“You don’t seem all that thrilled,” Nicole said.
“You’re misreading me. I’m happy for them. I’m just surprised.”
“Look at it this way. We’ll have access to the best babysitters on the planet anytime we want them. Think of the possibilities.” Nicole smiled for the first time since returning home.
Oh, how Julian thought of the possibilities. None of them having to do with his family or Nicole’s parents. He had reached a defining moment in his life. As each day passed, and he moved closer to the research grant, closer to fulfilling his dream, everything else in his life had become secondary—even his daughters. It was a bitter realization, one he’d been wrestling with for months, but he could no longer lie to himself. The grant meant everything. Recognition meant everything. And one thing was certain: No force in the world could stop him.
For privacy, and to ensure that no one would hear their conversation, Detectives Sami Rizzo and Richard Osbourn grabbed a couple of coffees from Starbucks in Pacific Beach, drove to Crown Point Park, and walked on the boardwalk. As was typical this time of year, dark puffy clouds dominated the sky anywhere near the ocean. It was a phenomenon San Diegans call May Grey and June Gloom. But in spite of the unfriendly-looking skies, the air blowing in off the bay felt warm.
Unlike the weekends, when the area buzzed with activities—picnickers, joggers, Rollerbladers, kids doing tricks on their skateboards—today, like most weekdays, there was very little going on in the park.
Sami sipped her soy milk latte. “Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d pay six bucks for a fancy cup of coffee.”
Osbourn laughed. “Starbucks sure has made the whole concept of coffee chic.”
She picked up the pace a bit. “Tell me a little about yourself, Richard.”
“There’s not too much to tell. Born and raised in Ocean Beach. Love to surf. Got my degree in criminal justice from SDSU. Married my high school sweetheart. Two lovely daughters. Wanted to be a cop since I was twelve.”
“What brought you to homicide?”
“This may sound a little cliché, but I really want to make a difference. It seems naïve, but it’s how I feel. I watched my drunken father regularly use my mother as a punching bag. Until one day, when I was a teenager and strong enough to stand toe-to-toe with the son of a bitch. I beat the shit out of him. He never touched my mother again. Since that day, I vowed never to hurt another human being unless in self-defense.” Osbourn took a long gulp of his coffee. “I really want to lock up the bad guys.”
“How does your wife feel about you working in homicide?”
“She hates that I’m a cop—tries to convince me to quit nearly every day. But take my word for it, as much as I love my wife, if it ever comes down to police work or her…I’m not sure what I’d do.”
“Don’t you think the constant controversy with your wife will distract you?”
Osbourn shook his head. “We all have distractions. Some can deal with them. Others can’t.”
Who knew more about distractions than she did? Her lover’s sister lay in a coma. Her mom had just undergone open heart surgery. She’d just dropped out of school. She narrowly escaped an appointment with the Grim Reaper at the hands of a serial killer. And she now wore the gold badge she swore she’d never wear again. Yes, Sami thought, she had the market cornered on distractions.
“I have the option to partner with whomever I choose on the serial killer investigation. And I have to make that decision quickly.”
“I suppose I haven’t earned the department’s respect yet, Sami. But I assure you, if you give me a shot, I’ll work my butt off to nail this asshole.”
“The pressure to apprehend this guy is going to be intense,” she warned. “From the mayor on down, everybody’s got this investigation on their radar.”
“I spent four years in the Marines, two of which were in Iraq disarming IEDs. So I guess you can say that I’m somewhat familiar with pressure, Detective Rizzo.”
His last statement pretty much closed the deal. “So that explains the military buzz cut.”
“Guess I kind of got used to no-maintenance hair.”
“Are you sure you want to place your marriage under this kind of strain?”
“Makes little difference whether I’m investigating a single murder or serial killer. Either way, my wife won’t be a happy camper.”
If Sami based her decision totally on logic, she’d be compelled to partner with a more experienced detective. But, as she had done so many times in the past, she relied more on her instincts than reason. “Let’s head back to the car and get to the precinct. We’ve got lots of work to do, partner.”
Sami stood in front of the whiteboard and paced back and forth. Detective Osbourn sat on a chair and planted his elbows on the metal table, next to the case folder. The murky twelve-by-twelve room, normally used to interrogate suspects and interview witnesses, smelled like a high school locker room.
“This is what we’ve learned thus far,” she said. She turned her back and started writing on the whiteboard. “All four victims—two male and two female—had their chests cut open and their ribcages spread apart. Cause of death for victim one was a massive stroke, and for victim two, cardiac arrest. Victims three and four were identified a short while ago but we have very little information on them, and we’re still waiting for COD.” Sami opened the case folder and flipped through the pages. “Victim three was Robert Winters, and number four was Rachael Manning, both twenty-eight years old. They were engaged. Unlike victim one and two, our guy performed surgical experiments on their kidneys, liver, lungs, and pancreas. The perp sexually assaulted victim four, a female, and the ME found traces of semen in her vagina, rectum, and mouth. Their chests were stapled with surgical precision. And our guy performed some sort of experiments on their hearts that do not look like the work of a hack. Except for victim three, a white male found wrapped in a sheet, each victim was dressed in expensive, designer clothes. Our guy left the price tag on the outfit the Foster girl was wearing and it was from Saks Fifth Avenue. Al spoke to the salesperson that sold him the outfit, but she gave us only a few clues. Our perp is tall, attractive, and has black hair. And one witness said he wore a navy-blue Chargers cap.”
Sami turned and faced Osbourn. “Am I missing anything?”
“Only that the first victim,” Osbourn shuffled through the folder, “the Foster girl, met the perp at a restaurant called Tony’s Bar and Grill, in the Gaslamp District, and Detective Diaz interviewed Foster’s friend who was with her the night she disappeared.”
“Good catch,” Sami said. “What’s the friend’s name?”
Osbourn searched the folder. “Katie Mitchell.”
“Knowing Al, I’m sure he did a thorough job interviewing her, but—”
“Want me to give her a call?” Osbourn offered.
Sami nodded. “That’s all we’ve got right now. If she can’t come to the precinct today, we’ll go to her.” She picked up the folder and looked through every piece of paper. “While we’re at it, let’s check out Tony’s Bar and Grill and see if anyone remembers seeing Foster or our guy.”
Instead of cooking, as he often did, Julian convinced Nicole to pick up some Chinese takeout from the Dragon Palace, their favorite Asian restaurant. He felt more nauseous than hungry, but had to get something into his stomach. Enjoying the brief period of solitude, he sat on the leather recliner and turned on the television, curious to see if the police department had released any new information. He flipped from channel to channel until he found the local news.
“This just in,” the female newscaster said. “A KNET exclusive. An undisclosed source tells us that Mayor Sullivan personally contacted veteran homicide investigator Samantha Rizzo and convinced her to return to the police department and lead the ongoing investigation into the recent serial murders in San Diego.
“Detective Rizzo is best known for her harrowing experience apprehending Simon Kwosokowski, the serial killer wh
o crucified four women a little more than two years ago. Unless the governor issues a stay of execution, which seems highly unlikely, Kwosokowski is scheduled to be put to death by lethal injection on Friday at noon.”
Julian grabbed the remote and turned off the television. “Detective Rizzo,” he whispered. Bad enough having to deal with Nicole and the kids, and now his in-laws, but having Sami Rizzo leading the investigation added a whole new dimension to the hunt. She had earned a reputation as one of San Diego’s best cops.
This could get interesting.
Feeling somewhat deflated after her first full day back with Homicide, Sami grabbed a cold Corona, pinched in a wedge of lime, and sat on the sofa. Neither Katie Mitchell—the first victim’s best friend—nor anyone working at Tony’s Bar & Grill could offer a single shred of new evidence to help with the investigation. Sami knew going in that tracking down the serial killer would be a formidable challenge, but she hoped she’d have more to go on than the few bits and pieces of information.
Josephine walked into the living room and sat next to Sami.
“How you feeling, Mom?”
“So-so.”
“What’s bothering you?”
Josephine shook her head. “No matter how much I sleep, I’m still exhausted.”
“Doctor Templeton told us that you’d feel this way for a few months.” Sami took a long swig of her beer. “Where are Emily and Angelina?”
“They walked down to the Tot Lot.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
“Too tired.”
“No matter how tired you feel, you have to walk at least to the corner and back every day. That’s the only way you’re going to get your strength back.”
“I lose my breath after walking only half a block.”
“Do you feel any chest pain?”
“No. Just out of breath.”
“If you want to feel better, you have to force yourself to walk.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Josephine squeezed Sami’s leg. “Have you thought about going to church with me on Sunday like I asked?”
With all that had been going on, Sami had forgotten about her mother’s request. But she felt forced to lie. “Been thinking about it.”
“And?”
Born and raised Catholic, Sami had wandered away from the church and religion shortly after she divorced. Hoping to avoid any serious discussions, when asked about her religious beliefs, she would kiddingly say that she was a recovering Catholic.
“Still thinking about it, Mom.”
“Well, don’t think too long. God is not all that patient.”
Sami believed in God, or more accurately, a Supreme Being or Higher Power, but she had never been able to clearly define Him, or feel a strong connection. No matter how hard she tried, Sami just couldn’t accept the fact that a righteous, all-powerful God could allow so much pain and suffering in the world. As a homicide investigator, exposed to evil deeds beyond imagination, her feelings were skewed. Unlike the average citizen, she’d seen more than her share of death—innocent children strangled and burned and tortured unmercifully, shootings, stabbings, victims beaten beyond recognition. How could a just God let so much evil exist?
“If you don’t want to go to church, that’s fine,” Josephine said. “But at least drop me off and pick me up.”
“Of course.” Sami realized that her mother’s sudden urge to reunite with God was driven by her recent surgery and the very real possibility that her life could be over in an instant. “I’m not so sure I’ll join you though.”
“You’ve been angry with God for a long time,” Josephine said. “Ever since He took your father. It’s time to make peace before it’s too late.”
Julian and Nicole had just finished the Chinese takeout and a bottle of Jordan Cabernet, and were settled into the cushy leather sofa. The critics of Wine Spectator magazine would turn up their noses at such an incompatible food and wine combo, but Jordan was Julian’s favorite red, so he could easily drink it with popcorn.
“Tell me about this cabin in Big Bear,” Nicole said.
Julian had feared she wouldn’t let it rest. “Considering that we’re never going to buy it, I’d rather not.”
“Would you just stop being so difficult and please tell me about the fucking cabin?”
There were few things about Nicole that Julian hated more than her sharp tongue.
“It’s about two hundred feet from the lake, has three bedrooms, two baths, and a fireplace. And it’s a hundred thousand dollars more than we can afford.”
“Why did you even look at it in the first place? Did you really think you’d have that much wiggle room in the price?”
Knowing Nicole, he had anticipated that his little white lie would turn into a grand inquisition. “Look, Nicole, I wanted to surprise you and it just didn’t work out. It seems that the only thank you I get is you breaking my balls. Can we just drop it?”
“You can be such an asshole sometimes.” She stood up, but Julian grabbed her arm. “Let go of me.”
“I’m not finished yet,” he almost shouted.
“Well, I am.” She twisted her forearm and broke free of his grip. “I’m going to bed. Why don’t you sleep in the spare bedroom tonight.”
“Are you serious?”
“Fucking totally.”
At that particular moment in time, as he watched his wife disappear up the stairway, it became glaringly apparent to him that sometimes he actually hated Nicole. Both high-strung, they had many shouting matches during their marriage, some standing toe to toe. But never had he felt as much animosity toward her as he did right now. She was his wife and the mother of his children. But something in this marriage had to change. Someone had to give in. And he’d be damned if it was him.
He had his choice of two upstairs bedrooms, but he didn’t even want to hear her breathing tonight. He grabbed a set of sheets and a cotton blanket from the linen closet, haphazardly made up the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and eased into bed. He closed his eyes and couldn’t wait for morning. Tomorrow wouldn’t come soon enough.
Wearing Oakley sunglasses and a Chargers baseball cap, the visor resting low on his forehead, Julian sat at a small table in the quiet, out-of-the-way coffee shop. He watched customers zoom in and out until a man fitting the PI’s description walked in the front door and cranked his head from side to side. The squatty man, at least fifty pounds overweight, full head of silver hair, fixed his stare on Julian’s cap and walked over to the table.
“Mr. Spencer?” Julian asked.
The man nodded.
Julian gestured. “Please have a seat.”
Spencer offered his clammy hand. When Julian grasped it, he regretted doing so. They barely shook and Julian quickly withdrew his hand.
“Before we get started,” Julian said. “You’re okay with me remaining completely anonymous, is that correct?”
“As long as your cash is legal tender, I don’t give a hoot who you are.” The man leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’m the King of Discretion.”
Julian slid an envelope across the table. “Three thousand, right?”
Without checking the contents, Spencer slid the envelope in the inside pocket of his sport jacket. “If it takes more than a week, three hundred a day.”
“And it’s okay to call your cell phone?” Julian asked.
“That’s the only way to reach me.”
Spencer removed a notepad and pencil from his side pocket. “Subject’s name?”
“Sami Rizzo.”
Spencer cocked his head. “Detective Sami Rizzo?”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t give a shit who it is. If the money’s right, I’ll tail the Pope. I only asked cause I’m curious.”
“And you’re absolutely okay with it?”
“No problem.” He scribbled on his notepad. “What am I looking for?”
“I want to know where she goes. Who she’s working with. When she ta
kes a piss. And I want to know who she lives with. Their names. Relationship to her. Their daily routines.”
Julian realized it was risky for him to expose himself to a private investigator. But as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he feared Detective Rizzo, and if through the PI’s efforts Julian was tipped off that she was getting close, he might find a way to sidetrack her.
Spencer continued making notes. “That’s a tall order and it’s not going to be easy. Her being a cop and all. It might take longer than a week.”
“How much longer?”
Spencer lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”
They sat silently, fixed stares, as if trying to read each other’s minds.
“I have to ask the obligatory question,” Spencer said. “I push the envelope beyond legal limits more often than not, but I do have limits.” His voice softened to a whisper. “There’s nothing criminal going on here, right?”
“Look, Mr. Spencer. This is totally personal. Sami and I used to date. Need I say more?”
“How do I reach you?” Spencer asked.
“You don’t. I reach you.”
“But how do I get information to you?”
Julian handed Spencer a piece of paper. “Mail it to this PO box.”
He examined the note and laughed. “John Smith, huh?” He folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. “And if I need to reach you immediately?”
“I’ll call you twice a day.”
Spencer thought about that for a minute. “Fair enough.”
“There is one more thing,” Julian said. “This is the first and last time we’ll ever meet face to face.”
In spite of all the police-related tasks Sami faced, not to mention the tremendous pressure she felt to apprehend the serial killer, Friday at 11:00 a.m., she set everything aside, outlined a list of things to do for Detective Osbourn, and discretely checked out of the precinct.
Resuscitation Page 19
