Resuscitation (29 page)

Holding her hand and occasionally talking to her as if she were conscious, he felt his eyes growing heavy. He was about to stand up and stretch his legs when he felt Aleta squeeze his hand ever so slightly. He had held her hands for hours and hours, and never had she responded with even the slightest sign of life. Was it merely a reflex?

Al could barely find his voice he was so startled. “If you can hear me, Sunflower, squeeze my hand again.”

Nothing.

“You can do it, Sweetheart. Please squeeze my hand.”

Still nothing.

He sat quietly for a minute, guessing that he had dozed off and it was just his imagination. But then she squeezed his hand again. This time with a little more force.

“Sunflower, this is Alberto. I’m here, Sweetheart. Can you hear me?”

Again she squeezed his hand.

Al studied her face carefully, looking for any sign of consciousness. Her face looked frozen. No eye movement. No twitches. No nothing.

Not wanting to leave her for even a second, Al pushed the nurse’s call button clipped to the side of the bed. In less than a minute, a nurse dashed in the room.

“Do you speak English?” Al asked.

“Little bit.”

“Where is Dr. Souza?”

“He is making rounds.”

“Find him and tell him to get here
immediately
!”

Julian had just finished unpacking his three Vuitton suitcases, and neatly placed his clothes in closets and dresser drawers. Happy to be relaxing in his loft, the place he’d now be calling home for who knew how long, he poured himself a glass of Jordan Cabernet and sat on the sofa.

He wasn’t yet sure how he would handle visits with his daughters. He certainly couldn’t let them see his loft, particularly if he was conducting experiments. Perhaps when he picked them up he’d have to rent a hotel room. He’d take them out to dinner, of course, but wasn’t quite sure what other activities would satisfy them. If it were up to him, just sitting next to his kids, sharing a bowl of popcorn, watching a movie would suit him just fine. He had promised Nicole that he’d pick them up two nights a week and on weekends. But depending on his activities, he might have to change the schedule. There was no way for him to predict when his research would conflict with his visits.

As content as he felt at this particular moment, flashbacks of what he had done to Nicole still troubled him. Was he losing control? Had his cousins warped him forever? For the last couple of years he had been struggling with his marriage. Hating any kind of altercation, he never confronted the difficult issues with Nicole. He just let them fester. But unlike Julian, Nicole loved a verbal showdown.

If he felt reasonably comfortable that his kids would be okay and not suffer from the deep emotional wounds so often inflicted by divorce, he might have had the nerve to hire a good attorney a long time ago. But he understood all too well what it felt like to be unloved. And he didn’t ever want his kids to deal with the same psychological damage.

His unhappiness with their marriage still didn’t address his motivation to hurt Nicole. Why would he force himself on her with no regard for her welfare? Had he been so caught up in the moment that for one brief period of time he got lost in his emotions? Was Nicole merely a vessel that allowed him to punish Marianne and Rebecca? One thing was certain: No matter what the circumstances, he could never let it happen again.

Julian gulped the last of the wine and flipped open his cell phone. He dialed the number he’d already memorized. “Have you made any progress?”

PI Spencer knew better than to discuss anything sensitive over the telephone. “Big Brother” was always listening. “The wheels are in motion.”

“Do you have anything for me yet?” Julian asked.

“I’ve got a whole package of goodies.”

“Are you familiar with Post Office Plus on Girard Street in La Jolla?”

“Next to the Italian bakery?”

“That’s it. Would you mind dropping off the package this afternoon? I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning. Do you still have my PO box info?”

“I do, Mr. Smith,” Spencer said.

“Terrific. Anything else?”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“How’s your sister?” Sami asked, squeezing her eyes shut, preparing herself for his answer.

“Well, believe it or not, she’s slightly improved.” Al explained how his sister had squeezed his hand and that he requested the doctor perform another EEG.

“I am so glad to hear that.”

“She’s still in a coma, but her brain activity is almost normal.”

“So what happens now?”

“It’s still a waiting game,” Al said.

“Is the doctor optimistic?”

“Cautiously.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through,” Sami said.

“How you holding up? What’s going on with the investigation?”

Al had enough on his mind, so Sami carefully filtered her answer. “I’m hanging tough. No major breakthroughs in the case, but I’m piecing things together.”

“So, in other words, you’ve got nada, right?”

“Guess I can’t bullshit a cop.”

“Are the captain and chief turning the thumbscrews?”

“Not yet, but I expect to get bludgeoned at any moment,” Sami said.

“Don’t let ’em intimidate you.”

“I can deal with them. I’m not so sure I can handle Mayor Sullivan.”

“She’s a tough cookie.”

Silence.

“I have something I want to share with you, Sami.”

How she hated when people started sentences like that. “Should I fasten my seatbelt?”

“You may need to.”

Her mind flooded with a range of possibilities, all of which were unsavory. Did he meet some Brazilian hottie? Have a change of heart about their relationship? “Okay, now that my armpits are all sweaty, what’s going on?”

“Since flying down here, I’ve had nothing but time on my hands. Time to think. Time to evaluate my life. Time to look at things from a different perspective.”

She didn’t like the way this was heading. But she held her breath and listened. She was hopelessly in love with Al, and if he was about to dump her from six thousand miles away…

“I’ve expressed how I feel about God and religion and evolution,” Al continued.

“I know. God and religion are fairy tales and evolution is scientific.”

“Well, maybe I’ve been wrong.”

“In what regard?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve been praying. And the strange thing is, I haven’t any idea who I’m praying to. Watching my sister lying helplessly in that hospital bed, fighting for her life—”

“There’s nothing wrong with praying. We all seek God when the chips are down. Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘There are no atheists in foxholes’?”

“Doesn’t that make me a hypocrite?”

“No, it makes you human.” Al didn’t often expose his vulnerabilities. In fact, until this moment, Sami wasn’t sure he had any. His willingness to share this intimate situation warmed her heart. “Don’t feel you have to apologize for seeking God.”

“But suppose she doesn’t pull through? Suppose God doesn’t answer my prayers?”

“I’m not exactly in good graces with God, so how can I give spiritual advice? Maybe you should talk to someone about this.”

“Who?”

“Brazil is one of the most Catholic countries in the world. Surely the hospital has a priest or chaplain who visits sick patients regularly.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Al said.

“See. Once in a while I can actually say something meaningful.”

“Thanks for listening to me whine.”

“Not to worry. I fully intend to return the favor.” She felt a bit choked up. “Send my love to Aleta.”

Peter J. Spencer III was starting to think that his newest client didn’t have the best intentions. Spencer had no problem operating outside the law. But when he drove to Post Office Plus and dropped off the package for his client, his gut instincts, which usually were reliable, led him to believe that “John Smith” might be involved in a sinister plan.

If, in fact, his mystery client and Detective Rizzo had been romantically involved, Spencer could understand why he might want to find out what she was doing and with whom. As a PI for over twenty-five years, he had seen it all—everything from jealous spouses to disgruntled employees to crooked politicians to Mafia vendettas to sexual perverts. Nothing could possibly surprise Spencer. But he felt certain there was more to the “John Smith” story. The logical side of his brain told him to let it go and just do what his client paid him to do. But his bloodhound nature wouldn’t stop asking questions he could not answer.

Against his better judgment, Spencer decided to pay a little visit to Post Office Plus first thing in the morning. Surely “John Smith” would arrive in an automobile. One with a California license plate. A plate that could be traced by a number of Spencer’s contacts.

“So, how’s the investigation going?” Chuck D’Angelo asked, a smirk spread across his face.

Sami had just arrived at the precinct, hadn’t even taken a sip of her Starbucks, and the last thing in the world she needed was D’Angelo busting her balls.

“No arrests yet, but I’m sniffing out a few leads.”

“Any suspects?” D’Angelo asked.

“None worth talking about.”

“You must be putting in lots of hours.”

“A few more than normal, but I guess there really isn’t a normal in this business, huh?”

“Any word from Al? How his sister is doing? When he’s coming back?”

Just what she needed: a grand inquisition from her least favorite person, first thing in the morning. The Angels of Mercy must be angry with me, she thought.

“She’s by no means out of the woods yet, but she’s showing some improvement.”

“Well that’s good to hear.” D’Angelo rested his butt against her desk. “How’s your mom coming along after her surgery?”

In all the years she had worked with D’Angelo, they had never carried on a conversation for more than two minutes. Particularly one where he asked the questions and she provided the answers. Why the sudden interest?

“How did you hear about my mom?”

“Overheard a conversation between Al and the captain.”

She wanted to say, “In other words you were sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.
Again
!” but thought it best to let it rest.

“My mom is coming along pretty well. Thanks for asking.”

“Hey, we’re all on the same team here.”

She bit her tongue.

“Who’s taking care of her while she recovers?”

“A good friend.” No reason for her to be specific.

“Nice to have someone willing to help.”

Wanting this conversation to end, she reached for the telephone, hoping he’d get the message.

He persisted. “Things working out with Osbourn?”

“Seems like a sharp kid.”

“He’s still a little green, but I think he’s got the makings for a good cop.”

“Well, when we arrest the serial killer, I’ll be sure to give him credit for the collar. That ought to boost his career.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Seriously?”

“You betcha. I have to make some calls, Chuck, nice talking to you.”

With that, D’Angelo walked away.

Spencer arrived at Post Office Plus thirty minutes before it opened, hoping to find an ideal parking spot with an unobstructed view of the main entrance. Finding
any
parking spot in the Village of La Jolla was a formidable undertaking, let alone a select one. As luck would have it, Spencer pulled his car into the perfect spot.

He turned off the engine but left the key in the accessory position so he could pass the time by listening to his favorite cassette. Hank Williams belted out a twangy tune. Spencer felt a bit uneasy spying on his client. He had done some pretty underhanded things as a PI, all for the sake of a few bucks. But even criminals had a code of ethics. His first commandment as a PI was loyalty to his clients. Just how loyal was he, sitting in his car, trying to dig up some dirt on his client? For a fleeting moment, Spencer considered starting the engine and driving away, but when he saw a car park across the street and “John Smith,” Chargers hat and all, get out of a new Ford Fusion, it was too late to abort his plan.