FOURTEEN

Monday at six-thirty p.m., Sami's telephone rang. Angelina had just finished dinner--pizza from Vincenzo's--and Sami gulped the last mouthful of a Corona while clearing off the kitchen table. Angelina sat on the floor watching television. Takeout food had become mainstream at the Rizzo residence. So much so that one of Sami's many New Year's resolutions--quickly approaching--was to buy a half-dozen cookbooks and attempt to learn the craft of cooking. She made a fair spaghetti sauce, but as Josephine Rizzo often pointed out, "it tasted like the 'orange sauce' Americanos buy in a jar." On occasion, when Sami felt particularly adventurous, she'd stuff a chicken and roast it. But a culinary aficionado? Hardly.

With the volume of business-related calls she received every day, Sami was conditioned to answer formally. She picked up the receiver and without forethought said, "Sami Rizzo."

"Is this the devastatingly gorgeous Sami Rizzo, the female Sherlock Holmes of the Western world?" Al sounded remarkably upbeat.

"Sorry, pal, but you've really got the wrong number."

"So I gather you made it through the day without your indispensable partner?" Al had spent most of the day interviewing homeless people and local residents close to the vicinity where the Swedish model had been murdered on the beach.

"To be honest, Al, I didn't even notice you weren't around until I stumbled upon a box of uneaten jelly donuts."

"Did you save me any?"

"Not one." Sami eyed the last piece of pizza. "Any luck with the interviews?"

"J.T. is our only link."

An awkward silence ensued.

"How you holding up, Sami?"

She had to ponder his question for a moment. "Believe it or not, I actually feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It's as if Tommy's been gone for years."

"He has. Is Angelina okay?"

"So far, so good." The melted mozzarella beckoned Sami. "Will I see you in the morning?"

"Eight a.m. sharp."

"Got the lab test results on the shoes and sock this morning."

"Good news?"

"Betsy found a hair in the sock. Our perp's a white guy."

"That narrows the field to about a hundred fifty million suspects."

Temptation got the best of her and Sami folded the last piece of pizza in half and took a generous bite. "Betsy also recovered a trace of blood in one of the shoes. We'll have the DNA results in a day or two."

"Anything else?"

"Captain Davison rescinded his decision to pull us off the serial murder investigation."

Al didn't speak for a few moments. "Let me alert the people at Ripley's Believe It or Not."

"Hard to grasp, huh?"

"What prompted that change?"

"A five-foot-seven Italian on her period."

"You sure that's what you want?"

Sami suddenly realized that she had made a headlong decision without having paid Al the courtesy of consulting him. "Are you okay with this, Al?" At this point, the question seemed rhetorical.

"Hey, you know me. I go with the flow. What I'm concerned about is you. Are you okay with this?"

"Ask me Friday at midnight."

Perhaps because she had been numb for the last few days, brooding over Tommy's murder, wrestling with her conscience, it wasn't until her head touched the pillow Monday evening that Sami clearly understood the impact of her showdown with Captain Davison. Without a substantial lead, how could she possibly crack this case and make an arrest by the end of the week? In a moment of wild-eyed idealism, Detective Sami Rizzo had placed herself--and her partner--in a hopeless situation.

To date, four, possibly five, women had been murdered by the same man. What did she know about the perpetrator? He was a Caucasian with blue eyes and light brown hair, well over six feet tall, athletic build, drove a dark Supercab pickup, liked expensive footwear, and surely was a religious fanatic. That's it. Not a shred of substantial evidence. What was she trying to prove? Perhaps her reckless behavior suggested a repressed desire to self-destruct. She had not only placed herself in a potentially precarious situation, but her partner, Al, was also at risk. Other detectives were involved in the investigation. In fact, the last count was eight. But by lobbying with Captain Davison to reverse his decision, allowing Al and her to continue heading the investigation, placed the onus on her. The captain had made it clear that Sami's hide was on the line, not her fellow detectives'. And to complicate the situation further, if Sami didn't make an arrest by Friday at midnight, Captain Davison's professional integrity would be compromised.

Sami peeled the covers off her sweaty body and switched on the lamp. She moved to the edge of the mattress and sat for a moment, squinting, letting her eyes adjust to the light. She reached for the lavender envelope, removed the sympathy card, and read it for the third time since finding it on her desk.

Simon.

Now more than ever, the circumstantial evidence pointing to Simon seemed more concrete. Perhaps this was because Sami had nowhere else to turn. No viable leads. No other suspects. Or possibly Sami's usually reliable instincts had kicked into gear. Whatever the case, Sami was ready to break all the rules--anything to crack this case.

Extraordinary circumstances sometimes called for extraordinary measures. And once in a while, a smart cop is forced to do something not so smart.