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?”
Chapter 11
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.
Chapter 12
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.
Chapter 13
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.”
Chapter 14
I COULD STILL HEAR Director Burns’s voice in my head. I want to hear your take on what happened. . . . We’ll have you back with your family for dinner.
But would I want to eat after this?
With two dead bodies still inside, the limousine was absolutely fetid. One of the best tricks I’d learned was to gut it out for about three minutes, until the olfactory nerves were numb. Then I would be fine. I just had to get through those three minutes that told me I was back in the homicide business.
I focused, and took in the grisly details one by one.
First came a shocker that I wasn’t ready for, even though I partly knew it was coming.
Antonia Schifman’s face was almost completely unrecognizable. A portion of the left side was gone altogether where she had been shot, probably at close range. What flesh remained—mostly the right eye, cheek, and her mouth—had been slashed several times. The killer, Mary Smith, had been in a frenzy—but only against Antonia Schifman, not the driver, or so it seemed.
The actress’s clothing appeared to be intact. No indication of any kind of sexual assault. And no sign of blood froth from the nostrils or mouth, which meant she’d died and stopped breathing almost immediately. Who would make this kind of violent attack? Why Antonia Schifman? She’d seemed like a nice person, got good press. And everybody liked her, according to, well, everybody. So what could explain this massacre? This desecration at her home?
Agent Page appeared and leaned in over my shoulder. “What do you think the cutting is about? Some kind of reference to plastic surgery maybe?”
The young agent had shaken off every subtle and not-so-subtle clue I had dropped that I needed to be alone right now, but I didn’t have the heart to dress him down.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But I don’t want to speculate yet. We’ll know more once she’s checked in and cleaned up.” Now, please let me work, Page.
A dull-brown wash of dried blood covered the actress’s ruined face. What a terrible waste. And what exactly was I supposed to relay to the president about what I’d seen here, about what had happened to his friend?
The driver, Bruno Capaletti, was still propped up at the steering wheel. A single bullet had entered his left temple before it destroyed most of his head. The blood on the empty seat next to him was smeared, possibly by his own body but more likely by the killer, who had apparently shot Antonia Schifman from the front seat. A small amount of cocaine had been found in the driver’s jacket pocket. Did it mean anything? Probably not, but I couldn’t rule out anything yet.
I finally stepped out and away from the limousine and took a breath of fresh air. “There’s a strange disconnect going on here,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else.
“Neat and sloppy?” Page asked. “Controlled, yet out of control.”
I looked at him, and my mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. The insight surprised me a little. “Yes. Exactly.” The bodies had been arranged, just so, inside the car. But the shooting and, in particular, the cuts on Schifman’s face had an angry, haphazard quality to them.
There was a calling card, too. A row of children’s stickers was affixed to the car door: glittery, bright-colored pictures of unicorns and rainbows. The same kind had apparently been left at the scene of the previous week’s murder.
Each of the stickers was marked with a capital letter, two with an A, one with a B. What was that all about?
Page had already briefed me on the companion case to this one. Another woman in the movie business, Patsy Bennett, a successful production head, had been shot dead in a movie theater in Westwood six days prior. There were no witnesses. Bennett was the only victim that day, and there had been no knife work. But the stickers at that scene had also been marked with capital A’s and a B.
Whoever was doing this certainly wanted to take credit for the murders. The murders weren’t improvisatory, but the killer’s methods were dynamic. And evolving, of course.
“What are you thinking?” Page asked. “Do you mind if I ask? Or am I getting in the way?”
Before I could tell him, another agent interrupted the two of us. If it was possible, she was tanner and maybe even blonder than Agent Page. I wondered if maybe they’d been put together at the same factory.
“We’ve got another e-mail at the
L.A. Times,” she said. “Same editor, Arnold Griner, and the same Mary Smith.”
“Has the paper reported on the e-mails yet?” I asked. Both agents shook their head. “Good. Let’s try to keep it that way. And keep a cap on these kids’ stickers, too. If we can. And the A’s and B’s.”
I checked my watch. Already 5:30. I needed at least another hour at the Schifman property; then I wanted to speak with Arnold Griner at the Times. And I would definitely have to meet with the LAPD before the day was over. James Truscott was probably still prowling around outside, too. At home in D.C., I missed meals as often as not. Nana and the kids were used to it, and Jamilla would probably understand, but none of that was an excuse. This had been as good a time as any to break one of my very worst habits in life: missing dinner with my family.
But it wasn’t going to happen, was it? I called Nana at the hotel first, and then I called Jamilla. Then I thought about the poor Schifman and Bennett families, and I went back to work.
Part Two
I LOVE L.A.
Chapter 15
“WHY ME, OF ALL PEOPLE? Why do you think she’s writing these awful missives to me? It doesn’t make any sense. Does it? Have you found out anything that makes some sense of this? The mothers being slaughtered? Hollywood’s about to go totally insane over these murders, trust me. Mary’s dirty little secret will get out.”
Arnold Griner had already asked me the same questions a couple of times during the interview. Our meeting was taking place in an L-shaped glass fishbowl of an office at the heart of the L.A. Times newsroom. The rest of the floor was a wide expanse of desks and cubicles.
From time to time, someone would pop his or her head over a cubicle wall, steal a quick glance our way, and duck back down. Prairie-dogging, Griner called it, chuckling to himself.
He sat on a brown leather couch, clutching and unclutching the knees of his wrinkled gray Dockers. Occasionally, he scribbled something on a legal pad on his lap.