Resuscitation (36 page)

Sami sat back in the chair and began reviewing the last forty-eight hours. She and her colleagues had examined thousands of photos and narrowed them down to seventeen possible suspects. But the likeness was based on the sketch that Tiny and the artist had come up with. It was perfectly understandable that Tiny got the hair wrong. How could he know that the perp parted it on the side? But he had gotten other, more important features wrong. Right now, a bunch of detectives were likely interviewing the wrong suspects.

“Robin, would you consider coming to the precinct and meeting with our sketch artist, so we can get a more accurate composite drawing?”

Robin glanced at Katherine Levy as if silently asking for her approval. Levy nodded.

“When would you like me to do this?”

“ASAP.”

“How about first thing in the morning? Around nine?”

“Perfect.” About to leave, Sami had to ask a question to ease her mind. “One more thing, Robin. Is there a reason why you didn’t agree to help us with a sketch when Detective Diaz met with you?”

Robin stared at the floor. “I was scared. When he asked me if I could, my brain went blank. I remembered certain things about the guy, but his face just wouldn’t come into focus. Now that I see this sketch, my memory is starting to come back.”

“But now you can remember what he looks like?”

“Yes.”

Sami gave Robin Westcott directions to the main precinct. “Thanks for all your help. We appreciate you talking to us.” She handed both of the women a business card and glanced at Osbourn. He got the hint and handed each of them his business card as well.

“So what do you think?” Osbourn asked.

The two detectives headed for Saks’s front door.

“Basically, if I can be blunt, I think we’re temporarily screwed.”

“My thought exactly,” Osbourn agreed.

“I thought Tiny was a reliable source, but you can never be sure.”

Like a gentleman, Osbourn opened the door for Sami and they headed for their car.

“All things considered,” Sami said, “it seems that Robin has a more credible snapshot of what our guy looks like. As a bouncer at the front door of a busy bar, Tiny must look at a couple hundred faces and IDs every night. And how long does he see each of them as he screens them at the front door? Maybe ten seconds. Not to mention the limited lighting. But Robin spent some time with our guy. Talking. Listening. And looking at his face under bright lights. Stands to reason that she would have a more reliable memory.”

“Right now,” Osbourn said. “There are a whole lot of detectives on a wild goose chase.”

“Don’t say anything to the captain or anyone else for that matter until we get this sorted out.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it.”

“If the mayor finds out, she’s going to have a shit-fit. And you and I will be eating army-surplus peanut butter.”

“What now?” Osbourn asked.

“Back to the drawing board.”

“Hey there,” Al said. “How’s my one and only?”

“Oh, I’ve been better and I’ve been worse, but right now I’m feeling really shitty.”

“Are you sick?”

“Not that kind of shitty. Although my stomach’s been on the rampage lately.”

“Is it work?”

“Forget about me and my continuing saga,” Sami said. “How is Aleta?”

“She’s doing real well. Not quite ready to run a marathon. She tires easily and still has a few battle scars, but she seems on her way to a complete recovery. Only thing that concerns me is her short-term memory. She forgets what she had for breakfast and seems really absentminded. But the doctor feels it’s temporary.”

Sami so desperately wanted to ask him when he might be home, but didn’t want to put him under anymore pressure. “That’s wonderful news.”

“So tell me what the hell’s going on.”

She explained the inaccurate sketch, the wasted hours chasing a ghost, and her fear that the mayor was going to go postal on her. “It’s not your fault. You had what you believed to be a reliable source and moved forward. What else could you possibly do? Twiddle your thumbs until another victim showed up on the front steps of City Hall? You win some, you lose some. You have to take every lead seriously.”

“I should have asked more questions. Dug deeper. I guess that my two-year hiatus away from the department dulled my cop instincts.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“Well, I’m happy I’ve got at least one fan.”

“How’s the clan doing?”

“Everyone is fine.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” The tone in his voice changed. “Think you can put up with my snoring again?”

She didn’t want to get too excited but…“Is that your subtle way of telling me you’re coming home soon?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Well, D’Angelo
has
been hitting on me lately and I’m really tempted.”

“Tell him I’m going to cut his balls off when I get back.”

“I don’t think he has any.”

Al laughed. “I catch a flight in two days, and I’m thrilled. I just love to fly!”

The last thing she wanted was for him to second-guess his decision, but she had to ask. “Are you sure, Al? I mean, are you really okay with leaving your sister?”

“We made a pact. No more huge gaps between visits. She promises to come to San Diego at least four times a year. I invited her and Ricardo to join us for a July fourth barbeque. That okay?”

“You have to ask?”

“Just trying to be courteous.”

“Your sister and her boyfriend are welcome anytime,” Sami said. She looked at her watch. “I’d love to talk more but—”

“Yah, yah, I remember the routine. Don’t let the mayor rough you up.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll e-mail you my flight info. Think you can pick me up at the airport?

“Nothing would make me happier.”

Just as she had promised, Robin Westcott showed up at the main precinct at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Sami whisked her off to a private room where Robin and the sketch artist, Israel Martinez, could hopefully come up with an accurate composite of the serial killer. When Sami introduced Robin to Israel, he scratched the back of his head.

“Didn’t we already do this?”

“That was just for practice,” she had said. “This one’s for real.”

By the way Israel looked at her, it was obvious he wasn’t amused.

She faced the daunting task of meeting her colleagues with her tail between her legs, and having to explain why they’d been chasing a ghost for the last twenty-four hours. She wasn’t yet sure how she’d make this announcement without coming under attack—especially from her favorite detective: Mr. Big Mouth D’Angelo. Surely, he would thoroughly enjoy taking her to the mats. If she’d learned anything as a detective, she’d learned that when you deliver bad news to your colleagues, be sure you follow it up with good news. As soon as she had the new sketch in hand, she would convene with her colleagues and break the news. Then, they would have to run another comparison of the new sketch against the database of photos they had collected.

Not all was lost. In spite of the faulty composite drawing, the basic premise was still valid: the perp was likely in health care, he had an advanced medical degree, and his medical ID had a caduceus imprinted on it. Also, both Tiny and Robin Westcott believed they could pick the perp out of a lineup.
So
, she thought,
maybe I’m not nearly as screwed as I thought
. Her phone rang and Police Chief Larson, his voice a familiar growl, summoned her to his office. Immediately.

When Sami saw Mayor Sullivan sitting in the captain’s office yet again, she suspected that she was about to be horsewhipped.

Davidson gestured for her to sit adjacent to the mayor. Her irritable stomach announced its displeasure.

“Where’s Osbourn?” the chief asked.

She couldn’t tell Larson that she let him make a quick trip home to check on his wife. “He’s knee-deep in paperwork.”

The chief wasn’t buying it. “He needs to be here.”

“No worries,” Sami said. “I can get him in here. But if I do, we’ll never have our reports completed by the end of the day.” Larson was a stickler for paperwork, so Sami rolled the dice.

“Forget it,” the chief said. “You can fill him in.”

Mayor Sullivan leaned toward Sami as if she was going to whisper in her ear. The volume of her voice was anything but a whisper. “I understand that your team has done a fine job tracking down and interviewing the seventeen suspects. Is that correct, Detective?”

“It is.” She could tell that the mayor was weaving a web.

“And is it also true that none of the seventeen suspects resulted in an arrest, or were even worthy of a more in-depth interrogation?”

“I’m afraid so, Mayor.”

“So we spent hundreds of man hours on a wild goose chase?”

“Not at all, Mayor. Through our efforts, we found another witness who can pick our guy out of a lineup. In fact, she’s with Israel Martinez as we speak.”

“That’s terrific, Detective,” the mayor said. “There’s only one minor problem. We have no suspects—not even one—so we have no lineup.”

“What’s the witness doing with Martinez?” Larson asked.

“She got a much better look at our guy so we’re adding a little more detail to the original composite sketch.”

“Who’s the witness?” Larson asked.

“The salesperson at Saks.”

“Wait a minute,” Larson said. “Didn’t Al already interview her?”

Sami nodded.

“And he never asked her if she could identify our guy?”

“He did. But at that time the witness claimed she couldn’t help with a composite drawing. You know how it goes, Chief. Sometimes witnesses suffer from temporary amnesia.”

“I have to be honest with you, Detective,” the mayor said. “In spite of your efforts, I’m not only disappointed at the lack of progress in this investigation. I have to tell you, I’m seriously losing my patience.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mayor, if I may. What should I be doing that I’m not already doing? Because if you have any suggestions at all, if I need to move in a different direction, or completely change my course of action, I’ll act on your suggestions immediately.”

“I’m not the lead detective on this investigation, you are. I don’t tell you how to do your job and you don’t tell me how to do mine. My only concern is results. And I don’t care how you get there, as long as your methods are within the guidelines set by the department.”

“With all due respect, Mayor, considering the short time I’ve been lead on this investigation, I think we’ve made great progress. We have two eye witnesses, and soon we’ll have a revised sketch that will narrow the field. Our guy is more than likely in health care, and his medical ID card has the caduceus symbol on it. I know that I don’t have to tell you this, but police work is a process of elimination. You get a lead. You chase it. If it takes you to a dead end, you move in a different direction. Wouldn’t you agree that we’re heading in the right direction?”

The mayor stood, leaned her backside against Larson’s desk, and folded her arms. “So what’s your game plan, Detective?”

At times like this, Sami regretted being half Sicilian. Oh, what she wanted to say to the mayor. “As soon as the revised composite sketch is done, I’ll be meeting with the entire crew and coordinating distribution to all city, state, and federal locations. We’ll also compare the sketch to the database we’ve compiled of health-care professionals that meet our criteria. Once completed, we’ll hit the bricks again and interview potential suspects based on their resemblance to the composite sketch.”

“Okay,” the mayor said. “I’m going to give you lots of rope here. Hopefully, you won’t hang yourself.”

Julian arrived at Kate Sessions Park a few minutes early, feeling excited and nervous at the same time. Except for three teenagers tossing around a Frisbee, a family of four enjoying a picnic, and a young woman walking her Golden Retriever, the park was quiet. And that was exactly the way he wanted it. Not that he had any intentions of snagging McKenzie here—that would be way too risky. But the fewer people who saw them together, the less chance anyone would make the connection when she went missing.

Although he had made some interesting, and he felt important, discoveries, his research was not progressing nearly as well as he had hoped. At the hospital, he had unlimited resources—medications, surgical tools, and cutting-edge equipment, not to mention an entire research staff available at his beck and call. And he had access to the most sophisticated medical equipment in the world. From a surgical standpoint, his loft, at best, was little more than an underfunded clinic. Grabbing a handful of scalpels, or a rib spreader, or anesthesia, was easy. They fit neatly into his briefcase. But the only piece of diagnostic equipment he had at his disposal was a dated heart monitor he had purchased secondhand from a medical supplier. He couldn’t just walk out the hospital door with a ten-thousand-dollar piece of equipment under his arm.