Mary, Mary (3 page)
I DON’T REMEMBER
when Jamilla and I eventually drifted off to sleep that afternoon, but I was woken up by my pager. My brand-new pager. The one I got especially for this trip so only a few people would have the number—John Sampson, Director Burns’s assistant, Tony Woods, that’s about it. Two people too many? So what now?
I groaned. “Sorry, sorry, Jam. I didn’t expect this. I don’t have to answer it.” The last part I said halfheartedly. We both knew better.
Jamilla shook her head. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I’ve got mine here in the nightstand. Go ahead, Alex, answer the call.”
Yeah, answer the call
.
Sure enough, it was the director’s office reaching out from D.C. I picked up the bedside phone and dialed the number while lying there flat on my back. I finally looked at my watch—4:00
P.M.
The day had flown, which was a good thing, sort of. Until now, anyway.
“Ron Burns,” I mouthed to Jamilla while I was on hold. “This can’t be good.” This has to be bad.
She nodded. A call from the top of the pyramid had to mean some kind of serious business that couldn’t wait. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear about it right now.
Ron Burns himself came on the line. This was getting worse by the second. “Alex? Is that you?”
“Yes, sir.” I sighed. Just Jamilla, and me, and you.
“I appreciate your taking this call. I’m sorry to be bothering you. I know it’s been a while since your last real vacation.”
He didn’t know the half of it, but I kept quiet and listened to what the director had to say.
“Alex, there’s kind of a sticky case in L.A. I probably would have wanted to send you out on this one anyway. The fact that you’re in California is a lucky coincidence. Lucky, of course, being a relative concept.”
I shook my head back and forth. This was sounding really bad.
“What’s the case? This lucky coincidence that I’m out here?”
“You ever heard of Antonia Schifman?”
That got my attention a little. “The actress? Sure.”
“She was murdered this morning, along with her limo driver. It happened outside her home. Her family was inside sleeping.”
“The rest of the family—they’re okay?” I asked.
“No one else was hurt, Alex. Just the actress and her driver.”
I was a little confused. “Why is the Bureau on this? LAPD request a consult?”
“Not exactly.” Burns paused. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping this between the two of us, Antonia Schifman was friends with the president. And a close friend of his wife. The president has asked for our help on the murder investigation.”
“Oh.” I saw that Ron Burns wasn’t quite as immune to Washington pressure as I had thought. Even so, he was the best thing that had happened to the FBI in a long time. And he’d already done me more than one favor in my short tenure. Of course, I had done him a few good turns, too.
“Alex, just do a quick in-and-out on this one. I’d really appreciate it. We’ll have you back with your family for dinner. A late dinner, anyway. Just check out the murder scene for me. I want to hear your take on what happened. I took the liberty—they’re waiting for you to get there.”
I finished the call and cast a look at Jamilla. “Well, the good news is, I don’t have to fly anywhere. It’s something in L.A. The actress Antonia Schifman was murdered today.”
She pushed up next to me in bed. “Oh, that’s terrible, Alex. I liked her movies. She always seemed nice. That’s really a shame. Well, at least I’ll get to dish with Nana and the kids while you’re out of earshot.”
“I’ll meet you all back here for dinner. Might be a little late.”
“My flight’s not until eleven, Alex. But I have to be on the late flight out.”
I kissed her, just a little sheepishly, ashamed that I’d given in to Burns. But what choice did I have?
“Go make California safe—safer,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on Mickey and Donald to make sure they don’t go postal.”
What a thought.
THE STORYTELLER
drove right by the Schifman murder scene,
right by the crime scene.
He knew he shouldn’t have come out here again, but he couldn’t help himself. In a way, he thought this might even be a good idea. So he stopped his car and got out to look around.
What an incredible rush it turned out to be. He knew the house, knew the ritzy neighborhood in Beverly Hills really well—Miller Place. Suddenly, he almost couldn’t catch his breath, and he loved the feeling of danger, of “anything can happen now!” And it definitely could. He
was
the Storyteller, after all.
The press was everywhere, along with the LAPD, of course, and even some police brass, and he’d had to park about a quarter of a mile away. That was fine with him—safer, smarter. A minute or so later, he joined in with fans and other lookyloos making the pilgrimage to the shrine where poor Antonia had checked out of the rat race this morning.
“I can’t believe she’s dead,” a young couple was saying as they walked arm in arm, heads bowed as if they’d lost a real loved one. What was with some people? Could anybody be this nuts?
I can believe she’s dead,
he wanted to tell them.
First, I put one in her head; then I hacked her face until her own mother wouldn’t recognize her. Believe it or not, there’s even a method to my madness. There is a grand plan, and it’s a beauty.
But he didn’t speak to the creepy bereaved, just made his way to the pearly gates of the Schifman house. He stood there respectfully with the others—probably a couple of hundred mourners. The Beverly Hills sideshow was just getting started, just getting warmed-up.
Man, this was some huge story, and guess what? Not one of these reporters had the
real
story. Not about Antonia—and not about her murder.
Only he did—he was the only person in L.A. who knew what had happened, where it was going, and it felt pretty good to be in the know.
“Hey, howya doin’?” he heard. The Storyteller froze, then turned slowly to see who was talking to him.
He recognized the guy’s face but not exactly who the hell it was.
Where do I know this jerk from?
“Jeez, I was just passin’ by. Heard what had happened on the radio. So I stopped to pay my respects, or whatever this is. What a shame, some tragedy, huh? This crazy world out here, you just never know,” said the Storyteller, realizing he was babbling a little bit.
The other guy said, “No, you never do. Who the hell would want to kill Antonia Schifman? What kind of maniac? What kind of complete lunatic?”
“Out here in L.A.,” said the Storyteller, “it could be anybody, right?”
FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER
the call from D.C., a black Grand Marquis was waiting for me outside the Disneyland Hotel. I shook my head in disappointment, but also in anger—this sucked in a way that broke new territory.
The FBI agent standing next to the car wore a pair of neatly pressed khakis and a pale-blue polo shirt. He looked ready for a round of golf at the Los Angeles Country Club. His handshake was vigorous, and a little too eager.
“Special Agent Karl Page. I’m really glad to meet you, Dr. Cross. I’ve read your book,” he said. “Couple of times.”
He couldn’t have been long out of the Academy at Quantico from the look of him. The California tan and nearly white blond flattop suggested that he was a local boy. Probably in his midtwenties. An eager beaver for sure.
“Thank you,” I said. “Exactly where are we headed, Agent Page?”
Page shut his mouth abruptly and nodded his head. Maybe he was embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to answer my question before I asked it. Then he started up again. “Yes, of course. We’re headed to Beverly Hills, Dr. Cross. The scene of the homicide, where the victim lived.”
“Antonia Schifman,” I said with a sigh of regret.
“That’s right. Oh, uh, have you already been briefed?”
“Actually, no. Not very well, anyway. How about you tell me what you know on the way over to the house? I want to hear everything.”
He turned toward the car as if to open the door for me, thought better of it, and got in on the driver’s side. I climbed in the back, and once we were on our way, Page loosened up a little as he told me about the case.
“They’re coding this one ‘Mary Smith.’ That’s because there was an e-mail from a so-called Mary Smith, sent to an entertainment editor at the
L.A. Times
last week, taking responsibility for the first homicide.”
I think my eyes might have crossed. “Wait. This case has been coded already?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So this isn’t an isolated incident?” I could hear the tension in my own voice. Had Burns withheld that information from me, or hadn’t he known himself?
“No. This is at least the
second
murder, Dr. Cross. Too early to classify it as anything, but there’s an indication of solo activity, an organized approach, possibly psychosis. And maybe some level of ritual by the same person at each of the two murder sites. We also believe the killer is a woman, which makes this very unusual.”
So Page did know a thing or two. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help feeling duped by Burns. Why couldn’t he have just told me the truth? We were scarcely off of the Disneyland property, and already this murder case was a whole lot more complicated than he’d made it seem.
“Son of a bitch,” I said between gritted teeth. I was getting tired of being played, and maybe tired of the Bureau, too. But maybe I was just in a bad mood because I’d been pulled away from my vacation.
Page stiffened. “Is there a problem?”
It would have been easy to blow off a little steam with him, but I wasn’t ready to start bonding with Agent Page yet. The whole idea was to float through this case as unattached as possible.
“No big problem. Nothing to do with you, anyway. Let’s get over to the murder scene. I’m only supposed to take a quick look.”
“Yes, sir.”
I caught Page’s blue eyes in the rearview mirror. “You don’t have to call me sir. I’m not your dad,” I said. Then I grinned, just in case he couldn’t tell it was a joke.
HERE WE GO AGAIN. . . .
The president has asked for our help. . . . I want to hear your take on what happened. My take? That was a laugh. My take was that I was being used and I didn’t like it. Also, I hated it when I whined like this.
We took the Santa Ana Freeway into downtown Los Angeles and then the Hollywood Freeway back out again. Agent Page drove with a kind of automatic aggressiveness, passing cars closely and frequently. One cell-phone-using businessman took his other hand off the wheel long enough to give us the finger.
Page seemed oblivious to all of this as he sped northward and told me what else he knew about the grisly double murder.
Both Antonia Schifman and her driver, Bruno Capaletti, had been shot somewhere between 4:00 and 5:30 in the morning. A gardener had discovered the bodies around 7:15. Schifman’s beautiful face had also been slashed with a sharp blade of some kind.
Apparently no money or other valuables had been taken. Bruno Capaletti was found with almost two hundred dollars in his pocket, and Schifman’s handbag was still in the limo next to her body. It held credit cards, diamond earrings, and more cash.
“Any prior connection between the two of them?” I asked. “Schifman and the limo driver? What do we know about the two of them?”
“The only other movie of hers Capaletti worked on was
Banner Season,
but he drove for Jeff Bridges on that one. We’re still checking the driver out, though. You ever see
Banner Season
?”
“No, I didn’t. How hot is the crime scene? Our people, LAPD, the media? Anything else I should know before we arrive?”
“I haven’t actually been there yet,” Page admitted. “But it’s probably going to be off the charts. I mean, it’s Antonia Schifman, you know? She was a really good actress. Supposed to be a nice lady.”
“Yes, she was. It’s a shame.”
“She had kids, too. Four little girls: Andi, Elizabeth, Tia, and Petra,” said Page, who clearly liked to show off.
Minutes later, we were off the highway and driving west on Sunset. I watched as the cityscape changed from the cliché-defying urban grittiness of downtown Hollywood to the lush green—and cliché—residential avenues of Beverly Hills. Rows of palm trees looked at us from above, as if down their noses.
We turned off Sunset and drove up Miller Place, a winding canyon drive, with stunning views of the city behind us. Finally, Page parked on a side street.
Television and radio vans were everywhere. Their satellite towers extended into the air like huge sculptures. As we got closer, I spotted CNN, KTLA, KYSR Star 98.7,
Entertainment Tonight
. Some of the reporters stood facing cameras with their backs to the estate, presumably reporting live on the L.A. and network shows. What a circus. So why do I have to be here, too? I’m supposed to be at Disneyland, a kinder, gentler circus.
None of the media people recognized me, a refreshing change from D.C. Agent Page and I politely made our way through the crowd to where two uniformed police officers stood guard. They looked carefully at our creds.
“This is Dr. Alex Cross,” said Page.
“So?” said the uniform.
I didn’t say a word. “So?” seemed like an appropriate response to me.
The uniform finally let us pass, but not before I noticed something that made me a little sick to my stomach. James Truscott, with his cascading red hair, was standing there in the crowd of reporters. So was his cameraperson—the same woman, dressed all in black. Truscott saw me, too, and nodded my way. A smile may have even crossed his lips.
He was taking notes.
She was taking photographs—of me.
I WAS CURSING SOFTLY
as Page and I followed a long, circular white-pebbled driveway up to the main house.
Mansion
was definitely a better word for this place, a two-story, Spanish-style construction. Dense foliage on all sides blocked my view past the facade, but the main house had to be at least twenty thousand square feet, probably even more. Who needed this much space to live? Our house in D.C. was under three thousand, and that was plenty of room for us.
A series of balconies rimmed the second floor. Some of them looked down onto the driveway, where a black limo was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape.
This was where Antonia Schifman and Bruno Capaletti had died.
The area around the limo was blocked off in a wide circle, with only one way in and out. Two more LAPD officers took names as people came and went.
Techs in white bunny suits were going over the car with a handheld USB microscope and evidence vacuums. A few others were snapping Polaroids as well as regular photographs.
Another whole squad was already fanned out, taking exemplars from the surrounding area. It was all fairly impressive, as well as depressing. The best forensic police department in the world is supposed to be Tokyo’s. Domestically, though, Los Angeles and New York were the only departments that could rival the FBI’s resources.
“We’re in luck, I guess,” Page said. “Looks like the ME’s just finishing up.” He pointed toward the medical examiner, a heavyset, gray-haired woman standing next to the limo and speaking into a handheld recorder.
That meant the bodies hadn’t been removed. I was surprised, but it was good news for me. The less disturbed the crime scene, the more information I could get for Burns. And the president. And his wife. I supposed that was why the bodies hadn’t been moved: The dead were waiting on me.
I turned back to Page. “Tell whoever’s in charge from the LAPD not to move anything yet. I want to get a clean look.
“And try to clear some of these people out of here. Necessary personnel only. Fibers, printing, but that’s it. Everyone else is on break.”
For the first time that morning, Page paused before he responded. This was an all-business side of me he hadn’t seen. Not that I’m big on throwing my weight around, but right now I had to use it. There was no way I could do a proper job in the middle of all this chaos and confusion.
“Oh, and one other thing you should tell whoever’s in charge,” I said.
Page turned back. “Yeah?”
“Tell them as long as I’m here,
I’m
in charge.”
