Resuscitation (31 page)

“No need to explain. I’ve got it covered.”

“What would I do without you, Cuz? You’re at the top of my Christmas list.”

“But how are you going to fit a Mini Cooper under the Christmas tree?”

“Wish I could afford to buy you one. Someday maybe.”

“Drive safely, Cousin,” Emily said.

“Don’t let my mother sleep on the sofa too long. It’s tough on her back.”

“Actually, I planned to wake her just as soon as Angelina and I finished the game.”

“Great. I’ll see you when I see you.”

Sami couldn’t find a legal parking spot anywhere near Henry’s Hideaway, so she cashed in on one of her official privileges and left her car next to a red-painted curb. She flipped down the visor to be sure the Official Police Business placard was visible through the windshield. One time, she had actually gotten a ticket from some rookie cop not quite understanding professional courtesy.

She had thought about calling her partner, but decided to let Osbourn enjoy a rare evening with his wife and kids. Sami remembered how often she’d eaten a cold dinner all by herself after an evening of surveillance or interviews. But she trusted Emily implicitly and felt great peace of mind knowing that both her mother and Angelina were in good hands.

As she approached the front door, she noticed a bouncer checking IDs. The guy must have been well over six feet tall, and Sami guessed he tipped the scales at three-fifty-plus. If this establishment wanted to discourage patrons from using fake IDs, then this guy would surely do the trick. But it wasn’t just his imposing size that made him so intimidating. His ears were decorated with multiple earrings, and he had studs piercing both his nose and left eyebrow. She didn’t even want to think about where else he might be pierced. Just to complete the ensemble, a collection of hideous tattoos covered both of his arms.

She had thought about cutting right to the front of the long line and flashing her gold shield, but she wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

When Sami reached the entrance, she showed the big man her ID and badge with little fanfare. Up close, he seemed even bigger than she’d thought.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to party, are ya?” the big man said.

“Where can I find the owner or manager?”

“Well, the owner is never here in the evenings, but the manager should be floating around inside.”

“Can I have his name?”

“Philippe something or other. He’s a French dude.” He stepped aside and opened the door for Sami. “Check with Patrick, the bartender. He’ll be able to track him down.”

“Thanks.”

The first thing she noticed when she walked in the door was the size of the crowd. It exceeded legal occupancy by at least fifty people. The second thing she noticed was the blaring music, also louder than legal limits. But she wasn’t here to issue citations for petty violations. She was elbows deep in a multiple-murder investigation.

She weaved her way through the mostly male crowd and squeezed between two young men at the bar. The bartender seemed like he needed two more hands to keep up with the drink orders, and he stood toward the end of the bar, twenty feet away from her. Rather than paw her way to the end of the bar, Sami leaned her back against it and waited for the bartender to wander down her way.

As her eyes observed the unreserved activity, the social commerce of the chase and the hunt, a soft kiss here, a pat on the butt there, it occurred to her that it wouldn’t take more than two minutes for even the most out-of-touch person in the world to figure out that Henry’s Hideaway was a haven for the gay community of San Diego.

Never considering herself to be homophobic, she did feel a bit uncomfortable in the thick of this crowd. Her discomfort had nothing to do with sexual orientation. The outrageousness of it all was what struck her. She had little doubt that she’d feel the same way in any bar where it was open season for alcohol, drugs, and casual sex. She’d never been a prude. In fact, living with Al and sleeping in the same bed with him contradicted her moral values. But, she thought, isn’t it easy to modify your value system when it’s convenient?

She caught a glimpse of the bartender heading her way. She motioned to him.

“What can I get you?” Patrick asked.

His flawless skin, soft cheekbones, full lips and subdued features might qualify him as the prettiest guy Sami had ever seen. “I’m looking for Philippe.” She flashed her ID.

He pointed to the far corner of the bar, just past the dance floor. “See that office in the corner? You’ll find him in there.”

“Thanks for your help.”

Sami negotiated her way through the thick of the crowd, inching her way to the corner, just past the dance floor. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, someone grabbed her hand.

“Let’s dance, Cutie,” the young woman with pink-streaked hair said. One of the few females in the bar, she seemed to blend in.

“Sorry. I can’t.” Sami tried to release her hand but the woman held on.

“C’mon. ‘Right Round’ is my favorite dance tune. Let’s get wild.”

“Please let go of me,” Sami insisted.

The girl released her hand and walked away, mumbling something that the loud music drowned out. Sami guessed that whatever the pink-haired girl said was rife with four-letter words.

She reached the office door, unscathed from a second incident, and knocked with more authority than she normally would, hoping to overcome the deafening music. When Philippe opened the door, Sami had to do a double-take. If Michael Jordan had a twin brother, Philippe was his name. The man looked like he had dressed for the cover of
GQ
magazine. He wore an impeccably fitted charcoal suit, with a pale yellow necktie accented with tiny black diamonds. His shoes were spit-shined with military precision, and his perfectly shaped head was clean shaven.

Sami flashed her ID and badge. “Detective Rizzo, Metro Homicide. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Please have a seat, Detective.” From his thick French accent, Sami guessed he hadn’t been in America very long.

Philippe sat behind his massive mahogany desk. Sami sat opposite him in a chair that looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. With the main door firmly shut, the quietness of the office surprised Sami. It looked more like it belonged to the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. The bar business must be lucrative.

“I’m conducting an investigation into the murder of Connor Stevens, a regular patron of your establishment. Does his name sound familiar?” She slid a recent photograph across the desk.

“Very tragic,” Philippe said. “The world can be such a hostile place.” He picked up the photograph and studied it. “I have seen this young man. But I do not mingle with our patrons. Perhaps you should talk to Tiny.”

“And who might that be?”

“He’s our security guard at the front door.”

Sami couldn’t suppress her laugh. “
Tiny
?”

“Considering the size of the man, it does seem a bit absurd,” Philippe admitted. “But in spite of this obvious contradiction, he knows most of our regular patrons by name. The man doesn’t miss a thing.”

“May I speak with him?”

Philippe picked up a two-way radio and pushed several buttons. “Can you come to my office, Tiny?”

Sami drummed her fingers on the desk.

“Tell Raymond to screen IDs,” Philippe said into the two-way.

In less than two minutes, Tiny entered the office, and sat adjacent to Sami, barely able to squeeze his wide hips between the armrests. Without asking permission, she set the digital recorder on the desk.

“Tiny, this is Detective Rizzo,” Philippe said. “She would like to ask you a few—”

“This is about Connor, isn’t it?” Tiny interrupted. “The guy that was murdered.”

“How well did you know him?” Sami asked.

“Well enough that I’d like to spend ten minutes alone with the guy who snuffed him.”

“So, you had a
personal
relationship with Mr. Stevens?” Sami asked.

Her question seemed to offend Tiny. “I wouldn’t exactly call it personal. At least not
that
kind of personal. The guy was a regular—came into the place three, maybe four times a week. You get familiar with people when you see them so often.”

“Did he typically come alone?” Sami asked.

“Most of the time. But he didn’t usually leave alone. The guy was a mover and a shaker. If you can dig where I’m coming from.”

“Tell me what you mean,” Sami said.

“Hey, he lived life to the fullest. Sometimes I think he was trying to set a record.”

“Can you recall anything specific about the last night he was here?” Sami asked.

“I remember the guy Connor left with, if that’s what you mean.”

“Can you give me a description?” Sami said.

“First off, the guy was about as gay as I am—and believe me, I’m as straight as they come. He tried like hell to look the part, but it just didn’t work. Not that straight dudes don’t pop in every so often. But they don’t try to
look
gay.”

“Anything specific you remember about his appearance?” Sami asked.

“When I asked for ID, he seemed offended. Told me he was forty-two.”

“But he didn’t look his age?”

Tiny shook his head. “Nope. The guy was a good-looking dude. I’ll give him that much. If I swung from that side, I’d give him a jump.”

Sami guessed that Tiny rarely filtered anything he said. Philippe looked noticeably uncomfortable with the big man’s candor. “Could you point him out in front of a lineup?”

“Absolutely.”

“Would you consider coming to the precinct and working with a sketch artist, so we can distribute a composite drawing of the suspect?”

“If it will help find this jerk-off—excuse my language—I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you, Tiny. Did you happen to see his name on the driver’s license or maybe an address?”

“No. But when he handed it to me, I caught a glimpse of another photo ID card in his wallet. I can’t say for sure, but I think it had one of those medical symbols on it.”

“What kind of medical symbol?” Sami asked.

“The one with the wings at the top and two snakes wrapped around a staff.”

Sami had seen this image before. When Emily had showed Sami her nursing diploma, out of mere curiosity, she had asked her about the medical symbol stamped on the diploma, a symbol Sami had seen a hundred times. Fanatically detailed, Emily gave her a ten-minute lecture on the origin of the symbol. Sami even remembered its name: Caduceus.

“Anything else?”

“’Fraid not.”

“You’ve been most helpful, Tiny,” Sami said. She reached in her purse and handed business cards to both Tiny and Philippe. “Can you come down to the precinct tomorrow morning between nine and ten, Tiny?”

“I’ll be there at nine.”

“Call me if anything—even the most insignificant detail—pops into your head.”

Julian couldn’t quite figure out what Peter Spencer’s angle was, but wondered why the PI was shadowing him. Spencer probably hadn’t noticed, but Julian spotted him parked across the street from Post Office Plus. While Julian stood inside the office waiting to pick up the package Spencer had left there, Julian could clearly see outside, but the glare on the glass doors prevented Spencer from seeing inside. Julian could almost forgive Spencer’s one indiscretion. Maybe the PI had a believable explanation. But when Julian again saw Spencer parked across the street from the Del Mar Fertility Clinic, the PI had lost all credibility. Spencer had claimed to be the “King of Discretion.” Apparently, the PI’s definition of discretion varied considerably from Julian’s.

His thoughts shifted to his family. Other than a couple of perfunctory conversations when he’d picked up his two kids for an evening of burgers, fries, and a visit to the arcade at Belmont Park, Julian hadn’t spoken much to Nicole. They hadn’t discussed the issues they needed to discuss. But he felt content with that arrangement. The longer he could avoid any consequential dialogue, the better. He felt comfortable living alone in his loft, but he was still plagued with guilt for leaving his daughters. Troubling as his thoughts were, he could not afford to be distracted, and had to move forward with a search for another subject.

The temperature flirted with ninety today, so Julian grabbed a cold beer—not his usual thirst quencher. He had glanced at the information Spencer had given him when he’d left Post Office Plus, but his schedule at the hospital had been insane, so this was his first opportunity to examine the information in detail.

He studied page after page, detail after detail, but nothing in particular caught his attention. Nothing he could use. In his hands, he held enough biographical material on Samantha Marie Rizzo to write an exposé. The dates, names, events, and places revealed in this illuminating little package totally amazed him. With the right sources, it seemed to Julian, anybody could find out anything about anyone. Scary, he thought.

About to tuck away the package in a secure place, he noticed something. Sami’s cousin Emily lived with her—her only cousin. Just turned twenty-two and just graduated from nursing school in San Francisco. Emily Rizzo regularly attended evening yoga classes at a downtown gym.