Free They Never Die Quietly (2010) by D M Annechino Page B

reacted. After all, thousands of trucks similar to the serial killer's cluttered the streets of San Diego County. If she paid attention to every one of them she'd spend the rest of her life running IDs on vehicle license plates. However, Simon's unusual behavior piqued her curiosity. And of course the cross around his neck added another dimension. Perhaps their meeting at Katie's Kitchen had not been a random event? She pawed through the glove box, found a crumpled napkin and pen, and scribbled the plate number on the napkin.

    Sami had just finished washing and drying two loads of laundry, so she grabbed a cold brew, sat on the couch, and turned on the Chargers game. Considering their pathetic season, Sami was surprised to see them featured on ESPN's Saturday Night Football. Fourth quarter, three minutes to go. Lions twenty-four, Chargers zip. No need to watch this thrashing.
    She hit the off button on the remote and picked up the book she'd been reading: A Journey Through the Mind of the Serial Killer, by Brent Hartman, a former FBI profiler. She turned to the bookmark. Hartman contended that all serial killers and repeat offenders of violent crimes were once victims themselves. Most were either abused as children or brought up in severely dysfunctional homes. Often the parents of future killers were alcoholics or drug addicts. "Loonies," as Hartman called them, unlike serial killers, were not difficult to catch. Driven by rage, uncontrollable behavior, and irrational actions, loonies were usually one-victim killers who did not possess the presence of mind to cover their tracks or carefully plan the murders. On the other hand, the true serial killer, usually intelligent, cunning, and often charming, carefully orchestrated his murders. Textbook serial killers distinguished themselves from loonies because their actions were well planned, and their desire to kill was driven by a profound urge to inflict pain.
    Sami's eyelids began to droop, so she set the book on the cocktail table, rested her head against the back of the sofa, and closed her eyes. She loved little naps on quiet afternoons.
    Simon.
    She'd been thinking about him. More than she wanted to. She could not ignore the attraction. The charming young man with his gentle voice and innocent politeness had stirred a hunger in her that she'd repressed for longer than she wished to admit. But now something troubled her. If the black Ford Supercab pickup did belong to him, she'd be forced to take the next step. But her suspicions stemmed from more than the truck. She couldn't ignore the gold cross or the fact that Simon fit the serial killer's description. He stood well over six feet tall and had blue eyes and light brown hair. Another issue bothered her. Sami felt certain that Simon contrived the story about his broken toe. Why he would lie, she had no clue. To invite her, insist that she drive to the hospital immediately, and then fabricate a story about a broken toe didn't make sense. Simon's eyes had reflected something unsettling, a quiet storm. In Sami's heart she hoped that all her idle suspicions would prove unfounded because she felt wildly attracted to him. Friday seemed like decades away.
    As Sami's thoughts faded to blackness, the door chime rang a familiar melody. She had drifted from consciousness just enough to give her a feeling of disorientation as she wobbled to the front door. She twisted the doorknob and Tommy DiSalvo stood on the porch, grinning like a little boy who'd just gotten everything he'd asked Santa for.
    "Better late than never," Tommy mumbled. "Where's my little angel at?" As always, he was two days unshaven, and his eyes were severely bloodshot.
    Not wanting him to come in, Sami didn't budge. "Get lost on your way to a poker game?"
    "Ah, that's the Sami we all know and love." He puckered his lips. "Give us a kiss, sweetheart."
    Sunday afternoon and already he was toasted. "What do you want, Tommy?"
    "Would a blow job be out of the