Mary, Mary

by James Patterson

THE NEXT MORNING, he couldn’t sleep, and he drove up and down Melrose—past L’Angelo, which used to be Emilio’s; the Groundling Theater where Phil Hartman got his start; Tommy Tang’s; the original Johnny Rockets; the Blue Whale. His city, man. His and Proud Mary’s.

  It was around 5:30 or so when he bounced into the Starbucks on Melrose, which used to be The Burger that Ate LA back in the day. Man, he did not like Starbucks, but they were open, the greedy little Yuppie bastards. The numbers dictated that they be open, right? The numbers ran everything these days.

  And here he was—proving the number crunchers right. Five-thirty in the A.M. and he was already making their day.

  God, he despised these dipshit coffee places, the new McDonald’s, overpriced rip-offs. He remembered when a cup of coffee was fifty cents, which seemed about right. But “Sumatra blend”—now that was worth two-fifty if it was worth a nickel. For a tall, which really meant a small.

  And the goateed schmo minding the store was too busy setting up shop to give any attention to his paying customer, his early bird, the day’s first sucker.

  He let it go for a minute or so, but the jerk was starting to piss him off royally.

  “Be right back,” he finally told the superbusy “barista” behind the counter, and the guy still hardly noticed him. What an ass and a half. No doubt, an actor out of work. Too good for the job, right? With an attitude—which was supposed to be a good thing these days.

  A minute later, he reentered the Starbucks with a piece in his jacket pocket. He was starting to rev-up now. This was probably stupid, definitely not too smart, but God, it felt pretty good.

  Hey, pal, my gun is getting thirsty.

  Right then and there, the decision was made. This arrogant fuck wannabe actor was going down for the count. He was tomorrow’s headlines today.

  “Hey, buddy, I’m waiting here for some coffee. You got any coffee at Starbucks?”

  The barista didn’t look up from his busy work even then, just waved a free hand. “Be with ya.”

  The Storyteller, the Storyteller, heard the door open behind him. Another sucker arrives.

  “Hey, morning, Christopher.” A woman’s chirpy voice came from behind. He didn’t even turn to look at her. Screw her, too.

  “Hiya, Sarah,” called the counter guy. And he was suddenly all chirpy, too.

  Now the jackass came to the front, now he wakes up. For Sarah.

  And that’s when he shot the dude in the chest, right in the Starbucks apron.

  “Forget the coffee, Christopher. Don’t need it now. I’m already wired.”

  Then he turned to see about the woman. First time he ever looked at her.

  Chirpy-looking blonde, maybe midthirties, wearing a black leather jacket over black pedal pushers, black thongs, too.

  “Hey, morning, Sarah,” he said, casual-like and friendly as a cocker spaniel off its leash in the park. “Wearing black for the funeral?”

  “Excuse me—”

  And he shot her, too. Twice. Then one more for the barista.

  Just one more kill, right? he was thinking. Well, maybe two more.

  He robbed the cash register, took Sarah’s ratty buckskin pocketbook, and off he went into the early morning L.A. smog, heading west, across Stanley, Spaulding, Genessee.

  Mary Smith rides again, right?

  Chapter 101

  I LOOKED AT JANNIE in the rearview mirror. “The Spy Museum, huh?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Absotootly!”

  Jannie had drawn Saturday afternoon in our little lottery. Tonight was mine, Sunday day was Nana’s, and Sunday night was Damon’s time to howl. The Cross Family Weekend was all mapped out, and it was already under way.

  We spent the afternoon learning about ninja, cloak-and-dagger, and shadow spies, a construct I must have missed in my classes at Quantico. The kids tested their powers of observation in the School for Spies, and even I was impressed with some of the future-world props and models they had in the 21st Century section.

  Since dinner was my choice, I decided to introduce everyone to Ethiopian food. Jannie and Damon did fairly well with some of the more exotic tastes—except for the kitfo, essentially steak tartare. Still, they liked eating with their fingers, which Nana called “real down-home cooking.”

  When Jannie and Nana went off to the ladies’ room, Damon turned to me. “You know, you could have invited Doctor Coles. If you wanted,” he said, then shrugged.

  I was touched by the man-to-manness of Damon’s remark. I’d even say it was adorable, except that he’d hate it if I saw it that way. “Thanks, Day,” I said, playing it straight. “Kayla and I are having dinner on Tuesday. I appreciate the thought.”

  “She’s a good lady. Everybody thinks so. You need somebody, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And she’s the only person I’ve ever seen who can make Nana do stuff she doesn’t want to.”

  I laughed, liking that he had noticed so much about Kayla, and his observations were mostly sharp and true.

  “What’s so funny?” Nana asked, suddenly at the table again. “What did I miss?”

  “What is it?” Jannie asked, demanded actually. “I want to know what’s going on. Was it about the Spy Museum? You two mocking me? I will not be mocked.”

  “Guys’ privilege,” Damon said.

  “I bet it was about Doctor Coles.” Jannie’s voice turned to a squeak as her instincts landed her in exactly the right place. “We like her, Daddy,” she said, when I had neither confirmed nor denied her guess.

  “Yeah, but you like everyone.”

  “Guess where I got that from?”

  “We need to have her over for dinner,” Nana piped up.

  “Just not Tuesday,” Damon told her.

  Jannie grinned, and her eyes got wide. “Yeah. Tuesday night is date night. Right, Daddy? Am I right?”

  Chapter 102

  TUESDAY NIGHT WAS A DATE NIGHT with Kayla Coles.

  And then so was Thursday.

  At a little past 1:00 in the morning, I was sitting with Kayla on her front porch. We’d been out there talking for at least a couple of hours. Kayla had just recruited me to do some work for the Children’s Defense Fund in D.C. She used statistics to make her points—just like Nana did: forty million uninsured in America, a new baby born uninsured every minute of every day. Sure I would help—whatever I could do. Even if the circumstances hadn’t been what they were.

  “What are you doing Saturday?” she asked. Just the question, in her sweet voice, made me smile. “This isn’t about the Children’s Defense Fund by the way.”

  “I was hoping you’d come over for one of Nana’s home-cooked meals,” I said.

  “Don’t you need to ask Nana?”

  I laughed. “It was her idea. Or one of the kids. But Nana’s definitely part of the conspiracy. She might even be the ringleader of the gang.”

  If the universe wanted me to stop dating, its message was getting garbled. All day Saturday, I was a little nervous about Kayla coming over, though. This meant something, didn’t it? Bringing her home—under these circumstances.

  “You look good, Daddy,” Jannie said from the door to my room.

  I had just rejected a shirt onto the bed and pulled on a black V-neck sweater, which I had to admit looked pretty good. It was a little embarrassing to be caught in the act of preening, though. Jannie invited herself in, flopped down, and watched while I finished up.

  “What’s going on?” Damon wandered in next and sat beside Jannie on the bed.

  “Anybody ever hear of privacy around here?”

  “He’s getting all handsome for Doctor Kayla. All duded-up and such. I like him in black.”

  My back was to them now, and they spoke as if I weren’t there, their voices just a little stagy.

  “Think he’s nervous?”

  “Mm-hm. Probably.”

  “You think he’ll spill something on himself during dinner?”

  “Definitely.”

/>   I turned on them with a roar and grabbed them both before they could separate and squirm away. They exploded into screams of laughter, forgetting, for an instant, that they had outgrown this kind of horseplay. I rolled them both around on the bed, going for all the ticklish spots I knew from past tickle fests.

  “You’re going to get all wrinkly!” Jannie yelled at me. “Dadd-eee! Stop!”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll have to change anyway . . . when I spill something on myself!”

  I chased them all the way down to the kitchen; then we pitched in to help Nana with the parts that she would let us. Adding a leaf to the dining table. Putting out the good china and new candlesticks.

  Nana was showing off a little, maybe a lot. Fine by me; I’ve got no problem eating her finest. Never have.

  After dinner, which was pretty amazing—two herb-roasted chickens with oven fries, asparagus, mesclun salad, and coconut cake—Kayla and I got out of there. We took the Porsche, and I drove out to the Tidal Basin and then up to the Lincoln Memorial. We parked, then strolled the length of the Reflecting Pool. It’s a beautiful, tranquil spot at night. For some reason, not too many tourists make it there after sunset.

  “Everything was perfect,” she said as we approached the Washington Monument. “Back at your house.”

  I laughed. “A little too perfect for my taste. Didn’t you think they were trying too hard?”

  It was Kayla’s turn to laugh. “What can I say? They like me.”

  “Three dates in a week. Had to give them ideas.”

  Kayla smiled. “Gave me some ideas. Want to hear?”

  “Like what? Give me an example, a for-instance.”

  “My house isn’t far.”

  “You’re a doctor. Must know a lot about human anatomy.”

  “And you’re a psychologist, so you know the human psyche, right?”

  “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

  And it was.

  But then the Job got in the way again.

  Chapter 103

  “I’LL BE OUT THERE TOMORROW. That’s the best I can do. I’ll book a flight to L.A. right now.”

  I couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth, even as they did.

  I had been on the phone with Fred Van Allsburg for less than a couple of minutes, and my response was pretty much automatic, almost as if I’d been programmed to answer in a certain way. What was this, The Manchurian Candidate? What part was I playing? Good guy? Bad guy? Somewhere in between?

  I was definitely eager to meet with Mary Wagner again, drawn by curiosity, almost as much as by obligation. The LAPD hadn’t been able to get her to talk to them, apparently not for days. So they wanted me to come back to California to consult. And I needed to do it—something still bothered me about the murder case, even if Mary was as guilty as she appeared to be.

  Of course, I wanted the trip to be as short as possible. In fact, I left everything packed except my toothbrush when I got to the hotel in L.A. It probably helped me feel as though the trip was more temporary.

  Anyway, my interview with Mary Wagner was scheduled for ten o’clock the following morning. I thought about calling Jamilla, but decided against it, and right then I knew that it was completely over between us. A sad thought, but a true one, and I was sure that we both knew it. Whose fault was it? I didn’t know. Was it useful or important to try to place blame? Probably not, thought Dr. Cross.

  I spent the night going over the past week’s reports and transcripts, which Van Allsburg had messengered over to me. According to everything I read, the three children—Brendan, Ashley, and Adam—seemed to be the only thing on Mary’s mind.

  It made my direction pretty clear. If the children were all that Mary could think about, that’s where we’d begin tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 104

  AT 8:45 IN THE MORNING, I found myself in a different but identical-looking room to the one where I had last interviewed Mary Wagner.

  The guard escorted her in exactly on time—almost to the second. I could see right away that several days of interrogation had taken a toll.

  She wouldn’t look at me, and sat stoically while the officer cuffed her to the table.

  He then took a position inside the room, next to the door. Not my first choice, but I didn’t argue it. Maybe if there was a second interview, I’d try to loosen things up.

  “Good morning, Mary.”

  “Hello.”

  Her voice was neutral, a minimal show of following the rules. Still no eye contact though. I wondered if she had served time before. And if she had, for what?

  “Let me tell you why I’m here,” I said. “Mary, are you listening to me?”

  No response from her. She clenched and unclenched her teeth, staring at a single point on the wall. I sensed that she was listening but trying not to show it.

  “You already know that there’s a significant amount of evidence against you. And I think you also know that there are still some doubts about your children.”

  She finally looked up, and her eyes burned into my skull. “Then there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Actually, there is.”

  I pulled out my pen and laid a blank piece of paper on the table. “I thought you might like to write a letter to Brendan, Ashley, and Adam.”

  Chapter 105

  MARY CHANGED IN A BEAT, just the way I’d seen her do before. She looked up at me again, her eyes and mouth noticeably softer. A familiar vulnerability showed across her features. When she was like this, it was hard not to feel something for Mary Wagner, no matter what she had done.

  “I’m not allowed to remove your handcuffs,” I said, “but you can tell me what you’d like to say. I’ll write it for you, word for word.”

  “Is this a trick?” she asked, and she was practically pleading for it not to be. “This is some kind of trick, isn’t it?”

  I had to choose my words carefully.

  “No trick. It’s just a chance for you to say whatever you want to say to your kids.”

  “Are the police going to read it? Will you tell me? I want to know if they are.”

  Her responses fascinated me, a mix of high emotion and control.

  “All of your conversations in here are recorded,” I reminded her. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. It’s up to you. Your choice, Mary.”

  “You came to my house.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I liked you.”

  “Mary, I like you, too.”

  “Are you on my side?”

  “Yes. I am on your side.”

  “The side of justice, right?”

  “I hope so, Mary.”

  She looked around the room, either weighing her options or searching for the right words, I didn’t know which. Then she turned back. Her eyes locked onto the piece of paper between us.

  “Dear Brendan,” she said in a whisper.

  “Just Brendan?”

  “Yes. Please read this to your brother and sister, because you’re the big boy in the family.”

  I took it down verbatim, writing fast to keep up with her.

  “Mommy has to be away from you for a while, but it won’t be long, I promise. Promise.

  “Wherever you are now, I know they are taking good care of you. And if you get lonely, or want to cry, that’s okay, too. Crying can help let the sadness out. Everyone does it sometimes, even Mommy, but only because I miss you so much.”

  Mary paused, and a pleased look came over her, as if she had just seen something sweet. Her eyes were fixed on the far wall, and she had an almost heartbreaking smile on her face.

  She continued, “When we’re all together again, we’ll go for a picnic, your favorite. We’ll get whatever we want to eat and drive out somewhere pretty and spend the whole day. Maybe we’ll go swimming, too. Whatever you want, sweetie pie. I’m already looking forward to it.

  “And guess what? You have a guardian angel watching over you all the time. That’s me. I give
you good-night kisses in your dreams when you go to sleep at night. You don’t have to be afraid because I’m right there with you. And you’re right here with me.”

  Mary stopped, shut her eyes, and sighed loudly.

  “I love you very, very much. Love, Mommy.”

  By now, she was leaning much closer to the table than when we’d begun. She held on to the letter with her eyes—still speaking to me in a soft voice. A whisper.

  “Put three X’s and three O’s at the bottom. A kiss and a hug for each of my babies.”

  Chapter 106

  THE MORE I HEARD, the more I doubted that Mary Wagner could have invented these three children entirely. And I had a bad feeling about what might have happened to them.

  I spent the afternoon trying to track the children down. The Uniform Crime Report came back with a long list of child victims matched to female killers in recent decades. I’ve heard and read somewhere that shoplifting and the killing of one’s own children are the only two crimes that American women commit in equal numbers to men.

  If that was true, then this thick, voluminous report only represented half of the child murders on record.

  I gritted my teeth, literally and figuratively, and did another run through the disturbing database.

  This time, I searched for multiple homicides only. With that list compiled, I started wading through.

  A few of the more famous names jumped out right away: Susan Smith, who had drowned both her sons in 1994; Andrea Yates, who killed all five of her children after several years of struggling with psychosis and profound postpartum depression.

  The list went on and on. None of these female perpetrators could be considered the victims in their cases, but the dominance of severe mental-health issues was clear.

  Smith and Yates were both diagnosed with personality and clinical disorders. It was easy to imagine the same could be true of Mary Wagner, but a reliable diagnosis would take more time than we were likely to have together.

  That particular question was sidelined a few hours into my research.

  I clicked onto a new page and, sadly, found exactly what I was looking for.