Mary, Mary Page 10

  It was evocative of what people sometimes do to photographs, the way they symbolically get rid of someone by Xing out the face. And in fact, Mary Smith had also destroyed several family photos in the office upstairs in the house.

  I looked up to where I imagined the office would be, based on file diagrams.

  The logical path from here to there went through the living room, then up the limestone staircase in the main entry hall.

  The killer had visited the home before the day of the murder. How exactly had that occurred? At what time? And—why? How was Mary Smith evolving?

  When I passed through the house again, Michael Bell was sitting with his three small daughters, all of them blankly watching their movie. They didn’t even look up as I went by, and I didn’t want to interrupt them again if I could help it. For some reason, I remembered hugging Jannie and Day right after what happened with Little Alex in Seattle.

  The upstairs hallway was a suspended bridge of wood and glass that bisected the house. I followed Mary Smith’s likely path up there, then down to an enclosed wing where Marti’s office was easy enough to find.

  It was the only room with a closed door.

  Inside, the office wall had conspicuous blank spots where I imagined family photos had hung. Everything else looked to be intact.

  The killer is getting braver, taking more risks, but the obsession with families remains strong. The killer’s focus is powerful.

  My attention went to a high-backed leather chair in front of a twenty-one-inch vertical monitor. This was the victim’s workspace and, presumably, the place where Mary Smith sat to send the e-mail to Arnold Griner at the L.A. Times.

  The office also had a view of the terrace and pool below. Mary Smith could have watched Marti’s body floating facedown while she typed away. Did it repulse her? Put her into a rage? Or was she feeling gross satisfaction as she sat here looking down on her victim?

  Something clicked for me. The destroyed photos here. The recent close call at the coffee house. Something Professor Papadakis had said about “avoidance.” Something else I had been thinking about that morning. Mary Smith didn’t like what she was seeing at the murder sites, did she?

  The longer this went on, the more it reflected some powerful image from the past that disturbed her. Some part of herself she didn’t want to see was becoming clearer. Her response was to devolve. I hated to think about it, but she was probably losing control.

  Then I corrected myself—the killer was losing control.

  Chapter 46

  I LAY FLAT ON MY BACK on the hotel bed that night, my head spinning in different directions, none of them worth a damn as far as I was concerned.

  Mary Smith. Her pathology. Inconsistencies. Possible motivation for the murders. Nothing there so far.

  Jamilla. Don’t go there either. You’re not even close to solving that.

  My family back in D.C. Was I ever messing that up.

  Christine and Alex Junior. Saddest of all.

  I was aware that no part of my life was getting the attention it deserved lately. Everything was starting to feel like an effort. I had helped other people deal with this kind of depression, just never myself, and it seemed to me that nobody’s very good at self-analysis.

  True to her word, Monnie Donnelley had already delivered some material on James Truscott. Very simply, he checked out. He was ambitious, could be considered ruthless at times, but he was a respected member of the Fourth Estate. He didn’t appear to have any connection to the Mary Smith murders.

  I looked at my watch, muttered a curse, then dialed home, hoping to catch Jannie and Damon before they went off to bed.

  “Hello, Cross residence. Jannie Cross speaking.”

  I found myself smiling. “Is this the hugs-and-kisses store? I’d like to place an order, please.”

  “Hi, Daddy. I knew you’d call.”

  “Am I that predictable? Never mind. You two getting ready for bed, I hope? Ask Damon to get on the other line.”

  “I’m already on. I figured it was you, Dad. You are kind of predictable. That’s a good thing.”

  I caught up with the kids briefly. Damon tried to wheedle me into letting him buy a CD with a parental advisory label. No sale there, and still no word from him on the mystery girlfriend. Jannie was gearing up for her first science fair and wanted to know if I could hook her friends up to a polygraph. “Sure thing. Right after we hook up you and Damon.”

  Then Jannie told me something that bothered me a lot. “That writer was here again. Nana chased him off. She gave him a good tongue-lashing, called him a ‘disgrace to his profession.’”

  After I finished with the kids, I talked to Nana, and then I ordered room service. Finally, I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I was making the calls in reverse stress order, I knew, leaving the hard ones for last. Of course, there was also the issue of time zones to consider.

  “This whole Mary Smith thing has gone national in a hurry,” Jamilla said. “Word up here is the LAPD isn’t even close to catching her.”

  “Let’s talk about something besides work,” I said. “That okay with you?”

  “Actually, I have to leave, Alex. I’m meeting a friend . . . just a friend,” she added a little too quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” But that sounded to me like code for worry about it.

  “Sure, go,” I said.

  “Talk to you tomorrow?” she asked. “Sorry. I have to run. Tomorrow, Alex?”

  I promised, and then hung up. Just a friend, I thought. Well, two calls down, one to go. The really hard one. I picked up the phone again and punched in numbers I knew by heart.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Alex.”

  Christine paused—another undecipherable response. “Hi,” she finally said.

  “Could I talk to Alex?”

  “Of course. Hang on, I’ll get him. He just finished his dinner. He’s in the playroom.”

  I heard a rustling and then Christine’s muted voice. “It’s Daddy.” The word gave me a strange pang—warm and regretful at the same time.

  “Hi, Daddy.” A whole lot of mixed feelings intensified at the excited sound of his voice, but mostly, I just missed him like crazy. I could see his small face, his smile.

  “Hey, pup. What’s new?”

  Like any three-year-old, Little Alex wasn’t quite up to speed on the whole phone thing. It was a quick conversation, unfortunately. After a particularly long pause, I heard Christine again in the background.

  “Say bye-bye.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  “See you soon,” I told him. “I love you, buddy.”

  “Love you, Daddy.”

  Then Little Alex hung up the phone on me. With a dismissive click, I was back in my room, alone with the Mary Smith case, missing all the people I loved more than life itself. That was the exact thought in my head—but what did it mean?

  Part Three

  JUGGLING ACTS

  Chapter 47

  MARY SMITH SAT on a park bench while her darling little Ashley monkeyed her way around the playground. Good deal. The exercise was just enough to tire her out before Mary had to pick up Brendan and Adam from their playdates; hopefully it was enough time to let Mary’s brain cool down from another impossible day.

  She looked at the brand-new diary on her lap, admired its nice heavy paper and the beautiful linen cover.

  Journals were the one big splurge in her life. She tried to write a little every day. Maybe later, the kids would read these pages and know who she really was, besides Cook, Maid, and Chauffeur. Meanwhile, even the journal had conspired against her. Without thinking, she had written tomatoes, baby carrots, cereal, juice, diapers on the first page. Shoot!

  That just wouldn’t do. She carefully tore it out. Maybe it was silly, but she thought this book as a sacred place, not somewhere you wanted to put a shopping list.

  She suddenly realized Ashley was gone! Oh my God, where is she?

  She was right there a second ago, and now
she was gone.

  Had it been just a second? She tensed. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it was longer than a few seconds.

  “Ashley? Sweetie?”

  Her eyes quickly scanned the small, crowded playground. Several blonde mop tops on swings or running around, but no Ashley. The whole place was enclosed with a wrought-iron fence. How far could she have gotten? She headed toward the gate.

  “Excuse me, have you seen a little girl? Blond hair, jeans, a red T-shirt?”

  No one had, though.

  Oh, dear God, not this. No. No.

  Just then Mary spotted her. Her heart nearly burst. Ashley was tucked behind a tree near the corner of the playground. She coughed out a little laugh, embarrassed with herself for getting this nervous so quickly. God, what is wrong with me?

  She walked over to her. “What are you doing over here, sweetness?”

  “Playing hide and seek,” she said. “Just playing, Mommy.”

  “With who, for gosh sake?” She fought to keep her tone in check. People were starting to stare.

  “With you.” She smiled so sweetly Mary could barely stand it.

  She bent low and whispered against her soft cheek. “Ashley, you cannot run off like that. Do you understand? If you can’t see me, then I can’t see you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good, now why don’t you go and try the jungle gym?”

  Mary settled down on another bench away from the gathering storm of disapproving stares. A young mother reading the L.A. Times smiled over at her. “Hello.”

  “You must not be from around here,” Mary said, giving her a quick once-over.

  The woman’s voice was slightly defensive. “Why do you say that?”

  “First of all, no one around here is that friendly,” Mary answered, then smiled. “Second of all, it takes an outsider to know one. I’m a Vermonter, myself.”

  The other woman looked relieved. “Baltimore,” she said with a hand to her chest. “I heard everyone was friendly out here in California. They stop their cars and let you cross the street, right? You don’t see that in Baltimore.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  “Of course, you don’t see this, either.” She held up the front page of the Times.

  HOLLYWOOD MURDER INVESTIGATION CONTINUES

  “Have you heard about this?” the woman asked. “I guess you must have.”

  “It’s hard to miss these days.”

  “It just makes me so sad. I know I should be afraid, too, but really, I’m just so sorry for those families.”

  Mary nodded solemnly. “I know. So am I, so am I. Isn’t it awful? Those poor, poor children. It just makes you want to cry your eyes out.”

  Chapter 48

  ACCORDING TO THE STATISTICS I was reading at my desk, something like 89 percent of known female serial killers used poison, suffocation, or lethal injection on their victims. Less than 10 percent of various killers employed a gun as their weapon of choice, and none I had found on record used a knife.

  Is Mary Smith the exception that proves the rule?

  I didn’t think so. But I seemed to be all alone on that.

  I scanned the deskful of clippings, photos, and articles spread out in front of me like pieces from several different jigsaw puzzles.

  Aileen Wuornos was a shooter. In 1989 and ’90, she killed at least seven men in Florida. When she was arrested, the media dubbed her America’s first female serial killer. She was probably the most famous, but nowhere near the first. Almost half of those on record were black widows—husband-killers—or else motivated by revenge. Most had some relationship with their victims.

  Bobbie Sue Terrell, a nurse, injected twelve patients with lethal doses of insulin.

  Dorothea Montalvo Puente poisoned nine boarders in her home so she could get their Social Security checks.

  A secretary at the field office, Maureen, poked her head in.

  “You want anything from In-n-Out Burger?”

  I looked up and realized it was dark already, and that, actually, I was starving.

  “If they have a grilled chicken sandwich, that’d be good. And an orange juice, thanks.”

  She laughed merrily. “You want a hamburger or a cheeseburger?”

  Since my sleep and personal life were something of a mess, I was trying to keep the junk food intake in check. I hadn’t worked out in days. The last thing I needed was to get sick out here. I told Maureen never mind, I’d get something eventually.

  A minute later, Agent Page was hovering at my desk. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Anything yet?”

  I spread my arms to indicate the breadth of information on the desk. “She doesn’t fit in.”

  “Which was probably true for about half the female serial killers in history at the time of their activity,” said Page. The young agent was impressing me more and more.

  “So what about our good friends at LAPD? Anything new from them?”

  “Sure is,” he said. “Ballistics came back on that gun of hers. Hear this—it’s a golden oldie. A Walther PPK, same one every time. There’s a full briefing tomorrow if you want to be there. If not, I’ll cover.”

  That was surprising news, and very odd—the age of the murder weapon.

  “How old is the gun? Do they know?”

  “At least twenty years, which deepens the mystery some, huh? Could be hard to trace.”

  “You think that’s her reason? Traceability?” I asked, mostly just thinking out loud. Page quickly ticked off a handful of possibilities.

  “She’s not a professional, right? Maybe it’s a weapon she’s had for a long time. Or maybe she’s been killing a lot longer than we think. Maybe she found it. Maybe it was her father’s.”

  All solid guesses from a rapid-fire mind. “How old are you?” I asked, suddenly curious.

  He gave me a sideways glance. “Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to ask that.”

  “Relax,” I said. “It’s not a job interview. I’m just wondering. You’re a lot quicker than some of the folks I see coming out of Quantico lately.”

  “I’m twenty-six,” he said, grinning widely.

  “You’re pretty good, Page. Need to work on that game face, though.”

  He didn’t alter his expression. “I’ve got game; I just don’t need it here in the field office.” Then, affecting pitch-perfect surfer-speak, he said, “Yeah, dude, I know what you’re thinking about me, but now that my surfing scholarship fell through, I’m like, totally dedicated to being here.”

  It felt good to laugh, even if it was mostly at myself.

  “Actually,” I said, “I can’t imagine you getting up on a surfboard, Page.”

  “Imagine it, dude,” Page said.

  Chapter 49

  AROUND 5:00 THE NEXT DAY, the briefing room at LAPD was packed to overflowing, a suitcase with way too much crap inside. I leaned up against a wall near the front, waiting for Detective Jeanne Galletta to get the madness going.

  She came in walking briskly alongside Fred Van Allsburg, from my office; L.A.’s chief of police, Alan Shrewsbury; and a third man, whom I didn’t recognize. Jeanne was definitely the looker in the group, and the only one under fifty.

  “Who’s that?” I asked the officer standing next to me. “Blue suit. Lighter blue suit.”

  “Michael Corbin.”

  “Who?”

  “The deputy mayor. He is a suit. Useless as tits on a bull.”

  I was kind of glad to have been left out of the speechifying at the meeting—but a little wary as well. Politics were a given on this kind of high-profile homicide case. I just hoped they weren’t about to start playing a larger-than-usual role here in Los Angeles.

  Galletta gave me a little nod hello before she started. “All right, people, let’s go.” Everyone quieted down immediately. The deputy mayor shook Van Allsburg’s hand and then slipped out a side door. Huh? What was that all about? It wasn’t a guest appearance, more like a ghost appearance.

  “Let’s get th
e nuts and bolts out of the way first,” Detective Galletta said.

  She quickly ran over all the common elements of the case—the Walther PPK, the children’s stickers marked with two A’s and a B, the so-called Perfect Mother victims, which was the angle the press was running with, of course. One nasty out-of-town paper had called the case “The Stepford Wife Murders.” Galletta reminded us that the exact wording in the e-mails Mary had sent to the L.A. Times was classified information.

  A few questions flew.

  Does the LAPD or Bureau know of or suspect any connection between Mary Smith and other homicides in the area? No.

  How do we know it was a single assailant? We don’t for sure, but all signs indicate as much.

  How do we know the killer is a woman? A woman’s hair, presumably the offender’s, was found under a sticker at the movie theater in Westwood.

  “This might be a good time to ask Agent Cross to give us an overview of whatever profile the FBI has going. Dr. Cross has come here from Washington, where he solved cases involving serial killers like Gary Soneji and Kyle Craig.”

  Something like a hundred pairs of eyes shifted to look at me. I had come to the briefing as an observer, I thought, but now I was going to be put on center stage. No sense wasting the opportunity, or worse, everybody’s time.

  “Well, let me start by saying that I’m not yet absolutely convinced Mary Smith is a woman,” I said.

  That ought to wake them up in the back rows.

  Chapter 50

  IT DID, TOO. A ripple went through the room. At least I’d gotten everybody’s attention.

  “I’m not saying it’s definitely a male offender, but we haven’t ruled that out as a possibility. I don’t believe you should. Either way, though,” I said, raising my voice over the low rumble, “there are a few things I can say about this case.

  “I’ll use she as a default for now. She’s likely white, and in her midthirties to forties. She drives her own car, something that wouldn’t get too much notice in the upscale neighborhoods where the murders happened. She’s most likely educated, and most likely employed, nonprofessional. Maybe some kind of service position for which she may very well be overqualified.”