Slightly hung over from her evening with Emily, her mind whirling with conflicting thoughts, Sami lay in bed waiting for the Excedrin to kick in. She checked the clock radio and wondered why she hadn’t heard from Al yet. He, needless to say, had his hands full, but she had hoped to hear something by now.

Just as she was about to roll over and hopefully get a little more sleep, her cell phone played “No Ordinary Love,” Al’s exclusive ring.

“You must be a mind reader,” Sami said, sitting upright and swinging her legs to the side of the bed. “Please tell me you have good news about Aleta.”

“It’s not good.” His voice sounded weak and raspy. “She’s been in a coma since the accident and she suffered a massive concussion. Her brain is severely swollen. She’s on a respirator and the only good news is that she has strong brain activity.”

“What are the doctors saying?”

“Only that they’ve done everything they could. Now it’s just a wait-and-see situation.” Al breathed heavily into the phone. “How you holding up? How’s your mom?”

“I’m pretty much a basket case but my mom is doing okay. Her surgery is scheduled for nine tomorrow morning.”

“Send her my love.”

It wasn’t the ideal time, but Sami had to ask. “Can I run something by you, Al?”

“As long as it’s not too heavy. Don’t think I could handle much more.”

Sami gathered her thoughts. “Emily slept over last night and we got to talking about mom’s surgery and recovery. Remember when we talked about her moving in temporarily while my mom recovers? You still okay with that arrangement?”

“Absolutely. It would be good for your mom, good for Emily, fantastic for Angelina, not to mention that it would keep us out of the looney bin.”

“Thanks for being so supportive.”

“Hey, we’re a partnership. Remember?”

“Please call me if anything changes with your sister.”

“And call me after your mom has her surgery.”

“I will.”

She could hear him breathing into the cell phone. “You still there?”

“I don’t think I can deal with this without unraveling. It all seems so surreal. I look at my sister lying in that hospital bed, tubes coming out of everywhere, and I can’t believe it’s her. I can’t believe this is happening. What am I going to do if she…doesn’t make it? How will I function? Aleta is my only living relative. If she dies…”

“I wish I had the answer for you. But all I can tell you is that you have to be strong for her. You have to keep the faith for her. Otherwise you’re going to self-destruct.”

“Love you,” Al said.

“Love you more.”

Julian tried to focus his attention on Connor and the impending experiments, but found himself too distracted for surgical procedures that required his undivided attention and a rock-steady hand. No matter how hard he tried, he could not free himself from disturbing visions of Genevieve or the events soon to take place with Connor. The internal struggles were beyond anything he could deal with on his own. There had to be a way for him to cleanse his mind and concentrate on the task at hand. There was too much at stake.

Julian walked over to the bed, gave Connor another mild sedative, and walked out the door.

Saint Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church was only a fifteen-minute drive from Julian’s loft. Born and raised Catholic, he, like so many other young people, drifted away from God and his faith when he was a teenager. But through his life experiences, he had learned that he could always find solace in the quiet solitude of church. Faith or not, it was spiritually therapeutic, like salve for the soul.

When Julian walked into the church on this cloudy Saturday afternoon, he expected it to be nearly empty. But surprisingly, he noticed a dozen or so people scattered about. Some knelt in pews desperately praying for God to heal a loved one, others sat quietly, lost in their own misery, and a few stood in line just outside the confession booth.

Confession?

Julian hadn’t been to confession in decades. He always thought it was a silly ritual designed for the truly naïve. How could a priest—a flesh and blood human—forgive your sins by telling you to say ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers and blessing you with the sign of the cross? The arrogance of this so-called sacrament bothered Julian even as a child.

As he sat there, trying to sort out his troubling thoughts, something occurred to him. He’d been taught that a priest is bound to secrecy regarding sins revealed to him in sacramental confession. He cannot divulge them directly or indirectly by giving information based on what he learns through confession.

Silly ritual or not, perhaps this was the sanctuary Julian needed to purge his guilt without the risk of consequence. In the shelter of confession, Julian could tell all, without editing or whitewashing the details. And the priest would go to his grave with Julian’s confession. Maybe confession was just what he needed to deal with his troubled conscience. He didn’t care about divine forgiveness; he just needed a sympathetic ear.

Next in line for the confessional, Julian anxiously waited. As much as this exercise violated everything that he believed to be true about religion, God, and the hereafter, Julian felt it was the only possible way for him to continue with his research without distraction.

He glanced at the woman standing behind him. Bent forward, her wrinkled hands clutching rosary beads, a kerchief covering her head, she paid little attention to him.

Guessing that the old woman had a difficult time standing, he asked her if she wanted to go ahead of him.

“Thank you, Honey, but no.” She held up the rosary. “I’d like to finish praying before I go in.”

The door opened on the confession booth and a young man stepped out and headed for the front door. Julian took a couple of steps toward the booth but stopped.

Who am I kidding? I can’t do this.

Now facing the reality of kneeling before a priest and pouring out his heart, Julian realized it was foolish and self-destructive. Just because the priest had made a vow of secrecy, how could Julian be certain he wouldn’t contact the police? How many altar boys had been victimized by priests who had taken the vow of chastity? Confession was not the answer. This was a problem he had to resolve all alone. More determined than ever to complete his research regardless of the emotional shockwaves, Julian left the church like a man fleeing a burning building.

 

Monday morning came quicker than Sami had thought. Her therapist had made a special concession for her and scheduled an early-morning appointment, so she could get to the hospital an hour before her mom’s surgery. Sami hadn’t wanted this appointment with Doctor Janowitz. In fact, she tried everything to postpone this session. But Doctor J, as Sami affectionately referred to her, convinced her that it would be beneficial for them to talk before her mother’s surgery.

Before getting ready for a day that would be a true test of her sanity, Sami looked in on Angelina, and then Emily. Both were sleeping soundly. Emily was such a blessing. Sami turned on the TV and listened to the local news channel. From the bathroom she couldn’t see the screen but could hear the audio clearly. Just as she was about to brush her teeth, she heard a familiar voice. She ran into the living room and turned up the volume. Police Chief Larson stood on the front steps of City Hall addressing the media. At this early hour, whatever he was about to say must be significant.

“At approximately four a.m. this morning,” Chief Larson said, “some early-morning joggers discovered the body of a young man at the Mount Hope Cemetery in La Mesa. We have not yet identified the body, but we’re working around the clock to determine who it is.”

The reporters fired a barrage of questions at the police chief. Most of the questions he could not or would not answer. Then a reporter asked, “Is there any connection between this murder and the murder of Genevieve Foster?”

“There are similarities, but I’m unable to give you any details at this time.”

Sami grabbed the remote and turned off the television, her hand shaking uncontrollably. A million thoughts flashed through her mind—all of them revolving around the possibility of another serial killer stalking the streets of San Diego. Maybe another Simon. At this particular point in time, Sami had to focus her attention on her mother’s surgery. But forcing these disturbing thoughts out of her mind could prove to be a challenge for which she was not prepared.

 

Sami pulled into the parking lot on La Jolla Village Drive, and as she’d done dozens of times before, she sat in the car for a few minutes mentally psyching herself up for a mind-draining conversation with Doctor Janowitz. Of course, it was difficult for Sami to call their get-togethers a conversation. They were more like Sami pouring out her heart and Doctor Janowitz asking the same question: “And how do you feel about that, Sami?” So many times she wanted to say, “I don’t know how the fuck I feel, Doctor, that’s why I’m lying on this cold leather sofa.”

The fiftyish PhD had been divorced twice, was as thin as a pencil, and had perfect teeth. Her office walls were covered with accreditations and wall plaques from umpteen universities, and had she chosen law as a career, she would have been a ferocious litigator. The veteran therapist had heard it all over the last twenty-five years—every argument, every excuse, every pretext. And Sami felt certain that no one ever got the best of her.

Instead of riding the elevator to suite 605, Sami walked up the six flights of stairs, struggling all the way, proof positive that her body was trying to tell her something. The frequency of her power walks had dwindled to once or twice a week. And the pace had slowed from heart pounding to little more than a Sunday afternoon stroll. Like anyone falling short of a healthy exercise routine, she kept her little bag of excuses close by. “It’s too hot.” “It’s too cold.” “My back is ready to go out.” “I have to study for a test.” “Still got that blister on my foot.” She could bullshit her classmates with the best of them. And Al? No contest. Even her mother, who redefined the word suspicious, bought her excuses now and then. But she couldn’t lie to herself. She just wasn’t motivated right now. So what if she carried a few extra pounds? Would anyone really care?

Of course they would, stupid. You care. Who are you trying to kid? And Al most certainly cares. Maybe that’s why he had refused sex. Not a good time for this psycho-babble.

As usual, when Sami walked into Doctor J’s office, she found the doctor sitting at her desk, reading glasses resting on the tip of her nose, engrossed in paperwork. Today, the impeccably dressed therapist wore a forest-green business suit, a white silk blouse, and a pearl necklace. Sami had been coming to Doctor J for almost a year and could never remember seeing the same outfit twice. She could only imagine the size of her closets.

Considering Doctor J’s stature and reputation with high-profile patients, many of whom were wealthy, her office wasn’t at all impressive. It was functional and adequate, but modestly furnished and frugally decorated. If dollars and cents measured a therapist’s success, however, at a rate of three hundred fifty dollars for a fifty-minute session, one could say that Doctor J was indeed successful. Sami, of course, didn’t pay these exorbitant rates. How could a college student with a dwindling savings account and negligible income dole out this kind of money? After she’d resigned, the San Diego Police Department offered to pay a generous portion of her therapy expenses. Sami never confirmed it, but felt certain that this generous perk came directly from Mayor Sullivan.

“Good morning, Doctor J,” Sami said. “Lovely suit.” Familiar with the routine, Sami fell heavily onto the worn leather sofa.

“Give me just a minute, Sami.” Doctor J shuffled some papers and made some notes. After a few minutes, she glanced at the clock, wrote something on the yellow pad, and dropped her reading glasses on her desk. “Now you’ve got my undivided attention. What’s the latest in your life?”

“If just one more crisis rears its ugly head, I think my brain’s going to shut down.”

“Well, I’m aware of your mom’s surgery this morning and Al’s situation with his sister in Rio, but talk to me. What’s going on?”

“The nightmares have returned.”

“Simon?”

Sami nodded. “I was okay for a while, but as soon as Al left for Rio…”

“Same as in the past?”

“Worse. More vivid.”

“Tell me about them.”

“As I’ve mentioned, in the past I could never see Simon’s face clearly, and when he nailed me to the cross, I didn’t feel any pain in my dream. Well, now I see his face clearly and swear I can feel those spikes going into my wrists.”

Doctor J made notes. “Are you still taking Valium every night?”

“I miss a night every now and then, but—”

“You have to take this medication every night, Sami.” Doctor J stood, walked over to the chair adjacent to Sami, and sat down. “You’ve made it clear how much you hate to medicate yourself, but the benefits outweigh the side effects.” Doctor J paused for a moment. “Does Simon say anything to you in these nightmares?”

“Not a word. But he has this hideous grin on his face. The sinister look of a madman.”

“Tell me about the pain. Does it wake you?”

“Bolts me upright as if a rush of electricity was surging through my body. I’m cold and clammy. My hands shake uncontrollably, and my heart is pounding. Feels like I’m going to have a coronary.”

“Classic anxiety attack. We’ve discussed them before.” Doctor J lightly tapped her index finger against her temple as if she were deep in thought. “When you suffer from an attack like this do you immediately start the breathing exercises we discussed?”

“I do.”

“And do they help calm you down?”

“Most of the time.”

“When you go to sleep at night, what’s usually on your mind?”

“Everything. The minute my head hits the pillow, my brain is bombarded with thoughts—all coming at me like a machine gun.”

“What dominates your thoughts?”

“That all depends on what issue is on top of the heap on that particular evening.”

“What have you thought about most recently?”

“My mom’s surgery. Al’s sister. What I’m going to do with the rest of my life. If I made the right decision resigning from the police department. Al’s unusual behavior. Should I go on?”

“Talk to me about Al. What’s changed?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just that he doesn’t seem invested in our relationship like he used to be. We’re disconnected.”

“Has he done anything to make you feel this way?”

“Well, among other things, he refused sex the other day. Considering his past appetite and the fact that we rarely make love anymore, I’d say that’s significant.”

“You mentioned the last time we met that Al was leading the investigation in the Foster homicide, correct?”

Sami nodded. “Until he left for Rio, he was.”

“When did his behavior change?”

“Within the last few weeks.”

“Maybe he’s been preoccupied with this case.”

“But his behavior changed before he was assigned to investigate the Foster homicide.”

“And what was he working on prior to this case?”

Sami thought for a minute. “He was investigating the Jenkins homicides, the teenager that butchered his whole family—mother, father, and four-year-old sister.”

“I’m sure that each homicide investigation comes with its share of riled emotions and stress. But I would guess that some affect you more than others, no?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe Al is merely absorbed with his job. It’s not uncommon for even the healthiest relationship to experience setbacks from career pressure.”

“Never thought of it that way. But if you live on planet Earth, when do you not have stress?”

“Everyone has their limit, Sami. Stress is cumulative. Ever heard the saying, ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’?”

“I see your point.”

Dr. J fiddled with her pearls. “Any word on Aleta’s condition?”

“It’s not looking real good.”

“How long do you think Al is going to stay in Rio?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Under the current situation, there is no accurate way to measure the solvency of your relationship with Al. Both of you are way too distracted. When things settle down—and I promise they will—sit down with him face-to-face and tell him how you feel. A little candid communication goes a long way.”

Sami sat quietly and processed Doctor J’s advice. Today, for some reason, the doctor seemed much more expressive than in past sessions. Sami hadn’t heard the words she dreaded most: “Tell me how you feel about that.” Why was she so gregarious today?

“So,” Dr. J said, “you’re still wrestling with your resignation from the homicide division?”

“Every day.”

“What happened to your passion for becoming a social worker?”

“Reality happened. I think maybe I was living in a utopian world.”

“You’ve invested nearly two years in school. Are you ready to abort your plan and forfeit all your hard work?”

“That’s the compelling question, Doctor J.”

“What would you do if you dropped out of school?”

“Pray that the department would reinstate me.”

“Really? Is that even possible?”

“Not sure.”

Doctor J stood, leaned her backside against her desk, and folded her arms. “Until today, you’ve been firm on your conviction that you were simply not cut out to be a cop and that the reason you pursued a law enforcement career was because of a promise you made to your father, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What has changed? How can you suddenly reverse your position? What happened?”

“People change their minds every day, don’t they?”

“Yes, but you survived a near-death experience, an event that altered your entire paradigm. Are you really prepared to deal with violence and murder every day of your life?”

“When you put it that way, I’m not so sure.” Tears began to well up in her eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel about anything anymore.”

“We all go through that, Sami. It’s not uncommon to feel like your life is a runaway train. It’s part of the human condition.” Doctor J sat next to Sami and draped her arm around her shoulders. “Maybe we should stop for today. You’ve got a big day ahead and I—”

“I’m okay, Doctor. Really. Just a temporary meltdown.”

“Are you sure you want to go on?”

Sami glanced at her watch. “We’ve got another twenty minutes before you throw me out of here and I want to get every penny’s worth.”

“I’m not going to walk on eggshells,” Doctor J said.

“Take your best shot, Doctor.”

Doctor J planted her elbows on the armrests and rested her chin on her folded hands. “When you told me what you think about when you go to bed, you mentioned everything, but didn’t say a word about Simon. Don’t you think about him?”

“If I do think about him, I’m not consciously aware of it.”

“But even though you don’t believe he’s on your mind when you go to sleep, you still have vivid nightmares about him?”

“I do.”

Doctor J made more notes on the yellow pad. She stared at something across the office. “Simon is scheduled to be put to death by lethal injection very soon, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how you feel about that.”

Ah, there it was. Finally. The question Sami hated most. She almost felt relieved. “I don’t want to see the son-of-a-bitch put out of his misery. I want him to live in a cage like the animal he is for the next forty years. I want some big hulk of a man to make him his bitch. I want the fucker to suffer.”

“You don’t think he should be put to death?”

“Death is too merciful.”

“In all the time we’ve spent together, I can never remember you expressing yourself with such anger and raw hatred.”

“My animosity toward this bastard grows every day.”

“You do realize that you’re letting him control your life, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about? He doesn’t control anything. Not even his life.”

“Oh, really? Have you ever considered that all these uncertainties in your life circle right back to your ordeal with Simon? Did it ever occur to you that you don’t yet have closure on this situation and that you’re never going to have closure until you confront Simon face-to-face and tell him how you feel?”

“Face-to-face? How do you propose I do that? He sits in a jail cell in Northern California, a few days away from an appointment with his Creator.”

“People visit inmates every day. Even death row inmates.”

“Not true, Doctor. It takes an act of Congress to get approval to visit a death row inmate—even for a detective.”

“Even for the arresting detective that put him behind bars? Find a believable reason why you need to talk to him.”

“Are you suggesting I lie?”

“Of course not. But I am suggesting you get creative.”

“Okay, let’s pretend I could get approval to visit him. I should just hop on a plane, fly up north, and meet Simon for coffee?”

“No, Sami. You should fly up north and free yourself from this crushing grip he has on your life.”

 

When Julian arrived at the hospital, he headed directly for the lab. Once inside, he found his staff huddled around the coffee machine like a bunch of Monday morning football fans analyzing Sunday’s Chargers game. Why wasn’t anyone working and conducting their assigned research experiments? Nothing made Julian angrier than walking in on his staff and finding them wasting away precious time. Particularly because he had told each member of his team how critical the timeline was for them to produce the research results GAFF requested.

Julian stomped toward the group finding it difficult to suppress his anger. “Did I not get an invitation to the coffee klatch?”

“Sorry, Boss,” Judy Forester said. “Have you read the newspaper or watched the news?”

He hated to be called “Boss.” But in such a confined environment, he tolerated it because he believed that creating a casual atmosphere reduced stress and increased productivity. “What’s going on?”

Forester pointed to the headlines. “That woman who was murdered and dumped at Mission Bay Park? Well, there’s a second victim. It seems that whoever killed them performed surgical experiments that are similar to some of the procedures in our A-Fib research. In fact, the first victim died of an A-Fib–induced stroke. But they haven’t yet determined cause of death for the second victim. Isn’t that bizarre?”

“Remarkable.” He swallowed hard. “Any suspects?”

“No,” Burns said.

“Only God knows what he did to the guy,” Forester added.

In that one defining moment, Julian realized the critical flaw in his plan. Why hadn’t this consequential oversight occurred to him? If the research was ultimately successful and he received recognition for perfecting new procedures to treat A-Fib, wouldn’t the police eventually make the connection and want to question him or his staff? Wouldn’t an alert cop want to interrogate the foremost authority on A-Fib? Wouldn’t they conclude that the actions of the killer were too similar to the research to be a coincidence? His thoughts were a flurry of panic and disbelief. He wondered how many other mistakes he’d made along the way, how many clues he’d left for the police. Maybe because he wasn’t a hardened killer, he didn’t know how to be cunning and devious. The only thing he knew for sure at this particular moment was that he had to create a diversion, something to take the spotlight off of his research. But how?

“I’d like to see you in my office, Judy,” Julian said. “The rest of you, please get to work.”

Julian sat at his desk and Judy Forester sat opposite him.

“Sorry about that, Boss. I guess I should have kicked some butt and got everyone back to work.”

“Two things,” Julian said. “First, don’t ever, under any circumstances, call me ‘Boss’ again.”

“I apologize, Doctor.”

“Second.” Julian looked at his watch. “It’s seven forty-five. I want all your personal belongings packed in a box and I want you out of here no later than eight-thirty.”

The color drained from Forester’s face. “Are you serious?”

“Does it sound like I’m kidding?”

“But why? Just because the staff took a few minutes to talk about the article in the paper?”

“I pay you to be the team leader and to make sure I get eight solid hours out of every staff member. You, more than anyone, know how critical our timeline is, yet you let the staff lollygag around. I’ve warned you before that you’re too easy on them. And you gave me your word you’d make some changes. I need a leader who can make this lab run like a well-tuned machine. Obviously, that’s not you.”

“Please, Doctor, you know that Nate and I just bought a house. Geez, we haven’t even made the first mortgage payment yet. If you let me go, I’m screwed. Please, please give me another chance. I’ve been with you since the research began. I helped you select the team. I promise—”

“I really don’t want to hear your sob story, Judy. You made your bed. Now sleep in it.” Julian looked at his watch again. “If you’re not out of the building in thirty minutes, I’m calling security.”

Until he could find a suitable replacement for Judy Forester, Julian left David Burns temporarily in charge. Time was of the essence, and finding a competent candidate with the proper research background to head one of the most sophisticated studies in the world would not be easy. But with unemployment approaching double digits, it was an employer’s market and he felt comfortable he’d have someone on board soon. Julian believed that heading a research team for such a high-profile project was a man’s job. Julian knew this going in. His opinion was based on personal experience, not sexism. The only reason he had hired Forester in the first place was because the human resources manager, Cathy Ferguson, an overweight, overbearing feminist, had flexed her executive muscles and insisted that he consider a woman. Julian, of course, understood that her suggestion was a mandate. Politics or not, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Julian left the lab and walked over to the Chest Pain Center. He never quite understood why they didn’t name this area Cardiac Care. After all, not all heart-related problems produced pain.

He’d gotten a call earlier about an A-Fib patient he’d been treating for five years. He had undergone three catheter ablations, and two different Maze procedures, yet chronic attacks of A-Fib still plagued the seventy-five-year-old man. Scheduled to perform bypass surgery a little later this morning, Julian wanted to check in on Mr. Reznik to evaluate his condition.

He walked into the Chest Pain Center and waved to the nurses. Noticing Mr. Reznik lying in a bed, Julian walked into room 4 and grabbed the patient’s chart. He glanced at the heart monitor and saw the erratic image confirming that the patient suffered from a severe A-Fib episode. His heart rate approached two hundred beats a minute.

“Good morning, Mr. Reznik.”

“What the hell is good about it?”

“Come on, now. You know we’re going to take good care of you.”

“Been lying here for over two hours and the drugs still haven’t converted my heart to normal. How long before you have to use those dang-blasted electric paddles? They scare the crap right out of me.”

“The drugs should do the trick. No need to worry about that at this time.”

“I’m getting really tired of spending more time in the hospital than at home.” The elderly man scratched his bald head. “Am I going to make it this time, or should we call a rabbi?”

“I think you’ve got quite a few years left, Mr. Reznik.”

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.”

“How long have you been in A-Fib?”

“It all started early this morning—about five-thirty. I drank a glass of prune juice and as soon as I took the last swallow, I felt this flutter, and my heart started pounding out of my chest. I’ll tell you, Doctor, it feels like a hummingbird is trapped in my left lung.”

“Do you drink prune juice every morning?”

“If I didn’t, my stool would be like concrete.”

“Was the prune juice ice-cold?”

He thought for a minute. “Shit. I usually let it sit on the counter for a while before I drink it.”

“You remember what I told you about drinking ice-cold liquids, right?” Julian had warned Mr. Reznik years ago that no one diagnosed with A-Fib should drink ice-cold liquids because in some patients it can trigger an attack.

“I guess I forgot.”

“Write yourself a note that says ‘No Cold Liquids’ and tape it to the front of the refrigerator.”

“I did this to myself?”

“Just try to be more mindful in the future.”

“I guess I can’t drink a cold beer now and then, right, Doctor?”

“Drink red wine. It’s better for you.” Julian flipped through Mr. Reznik’s chart. “Are you still taking your medications every day?”

“I ran out of the amiodarone but still have a few of the Coumadin left.”

“When did you run out of the amiodarone?”

“About a week ago.”

“Why didn’t you renew the prescription?”

“I just can’t afford them anymore. Since Helen died and her Social Security checks stopped…” Mr. Reznik bit his lower lip and his eyes filled with tears. “I miss her so much.”

Julian couldn’t imagine what it was like to be old, sickly, and alone. He waited for him to regain his composure. “Doesn’t Medicare pay part of your prescription costs?”

“Never signed up for Part D.”

“Why?”

“Can’t afford the premiums.”

Julian wanted to lecture Mr. Reznik and once again make him understand the importance of taking his medication. He even thought about trying to scare him into it, but he figured that the lonely man might not be opposed to joining Helen more quickly than nature intended. Maybe he purposely ignored Julian’s medical advice.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Mr. Reznik. The pharmaceutical reps that call on me regularly give me a truckload of samples. You have follow-up appointments scheduled with me every three months, and if I remember correctly, you’re booked through the end of the year. When you come in for your checkups, I’ll be sure my assistant gives you a ninety-day supply of both medications. Just promise me that you’ll take them every day and that you’ll stay away from ice-cold liquids.”

Mr. Reznik wiped the tears off his face. “You’re a good man, Doctor. Wish my son was half as good.”

 

Sami stood outside her mother’s hospital room while the nurse prepped Josephine for open heart surgery. No matter how hard she tried, Sami could not stop thinking about her session with Doctor J. More than two years had passed since Sami had escaped from Simon’s Room of Redemption and helped put him behind bars. She thought she’d gotten past the fear and the nightmares and the haunting memories of what might have happened if Al hadn’t come to her rescue. But she now realized that her journey to closure was far from over. The mere thought of meeting Simon face-to-face jabbed at her nerves like a hot poker.

Although Sami tried to deny the bitter truth, in her heart she felt strongly that the near-death experience had changed her forever. A piece of her had died in that Room of Redemption. Simon hadn’t carried out his plan to crucify her, but he won the battle by killing part of her spirit. Doctor J had been right. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, Simon controlled her. Barring another appeal, Simon was scheduled to be executed by lethal injection in less than a week. At this particular point in time, her mind flooded with thoughts of her mother and Al and Aleta and Angelina and Emily. There was no room in her brain to think about Simon, yet somehow he hovered over her like a buzzard ready to dive. One more troubling thought and she would surely end up in a padded cell.

She glanced down the hall and spotted Doctor Templeton briskly walking toward her, limping slightly. She brushed her sweaty palms across the front of her jeans and tried to force a smile.

“Good morning, Ms. Rizzo,” Doctor Templeton said. “We should be able to begin surgery in about an hour.” He squeezed her arm. “How are you holding up?”

“Nervous as hell, Doctor.”

“Not to worry. Your mom is in good hands. I have the best surgical staff in Southern California. There are no guarantees, of course, but if the surgery is successful, she’s going to feel much better. I promise.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor. I still can’t believe you convinced my mother to have the surgery.”

“You can thank me after the surgery.”

He leaned against the wall and Sami noticed him grimace. “Not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong,” she said, “but I noticed you limping.”

“Foolish me. I reached in my trunk to remove a case of spring water and tweaked my lower back.” He reached behind and gently massaged the muscles. “Don’t be alarmed. My back doesn’t affect my hands.”

For the first time since meeting Doctor Templeton, she saw him as a man rather than a doctor—a strikingly good-looking man.

 

Captain Derrance Davidson sat across from Police Chief Larson reasonably sure what was coming.

“I just got off the phone with Mayor Sullivan, and she’s not a happy camper this morning,” Chief Larson said. “In fact, she took a big bite out of my fat ass. We need to pull out all the stops on this one.” Larson stood up and walked to the window, turning his back on Davidson. “How the fuck could such a beautiful city produce two serial killers in less than three years?”

“We haven’t yet determined if the two homicides are connected, Sir.”

“What world are you living in, Captain?”

“I just think that before we get our undies all twisted in a knot, we should wait for the autopsy to be completed.”

Larson tossed a manila folder across his desk. “Read this.”

Davidson opened the folder and read the preliminary autopsy report. “Mother of Mercy.”

“The second victim died of cardiac arrest,” Larson said. “Same stapled chest. Same burn marks on his ribcage.”

Davidson shook his head. “This one was dressed in an Armani suit?”

“Our guy has good taste in clothing.” Larson let out a heavy breath. “But the perp wasn’t kind enough to leave us a price tag this time.”

“He’s been careless to this point. Maybe he’s tightening his act.”

“I hope not,” Larson said. “Ramirez still partnering with Diaz on this investigation?”

“Diaz is off the case.”

Larson parked his hands on his hips. “This better be good, Captain.”

Davidson explained the situation. “I found out yesterday morning.”

“He’s the best we’ve got,” Larson said. “What’s your contingency plan?”

“I’ve assigned Osbourn and D’Angelo.” He hesitated. “Ramirez wasn’t working out.”

Larson’s face tightened. “D’Angelo’s two months away from retirement and Osbourn is still wet behind the ears.”

“With all the budget cuts, Chief, we’re running the show really lean.”

“I want to be in the loop on every fucking development—no matter how insignificant. Is that clear, Captain?”

“Absolutely, Sir.”

“And tell Osbourn and D’Angelo to get their asses in gear and find this fucking douche bag.”