SIXTEEN

Certain Sami was out cold, Simon went back into the kitchen, finished the wedge of chocolate raspberry cake, and swallowed the last mouthful of wine. He cleared the table, rinsed the dishes and silverware, and neatly arranged them in the dishwasher. Still favoring his sore foot, Simon carefully lifted Sami off the floor, bent her limp body over his shoulder, and as if he were doing squats with a two-hundred-pound barbell, balanced her weight, flexed his powerful legs, and stood upright. He negotiated his way down the stairs and laid her on the bed in the Room of Redemption. For several minutes, Simon stood over Sami and stared at her.

You will be my most cherished offering.

Suspecting that she might have an easy-to-conceal weapon on her person, he stripped her to bra and panties and carefully searched her clothing. He found nothing. He sat on the bed and gently pushed the wisps of hair away from her eyes. Simon could not deny that Detective Rizzo was a striking woman. Her skin was like ivory, off-white and smooth to the touch. Her lips were full and inviting. But in spite of her pleasing external appearance, she was an infidel, a sinner, a detective trying to thwart God's work. Knowing that she'd been skillfully trained to defend herself, he considered handcuffing her to the bed. But when he'd done the same to Peggy McDonald, she'd rubbed her wrist raw. Simon didn't wish to treat his guests like animals, but to prevent her from attacking him he needed leverage.

He covered Sami with a blanket, locked the steel door, and went upstairs. On the floor near the doorway to the room where Sami met her fate, he spotted her handbag. Simon shook the contents onto the kitchen table and pawed through the pile of her possessions: wallet, cell phone, pager, two makeup bags, pens, tissue, gum wrappers, business cards, snub-nosed revolver. Attached to a fob the size of a quarter, he found a metal ring with a dozen various keys. On one side of the fob was a balance scale, the astrological symbol for Libra. On the other side was a picture of Angelina.

You've done well, my sweet son. I'm proud of you.

"Thank you, Mother."

I must caution you, Simon.

He listened carefully.

You look at this one with lust in your eyes.

"That's not true, Mother."

You cannot hide your weakness of the flesh from me, dear boy.

"You are the only one, Mother."

Don't disappoint me, son.

"Never."

Simon wrapped the cell phone and pager in a dish towel and set them on the floor. He searched through the drawer next to the sink and found the metal hammer he used to pound veal and chicken breasts. With repeated blows he smashed the cell phone and pager until they were reduced to tiny pieces. Then he shook them out of the towel and into a plastic bag. Simon flipped the cylinder open on the .38 special, poured the hollow-point bullets into the palm of his hand, stuffed the revolver in the kitchen drawer, and tossed the bullets into the bag with the remains of the pager and cell phone. He examined Sami's assortment of keys, focusing on Angelina's photograph.

Leverage.

Alberto Diaz had quit smoking over ten years ago, and with Sami's encouragement and the help of AA, he stopped drinking more than three years ago. On this particular evening, just before midnight, unable to sleep and as jumpy as an expectant father, Alberto Diaz ventured to the corner twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven. Buying a pack of Winstons did not prick his conscience too severely. But the adjacent aisle, with its endless assortment of booze, tested his resolve. Ah, California. Where else could a man buy a bottle of salvation from the neighborhood convenient store in the wee hours of the morning?

Al left the Winstons on the glass checkout counter and moved toward the display of alcohol. As if hypnotized, his eyes fixed on an impressive variety of scotch. One particular brand caught his eye and immediately evoked bitter memories. He reached for the bottle of Dewar's White Label and held it like delicate crystal.

Need to take the edge off. Just a pint. Sixteen ounces. Can't possibly hurt.

He ran his thumb over the label as if he were stroking velvet.

One drink. Just one.

He remembered the throbbing hangovers, his stomach on fire, kneeling in front of the "porcelain throne" and puking his guts out. He'd never forget waking up in the middle of the night and hanging his foot off the bed onto the floor to stop the room from spinning. Was it worth it? He set the Dewar's on the counter next to the Winston's and dropped a twenty-dollar bill in front of the clerk.

Fuck it.

When Al returned home, he poured the Scotch over ice, sat in his favorite recliner, set the glass on the cocktail table, and lit a Winston. In the dark, he puffed away. Oh, how marvelous to fill his lungs with the soothing smoke. He'd forgotten that wonderful high. Sucking on the cigarette did not cause Al too much angst. The booze, on the other hand, jabbed at his conscience and sense of well-being like a hot poker. Several times, Al held the glass in his hand. He even sniffed the seductive aroma and licked his lips. He could not take a sip. Yet.

He'd picked up the telephone a dozen times in the past hour but couldn't muster the courage to dial Sami's number. What if the answering machine picked up? That would mean she was still with him. How long did it take to have dinner? If she did answer, how would he justify calling so late?

His behavior was adolescent. Al knew this but couldn't help himself. He'd known that one day Sami would start dating again. Until now, Sami felt uncomfortable with the whole concept of dating, even though she and Tommy were divorced. Al believed it had something to do with Angelina. But now everything had changed and Sami was with another man, a man Al knew nothing about.

The scotch beckoned again, and without further evaluation Al emptied the glass with three long gulps. He could feel the warm alcohol slowly blaze a trail to his stomach. Almost immediately, his face felt aflame, and his head spun as if he were riding on a merry-go-round. After a second drink, a strong dose of alcohol courage overwhelmed Al, so he reached for the cordless telephone, pushed talk, speed dial, then the number four. After three rings he heard Sami's recorded message.

He heaved the telephone across the room and it ricocheted off the wall.

Al sat on the recliner and his eyes were drawn to a photo album sitting on the cocktail table. He made the mistake of picking it up and glancing through the timeworn pages. He saw old photos of his mother and father and sister.

Memories from Al's upbringing flooded his mind. Booze was always such a reliable time machine.

He drifted back to his childhood, reflecting on a Christmas past, the only time of the year when, thanks to the holiday magic, the oppression of poverty seemed diluted.

Cesar and Lucita Diaz, Al's parents, struggled to provide for Alberto and his older sister, Alita. Although Cesar worked steady, seven days a week as a short-order cook in a small restaurant in the heart of Tijuana, he earned barely enough to survive. The family lived in a three-room home on the outskirts of the city. Lucita could no longer contribute financially to the family. She suffered from two herniated disks, the result of a life laden with strenuous work as a housekeeper for a local hotel. Twelve-hour days of backbreaking work, flipping mattresses, vacuuming miles of carpeting, scrubbing showers and toilets, had finally taken their toll. Mexican employment laws were much less stringent than in the United States; they virtually didn't exist. The few that did were not enforced.

In spite of their meager existence and often insurmountable challenges, the Diaz family tried to live a spirited life. For the entire year, Cesar and Lucita deprived themselves of anything but the essentials of a simple existence. Each week they stashed away a small portion of Cesar's paycheck. At Christmastime, they used the savings to buy Alita and Alberto a wonderful Christmas gift.

The last December Al's mother was alive--Al had just become a teenager--he had gotten a Huffy ten-speed bicycle for Christmas. Considering their paltry lifestyle, to receive such a gift was an epic event. But Al, too angry to appreciate the significance of his parents' generosity and sacrifice, had not properly thanked them. They had scrimped all year to buy such an extravagant gift, and Al did not receive their unselfish gesture in the spirit in which it had been offered.

Al was pissed off at the world, fed up with poverty, tired of selling Chiclets to rude Americans at the international border. He could not find the words to thank his parents.

In later years, when Al fully understood the altruistic nature of his parents and the depth of their love, he wept for them often, regretting his lack of gracious gratitude. Whenever he visited their graves, he cried. Memories of Christmas choked him up. While kneeling beside their graves, he asked them to forgive him for never appreciating how wonderful they were.

With blurry eyes, Al remembered. He never got the chance to thank his parents for their devotion and uncompromising love. These were not the memories he wished to elicit. Not now. Alberto Diaz knew for certain that his past relationship with alcohol would once again be intimate.

To ensure that Sami's mother was sound asleep, Simon waited outside her home until after two a.m. The house was dark, and except for an occasional car whizzing by, the street deserted. There were several assorted house keys on Sami's key ring, and Simon guessed that one fit her mother's door. He could easily break in, but that could be risky. Using keys made him less conspicuous. He got out of the Explorer and looked up and down the street. No one in sight. Walking swiftly, he crossed the street and hopped up the steps leading to the front entrance of Josephine Rizzo's home. The only glitch in his plan would be if Sami's mother secured the door with a chain lock. Not that he couldn't effortlessly snap a thin chain, but any unnecessary noise could attract attention.

The screen door squeaked when he opened it. He held his breath for a minute. The first two keys did not fit the dead bolt lock; the third one did. Simon turned it clockwise. He tried to turn the doorknob, but it had also been locked. This time the first key he chose slid neatly into the slot. Click. He craned his neck and surveyed the landscape. Still no visible activity on the street. Perspiration dotted his upper lip. He twisted the doorknob and slowly opened the door, but as he suspected, the old woman had secured a chain lock. Simon owned two pairs of bolt cutters, one of which was in his Explorer.

Leaning into the wooden door with his shoulder, Simon planted his left foot for leverage and pushed hard against it. The wood split with a cracking sound and the chain broke free easier than he'd expected. Such a foolish deterrent. A child could have broken the chain. A night-light spilled from the kitchen into the living room; just enough light for Simon to find the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He had no way of knowing in which bedroom Angelina slept. He stood in the hall and listened. From the door on the right he could hear Josephine Rizzo snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He eased past her open door. At the end of the hall a dim light shone through the partially opened door, casting a ceiling-to-floor rectangle of light on the wall. He tiptoed toward the bedroom. With each step the old wooden floor creaked in protest.

Simon poked his head into the bedroom. Angelina looked sound asleep. He knelt beside the little girl's bed. He didn't wish to harm or frighten her, but if she didn't cooperate he'd have to restrain her. He removed a roll of duct tape from his pocket and set in on the floor. Just in case.

Gently, he grasped her shoulder and shook. Angelina's body twisted and she rubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. She yawned and her eyes opened just a slit.

Simon held his index finger to his lips. "Shhh. We have to whisper so we don't wake your grandma."

Angelina didn't utter a sound.

"Your mommy has a present for you."

She leaned on an elbow. "She does?"

"Yep. She's waiting for you right now."

"Where is she?"

"At my house."

"Can we go there?"

"Only if you promise to be very quiet."

Angelina rolled her eyes and smiled. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, "Is it a big present?"

Simon extended his arms. "It's this big."

Her eyes were like saucers.

Simon pawed through the chest of drawers and found an adorable pink dress. Then he helped Angelina put it on, grasped her hand, and led her toward the door. Suddenly Angelina stopped.

"Mommy told me not to go with strangers."

Simon knelt down and gently grabbed her shoulders. "Do you remember when you and your mommy came to the hospital to visit me?"

She nodded.

"And remember when your mommy got all dressed up last night?"

"She went on a date."

"That's right, Angelina. Your mommy came over to my house for dinner. She wouldn't have dinner with a stranger, would she?"

She thought about that for a moment. "Can we bring Grandma?"

"She's really tired, so we're going to let her sleep."

At first, only a glimmer of disoriented consciousness interrupted Sami's stupor. She had no concept of time, no immediate recollection of what happened, and didn't know where she lay. The only thing she knew for sure was that at any moment she would throw up. Her head, feeling as if it were floating above her body, spun out of control. The damp room smelled musty, adding to her nausea. From a small adjoining kitchenlike area, dim light spilled into the room, barely enough for Sami to see. It looked like a studio apartment, equipped with all the essentials to live a modest life: TV, microwave, small refrigerator, and a large cardboard box overflowing with toys. Toys to occupy the children. Ah, yes, he had thought of everything.

She lay on the bed beneath a blanket, caressing her bare skin, trying to rub the chill away, searching her not-too-keen memory. Why was she wearing only a bra and panties? The obvious conclusion sickened her. Lucidity didn't come quickly; it took several minutes for Sami to reconstruct the foggy puzzle. When she did, a feeling of chaotic frenzy overwhelmed her.

Simon.

Her body shivered.

She did not need bright light to know that she lay in Simon's holding room, where Jessica and Linda and Molly and Peggy had lain before he crucified them. Now it was her turn. But not without a fight.

Sami swung her legs off the edge of the bed and tried to sit upright, but she could not find the strength. Whatever potent drug Simon had used to knock her out caused her muscles to feel like oatmeal. She hung her head over the side of the mattress and vomited on the floor. Her stomach felt ablaze.

How could I be so stupid?

All along, a cautionary voice had whispered in her ear, but Sami's desire to prove to Captain Davison and the other members of the task force that she could crack this case before the Friday midnight deadline pushed her to act irresponsibly. She could not fathom the level of reckless arrogance that led her to devise such a naive plan. To have dinner at the home of a likely serial killer without backup proved to Sami that her once-reliable cop instincts had vanished! She now realized that Simon had planned their meeting, and everything he did had been a means to an end. Now so obvious, she couldn't believe her gullibility.

Keep your wits, girl. Panic now and you're dead meat.

In spite of feeling dizzy and nauseated, she tried to ignore her ornery gut and forced herself to stand. She felt certain her stomach would betray her again. If she had any hope of surviving this ordeal, she had to assess the situation before he returned. And that could be at any moment. Who could possibly know how his twisted mind functioned? To protect her bare skin from the chilly air, she wrapped the bedspread around her body and wobbled her way toward the dim light. The concrete floor was cold and hard against her bare feet. She couldn't help wondering if the other four women had clung to this same bedspread. The thought sent a chill through her.

In the far corner, she found a halogen floor lamp and turned it on. She first noticed the steel door. Not a surprise. Next, she spotted a round hole in the floor filled with dirt, about the diameter of a beach ball. Why would he dig a hole in the concrete floor? Then Sami saw her clothes neatly folded, sitting on the corner of the bed. Strange.

Still hazy, Sami didn't need all her faculties to deduce that Simon had imprisoned her in his strategically designed basement for only one reason. She suspected that such a calculating sociopath soundproofed the room as well, so screaming like a maniac or pounding on the door would be fruitless. Besides, she didn't want to rile him.

Standing near the light, surveying the room, Sami listened for any sign of him somewhere in the house. She couldn't hear footsteps or faint music above her. For all she knew he could be standing outside the steel door with his ear pressed against it. Perhaps he slept peacefully, dreaming about his next crucifixion, grinning hideously. She noticed the play area, the assortment of children's toys and games.

Angelina.

At least her daughter was safe. Or was she? Sociopaths rarely changed their killing patterns. She remembered Peggy McDonald. Her wounds were the same as the other three victims, and Simon undoubtedly crucified her, but he had not cut out her heart. Patterns can change. Simon had proven that. But to what extent? With each victim Simon had kidnapped mother and child. Had this been planned or a coincidence of circumstance? Suddenly, a feeling of alarm settled in the back of Sami's throat, closing off her windpipe. All she could do was wait.

Angelina slept the entire ride back to Alpine in the backseat of Simon's Explorer. Without waking her, Simon carefully lifted the child and carried her into the garage. A blustery wind blew from the west; thick clouds covered the stars. The air smelled damp. Southern California was near the threshold of its rainy season. As he searched for the key to unlock the door, Samson, overwhelmed with curiosity, stood on his hind legs and sniffed Angelina's sneakers. The Labrador's tail wagged furiously. Simon patted the dog's head, then unlocked the door. He laid Angelina's limp body on the living room sofa and covered her with a thick cotton blanket. She immediately rolled onto her side, curled into a ball, and stuck her thumb in her mouth. For several minutes Simon stood over her, staring at the little girl, almost mesmerized by the child, who looked nothing like her mother.

He felt an eerie hollowness, as if his body had no organs. Flesh stretched over bones. He'd experienced this emptiness before. He often wondered why God had chosen him. To serve his Creator unconditionally, Simon had to forgo many of life's mortal pleasures. To forfeit parenthood was a considerable sacrifice. Why couldn't he be a father? Would it really interfere with his divine duties? A part of him longed to be a father. Not in the traditional sense, but as a single parent. He looked at Angelina. Perhaps he could be a father and still carry on with God's work.

With the back of his hand, Simon gently stroked Angelina's soft cheeks. Such a precious child, he thought. Who would assume the role as Angelina's guardian after he had purified Sami's heart and cleansed her soul? Her father had been murdered. And her grandmother? Too old and physically incapable of raising an energetic child, the old woman could never handle such a demanding responsibility. Besides, Josephine Rizzo was not qualified to direct Angelina in the Christian way. Simon would indeed rear a child under God's careful supervision. How would anyone know if he adopted Angelina? No doubt he would be an exemplary father--read her the Bible every day, teach her about God and salvation and how to live in God's grace. Maybe meeting Sami would prove more bountiful than he had originally thought.

Josephine Rizzo opened her eyes and tried to focus on the clock radio digital display. Without her glasses she could not clearly see the time. It made no difference. Her bladder was full. To disregard nature's warning would be unwise. Especially at Josephine's age. Josephine knew better than to drink coffee after seven p.m., but last night she could not deprive herself of such a simple pleasure. Particularly when her homemade butter cookies tasted so much better with a strong cup of Colombian.

The sun hadn't risen yet, and she could hear a garbage truck roaring outside. She guessed it was early morning. If she went to the bathroom and did her business, she'd never fall back to sleep. Such were the challenges of old age. She closed her eyes for a minute, trying to ignore nature's call. No use. If she didn't hurry, she'd dribble a trail to the toilet.

After using the bathroom and washing her hands, Josephine tiptoed to the end of the hallway to look in on Angelina. The door was ajar, enough for her to peek inside. Usually, Angelina slept sideways with the covers twisted in a ball. Sometimes Josephine would find them on the floor. Such a restless sleeper. Quite to Josephine's surprise, the pink comforter neatly covered her entire body. Even her head. Josephine walked toward the bed and gently folded down the comforter to uncover Angelina's face. She read stories about young children suffocating. Never a quick-minded woman, Josephine stood with her hands perched on her hips, staring at two pillows neatly arranged under the covers. "Angelina?"

Josephine didn't panic. Of course, she thought, Sami's date had been a disaster, so she decided to pick her up last night instead of in the morning. Sami didn't wake her mother because she didn't want to hear Josephine say, "I told you so."

Suddenly, Josephine felt the pang of alarm. Why did Sami lay two pillows under the comforter? She pondered for a moment.

After considering all logical reasons--none of which made much sense--Josephine went into the kitchen and dialed Sami's number. The telephone rang four times, then Josephine heard Sami's recorded message. Why couldn't she hear the telephone ringing? Now she could feel her gut tightening; the quiet panic and cold sweat she once felt when Dr. Shepard announced that her husband, Angelo, had less than a week to live. She inhaled a quivering breath. Then her eyes wandered to the broken chain on the front door and she felt paralyzed with fear.

At five-twenty a.m., Alberto Diaz--dreaming of selling Chiclets at the San Diego-Tijuana border as a child--jumped when he heard a siren passing by outside his bedroom window. Normally a light sleeper, the alcohol he consumed last night served as a strong sedative, making him dead to the world. He switched on the lamp, and the light assaulted his eyes. Squinting, he looked at the empty pint of Dewar's White Label sitting on the nightstand. How he remembered the violent hangovers. That only a pint of booze could cause so much agony bewildered him. He took a moment and gently massaged his hammering temples. He always slept in the nude, so when he tossed the covers the cool December air turned his skin to goose flesh.

Considering that he wouldn't be able to look into Sami's eyes for fear she'd pick up on his still-bruised ego, today was the perfect day to proceed with his covert operation. Suffering from a hangover that Sami would surely recognize reinforced Al's decision. He knew that the serial murder investigation beckoned him but didn't think a few hours would make much difference. Besides, he'd be back from Tijuana before noon, and seven of his fellow detectives, including Sami, were working feverishly on the case. No one would miss him.

He brushed his teeth in record time, threw on some clothes, and swallowed three Advil. Before bolting out the door, he called Captain Davison's private number and left him a message. Still groggy and light-headed, Al secured his shoulder holster, put on his jacket, grabbed his cell phone, and bolted out the door, forgetting that he'd turned off the phone.