TWELVE

It wasn't until he read the chilling headlines in the morning newspaper that Simon felt the shockwave of what he'd done. He felt dirty, as if a wave of toxic waste washed over him and contaminated his body and soul. For the entire day his mind had been crowded with malignant thoughts. He remembered the young woman. How could he forget such a stunning example of female beauty? He recalled their chance meeting on the beach. Talking to her under a moonlit sky. Hearing the waves gently slap against the rocks. Feeling empathy and compassion for the ill-fated teenager. He remembered every detail to the point when blackness had filled his eyes, until his body no longer belonged to him, the moment it became possessed by an all-consuming force. As in the past, his other self, a dark side of his character whose grip on Simon grew stronger every day, had overtaken him.

Still wearing his heavy cotton robe, he sat on his favorite leather wing chair. The newspaper lay on the ottoman. A cold cup of coffee sat on the end table. Next to the coffee was a plate of over-easy eggs, rye toast, and home-fried potatoes; a breakfast untouched. He glanced again at the front-page article.

"...her face was so badly beaten she could not be visually identified..."

Simon's stomach turned sour with nausea. How could a man of God, a crusader with a mission to purify the world, commit such a heinous act? To purify an unclean soul through crucifixion was a divine endeavor. But to murder an innocent woman while gripped with uncontrollable rage could only be the work of a demon.

"It is the work of Satan," he whispered. Who else could he blame, if not the architect of wickedness?

You are wrong, my son. It is the sacred work of God.

He had made peace with his mother, apologized for his unkind words, asked for her forgiveness. How foolish he had been to accuse his mother of such vile deeds. As in the past, she had been gracious and understanding. She'd explained that even God's most reliable servant can go astray.

"How can it be the work of God, dear mother?"

The world is infested with wanton women. Beware of their trickery, sweet boy. With deceiving words and seductive bodies they will corrupt you and lead you to a sinful path of faithlessness. Her punishment was just.

"But not all women are evil."

Oh, but they are, my naive son. What did the young harlot on the beach want from you? Under the guise of a pitiful, dying woman, she stroked your compassion to get what she wanted. They are all serpents who speak with scheming tongues, pupils of the Prince of Darkness. Do you remember how Bonnie Jean tried to tarnish your pure soul? The world is infected with the likes of Bonnie Jean.

"Do you expect me to purify every woman walking the earth?"

One at a time, sweet boy. One at a time.

Samson, the chocolate Labrador, waddled over to Simon, moaning and doing his dance, sniffing the uneaten breakfast. Simon leaned forward and scratched the sniveling dog's head.

"Need to go out, big boy?"

The dog reacted to his words with great excitement, his tail wagged furiously.

Simon went into the kitchen and opened the door. Samson dashed outside. He stood in the dark kitchen and closed his eyes.

"Is it time for another cleansing, Mother?"

Indeed, my son.

"Then I will search for a sinner."

No need, my boy. You have one beckoning you.

"Who?"

The wretched detective.

Sami lay in bed and pieced together all the clues from the investigation, her mind flooded with suspicious thoughts. Now, more than ever, Simon was a prime suspect. She didn't want to believe it, but she could no longer ignore the evidence. Physically, Simon fit the serial murderer's description perfectly: Caucasian male, well over six feet tall, blue eyes, light brown hair. As a physical therapist, well trained and familiar with the anatomy, he might possess the knowledge to remove the victim's hearts with precision. The gold cross dangling around Simon's neck, his mysterious limp, and the fact that the suspect who murdered the woman on the beach mentioned Katie's Kitchen to J.T. Williamson could not be a coincidence. And it seemed rather convenient that the woman was murdered very close to where Sami had planned to meet Simon for dinner. Wanting to share her supposition with Al, she was tempted to call him. But at this juncture she felt she needed more hard facts. Besides, at this point, all the evidence was circumstantial, insufficient to issue a search warrant. And even if she could convince a judge to sign a search warrant, it seemed unlikely that Simon would be careless enough to murder his victims in his home. No, Sami would have to play this one out as a covert operation until she uncovered more compelling evidence. She turned off the light and rolled onto her stomach, knowing for certain that any chance of sleeping would be all but impossible.

Because time was so critical and at any moment the serial murderer could kidnap his next victim, early Sunday morning Sami drove to her mother's, dropped off Angelina, then went to the precinct to run Simon's name through the FBI database to determine if he had a prior history of felonies or misdemeanors. Her mother, of course, was not pleased with Sami's unannounced crack-of-dawn visit, but Sami didn't give her time to protest. Besides, her mother usually awakened at five a.m.

As was always the case, only a handful of detectives and support staff occupied the precinct on Sundays. Sami went into the computer room, closed the door, and entered Simon's name into the system. She pushed the appropriate keys that would initiate a thorough search of his name and waited. After less than one minute, a flashing banner announced, "No Matches Found." Although significant, this information only confirmed that Simon had no prior record. It did not, however, remove him as a possible suspect. Now she would have to get close to him. Very close to him. She'd have to gently quiz him through dialogue rather than interrogation. As of yet, she hadn't a clue how to accomplish this objective. She only knew that time was not her ally.

After picking up Angelina from her mother's home, Sami spent the rest of her Sunday morning curled on the sofa in her bathrobe, trying to imagine how she'd make it through the next two days. At ten-thirty, Al unexpectedly showed up with a carton of donuts under his arm. Sami brewed coffee and they sat side by side on the sofa. Al gobbled jelly donuts like a man recently released from a concentration camp, painting his face with powdered sugar, while Sami quietly sipped the hazelnut coffee and Angelina watched cartoons. Sami was tempted to tell Al about Simon and her suspicions, but a little voice in her subconscious warned her not to. Not yet anyway. Al wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, flipped open the cover on the cardboard box, and studied the nine remaining donuts.

"You're not really going to stuff another donut in your face, are you?"

Al closed the lid and patted his stomach. "Maybe later." He slurped his coffee. "How about you? I bought your favorite: glazed buttermilk."

The thought of eating a donut made her ill. "Haven't you noticed? I'm trying to watch my weight."

He gave her a once-over. "I thought your ass looked a little trimmer."

"Amazing what a full-length body girdle can do." Sami didn't wish to impose on their friendship, but she needed a favor. "Doing anything exciting this afternoon?"

"Going rock climbing with my buddy Louie."

"Sounds like fun."

Al clutched her hand. "Jesus, your hands are like ice."

"Cold hands, warm heart."

Al rubbed Sami's clammy hand, trying to warm it. "Your heart must be an inferno."

Al's hands were soft and his touch gentle. Since Tommy and she split up, Sami desperately missed human contact. She longed for tenderness--a pleasure Tommy ended the moment Sami announced she was pregnant. Al's touch only served to galvanize her feeling of loneliness.

"What time is the wake?" Al asked.

His question caught her off guard. "Two o'clock."

"How about I pick you up at one-thirty?" He made the offer without missing a beat.

"You're going rock climbing."

"You're more important than rocks."

"I'm flattered. I think." Sami turned and faced Al. "You hated Tommy."

"Still do."

Sami's eyes filled with tears. "I appreciate your support."

"Support? Wait 'til you find out what I want in return."

Sami's eyes twitched to a smile.

Al excused himself and went to the bathroom. Angelina, bored with cartoons she'd already seen, turned the television off and found her mother's lap.

"Hi, Mommy."

"Hello, sweetheart."

Angelina's hair stuck to her cheeks. Sami pushed it away from her eyes. "Are we going back to Grandma Rizzo's for dinner?"

It was a Sunday ritual. "Mommy has other things to do, but I'm going to take you to Grandma's a little later."

"Where you going, Mommy?"

She had been preparing for this moment, but found herself almost paralyzed. "There's something I have to tell you, honey. About Daddy."

"Is he going to take me to Legoland?"

"No, sweetheart, he's not."

After painful deliberation, the DiSalvo family decided that a one-day wake was all they could endure. Had Tommy died of an illness, or even met his untimely fate in a car crash, the family might be able to withstand the pain and suffering of a longer wake. But the condition of his body, the utter brutality by which he was murdered, made even a one-day wake intolerable. This decision did not serve to ease even a grain of Sami's angst. To walk into the Westwood Funeral Home required strength beyond her capacity. Although the DiSalvo family decided that Tommy's casket should be closed--not even the world's most gifted plastic surgeon could reconstruct his beaten face and make it presentable--Sami had decided not to expose Angelina to such a traumatic experience. Having other babysitting options available, Sami asked her mother to accompany her.

"He did not respect me when he was your husband, why should I respect him when he is dead?"

"I'm asking you to do it for me, not Tommy," Sami had pleaded.

Josephine wasn't budging. "Angelina needs her grandmother. I don't want you leaving her with some stranger." When Josephine Rizzo folded her arms across her chest, Sami knew that further debate would be futile.

Tommy DiSalvo was dead. The man who once swept Sami off her feet, introduced the chubby Catholic girl to her first breathless kiss, taught her that sex was an ongoing adventure, a man who could be gentle one moment and unmercifully cruel the next, the father of her only child, a man she might have saved had she not been so selfish...was gone forever.

Wearing the only black dress in her wardrobe appropriate for a wake, a wool knee-grazer slightly snug in the hips, Sami walked into the funeral parlor clinging to Al's arm. She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn high heels, and her ankles wobbled in protest.

"Don't be nervous," Al said. He looked quite dashing wearing his two-button navy-blue suit, accompanied with a crisp white shirt and blue paisley tie. With a generous amount of hair gel, Al had neatly combed and slicked back his usually messy hair.

"That's easy for you to say," Sami said. "I think I need to find the ladies' room."

The Westwood Funeral Home, a white brick structure with four marble pillars supporting an expansive carport at the front entrance, was located on Genesee Avenue in Clairemont Mesa. The building, strategically designed to accommodate three wakes simultaneously, while still providing privacy for the bereaved visitors, stood among other commercial establishments. Today, Tommy's was the only wake.

As Sami approached the East Room, fiercely gripping Al's left arm, she spotted Tommy DiSalvo's name displayed above the doorway. There were several people gathered outside the room, chatting, laughing, and engaging in the camaraderie of a social ceremony. Sami recognized none of them. What would she say to people when they paid their condolences? If she graciously accepted their gestures of sympathy for a man she intensely disliked, her actions would make her a hypocrite. There would be those who would look at her with judgmental eyes. After all, she was Tommy's ex-wife, a woman exiled from the family. Her participation in this event served neither to pay homage to her ex-husband, nor to offer her support to a family who never quite accepted her as "good enough." She attended this wake for Angelina.

Sami and Al walked into the East Room. The combination of flowers and women doused with cheap perfume made the air smell sickly sweet, reminiscent of Friday night bingo at Saint Michael's. Her mother hadn't persuaded Sami to accompany her in years, but the smell of the overperfumed elderly women was hard to forget. A narrow aisle in the center of the room led the way to the closed casket. On either side of the aisle were rows of neatly arranged chairs. There were, perhaps, twenty people in the room, mostly familiar faces. Some were standing, others seated, and several huddled near the casket. To Sami, the room seemed too brightly lit. Twin crystal chandeliers hung from thick gold chains at either end of the ivory-painted ceiling. Sconces shaped like seashells were spaced evenly on the walls. The lush, garnet-colored carpeting looked brand-new.

Sami and her noble escort waited patiently for a middle-aged man to say a prayer while kneeling in front of Tommy DiSalvo's casket. Sami spotted Tommy's parents, Maria and Vincent DiSalvo, sitting in the front row. Maria glanced her way but didn't acknowledge Sami with the slightest nod. Sami wasn't sure if her former mother-in-law intentionally ignored her or felt so consumed with grief she didn't recognize her. After the divorce, Tommy's parents not only dissociated themselves from Sami, they unofficially disowned Angelina. To Sami, their behavior was a classic exhibition of Italian stubbornness, and it served no purpose except to punish an innocent child.

Sami witnessed gestures of compassion throughout the room: handshakes and kisses and hugs, people blowing their noses and weeping: the aerobics of a mournful congregation. The man kneeling on the padded bench suddenly disappeared, so Sami and Al knelt in front of the mahogany casket. There were vases of bright-colored flowers on both sides of the casket. Roses, carnations, calla lilies, birds of paradise. Centered on the casket Sami spotted an arrangement of white and red roses. The words "beloved son" were embossed on the blue satin ribbon hanging from the bouquet. To the left of the flowers, propped on the coffin, stood an eight-by-ten picture of Tommy, a photograph Sami had never seen. From his youthful look, Sami guessed that the photo had been taken a decade ago. She couldn't help wondering how things might have turned out if his character had been as wholesome as his looks.

Kneeling in front of the coffin, Sami faced the same dilemma she'd encountered in the past: What could she say to God? What words could she compose worthy of God's ear? It seemed so paltry and ordinary to simply ask the Creator to have mercy on Tommy's less-than-pure soul. Surely, a more compelling, less mainstream plea for his salvation might capture God's attention.

Sami believed in a higher authority, a supreme power greater than humankind, and that life on Earth served as a stepping stone to an existence more substantial and more permanent. She also felt certain that in the next life, mortals were rewarded for their goodwill and punished for their misdeeds.

Today, kneeling in front of Tommy's coffin, certain that Maria and Vincent DiSalvo were staring at her back, cursing the day she'd been born, Samantha Rizzo could not evoke appropriate words. She could not compose a prayer for the man who was once her husband and lover, the father of her child. She said a Hail Mary and an Our Father, made the sign of the cross, and choked back the tears.

Al stood and waited by her side, but Sami remained kneeling in front of the coffin.

He touched her arm. "You okay?"

She took a deep breath and stood. "Been better."

She dreaded this moment most: paying her respects to Tommy's parents, searching their eyes for hatred. She turned and stepped toward the DiSalvos. Vincent stood several feet away, talking to a bald, hunched-over elderly man. Maria sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap, clutching a wadded tissue, staring at the coffin with a mesmerized, almost possessed look.

Sami forced a smile and extended her hand. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss, Maria."

The slightly overweight, fifty-seven-year-old woman lifted her chin and blinked several times, as if trying to focus her squinting brown eyes. Then her eyes opened wide. With her right hand she grasped Sami's extended hand. With her left, she grabbed Sami's elbow and pulled Sami toward her. Maria's face was inches from Sami's ear.

"We couldn't help Tommy. You know how poor we are. But you could have saved my son, Sami. Instead, you let him die. God curse your soul."

The barely audible words assaulted Sami's ears like a gunshot. She had no retort. This was neither the time nor place for debate or rebuttal. What could she say in her own defense? Al stood in her shadow, waiting patiently, unaware of what the bitter woman had whispered in Sami's ear. Sami waited for Vincent to finish his conversation with the bent-forward man, so she could quickly offer her condolences. Vincent glanced at her several times but seemed uninterested in ending his talk. Sami tugged on Al's sleeve and leaned toward him. "Let's get the hell out of here."

She held Al's hand and almost pulled him behind her as she marched for the exit. The crowd watched her hasty departure with searching curiosity. It seemed that everyone in the funeral home had been corrupted, convinced that Sami was responsible for Tommy's death. She felt like she was walking a gauntlet, their glares silent weapons. If she weren't a civilized woman, a sworn servant of society, she'd stomp back in the room and tell the DiSalvos a couple of choice stories about their beloved son. But doing so would only reduce herself to their level. Nothing she could say or do would temper the conspiracy. They believed what they believed, and no matter how poignant her defense, she could never exonerate herself. At least not in their eyes.

During the ride back to Sami's house, Al knew that silence was the best medicine, that only time could moderate Sami's rage. He abhorred seeing her in so much pain, but other than offer his earnest support, what could he do? For Al, the situation had unleashed his own emotions. They'd been partners for over six years; friends from the moment they met. Al had heard all the details of Sami's troubled marriage and was well acquainted with the likes of Tommy DiSalvo and his family of misfits. On countless evenings Al had sat by Sami's side and consoled her. On numerous occasions, Al's phone would ring in the middle of the night because Tommy had not been home for days, and Sami, frantic with alarm, needed to hear a friendly voice.

Tommy DiSalvo had left an indelible scar on Sami's heart. He had captured a woman with a profound zest for life, held her captive in his dark world, and when he finally released her, she no longer savored life with the same spirit.

Alberto Diaz had been there when Sami gave birth to Angelina. He stood beside Sami in the labor room, holding her hands, wiping the sweat from her brow, helping with her breathing exercises. Until the moment she disappeared through the doors of the operating room, Al had coached her through seven hours of labor. He had asked to accompany Sami during delivery, but when she explained that she might never again be able to look in his eyes, he understood and respected her womanly pride without protest.

As the quiet ride continued, and Al's head flooded with memories, it occurred to him that there was something he could do for Sami. Al had been born just across the border from San Diego, in Tijuana, where the contrast between prosperity and poverty glared like the Mexican sun. The city served as a haven for bargain hunters. Most of the daytime tourists patronized myriad retail stores and street vendors selling everything from handwoven wool blankets to knockoff Rolex watches. But when the sun set, Tijuana's infamous reputation beckoned other visitors, all searching for drugs, sex, and bars that never closed. On Friday and Saturday evenings, the streets of Tijuana were littered with California teenagers, all with the same goal: to get inebriated.

Three classes of people lived in Tijuana: those lucky enough to work for one of many businesses supported by American tourism, others with green cards who were legally employed in the United States but maintained residency in Mexico, and the less fortunate ones forced to beg for a living.

Al would never forget his poverty-stricken childhood. Only steps from the customs gate, where the Border Patrol carefully screened an onslaught of Americans crossing the border into Mexico, Al camped on the sidewalk seven days a week. Many tourists parked their cars in designated lots and walked over the border into Tijuana. This created a great opportunity for enterprising children like Al. With ragged clothing, his face dirty and wearing a pitiful frown, Al stood among a group of children loitering on the busy pathway to Mexico, hoping to collect enough money to help his parents get through another difficult day.

Until his thirteenth birthday--when the competition from younger, more pathetic-looking children captured the soft hearts of Americans more effectively--Al sold Chiclets chewing gum to anyone kind enough to drop a nickel in his rusty coffee can. Al's teenage years were riddled with delinquent activities. He had never committed a consequential crime, but the local police knew him well and were always at his heels. Finally, at the age of nineteen, after repeated pleas from his mother, his Uncle Eduardo, a naturalized citizen living in National City, agreed to sponsor Al's immigration into the United States.

Al was well aware that the Mexican Mafia thrived in Tijuana. And although he had not shared this with Sami, he felt certain Tommy DiSalvo had not been murdered by the hands of this particular group of hoodlums. They were criminals in every sense of the word, heavily involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, and gambling. They had no reservations about snapping a pinky or beating a freeloader to within an inch of his life. And occasionally, when they believed a "customer's" debt was substantial and uncollectible, one of their enforcers would press the business end of a Colt .45 against the deadbeat's temple and end his life. They were an unscrupulous, corrupt pack of pendejos, but a peculiar code of ethics existed among them. They would never torture a man before murdering him. This was gospel. And they most certainly would not have castrated Tommy and stuffed his testicles down his throat. Al felt certain that Tommy DiSalvo had not been murdered by the Mexican Mafia, and he intended to prove it.

Al still had contacts in Tijuana, lifelong friends familiar with the dynamics of the underworld. He'd have to be careful with his covert investigation. If Captain Davison learned about his unauthorized detective work, the consequences would be grave. A few telephone calls, a trip to Tijuana, a handful of pesos to warm the palms of those connected to the action, and soon Al would solve the mystery and hopefully help quell Sami's feeling of guilt.

Not as her best friend, and not as her partner, Al reached across the seat and grabbed Sami's hand. She turned her head slightly and smiled at him. He stroked her fingers and could feel that familiar flutter in his upper chest, the tightness at the back of his throat. Oh, how masterfully he had concealed the truth for so many years.

On the Wednesday afternoon they had met, at the exact moment Alberto Diaz had looked into Samantha Rizzo's beautiful blue eyes, he had fallen in love for the first time in his pitiful life. Al had heard the utopian stories about love at first sight, but until the day his heart had swelled with a warmth he had never known, he had always believed that all the romantic tales were food for Gothic novels. How clever he had been: playing the part of a carefree rogue, a user of women. Making Sami believe that he lived the life of a playboy served as his only shelter.

Not a day passed without Al dreaming about making love to Sami. Now, sitting beside her in this car, Al came to the bitter realization that he could never reveal his love, that it would forever be exiled in a secret refuge in his heart. He was not good enough for Sami. She deserved more than a Mexican-born maniac with reckless ambition. Sami needed stability in her life, and Angelina needed a father figure. It was not a role to which Al could ever aspire. His love for her was a romantic tragedy, and Sami would never know.

"Thanks for your support, partner," Sami said.

Drowning in his thoughts, the break in silence startled him. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sure you could have had more fun rock climbing with your friend than babysitting for me."

If only she knew. "What did the old witch say to set you off?"

"I don't remember her exact words, only the insinuation."

"And?"

"She blamed me for Tommy's murder."

Al's hands tightened around the steering wheel, committed more than ever to finding out who murdered Tommy DiSalvo. "Don't let her or anyone else lay that horseshit on you."

"I keep trying to convince myself that even if I had mortgaged my soul and given Tommy the money, eventually he'd run out of resources. It seemed inevitable."

"That's exactly right."

"But suppose this would have been the last straw? What if the threat on his life had been just the dose of reality he needed? You should have seen him, Al, he was terrified."

"There's never a last straw with losers like him. I don't mean to be disrespectful--I know he was once your husband--but you gotta call a spade a spade."

Maybe Al was right.

Al turned into Sami's driveway and switched off the ignition. "I'll walk you to the door."

"It's broad daylight. I don't think I'm in any danger."

More selfish than chivalrous, Al hoped for a coffee invitation; any excuse to spend more time with Sami. "Hey, you never know."

At the door, Sami put her arms around Al and gave him a bear hug.

Like two puzzle pieces, the contours of Sami's body snugly fit against Al's. He thought his heart would leap out of his chest. "So what time tomorrow should I pick you up for the funeral services?" Her hair smelled like coconuts.

She let go of him and searched through her purse. "I'm not going to the funeral."

Her words relieved Al. "You sure about that?"

She found the ring of keys and slipped the brass-colored one in the dead bolt. "The only thing I know for sure is that I refuse to subject myself to more humiliation."

"Bravo. I admire your courage."

"Call it self-preservation." Sami glanced at her wristwatch. "If you're not sick of hanging around a sniveling wench, we can probably catch the second half of the Chargers game."

"Promise not to blow your nose on my one and only dress shirt and you've got a deal."

"Be warned: When my mother drops off Angelina, she'll probably hang around."

"You haven't scared me yet."

"Oh, yeah. Wait until she sits on your lap and asks you to read her a bedtime story."

"Angelina?"

"No, my mother."

Al grinned. "Now you're scarin' me."

Sami and Al walked into the cluttered living room.

"If you're really lucky," Sami said, "I might muster enough ambition to throw some leftover chili in the microwave. But no promises."

"And to think I could have been foolish enough to go home and grill that porterhouse steak in my fridge."

"When you taste my chili, you're gonna beg me for the recipe."

"Or I can just read the ingredients on a can of Hormel's."

"You know me so well."