Wearing Oakley sunglasses and a Chargers baseball cap, the visor resting low on his forehead, Julian sat at a small table in the quiet, out-of-the-way coffee shop. He watched customers zoom in and out until a man fitting the PI’s description walked in the front door and cranked his head from side to side. The squatty man, at least fifty pounds overweight, full head of silver hair, fixed his stare on Julian’s cap and walked over to the table.

“Mr. Spencer?” Julian asked.

The man nodded.

Julian gestured. “Please have a seat.”

Spencer offered his clammy hand. When Julian grasped it, he regretted doing so. They barely shook and Julian quickly withdrew his hand.

“Before we get started,” Julian said. “You’re okay with me remaining completely anonymous, is that correct?”

“As long as your cash is legal tender, I don’t give a hoot who you are.” The man leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’m the King of Discretion.”

Julian slid an envelope across the table. “Three thousand, right?”

Without checking the contents, Spencer slid the envelope in the inside pocket of his sport jacket. “If it takes more than a week, three hundred a day.”

“And it’s okay to call your cell phone?” Julian asked.

“That’s the only way to reach me.”

Spencer removed a notepad and pencil from his side pocket. “Subject’s name?”

“Sami Rizzo.”

Spencer cocked his head. “Detective Sami Rizzo?”

“Is that a problem?”

“I don’t give a shit who it is. If the money’s right, I’ll tail the Pope. I only asked cause I’m curious.”

“And you’re absolutely okay with it?”

“No problem.” He scribbled on his notepad. “What am I looking for?”

“I want to know where she goes. Who she’s working with. When she takes a piss. And I want to know who she lives with. Their names. Relationship to her. Their daily routines.”

Julian realized it was risky for him to expose himself to a private investigator. But as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he feared Detective Rizzo, and if through the PI’s efforts Julian was tipped off that she was getting close, he might find a way to sidetrack her.

Spencer continued making notes. “That’s a tall order and it’s not going to be easy. Her being a cop and all. It might take longer than a week.”

“How much longer?”

Spencer lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”

They sat silently, fixed stares, as if trying to read each other’s minds.

“I have to ask the obligatory question,” Spencer said. “I push the envelope beyond legal limits more often than not, but I do have limits.” His voice softened to a whisper. “There’s nothing criminal going on here, right?”

“Look, Mr. Spencer. This is totally personal. Sami and I used to date. Need I say more?”

“How do I reach you?” Spencer asked.

“You don’t. I reach you.”

“But how do I get information to you?”

Julian handed Spencer a piece of paper. “Mail it to this PO box.”

He examined the note and laughed. “John Smith, huh?” He folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. “And if I need to reach you immediately?”

“I’ll call you twice a day.”

Spencer thought about that for a minute. “Fair enough.”

“There is one more thing,” Julian said. “This is the first and last time we’ll ever meet face to face.”

In spite of all the police-related tasks Sami faced, not to mention the tremendous pressure she felt to apprehend the serial killer, Friday at 11:00 a.m., she set everything aside, outlined a list of things to do for Detective Osbourn, and discretely checked out of the precinct.

She sat in her car for several minutes, thinking about where she could find a quiet, remote setting. After careful thought, she decided that Presidio Park, a fifty-acre haven of lush greenery overlooking Mission Bay and the Pacific Ocean, would work perfectly.

When she exited Freeway 8 and pulled into the unpaved parking lot, Sami let out a sigh of relief when she saw only three cars. “Terrific.” Considering the size of the park, she felt confident she’d find a secluded spot where she could be alone with her thoughts.

As she laced her Timberland hiking boots, she glanced at her watch: 11:30. In thirty minutes, Simon Kwosokowski had a long-overdue appointment with his God.

Sami found a trail leading up a steep hill, snaking through a dense patch of trees. Near the top of the hill, she discovered an open area covered with a bed of dried leaves, pinecones, and green moss. She picked a spot that looked most comfortable and sat on the dirt.

Again she glanced at her watch: 11:53.

She closed her eyes and wondered if Simon had read the letter she’d mailed him. She’d sent it FedEx overnight, and even called Warden Marshall and asked him to personally see to it that Simon got the letter. But even if he had gotten it, how could she be sure he read it? She didn’t feel any different, except that the rage in her belly had calmed down a bit. Perhaps, she thought, at twelve noon, when lethal poison coursed through Simon’s veins and life drained from his body, and he could never hurt Angelina or her again, maybe she’d feel the sense of relief she’d been longing for.

The sun, shaded by the thick of trees, could not warm the uncharacteristically chilly air. Usually, June brought with it warmer air from the deserts and cool ocean breezes. But today, Sami felt as if it were February. Her mind, a kaleidoscope of colorful thoughts, raced out of control. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged her legs, trying to force herself to focus on Simon.

As she watched the minute hand on her Seiko moving closer to noon, she tried to piece together all the components of her harrowing experience with Simon, hoping to find some grain of comfort. His execution would of course end his physical existence. But how could she get his emotional presence lifted from her mind?

Just before noon, Simon Kwosokowski stands next to a padded table, facing an anxious group of onlookers ready to witness his execution. The warden stands to his side.

“Any last words?” the warden asks.

“I deeply regret not being able to fulfill my promise to the Almighty. I can only hope and pray that another true believer walks in my shoes and carries on with God’s work.”

A crowd of restless onlookers sits silently and observes. As death draws near, Simon smiles at them, hoping they understand that he doesn’t feel even the slightest bit of remorse. Two prison guards strap Simon to a padded table—arms, legs, and torso. The technician places an IV drip in Simon’s arm. He can see the three glass cylinders sitting adjacent to the table, each filled with a lethal drug that will end his life. He glances at the warden and sees the smug look of victory in his eyes. Simon can’t see the witnesses on the other side of the one-way glass, but wonders if Sami Rizzo sits among the crowd. He has read her letter three times, each time feeling more perplexed. That she could forgive him was beyond anything he could imagine. For the first time since meeting Sami, he admires her. For he could never be so forgiving. And in a sense, she has defeated him.

At exactly twelve noon, Warden Marshall gives the technician a nod and he pushes a red button marked number one. Slowly, a plunger in one of the three glass cylinders compresses the first drug, and forces the sodium thiopental, a powerful anesthetic, into Simon’s IV. Making his eyes heavy, and his body feeling like he just drank a bottle of bourbon, the strong sedative takes hold almost immediately. Moments before the drug renders him unconsciousness, he thinks of his mother.

After four minutes, the technician pushes button number two, and a heavy dose of pancuronium bromide is pushed into Simon’s vein. The drug causes complete muscle paralysis. He is not only unconscious, he can’t even breathe. Last, the technician administers a lethal dose of a barbiturate and potassium chloride solution that permanently stops his heart. The entire process is over in less than eight minutes.

I’m coming, Mother. In a few minutes, we will be reunited.

Foolish boy. In a few minutes, the Lord will pass judgment on you and sentence you to spend eternity in the fires of hell.

Simon Kwosokowski’s last earthy thought grips his heart and crushes it. He now realizes that his beloved mother had betrayed him and led him down a path to eternal condemnation. What was once righteous was now a disgrace.

A doctor presses a stethoscope to his chest and gives the warden a quick nod. The doctor pronounces Simon Kwosokowski dead at 12:10 p.m.

Andrew McDonald, husband of Peggy McDonald, Simon’s fourth victim, sits among the onlookers. Before he leaves the room, he looks at Simon for the first and last time. “Rot in hell, you son of a bitch.”

Sitting on the leaves, Sami looked at her watch. It was now twelve fifteen. Unless the governor issued a stay of execution, Sami felt certain that Simon Kwosokowski no longer breathed earthly air. She had hoped to feel significant relief from his grip, but she felt no different than she did last week or last year for that matter. She had no lofty expectations that her experience with him would be erased completely from her mind, but she did think she’d feel some relief.

Disappointed that such a significant event had little effect on her, she brushed herself off and made her way to her car. Once inside she changed her shoes and sat quietly for a moment with her eyes closed. Like so many times when she’d made a significant decision, Sami felt the angst of buyer’s remorse. She had little doubt that police work was her calling. But she didn’t feel prepared to lead the serial killer investigation. Enthusiasm was not the problem. But a lack of confidence was. All eyes were on her. Most people, her supporters. But some, male chauvinists like D’Angelo, licked their chops waiting for her to fail. Many social and cultural issues regarding equality had evolved, but female cops still rode in the back of the bus.

Never in her wildest dreams did she believe that her return to police work would instantly place her in a pressure cooker. Sami shouldered tremendous stress right now—not only as a homicide investigator, but also in her personal life. Aleta was on her mind constantly, and she was deeply concerned for her mother’s well-being. And of course, she missed having Al next to her at night when she crawled into bed.

She started her car, ready to head back to the precinct.

Time to be a cop again.

Just as she grasped the shift lever, her cell phone rang.

“Hi, Detective Rizzo. This is Maggie Fox. Doctor Templeton just left the lab. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Absolutely. Did he offer any insights about the surgical procedures?”

“Only that there is a technique called the Maze Procedure to treat an ailment called atrial fibrillation—A-Fib for short. And the incisions are in the same area of the heart where this procedure is usually performed.”

“What exactly is A-Fib?”

“It’s a particular type of arrhythmia. It’s generally associated with a rapid heartbeat or a quivering of the upper chambers of the heart. It’s a malfunction in the heart’s electrical system. The Maze Procedure is about eighty percent effective in curing this condition.”

“I don’t get it,” Sami said. “Did all of the victims have this A-Fib condition?”

“That’s highly unlikely. We can get a court order to obtain the medical records to see if there is any history of A-Fib in any of the four victims. But I seriously doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because typically, this condition occurs in people fifty years and older. That’s not carved in granite, but that’s the norm.”

“What did Doctor Templeton have to say about the procedures our perp performed on the victims’ other organs?”

“No logical explanation.”

“Is there anything logical about this guy?”

“Here’s what really puzzles me,” Maggie said. “It seems obvious to me that the killer performed CPR and also used a defibrillator to resuscitate each victim. So, whatever his motive, it appears that he tried to keep them alive as long as possible.”

“But why?”

“That, Detective, is the million-dollar question.”