Mary, Mary

by James Patterson

  I went on for a bit, then fielded some questions from the assembled team. When I was finished, Jeanne Galletta gave the floor over to ballistics for a gun report; then she wrapped up the meeting.

  “Last thing,” she said. “Kileen, sit down, please. Thank you, Gerry. We’re not done. I’ll tell you when we’re done.” She waited for quiet, and she got it.

  “I don’t need to tell you about the kind of ridiculous press coverage this is getting. I want everyone thinking and acting as though there’s a camera on you at all times, because there probably is. Absolutely no shortcuts out there, people. I’m serious as lung cancer on that last point. S.O.P. should be a nonissue.”

  I noticed Galletta’s eyes shift toward Van Allsburg while she spoke. Procedure had probably been the topic of their closed-door meeting with the deputy mayor. It occurred to me that this was an election year. The mayor needed a clean result on this one, and a fast one. I doubted it was going to happen that way.

  “Okay, that’s it for now,” Galletta said, and the room came alive. She caught my eye and nodded her head toward the conference room in the back.

  I had to push through the crowd to get there, wondering what she wanted to talk about.

  “How’s it going?” I asked as she closed the door behind us.

  “What the hell was that?” she snapped.

  I blinked. “What the hell was what?”

  “Contradicting me, talking about Mary Smith as a man, confusing the issue at this time. I need these people focused, and you need to keep me informed before you start reviving dead issues out of the blue like that.”

  “Dead issues? Out of the blue? We talked about this. I told you my feeling.”

  “Yeah, and we put it away.”

  “No. We didn’t put it away. You did. Jeanne, I know you’re under pressure—”

  “Goddam right I am. This is Los Angeles, not D.C. You have no idea.”

  “I do have some idea. In the future, if you want me to present at a briefing, and avoid any surprises, you should check in with me ahead of time. And try to remember what you said up there, about how I caught Gary Soneji and Kyle Craig.”

  I tried to stay calm and even supportive with my tone, but I also wasn’t going to cave because of anyone’s bullying.

  Jeanne gritted her teeth and stared at the floor for a second. “All right. Okay. Sorry.”

  “And for the record, I’m not saying you need to check in with me. This is your case, but with something so big and unwieldy, there’s only so much control you can have.”

  “I know, I know.” She breathed a big sigh, not one of relief, more like a cleansing breath. Then Jeanne smiled. “You know what, how about I make it up to you? You like sushi? You have to eat, right? And I promise we won’t talk about work.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I’m not done for the day. Unfortunately. I need to head back to the office from here. Jeanne, I don’t think this killer is a woman. So, who is it? Some other time for a bite, okay?”

  “Some other time,” Jeanne Galletta said; then she walked away hastily, the same way she’d entered the conference room earlier.

  Chapter 51

  FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS I stayed focused, one of those very productive work states I wish I could put myself in every time I sat down at a desk.

  I ran several theories through the VICAP system, looking for any kind of match to the rash of murders in L.A. Anything even remotely close.

  Something finally came up that caught my attention. A triple murder more than six months earlier.

  It had happened in New York City, though, not L.A. But the murders took place in a movie theater, the Sutton on East 57th Street, and the details were intriguing at first blush.

  For one thing the murders remained unsolved. There’d been nothing even close to a solution by the NYPD. Just like the murders in Los Angeles.

  There was no apparent motive for the New York killings either. That last bit was important. Maybe this series of pattern killings began a lot earlier than anyone had thought up to now. And maybe the killer was from New York originally.

  I pulled up the NYPD detective notes on the case and read them through. A patron inside the movie theater, as well as two Sutton employees, had been killed that afternoon. The detective’s working theory was that the theater workers had walked in on the killer just after he killed a man named Jacob Reiser, from Brooklyn. Reiser had been a film student at NYU, twenty years old.

  But then something else caught my eye—the murder weapon listed in the report. Based on the bullets removed from the bodies, a Walther PPK had been used.

  The gun used in the L.A. murders had also been a Walther PPK, though apparently an older model.

  But there was something else that grabbed me: The murders in New York had happened in the men’s room.

  Chapter 52

  GREAT NEWS—I was accruing enough hotel points for a lifetime of free rooms. The problem was that I never wanted to see another hotel for as long as I lived. West Los Angeles didn’t offer much in the way of distractions, either. I lay on the bed flipping through my notes again, a half-eaten chicken sandwich and a warm soda next to me.

  When the phone rang, I gratefully picked up. It was Nana Mama.

  “I was just thinking about pork chops and spoon bread,” I told her. “And here you are.”

  “Why are you always buttering me up, Alex?” she asked. “Trying anyway. You going to tell me you’re not coming home next weekend?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Alex—”

  “I’m coming home. And believe me, there’s nothing more I want than to leave this case far behind. But I’m also going to be back and forth some.”

  “Alex, I want you to think long and hard about how much time you really need to be out there in California. Turns out, this new job is worse than your last one.”

  Apparently, my post-custody trial grace period was over. Nana was back to her old self, laying it on with a trowel. Not that she was entirely wrong.

  “How are the kids?” I finally asked. “Can I talk to them?” And give my ears a rest from you, old woman.

  “They’re fine and dandy, Daddy. Just for the record, so am I.”

  “Did something happen?” I asked.

  “No. Just a dizzy spell. It’s nothing at all. I saw Kayla Coles today. Everything’s fine. Dr. Coles checked me out. I’m good for another ten thousand miles.”

  “If I know you, and I do know you, that means a big dizzy spell. Did you pass out again?”

  “No, I did not pass out,” she said, as if it was the most ridiculous idea she’d ever heard in her life. “I’m just an old woman, Alex. I’ve told you that before. Though, God knows, I don’t look or act my age.”

  When I asked Nana to give me Kayla Coles’s phone number, though, she outright refused. I had to wait for Damon to get on the line and Nana to get off; then I told him to go up to my desk and get me Kayla’s number from my Rolodex.

  “How’s she seem to you?” I asked him. “You need to take care of her, Day.”

  “She seems pretty good, Dad. She wouldn’t tell us what happened. But she went out grocery shopping and made dinner tonight. I can’t tell if there’s anything wrong or not. You know Nana, how she is. She’s vacuuming now.”

  “She’s just showing off. Go vacuum for her. Go ahead now. Help your grandmother.”

  “I don’t know how to vacuum.”

  “Then this is a good time to learn.”

  I finished up with the kids and then called Kayla Coles, but I got her answering service. I tried Sampson next and asked if he could swing by the house and check on Nana, who had partly brought him up, too.

  “No problem,” he told me. “I’ll show up hungry tomorrow for breakfast, how’s that?”

  “Sounds like a win-win to me. Also, a very believable excuse for a visit.”

  “She’ll see right through it.”

  “Of course she will. Although you’re a very believable hungry person.
”

  “How’re you doing?” he asked then. “You sound like you’re at about fifty percent.”

  “I’m okay. More like seventy-five. There’s just a hell of a lot going on out here. Big, messy case, John. Way too much publicity. I keep seeing that asshole writer Truscott, too. Though I hear he’s back East again now.”

  “You want some backup? I could boogie out to L.A. I’ve got some vacation days.”

  “Yeah, just what I need, to piss off your wife. Thanks, though. I’ll keep it in mind—if we ever get close to this Mary Smith.”

  A lot of my best work was with Sampson. Being with him was one of the things I missed most about the police department. I wasn’t through with him yet, though. I had one more idea where he was concerned. When the time was right, I’d spring it.

  Chapter 53

  I SPENT THE NEXT DAY at the FBI field office, worked from seven until seven, but maybe there was a light at the end of this particular long, dark, and creepy tunnel. Jamilla was coming to L.A., and I’d looked forward to her visit all day.

  Jam insisted I not bother picking her up at the airport, and we made plans to meet at Bliss on La Cienega. When I got to the restaurant, she was standing at the bar with an overnight bag at her feet. She had on jeans, a black turtleneck, and black boots with pointy toes and steel tips. I slipped up behind her and kissed her neck. Hard to resist.

  “Hey, you,” I said. “You smell good. You look even better.” Which Jamilla definitely did.

  She twisted around to face me. “Hi, Alex. You made it.”

  “Was there ever a doubt?”

  “Well, um, yeah,” she said. “Remember the last time I was in L.A.?”

  We were both hungry, so we got a table and ordered appetizers immediately—a dozen clams on the shell and an heirloom-tomato salad to share. Jamilla eats like an athlete at a training table, and I kind of like that.

  “What’s new on the murder case?” she asked after we’d polished off the tomatoes and clams. “Is it true she’s been sending e-mails since the first murder?”

  I blinked at her in surprise. The L.A. Times had been purposely vague about when the e-mails had begun. “Where’d you hear that? What did you hear?”

  “Word gets around, Alex. One of those B-level security things the public doesn’t necessarily know about, but everyone else does. It got up to San Francisco.”

  “What else have you heard? B-level stuff,” I said.

  “I hear this lead detective Jeanne Galletta’s a hot ticket. Work-wise, I mean.”

  “She’s no Jamilla Hughes, but yeah, she’s pretty good at her job.”

  Jamilla shrugged off the compliment. She had my number all right. She looked pretty in the candlelight, to my eyes anyway. Now this was a good idea: dinner with Jam at a fine restaurant, my cell phone turned off.

  We chose a bottle of Pinot Noir from Oregon, a favorite of hers, and I lifted my glass once it was poured. “Things have been complicated lately, Jam. I appreciate your being there for me. And here for me, too.”

  Jamilla took a sip of wine; then she put a hand on my wrist. “Alex, there’s something I need to say. It’s kind of important. Just listen. Okay?”

  I stared across the table into her eyes and didn’t know if I liked what I saw. My stomach was starting to drop. “Sure,” I said.

  “Let me ask you this,” she said, her eyes drifting away from mine. “In your mind, how exclusive are we?”

  Ouch. There it was.

  “Well, I haven’t been with anyone since we’ve been seeing each other,” I said. “That’s just me, though, Jamilla. You meet someone? I guess you have.”

  She let out a breath, then nodded. That’s the way she was, straight up and truthful. I appreciated it. Mostly.

  “Are you seeing him?” I asked. My body was starting to tense all over. In the beginning of our relationship, I had expected something like this, but not now. Maybe I’d just gotten complacent. Or too trusting. That was a recurring problem I had.

  Jamilla winced a little, thinking about her answer. “I guess that I am, Alex.”

  “How’d you meet him?” I asked, then stopped myself. “Wait, Jam. You don’t have to answer that.”

  She seemed to want to though. “Johnny’s a lawyer. Prosecution, of course. I met him on one of my cases. Alex, I’ve only seen him twice. Socially, that is.”

  I stopped myself from asking more questions, even though I wanted to. I didn’t have a right, did I? If anything, I’d brought this on myself. Why had I done it, though? Why wasn’t I able to commit? Because of what happened to Maria? Or Christine? Or maybe to my own parents, who had broken up in their twenties and never even seen each other again?

  Jamilla leaned across the table and spoke softly, keeping this confidential, just between us. “I’m sorry. I can tell I’ve hurt you, and I didn’t want that. We can finish dinner and talk about this if you want. Or you can go. Or I can go. Whatever you want, Alex.”

  When I didn’t answer right away, she asked, “Are you mad at me?”

  “No,” I answered a little too fast. “I’m surprised, I guess. Maybe disappointed, too. I’m not quite sure what I am. Just to get it straight—are you telling me you want to see other people, or was it your intention to break things off tonight?”

  Jamilla took another sip of her wine. “I wanted to ask you how you felt about it.”

  “Right now? Honestly, Jam? I don’t think I can continue like we’ve been. I’m not even sure of my reasons. I’ve always been pretty much—one person at a time. You know me.”

  “We never made any promises to each other,” she said. “I’m just trying to be honest.”

  “I know you are. I appreciate it, I really do. Listen, Jamilla, I think I need to go.” I kissed her on the cheek, and then I left. I wanted to be honest, too. With Jamilla and with myself.

  Chapter 54

  I LEFT IT ALL BEHIND, everything, and flew up to Seattle for the weekend.

  As I drove from the airport toward the Wallingford neighborhood where Christine and Alex lived, I grappled with the idea of seeing her now. What other choice did I have?

  I brought no presents, no bribes, just as she had done when Alex lived with me in Washington. Christine was letting me see Alex, and there was no way I could resist. I wanted to be with him for a while—I needed it.

  The house was on Sunnyside Avenue North, and I knew the way by now. Christine and Ali were sitting on the porch steps when I got there. He ran down the walk to meet me like a little tornado, and I scooped him up. There was always a fear of finding a different boy than the one I last saw. All that dissolved the second I had him in my arms.

  “Man, you’re getting heavy; you’re getting so big. Ali.”

  “I gotta new book,” he told me, grinning. “A hungry caterpillar that eats anything. It pops up. Then it eats you!”

  “You can bring your book with you today. We’ll read.” I gave him another squeeze and saw Christine watching from a distance, arms folded. Finally, she smiled and raised one hand in a wave.

  “Want some coffee?” she called. “Need some before you two take off?”

  I squinted at her, a silent question in the still, fragrant air.

  “It’s okay with me,” she said. “C’mon. I won’t bite.” Her tone was bright, probably for my sake as well as Ali’s.

  “Come on, Daddy.” He climbed out of my arms, took my hand. “I’ll show you the way.”

  So I followed them inside. Was this a good idea? I’d never actually been inside before. The house was tastefully cluttered. Several Arts and Crafts-style built-ins overflowed with books and some of Christine’s art collection. It was more informal and comfortable-looking than her home outside D.C. had been.

  I was struck by how naturally both of them moved through this space that was so foreign to me. I don’t belong here.

  The kitchen was open, very bright, and smelled of rosemary. A small herb garden thrived on the windowsill.

  Christine set Alex up with
a sippy cup of chocolate milk and then put two mugs of steaming coffee on the table between us.

  “Seattle’s drug of choice,” she said. “I drink way too much of it. I should switch to decaf in the afternoons or something. Maybe in the mornings,” she added with a laugh.

  “It’s good. The coffee. Your house looks great, too.”

  The chitchattiness was striking in its banality, and almost as uncomfortable as a real conversation might have been right now. I vowed not to ask Christine about the weather, but this was weird for both of us.

  Little Alex slipped off his chair and came back with his new book. He climbed onto my lap.

  “Read. Okay? Careful, it pops up and eats you!”

  It made for a good distraction and also put the focus on him, where it was supposed to be. I opened the cover and began.

  “‘In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf.’”

  Alex put his head against my chest, and as I felt my voice reverberate into him, my heart melted a little. Christine watched while I read. She smiled, clutching her mug with both hands. What might have been.

  A couple of minutes later, Alex had to go to the bathroom, and he asked me to go with him. “Please, Daddy.”

  Christine came over and whispered near my ear. “He’s having trouble hitting the toilet bowl with his pee. He’s a little embarrassed about it.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Froot Loops. You have any?”

  Fortunately, Christine had a box, and I took it into the bathroom with Alex.

  I threw a couple into the bowl. “Here’s a cool game,” I said. “You have to put your pee right in the middle of a Fruit Loop.”

  He tried, and he did pretty good—hit the bowl anyway.

  I told Christine the trick when we came out, and she smiled and shook her head. “Fruit Loops. It’s a guy thing, right?”

  Chapter 55