“Right.”
“What’s his address?”
“850 Felspar, apartment number 3.”
Son of a bitch!
“What kind of vehicle did he purchase?”
“A two-thousand-nine Ford Explorer.”
“Where did he buy it?”
“Benson Ford in Mission Valley.”
In California, license plates were not issued on new vehicles until six to eight weeks after they were sold. “Would you be kind enough to write down the VIN and a description of the vehicle, please?”
Al dashed out the door without thanking her or saying goodbye. No time to win the Mr. Congeniality award. As he ran toward his car, perspiration dripping off his forehead, his cellular rang.
“This is Diaz.”
“The plot thickens.” Captain Davison said. “South Coast G and E said that our perp canceled his utility service ages ago on Felspar Street but didn’t transfer it to a different address.”
“Well, he must have electric service.”
“Not in his name.”
Al pondered for a moment. “How about Pacific Tel?”
“Same story. Closed the account a long time ago and never requested they transfer phone service.”
“He doesn’t have a fucking telephone either?”
“Apparently not. What did the DMV tell you?”
Al gave the captain an update. “I’m on my way to Benson Ford now. Maybe his real address will show up somewhere in the paperwork.”
“Check his credit report. Those fuckers know what you ate for breakfast.”
“Good idea, boss.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Six detectives are working on this, Al, so don’t think you’re all alone.”
Al found little comfort in the captain’s words. “Thanks, boss.”
After Al hung up, he pulled copies of Simon’s driver’s license and parking permit application out of his shirt pocket. The home telephone number listed on the application was 619-555-7288. What did he have to lose? Al dialed the number. After four rings Al heard the annoying recording: “The cellular telephone you are trying to reach has been turned off by the customer. Please try again later.”
So, Al thought, the bastard has a cellular. Al guessed there were at least a dozen cellular providers in Southern California. Maybe more. He called Davison.
“Do me a favor, captain. Our perp has a cellular telephone. If we can find out who’s providing his service, they might have his address.”
“I’ll have someone get right on it.”
“While they’re at it, have them check with the San Diego Chronicle and Southwestern Communications. Maybe the son of a bitch reads the newspaper or watches cable TV.”
“Good idea, Al. Anything else?”
“See if he has any relatives anywhere in the country. Can’t be too many unrelated Kwosokowskis.”
Quite to Sami’s surprise, Angelina fell asleep in front of the television. She turned off the TV, carefully lifted her daughter, carried her to the bed, and laid her down. Angelina’s timing couldn’t be more perfect. She kissed her warm cheek and covered her with a blanket. Still hungry and fighting nausea, Sami ate a sesame bagel with a dab of cream cheese and raspberry preserves, hoping it would absorb the acid churning in her stomach. Just as she swallowed the last mouthful, Simon returned. What she really wanted was a warm shower.
“If you’re eating, I can come back,” Simon said.
“Just finished.” She hadn’t heard his tone this friendly since before he drugged her. Maybe playing the role as a woman seeking a spiritual awakening was a viable strategy, she thought.
Instead of sitting on the bed, risking that Angelina would awaken, Sami sat on a small love seat in the play area. Simon sat next to her, closer than she expected him to.
He showed her the Bible, holding it with obvious reverence, pointing to the cover. It was as if he were caressing a priceless figurine. “This is the New Believer’s Bible. Its translations are written in a more contemporary manner. Much easier to follow.” He handed it to Sami.
She fanned through the pages, stopping every so often and glancing at a page. “Where do we begin?”
For more than thirty minutes, Simon read various passages about God and Jesus and Satan and salvation. Sami asked questions and Simon answered all of them with the precision and passion of a renowned theologian. That the man sitting next to Sami was the same person who slaughtered four, possibly five, innocent women seemed hard to grasp. How could he read the word of God with complete devotion and then commit such unspeakable crimes? She feared him now more than ever.
Somewhere along the way, something or someone affected Simon in a profound way, twisted his perspective on good and evil. Sami knew a little about sociopaths. Many were physically and emotionally abused as children. But she never encountered a religious fanatic. This was new territory for her, and she didn’t have time for on-the-job training. The man sitting only inches away from her was a cold-blooded murderer, yet he preached God’s word like a pastor.
“Did your parents teach you the word of God, Simon?”
“My father abandoned us when I was very young.”
“So your mother was your religious mentor?”
His eye switched. “You could say that.”
“Does she live in San Diego?”
“She”—his angst was obvious—“died about ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That your mother died. You must miss her terribly.”
“She’s not dead; she just doesn’t live a mortal life.”
“Does she ever talk to you, Simon?”
He stared at her. “What are you fishing for, detective?”
“It’s called intimate conversation.”
He thought about her answer for a moment. “She’s warned me about you.”
Sami sat upright, her spinal column feeling as rigid as titanium. “She knows me?”
“Better than you could possibly imagine.”
“What has she told you about me?”
“She said that you want to seduce me. Make me a sinner like you.”
“Do you believe that, Simon?”
“I didn’t expect that you accepted my dinner invitation merely because you were hungry for food.”
“Have I acted inappropriately?”
“You didn’t have a chance to.”
“So you expected that I would tear off your clothes after we had dessert?”
“Something like that.”
The conversation was not heading in the right direction. “Simon, explain to me why crucifying women does not break the fifth commandment.”
“It’s complicated.”
“God has appointed you to cleanse souls?”
“Indirectly.”
“How?”
Simon didn’t answer. He tugged on his collar as if it were too tight.
“Does God talk to you through your mother?”
“I know what you’re thinking, detective. But you’re way off base.”
Again Sami hit a wall. “You told me that crucifixion cleanses the soul and ensures salvation, right?”
“It does.”
“Are you the only one in the world appointed to perform God’s will?”
“I have no idea. God doesn’t consult me before making decisions.”
“The Bible claims that anyone can be saved, correct?”
“Jesus is the only path to heaven.”
“I’m confused, Simon.”
“About what?”
“If any mortal can be saved by accepting Jesus into their hearts, then why must you crucify them?”
The question seemed to stump him. “Do you expect me to defy God’s will?”
“No. But if people can be saved without dying, I don’t understand why God would wish to impose such pain and misery on the families of those crucified.”
“You’re questioning God’s wisdom?”
“Only suggesting that people can be saved without dying.” Sami tried to rationalize with an irrational man. She didn’t feel as though she were making progress, but she pressed on. “Couldn’t you save me, Simon, without crucifying me?”
“Not without disobeying God.”
“So you really believe that it is God’s will for my daughter to be an orphan?”
“Not at all.”
“But I’m her only living parent.”
With wide open eyes, Simon glared at Sami. He grinned like a child who just found an unopened package of Oreos. “Not to worry, Sami. I am quite fond of Angelina.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t think of anyone who would be a better spiritual adviser.” His face contorted, becoming almost monsterlike. “When I’m finished with you, I’m going to adopt Angelina.”
All sense of reason vanished. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Simon stood and headed for the door. Sami charged after him. He turned and doubled up his fists. She took a hardy swing, aiming for his throat, but Simon blocked it with his forearm, latched onto her wrist, and twisted her arm. Sami fell to her knees. Still gripping her wrist, Simon grabbed a handful of hair with his free hand and yanked her head back.
Bonnie Jean Oliver.
He could feel the rage boiling in his gut. Like a slowly closing curtain, a sheet of blackness fell in front of his eyes. He’d been to this place before, a world out of control. In a few seconds, another self would take over and Simon would be a puppet, his actions manipulated by a demonic force. He knew that Sami’s life would abruptly end and he would never have the opportunity to follow the word of God. He couldn’t let that happen. Desperate and frantic he appealed to his mentor.
Help me, Mother!
Close your eyes, son. Ask the Almighty to strike down Satan’s grip.
Simon squeezed his eyes shut.
Dear God, banish this demon from within. Come into my soul and free me from this evil force.
In the past, he had not been able to summon God’s help. Never had he overcome the other self. But today seemed different. Just enough reason remained for him to appeal to his Master.
Sami could feel his grip loosening. Kneeling on the cold concrete floor, she saw his contorted face slowly untwist. Mouth agape, she watched him in stunned silence. An eerie calmness reflected in his eyes, a dramatic contrast from the maniac she observed only seconds before. As if a hypnotist had just snapped his fingers, Simon came out of his trance and looked fresh, like he’d just come back from a brisk walk.
“Such a silly girl. Do you really think you’re clever enough to get into my head and outwit me?” He tightened his grip on her hair again. Sami moaned. Tears filled her eyes. “Our foolish conversations are over, Detective Rizzo. I have indulged your fruitless attempts to analyze me long enough. Your low opinion of my intellect insults me. Let me tell you where we go from here, detective. Tonight, at precisely six p.m., I’m going to walk through that door with two four-by-fours, and you’re going to watch me assemble a crucifix. Then you’re going to lie on top of it, and by the word of God I’m going to drive inch-thick spikes through your wrists and feet. You’re going to scream, Sami, scream like never before. But they will be good screams. Cleansing screams.” He licked his lips and his eyes were wild. “In that hole in the concrete”—he pointed to the dirt-filled hole Sami had noticed earlier—“I’m going to erect the crucifix upright, sit by the base, and read you Psalms from the Bible. I will be with you all the way as you journey toward salvation. Jesus will come into your heart, sinner. As you struggle to draw your last earthly breath, the Almighty will cleanse your tarnished soul and purify your heart.”
He let go of Sami’s hair and wrist and she collapsed, her face pressed against the cold concrete floor. Gasping for air, she lay on her stomach with her eyes closed. She heard him slam the door and struggled to stand, feeling drunk, disoriented. From the corner of her eye, Sami saw Angelina sitting up, rubbing her eyes.
“Can we go home now, Mommy?”
Sami couldn’t find her voice.
TWENTY-TWO
“What an ungodly mess,” Al whispered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
Such a bizarre phenomenon that on Friday, traffic in San Diego—for no apparent reason—moved more slowly than on any other day.
Where the hell is everyone going at three p.m.?
Frustrated and panicky, he got off the freeway and headed east toward Freeway 8. Benson Ford was located on Auto Circle, an area in Mission Valley where a dozen car dealers sat side by side. In an effort to preserve precious minutes, Al thought for an instant about calling the dealer, but how could he prove that he actually was a homicide detective? They wouldn’t divulge confidential information about a customer over the telephone. By the time he finished arguing with the sales manager and exercising his Latin temper he’d be pulling into the dealership’s driveway.
As Al negotiated his way toward the dealership, weaving from lane to lane, occasionally flashing the beacon and sounding the siren, he was struck by a haunting feeling that he’d forgotten something, as if he just left a supermarket with a cart full of groceries, knowing an item on the shopping list never made it to the cart. An idea ricocheted inside his head, like a bee trapped in a jar, but he couldn’t stop it long enough to get a glimpse of what it was. Surely someone knew where Simon lived.
His cell phone rang. He hoped the captain had good news.
“What did you find out, captain?”
“Amigo?” Lorenzo’s voice bellowed in Al’s ear. An image of Lorenzo’s rotund body flashed through Al’s mind.
“How are you, my friend?” Al said.
“I am doing well.”
“Have you learned anything about Tommy DiSalvo?”
“Just like I told you, trying to compete with Flavio Ramirez was not good for the gringo. I knew that the pendejos in Tijuana did not kill him.”
“How reliable are your sources?”
“Amigo. Believe what I tell you. Ramirez cut his balls off. This is how he does business.”
“I appreciate your help, my friend.”
“When will I see you, again?”
“Not sure, Lorenzo.”
“You are always welcome in my home.”
“Behave yourself.”
“Maybe in the next life.”
Al turned onto Auto Circle and could see the Benson Ford sign. “Adios, Lorenzo. Take care.”
Taking two spaces, Al parked the Chevy in an area designated for customers only. For a moment he sat in the car, staring at a pack of hungry salesmen gawking at him through the tinted showroom window as if he were a fresh kill. Sucking in labored breaths, a feeling of great anxiety gripped him. He wanted so desperately to tell Sami that she was in no way responsible for Tommy DiSalvo’s death. If only he could give her just a sliver of relief. He could never remember feeling such utter exasperation. It felt as if a priceless antique vase were tumbling to the floor just out of his reach. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite rescue it before it smashed into a million pieces. At this particular moment, a grim premonition assaulted Alberto Diaz.
I’m never going to see Sami again. Today, he hated his intuition and prayed that his instincts were wrong.
His cellular rang again.
This time Al knew he’d hear Captain Davison’s voice.
“This is Diaz.”
“We struck out, Al. The fucker doesn’t have any living relatives, and he doesn’t subscribe to the newspaper or cable. Sorry.”
“Did you find his cellular provider?”
“He has an account with Mobile Plus, but like everybody else on this fucking planet they have the Felspar address.”
Al felt as if he were an overinflated beach ball that was just punctured. “With all of our goddamn resources we can’t find this bastard?”
“We’ll find him.”
“How, captain? I’m running out of ideas.”
>
“Where are you?”
“About to turn a car dealership upside down.”
“Keep your cool, Al. Without a warrant they can tell you to go shit in your hat, so you better find a diplomatic way to approach them.”
“One way or the other, I’m going to get my hands on the paperwork, even if I have to walk in the dealer’s office and hold a gun to his head.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Al. I’m warning you.”
He didn’t have time to debate. “I’ll call you in a little while.”
“Al—”
“Gotta go, captain.”
The door barely closed behind Al and a salesman cheerfully greeted him. “Welcome to Benson Ford. My name is Bob Daily. Are you looking for a new or used vehicle?”
As he’d done so many times this morning, Al showed the grinning salesman his police ID. “I need to speak to your manager.”
Daily led Al to a platform overlooking the showroom. Two well-dressed men stood like sentries watching Al with obvious curiosity. Perhaps they were wondering how much profit they were going to make on yet another naïve car buyer?
“What can I do for you?” the taller of the two asked. The round-shouldered man looked about thirteen months pregnant. The other man listened passively.
Al explained what he wanted without offering too much detail.
The man shook his head. “Can’t let you rifle through a customer’s deal folder without the general manager’s approval.”
“How long will that take?”
“Afraid he’s at a convention in Vegas.”
“Then let me speak with Mr. Benson.”
The man laughed. “He’s in Vegas too.”
“Then who the fuck is in charge?”
The other man held up his palms as if to say, “Whoa.” “No need for foul language, detective.”
Al glanced at his watch. “Here’s the deal, guys: You’ve got exactly five minutes to produce Simon Kwosokowski’s deal folder. If it’s not in my hot little hands at precisely three-ten, I promise that in less than twenty-four hours a DMV inspector is going to crawl up your asses and audit every sales transaction for the last fucking decade. How do you think Mr. Benson would feel about that?”
They Never Die Quietly Page 25
