June 2000. Los Angeles, California.
Three years and the police still hadn't found anything. My father refused to be of any help, working diligently to retain records, convinced that if I ever discovered my mother's killer that I would go back to my insomnia. That Donny would get back on his drug kicks or Gil would actually carry out his plans to go into the Peace Corps before college.
I couldn't stand that my father was trying to bury up everything that had to do with my mother's death. So I had decided to do my own digging.
I hired a private investigator to start doing his own work on the side. It didn't matter that a lot of what he was doing was illegal. I just wanted answers.
And it only took him four weeks.
Tony Alonso met me at a café just off of the UCLA campus. He handed me a red folder. "His name's Paul DeMarco. He's been running the shoot and run scam for years now, all over California. He and his buddy, guy by the name of Jason McCormack shot down a police officer last week after a bar raid."
"So how do you know this is the guy?" I asked Alonso, looking at the pictures of Paul DeMarco.
"I went undercover. Did some digging. Turns out, DeMarco and McCormack started off their crime spree with a series of easy takeovers over three years ago. DeMarco's third kill was a middle aged woman on some animal protest near Concord Avenue in Sacramento."
"That's where my mom was shot."
"Now, let me ask you, kid. What are you gonna do now that you got this information?"
"I don't know."
"Gee, maybe that would have been a nice thing to figure out. Now if you don't mind, I'd like my eight grand."
I handed Alonso a yellow envelope from my bag, containing his cash. He opens the flap and inspects it. "This better be all of it, doll."
"It's all there," I tell him, looking at the folder again.
He starts to leave, but then turns back. "I don't wanna over step no boundaries, but I noticed that hollow pointed pistol in your car."
"That's in a case. How did you-,"
"I'm a P.I. doll, have a little respect. Just know that when you aim that gun at someone's head…Well you find out who you really are in that moment. You're a sweet kid with lots of pint-up anger. But do you really want to be a murderer?"
"You have your money. You don't need to stick around."
"I'm just saying, doll, if you need someone to get the job done for ya, I know a guy. You know where to find me," he says, turning and leaving the restaurant.
Two days later
I found the address in the folder of the apartment leased to Paul DeMarco. In my car, I sat outside, my pistol in my hand, waiting for him to come out. And when he did, I stayed at my safe distance, rolled down the car window and pointed my gun. I'd spent the last four weeks of Alonso's investigation at target practice and I knew I could hit De Marco's head from here.
But my finger wouldn't contract. The muscles wouldn't work. Alonso was right. I figured out who I was that day. I wasn't a killer. But I was a revenge seeker.
Late that evening
I rang the doorbell. "Jesus, doll," Tony Alonso exclaimed in his boxer shorts. "What are you doing here?"
"You said if I needed someone to get the job done to come to you. Well, here I am."
The annoyed look on his scraggly face vanished. "Absolutely. Guess you aren't the killer you thought you were, huh? Well, this is gonna cost you a bit more of Daddy's money."
"Exactly how much?"
"Hit-men aren't cheap, doll."