They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  “Anything for my amigo.”

  Al left his lifelong friend and headed for the border. He thought it a good idea to call Captain Davison, just to check in. He removed the cell phone from his belt and realized he’d turned it off. Shit! He punched in the captain’s private number.

  “This is Davison.”

  “I’m feeling a little better, captain. I should be there in about—”

  “Where the hell are you, Al?”

  “Didn’t you get my message?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you since early morning. If you’re sick, why aren’t you answering the telephone?”

  “Sorry, captain, I guess my cell phone was turned off.”

  “And your home phone?”

  Al remembered smashing it against the wall. “Guess it was turned off too.”

  “Well, your timing was just…fucking…perfect.”

  “I’m sorry, captain, if I’d known—”

  “Sami and her daughter are missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “We got a call from Sami’s mother early this morning. Sami never made it home from her date Thursday evening, and Angelina mysteriously disappeared from Mrs. Rizzo’s home sometime during the night.”

  He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Who’s working on this, captain?” He could see the international border just ahead.

  “Hicks and Robinson are en route to Mrs. Rizzo’s house as we speak. And I’ve got Anderson and McNeil questioning Sami’s neighbors.”

  “Find something else for Hicks and Robinson. I’ll be at Mrs. Rizzo’s in twenty minutes.”

  “You sure you can handle this, Al?”

  “Positive.”

  Quite to Al’s dismay, the volume of cars converging on the inspection booths was heavy. In the shortest line at least ten vehicles waited their turn to be carefully scrutinized by the Border Patrol agents. Feeling great anxiety and painfully aware that time was precious, Al planted the flashing beacon on the dashboard, engaged his siren and raced to the front of the shortest line. Sitting parallel to a beat-up Dodge pickup truck, waiting to be inspected next in lane six, Al glared at the driver and waved his arms, trying to make the obviously confused Mexican understand what he was trying to do. The man backed up his truck, almost hitting the Lexus behind him, and Al wedged his Chevy in front of the truck. A symphony of horns protested Al’s actions. Watching Al carefully, a noticeably upset agent waited to hear Al’s story.

  Border Patrol agents paid particular attention to foreigners—especially those even remotely appearing to be Latino. In spite of the Department of Homeland Security’s efforts, which included a campaign to recruit additional agents, more than three million illegal aliens lived in California. Various plans to control the influx of illegals had been initiated. Nonetheless, the problem grew more chronic every year. Consequently, many Border Patrol agents took their jobs too seriously.

  The tall agent with sun-bleached hair and a perfect Coppertone tan folded his arms across his chest and gawked at Al over his sunglasses. “What’s your story, buddy?”

  Al didn’t waste a moment. He flashed his badge and ID. “Sorry, sir, but I’m a homicide detective and I just received an emergency call from my captain. Would you hurry me through, please?”

  Unimpressed, the agent ignored Al’s attempt to expedite the interview. “Are you a U.S. citizen?”

  Didn’t he know that only bona fide citizens are hired as law enforcement officials? “Yes, I am.”

  “And how long were you visiting Mexico?”

  Al felt like screaming at the agent but forced himself to remain calm. “For a few hours.”

  The agent considered Al’s answer for a minute. “Are you carrying firearms, alcohol, or controlled substances?”

  Is this guy kidding? Al grabbed the lapel on his leather jacket and gave the agent a glimpse of his Glock 9mm. “I’m a homicide detective, sir. I don’t even go to Sunday Mass without a weapon.” Al huffed. “Would you please let me through?”

  “Please pull your car over there.” He pointed to an area to the right of the road where believed-to-be drug dealers and other suspicious characters watched in horror as specialized employees of the INS systematically reduced their vehicles to a mountain of nuts and bolts, searching for contraband.

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I’ve been called to a police emergency and you have to let me through. Now!”

  “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, a
nd 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.

  EIGHTEEN

  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!”