. Euphoria, followed by drowsiness. Moretti’s head began to dip, and his breathing became erratic.
She reached out her gloved hand and felt the vein in his neck. His pulse was slowing down to match his shallow breaths.
Moretti had no idea that he was dying, and Kelly had no intention of letting him off that easy.
She had a second hypo ready, this one with Naloxone, better known as Narcan. She slipped that needle into the same vein, as close to the original hole as possible, and gave him the injection.
Moretti was abruptly yanked out of a peaceful, happy dream and into a violent nightmare. He gasped for air as he clutched his spasming stomach. His face grew flush and his head spun like he’d just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl.
“What… what did you do to me?” he sputtered weakly.
“Narcan. It blocks the effect of the heroin, and flips the switch on all of those tiny pleasure receptors, so all you feel is the pain. In a few minutes, you’ll even out and we can continue our conversation.”
54
Pete was dressed and finishing his second cup of coffee. He’d tried to temper his expectations, but he wanted to be ready when the call came. Besides, sleep was a faded notion this morning. Ever since Victoria’s call, his mind was racing and his blood was pumping. He had David Harper’s murder book open on the kitchen table and he flipped through the pages, even though he knew every report in the binder by heart. This simply gave him something to do while he waited.
It was just after 4am when his cell rang. Victoria had come through with flying colors. CODIS identified the hairs as belonging to a Thomas Moretti. She gave Pete his last known address, which was a house in Noe Valley. Pete wasn’t familiar with the name, but if Moretti was in the FBI files, it meant he had a record, and chances were good that he was in the SFPD system as well.
He thanked Victoria profusely and fired up his computer.
The hunt was on.
55
The Narcan left Moretti with a pounding headache, abdominal contractions and a dry, scratchy throat. He tried to call out, but all he could manage was a faint rasping noise.
“Ah, you’re back,” said Kelly, as she came in from the kitchen, holding two bottles of water. “How does it feel to be on the other end? I found a broom in the closet and considered the irony of sodomizing you, but then remembered I’m not a psychopath. I’m just an ordinary person who’s been drugged, raped and had her father murdered by a brutal, despicable excuse for a human being.”
Moretti was a dead man unless he could convince her to let him go. He’d underestimated her once and wouldn’t make that mistake again. He’d tell her whatever she wanted to know. Whatever it took to get free, and then when the time was right, he’d show her the meaning of brutality.
Kelly took a long drink from her bottle and held out the other one. “Thirsty?”
Moretti nodded. Kelly set the bottle down on the table. “Let’s see how the next few minutes go. You answer my questions and you can have all the water you want. If not,” she held up another hypodermic needle; this one was already loaded with heroi
n. “And just so you know, I only had one dose of Narcan.” She looked at the syringe and then back at him. “You don’t want to piss me off again.”
Moretti took a few deep breaths, slowly blowing out through his mouth. “Water?” he croaked.
Kelly limited him to a small sip, just to lubricate his throat, but not enough to slake his thirst.
“I didn’t kill your father,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.
“Did you not understand the rules here, or do you still think I’m bluffing?”
“It’s true! I wasn’t driving that car. Turn me over to the police. I can prove I didn’t do it. You’ve gotta believe me!”
Kelly knew he was trying to sow seeds of doubt, buy time, or both. She wasn’t going to fall for it. “What you said earlier was that the night my father died was one of the best nights of your life,” she hissed. “Of course, that’s when I was tied up and you were about to rape me. Now that the roles are reversed, the story’s conveniently changed.” She leaned back. “You can see why I’m confused, Tommy. I don’t know which story to believe.”
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