Mary, Mary Page 15

  “I was still in the office.”

  “When the hell do you sleep?”

  “I’ll sleep when it’s over.”

  I followed the young agent through a series of right and left turns, to where a square of buildings faced a common garden and pool area. Several residents, many of them in nightclothes, were gathered around one of the front doors. They were craning their necks and whispering among themselves.

  Page pointed to a third-floor unit where the lights were on behind drawn curtains. “Up there,” he said. “That’s where the bodies are.”

  We made our way past the officers on duty and up the front stairs—one of two ways into the building.

  “Check.” Page shorthanded his response to the stickers on the apartment door as we passed inside. Marked with two As and a B. This was Mary Smith all right. The stickers always made me think of that clown doll in Poltergeist—benign on the outside but completely ominous in context. Child’s play turned inside out.

  The door opened onto a good-size living room. It was crowded with cardboard moving boxes and haphazardly arranged furniture.

  In the middle of the room, a man lay dead, facedown over a stack of fallen boxes. Several dozen books had spilled onto the sand-colored carpet, several of them streaked with blood. Copies of The Hours and Running with Scissors lay near the body.

  “Philip Washington,” Page told me. “Thirty-five; an investment banker at Merrill Lynch. Well-read, obviously.”

  “You too, I guess.”

  There was no arranging the body this time, no artful tableau. The killer might have been in a hurry given all the neighbors so close by, the lack of sufficient cover.

  And Philip Washington wasn’t the only target. Nearby, another body lay faceup on the floor.

  This was the one I couldn’t reconcile, the murder that would dog me.

  The victim’s left temple showed an ugly wound where the bullet had entered, and the face had been repeatedly slashed in Mary Smith’s signature style. The flesh around the forehead and eyes was crisscrossed with knife marks, and the cheeks, constricted in a scream, had both been punctured.

  I stared at the body, just beginning to piece together what had happened, and the events that had led up to it. Two questions burned in my mind. Did I have some hand in causing this murder? Should I have seen it coming?

  Maybe the victim I was staring at had the answer—but L.A. Times writer Arnold Griner wouldn’t be able to help us again on the Mary Smith case. Now Griner was one of the victims.

  Part Four

  THE BLUE SUBURBAN

  Chapter 72

  I HAD BARELY BEGUN walking the crime scene when I met up with Maddux Fielding, LAPD’s deputy chief in charge of the Detective Bureau and also Jeanne Galletta’s replacement on the case. With his shock of silver-gray hair and the same deep-brown eyes as Jeanne’s, Fielding looked as though he could have been Jeanne’s father.

  He struck me as professional and focused from the start. He also seemed to be something of an asshole.

  “Agent Cross,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your work in D.C.” Something in the way he said it didn’t exactly sound like a compliment.

  “This is Special Agent Page,” I said. “He’s been assisting me while I’m in L.A.”

  Fielding made no response at all, so I pushed on.

  “What do you make of all this?” I asked him. “I know you’re just getting started with the case, but I’m assuming you’re up to speed on the priors.”

  The last part wasn’t intended as a dig, but it hung in the air as if it were one. Fielding turned down the corners of his mouth and looked at me over the tops of heavy-rimmed bifocals. “This isn’t my first serial case. I’m good to go.”

  He took a self-important deep breath. “Now, as to your question, I’m prepared to believe this is Mary Smith’s work and not some copycat. I have to wonder if she didn’t want Arnold Griner dead from day one. I believe she did. The questions, of course, would be why and how this motive is related to the previous incidents.”

  Everything he said made some sense, especially that Griner might have been a target from the start. I turned to Page. “How about you?”

  I was beginning to wonder what he thought, which he may or may not have recognized as a mark of my growing confidence in him.

  “Griner and Washington just moved in,” Page said, flipping through a small notebook. “Three days ago, in fact. I know Griner changed all his info and kept everything unlisted, so Mary would have had to go to at least a little trouble to keep up with him. That’s consistent with the stalking aspect, right? And even though Griner doesn’t fit the victim profile, he’s been part of Mary Smith’s landscape all along. She started with him, and now, I don’t know, maybe she’s ending with him. Maybe this represents some kind of closure for her. Maybe her story is over.”

  “Doubtful,” Fielding said, without even looking at Page. “Too much anger expressed here. Too much rage in Griner’s murder. Have you seen The Grudge? Not important. Forget I said it.”

  “What about the blue Suburban?” I asked. “Any progress there?” As of that afternoon, LAPD hadn’t turned up anything promising, which was a little surprising given the urgency.

  Fielding pulled out a handkerchief, took off his glasses, and began to polish them before he spoke. “Nothing yet,” he finally said. “But as long as you brought it up, let me make one thing clear. I’m not Detective Galletta. I’m her boss, and I’m not going to be checking in with you at every turn. If the Bureau wants to take full jurisdiction on this case, they could argue for it. After the way things have gone around here, I’d almost welcome it. But until then, you just do your job and try not to screw up my investigation any more than you did Detective Galletta’s. I hope we’re clear.”

  It was bald cop-to-cop loyalty. Without asking a single question, he decided I had wasted the case for Jeanne. I’d seen this kind of thing before, even understood it a little. But I couldn’t keep quiet now.

  “Little piece of advice,” I told him. “You should know what you’re talking about before you start throwing accusations around. You’re just going to make your own job harder.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible at this point,” he said curtly. “Now I think we’ve covered everything. You know how to reach me if you have questions, or hell, even if you have something that will help us out.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I could have punched him in the back of the head as he walked away. It was maybe the only thing that could have taken our first meeting to a lower level.

  “Great guy,” Page said. “Lots of personality, social skills, the whole package.”

  “Yeah, I’m all warm and fuzzy inside.”

  Instead of dwelling on it, I turned back to the work. If the lines of communication with LAPD were going to be strained further, we needed our own analysis more than ever. Page didn’t ask me to, but I walked him through my process. We worked in a spiral out from the bodies, as anyone else would, but much more slowly.

  First we covered the condo, inch by inch; then we worked out to the hallway, front and back stairs, and then the grounds around the building.

  I was curious to see how Page’s patience held, or if everyone his age was too hurry-up to do this work right. Page did just fine. He was really into the case.

  We were outside when we got word from the Bureau’s electronic surveillance unit. At 5:30 that morning, another e-mail had shown up at Arnold Griner’s L.A. Times address.

  A letter from Mary Smith had arrived—written to the man she had just killed.

  Chapter 73

  To: agriner@latimes.com

  From: Mary Smith

  To: Arnold Griner:

  Guess what? I followed you home to your new apartment, after you had dinner with friends at that Asia de Cuba place on Sunset.

  You parked under the building and took the stairs up the back. Huffing up a single flight? I could see that you’re out of shap
e, Arnold. And out of time, I’m afraid.

  I waited outside until your apartment lights came on, and then I followed. I wasn’t as afraid anymore, not like I used to be. The gun used to feel strange and unwieldy in my hand. Now it’s like I barely know it’s there.

  You haven’t installed a dead bolt on your back door. Maybe you’ve been meaning to but you’ve been too busy with the move; or maybe you just felt a little safer in the new place so it didn’t seem to matter. You’d be right about that last part. It doesn’t matter—not anymore.

  It was dark in the kitchen when I came in, but you had the lights and TV on in the living room. There was also a carving knife on the counter next to the sink, but I left it where it was.

  I had my own, which is something you probably already knew about me—if you read my other e-mails.

  I waited for as long as I could bear to in the kitchen, listening to you and your companion. I couldn’t hear exactly what you were saying to each other, but I liked the sound of your voices. I even liked knowing that I’d be the last person to ever hear them.

  Then the nervousness started to come back. It was just a little at first, but I knew it would get worse if I waited much longer.

  I could have left the condo right then if I wanted to, and you’d never even have known I was there.

  That’s one way you’re like the others. No one seems to know I’m around until their time comes. The Invisible Woman, that’s me. That’s a lot of us, actually.

  When I waltzed into the living room, you both jumped up at the same time. I made sure you saw the gun, and you stayed still after that. I wanted to ask if you knew why I came for you, why you deserved to die, but I was afraid I wouldn’t finish if I didn’t do it right away.

  I pulled the trigger, and you fell flat on your back. Your roommate screeched; then he tried to run. I couldn’t imagine where he thought he was going to escape to.

  I shot him, and I think he may have died immediately. You both seemed to just die. Not much fight in you, especially considering what a snippy, nasty little man you are.

  Good-bye, Arnold. You’re gone, and know what else? You’re already forgotten.

  Chapter 74

  THE STORYTELLER HAD TO STOP the stream of murders now. He knew that; it was part of the plan, and the plan was a good one. What a pity, though, what a shame. He was just getting good at this, and he hadn’t been good at anything for a long time.

  Anyway, congratulations were in order. Praise for him was all over the TV, and in the newspapers, of course. Especially the L.A. Times, which had made that piece-of-shit Arnold Griner into such a saint and martyr. Everyone recognized the Storyteller’s masterpiece—only it was so much better than they knew.

  And he did want to celebrate, only there was still no one he could tell. He’d tried that in Vancouver and look what had happened. He’d had to kill a friend, well, an acquaintance, an old humpty-dump of his.

  So how would he celebrate? Arnold Griner was dead, and that made him laugh out loud sometimes. The ironies were building up now, including some subtle ones, like Griner getting his e-mails, then being his messenger to the police, then getting it himself. In real life—as opposed to what had been written in the latest e-mail—the little prick had begged for his life when he saw who it was, when he finally understood, which made his murder even more satisfying. Hell, he hadn’t killed Griner and his companion right away. It had taken close to an hour, and he’d loved every minute of the melodrama.

  So what would he do now?

  He wanted to party, but there really was no one he could talk to about this. Boohoo, he had no one.

  Then he knew exactly what he wanted to do, and it was so simple. He was in Westwood anyway, so he parked in a lot and walked over to the wonderfully tacky Bruin Theater, where Collateral was playing. Tom Cruise, oh, good.

  He wanted to go to the movies.

  He wanted to sit with his people and watch Tom Cruise pretend he was a big, bad killer without any conscience or regrets.

  Oohh, I’m scared, Tom.

  Chapter 75

  “MR. TRUSCOTT CALLED for you. He said he’d like an interview. Said it was important. That he’ll come to the house if you like. He wondered if you received his notes about the women on death row.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “Ignore Truscott. Anything else happen while I was away?”

  “Did Damon tell you he and his friend broke up?” Nana asked me quietly. “Did you even know he had a girlfriend?”

  We were sitting in the kitchen that Saturday afternoon on my first day back. I looked over toward the living room to make sure we were still alone.

  “Is that the girl he’s been talking to so much on the phone?” I asked.

  “Well, not anymore,” she said. “Just as well, I’m sure. He’s too young for any of that.” She got up humming “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho” and turned her attention to a pot of chili she had going on the stove.

  I was distracted by the chili itself, and the fact that she had used ground turkey instead of her usual beef or pork. Maybe Kayla Coles had worked some magic and finally gotten Nana to do something new to take care of herself. Good for Kayla.

  “When did Damon tell you he had a girlfriend?” I asked, unable to completely drop the subject. I was more curious about it than I was reluctant to show how out of the loop I had become with my older son.

  “He didn’t tell me; it just sort of presented itself,” Nana said. “It’s not something teenagers talk about directly. Cornelia’s been to the house a couple of times. To do homework. She’s very nice. Her mother and father are lawyers, but I didn’t hold that against her.” She laughed at her little joke. “Well, maybe I held it against her just a little.”

  Cornelia? Nana the expert, and Alex the outsider. All my good intentions and the promise I’d made myself to do things differently had been swallowed up by whatever it was that always—always—seemed to drag me back to the Job.

  Missed out on Damon’s first breakup. Can’t get that one back. Cornelia, we hardly knew ya.

  It was good to be home anyway. The kitchen was soon overflowing with the smells of Nana’s cooking, exponentially so, as I was being received back with a party for friends and family. Besides the chili, there was Nana’s famous corn bread, two kinds of garlicky greens, seasoned steaks, and a batch of caramel bread pudding that was a rare show-off treat. Apparently, Dr. Coles hadn’t completely gotten through to her about the taking-it-easy part.

  I tried to help without getting in the way, while Nana checked her watch and just about flew around the kitchen. I would have been more excited if I felt I deserved a party. Not only was I out of the running for father of the year, but my return trip to L.A. was already booked.

  Chapter 76

  “LOOK WHO’S HERE with the family! Will you look at this. Where’s my camera?”

  Sampson and Billie arrived early with three-month-old Djakata, whom I hadn’t seen since she was a newborn. John, beaming, lifted her out of the Snugli on Billie’s chest and put her in my arms. What a sight this was—Sampson with his baby girl. Papa Bear, I thought. And Mama and Baby Bear.

  “What a rare beauty,” I said, and she was—with cocoa skin and soft little swirls of dark hair all over her head. “She has the best of both of you. What a doll.”

  Jannie came around and slipped between us to get a good look at Djakata. She was at the age where it sets in that she may have babies of her own someday, and she was starting to take a perspective.

  “She’s so teensy-tiny,” she said, her voice tinged with awe.

  “Not too tiny,” Sampson said. “Hundredth percentile height and weight. Takes after her father. She’ll be as big as Billie when she’s five.”

  “Let’s just hope she doesn’t get your hands and feet, poor thing,” Nana leaned in and said. Then she winked at Billie, who was already considered part of our family.

  An intense feeling of homecoming overtook me right then and there. It was one of those transcen
dent moments that grabs you a little by surprise and reminds you all at once about the good things. Whatever else happened, there was this, where I needed to be, where I belonged.

  Snapshot—remember the feeling for the next time I need it.

  The feeling of intimacy didn’t last long, though, as the house soon began filling up with other guests. A few of my old guard from DCPD were the next to show up; Jerome and Claudette Thurman came with Rakeem Powell and his new girlfriend, whose name I didn’t catch. “Give it a week,” Sampson told me on the side. “If she’s still around, then you can worry about it.”

  Aunt Tia and my cousin Carter were the first actual family to come, followed by a string of warm and familiar faces, several of them bearing some vague resemblance to my own.

  The last to arrive was Dr. Kayla Coles, and I greeted her at the door myself.

  “Annie Sullivan, I presume?”

  “Excuse me? Oh, I get it. The Miracle Worker.”

  “The Miracle Worker—the one who got my grandmother to put turkey in her chili. I’m guessing that was your work. Well done.”

  “At your service.” She curtsied playfully in her turquoise dress, which looked very comfortable even while it clung to her. Kayla didn’t usually show off much of herself, and I couldn’t help noticing. She definitely looked different than she did in her usual preppy-practical work clothes.

  Instead of a medical bag, she carried a large covered crock.

  “Now this might be your biggest trick yet,” I said. “Bringing someone else’s food into Nana’s kitchen? I want to see this.”

  “Not just the food; I brought the recipe, too.”

  She turned the crock around to show a white index card taped to the side.

  “Heart-healthy baked beans for a woman who knows all too well how to cook with bacon fat.”

  “Well, come on in,” I said with a sweeping gesture. “At your own risk.”

  The sounds of Branford Marsalis Quartet’s Romare Bearden Revealed ushered us through the house, where the party was gathering up steam and everyone looked glad to see Dr. Kayla, who happened to be a saint in the neighborhood. I couldn’t help feeling a little giddy. At the end of the week I’d be on another plane. But for now, this was as good as it gets.