Mary, Mary (14 page)
THEY DIDN’T TALK MUCH IN THE CAR,
so he knew how big a mistake he’d made, and now he wondered if he’d made other mistakes along the way. Maybe important ones that would get him caught. Like way back in New York City. The movie-theater shootings.
He finally spoke. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, you know.”
She muttered, “Sure. I hear you.”
Man, she was making him paranoid, and a little nuts, actually. They’d been friends for a long time, though. “So how old is the kid now?”
“Uhmmm, four and a half. He’s great. Stefan.”
She was really scaring him. Now what? What the hell should he do? This wasn’t a “Mary Smith” scene. Tracey wasn’t even in his story. This was bad news.
Suddenly he pulled his rented Volvo over to the side of the road. Now what?
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “What?”
“You’d better get out right here, Trace. I’m not kidding you. Get out! Walk the rest of the way!”
“Walk? Are you crazy. What are you talking about?”
“Get out of the car! Right now.
Get out before I throw you out!
”
That got her moving. She threw open the passenger’s door and stumbled outside, cursing him like a truck driver. It was cold out there, and she had both arms wrapped around her. Then she started to cry. “You’re crazy. You know that? I thought we were friends.”
She started to run away on the dark residential side street somewhere between the Marriott and her hotel.
The Storyteller got out of the car and found himself following close behind. “Tracey, wait! Hey. Tracey.”
He caught up to her easily. “Hey, hey. I’m sorry for scaring you, baby. I’m really sorry. Hey, you okay?” And then he shot her in the throat, and once she was down on the sidewalk, he shot her again in the head.
And this time it wasn’t good, didn’t feel good at all.
This time it felt kind of bad, scared the hell out of him.
Because the story was taking over, the story was writing itself, and the story didn’t seem to care who got hurt.
AS I FLEW FROM SEATTLE
back to Los Angeles the next day, it struck me again how darkly appropriate the Mary Smith case was as a backdrop to my entire life. I was also starting to feel like some kind of record-setter for complicated or failed relationships. The only closure I had reached with Christine was that we would speak more soon. It excited me to think about having Little Alex—Ali—closer by, but I wasn’t about to get attached to the idea. Christine had proved herself too changeable in the past for me to trust that anything she said might happen for sure.
As it turned out, I got sucked back into the murder case even before I made it through the terminal at LAX.
A television news report caught my ear, and I stopped to watch the next development unfold.
I couldn’t look away as a talking head reported, “At a press conference this morning, lead detective on the Hollywood Stalker case, Jeanne Galletta, denied the existence of any so-called kill list.”
Hollywood Stalker was a media moniker that had emerged lately for Mary Smith. As for a “kill list,” I had no idea what the TV reporter was talking about.
“LAPD is urging area residents to remain calm and go about their business. Many people, however, aren’t buying it.
“One citizens’ group appeared at the local precinct, demanding to see the ‘kill list,’ which police claim doesn’t even exist. Either way, and whoever you choose to believe, one thing is clear: The Stalker has this community”—she inserted a reporterly pause—“very much on edge. Lorraine Solie, reporting live from Beverly Hills.”
Kill list?
What the hell was this? Had the LAPD found out something and then not shared it with us? It wouldn’t be the only time.
The first person I was able to reach at the FBI field office was David Fujishiro, another special agent assigned to the murder case.
“It’s way, way out in left field,” he told me. “There’s this supposed list with twenty-one names, starting with Patrice Bennett, Antonia Schifman, and Marti Lowenstein-Bell. The idea is that it’s Mary Smith’s agenda.”
“And everyone in L.A. wants to know if they’re on it?” I asked. “One of the twenty-one?”
“Right. And it gets even better than that. The rumor is that anyone on the list can
buy their way off
by sending a hundred thousand dollars to a post office box in Orange County that doesn’t seem to exist. We’ve checked it all out, not that anyone believes us. People are actually threatening legal action against the LAPD.”
“But there’s no truth to the rumor, David? You’re sure?”
“Not that we know of. But hey, what the hell do we know? We’re only the FBI.”
“This case is getting its own social life,” I said. “Has anybody spoken to Detective Galletta about the list?”
“I don’t know, but—
what?
” There was a pause on the line. “Hang on, Alex.”
“David? What’s happening?”
I could hear voices in the background, but nothing distinct. Agent Fujishiro came back on and told me to wait another second. “Something’s up,” he added.
“Wait!” I yelled, but it was no good. He was gone again.
More voices came, then a general rumbling, rising in pitch. What the hell was happening?
Then I heard Fujishiro saying “Yeah, I’ve got him right here on the phone.”
“Alex? Fred Van Allsburg needs to talk to you right now. Hold the line.”
I was never glad to hear from Van Allsburg, but his voice had a no-bullshit tension to it.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out right now. All we know at the moment is that Arnold Griner at the
Times
just got another e-mail. Can you get over to the
L.A. Times
office right away?”
“Not if there’s a new murder scene, I can’t. I need to see it now.”
“I’m not going to negotiate this, Alex. We’ll get word to you as soon as we know what’s what. Meanwhile—”
I couldn’t help myself—I cut him off. “Sir? Hello? Can you hear me?”
I hung up in the middle of Van Allsburg shouting that he could hear me fine.
Then I called Agent Page and told him to put me on hold until we knew if Mary Smith had a new victim.
SUZIE CARTOULIS WASN’T PAYING
much attention to the real world as she backed out of the driveway that morning. Her thoughts were on an unfinished pool cabana in the backyard of the house in Pacific Palisades, and the blankety-blank contractor who wasn’t returning any of her phone calls, who never returned her calls, only her husband’s. Two more days like this and she was going to fire the guy’s ass. Right after she set it on fire.
Another car, idling just past a neighbor’s cedar hedge, came into sight at the last second. Suzie braked hard to avoid hitting the jerk who was parked there. Her heart thudded. That certainly would have been an auspicious way to start her day, a fender bender ten feet from her driveway.
She gave a quick wave into the rearview mirror.
“Sorry!” My bad.
Then she put her silver Mercedes wagon in drive and started down the cul-de-sac toward Sunset. The other car pulled out as well and began to follow, but Suzie Cartoulis didn’t notice.
Her focus had shifted to the nine-year-old boy in the backseat. “Are you all right, Zach? I didn’t mean to stop so suddenly like that.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“All right. Just checking, sweetie. How about a little music? What do you want to hear?”
She tried not to be overbearing, but it was hard sometimes. Zachary was such a sensitive boy, and he didn’t react well to being ignored, either. Maybe if he had a little brother or sister, but that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Not now that Suzie had become the ten-o’clock anchor. She had finally gotten into the inner sanctum of recognizable faces in L.A.—no small feat for a former weathergirl from Tucson, thank you very much—and she wasn’t going to let another pregnancy slow her down right now. Especially since New York was apparently very interested in her as well.
As if on cue, the phone rang.
Caller ID showed her husband’s cell number, and she juggled the headset up to her ear.
“Hi. Where are you, honey?” She spoke through a frown she was glad Gio wasn’t there to see.
“Miami. I think we’re wrapping up. I have to shoot up to Palm Beach in a minute. Of course, there’s another hurricane on the horizon, so I want to vamoose out of here. We just need a few signatures, but it looks like the contract’s a go.”
“Great,” she said with hollow enthusiasm. She was supposed to know what project he was talking about, but they all blended together. Something about a shopping mall in southern Florida. Was that right? Was Vero Beach in south Florida? The Treasure Coast? This was their game; he spoke about his work as if she cared, and she pretended to.
“So I should be home tonight instead of Monday, which would be nice. Maybe play a little golf this week? Wiatt finally invited me to Riviera.”
“Mm-hm.”
“How’s the little dude?”
“He’s right here. Hang on.”
Suzie surrendered the phone to the backseat. “It’s Daddy. Be nice.”
She was already rearranging today’s schedule in her head. Get someone else to cover the mayor’s press conference on the ongoing murders. Have the housekeeper pick up Zach after tennis practice. Call Brian, see if he can get away; then call the Ramada and ask for an early check-in. Get laid properly once more before her all-business-all-of-the-time husband got back to town.
Make it an afternoon to remember.
From: Mary Smith
To: Suzie Cartoulis:
People in Los Angeles watch you on television every day, reporting the news, acting like you really know what’s going on. That’s what you do so well. Acting, pretending, faking it with flair. But today will be a little different, Suze. Today you will be the news.
They’ll say that Suzie Cartoulis and her handsome, former-beach-volleyball-champ lover were found slain in a hotel room. That’s how you people talk, isn’t it? Slain? But no matter what they say on the news, no one will ever know just how you looked at me when I killed you. The incredible fear, the confusion, and what I took to be
respect.
It was different this morning outside your fancy house in Pacific Palisades. You almost bumped into me with your highly polished silver Merc wagon, and you looked right through me. You
did,
Suze. Trust me on that. I remember these kinds of things.
Then, just like the others, you went on with your day like I wasn’t even there. I had a feeling today might be the last one for you. Then I was sure of it.
First I watched you say good-bye to your darling little boy for the last time. He probably can’t appreciate everything you do for him—all the sacrifices—but he’ll think about it later, when someone else has to take him to school or to practice the next time he goes. You’re right about one thing though,
you should have made more time in your life for Zachary. Coulda, shoulda.
Then I followed you to the hotel in West Hollywood. At first I didn’t know why you went there, but I figured out pretty quickly that you weren’t going to die alone. That delicious-looking blond man you met—you two were perfect for each other. Central casting all the way.
I could tell just by looking that he’s the kind of somebody you are. Am I right? He went to the Olympics, after all. He’s an exec at your network. Another fast-tracker. And now you have another thing in common. You’re both
dead
somebodies. Killed by a nobody you couldn’t even see when you looked right at her.
I gave you two some quality time before I came up there for you. Enough time to feel safe in your little cocoon of deceit. Maybe even enough to do what you had in mind for your sneaky little rendezvous. Then, when I came in, I saw him first. That was a bit of good luck. Know why? I wanted you to see him die. It put the fear of God on your face before I shot you—and then I got to cut that fear away, one piece at a time, until you weren’t afraid anymore.
You weren’t anything anymore.
You were nothing, Suzie Cartoulis.
Just like me.
I WAS STILL ON THE ROAD
when word came about Mary Smith’s latest—a
triple
homicide this time, the killer’s deadliest strike to date, at least as far as we knew for certain. I was still chasing down leads on the triple homicide in New York, but progress was slow, and suddenly I was off to another crime scene.
Susan Cartoulis, a prizewinning newscaster, had been found dead, along with her lover, in a room at the Ramada Plaza Suites in West Hollywood.
The dead man was Brian Conver, a sports producer at the same network where Ms. Cartoulis worked. A second woman, Mariah Alexander, a college student who attended Southern Cal, had also been killed. What was that all about?
I asked Agent Page to read Mary Smith’s latest e-mail message over the phone while I drove. The text made clear that the newswoman had been the primary target. Mr. Conver was never mentioned by name, and there was no reference whatsoever to any Mariah Alexander.
“What do we know about Susan Cartoulis?” I asked Page. “Does she fit the MO?”
“Basically, yeah. She fits right into the puzzle. Married with one son, good-looking woman, high profile in the city. She was a ten-o’clock anchor for a local affiliate. Also the honorary chair of the Cedars-Sinai pediatric burn unit capital campaign. Nine-year-old son. Another perfect mom.”
“With a boyfriend on the side.”
“Well, I guess nobody’s perfect. Is that what Mary’s trying to tell us?”
“Maybe,” I said.
The press was going to eat up this one, as if they weren’t already overfed. It made me feel even sorrier for Susan Cartoulis’s husband and her young son. Her murder and infidelity would be trotted out for the public in great detail.
“Do you think that has anything to do with it?” Page asked. “Perfect mothers who aren’t so perfect after all? Hypocrisy on the home front? Something as simple as that?”
“If that’s Mary Smith’s point, she’s being pretty murky about it. Especially for someone who’s so deliberate in getting her message out there in her e-mails. Plus, as far as we know, most of the murdered women actually live up to their reputations.”
“As far as we know,” said Page. “Stay tuned on that one, yeah?”
“All right, why don’t you do a little digging around about the others. See if you can find any dirty little secrets we missed. Try Arnold Griner. I’ll bet he has an inside line or two. That’s his job, right?”
“The forensics of gossip, huh?” Page said, and laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. See if I can get Griner to talk about anything besides himself.”
“Who was the other victim? Mariah Alexander.”
“Yeah, that really sucks. She was a maid at the hotel. College kid. We think Mary got in the room with her passkey.”
“One other thing,” I said. “If anyone asks, you haven’t heard from me and you don’t know where I am.”
Page paused on the line. “I’m not going to lie if someone asks me, but I won’t volunteer anything. Anyway, I’m on my way out of the office.”
“Good enough. By the way, you’re doing a terrific job.”
“For a surfer boy, huh?”
“Exactly, dude.”
