All too soon, he arrived at Times Mirror Square. Griner worked in the older part of the complex, a 1930s-era building that he had a certain affection for, under normal circumstances, anyway The main doors were large bronze affairs, flanked with imposing twin eagle sculptures.
He walked right by them this morning, around to the back entrance, and took the stairs to the third floor. One couldn't be too careful, could one?
A reporter named jennie Bloom fell into step with him the second he hit the newsroom floor. Among all the staff who had shown a sudden interest in his well-being, she was by far the most obvious about it. Or was that odious?
“Hey, Arnold, how's it going? You doing okay man? What are you covering today?”
Griner didn't miss a beat. “Jen, if that's your idea of a pickup line, you must be the most unlaid woman in L.A.”
Jennie Bloom merely grinned and kept on coming on. “Spoken like someone with experience in matters of the heart. All right then, let's skip the foreplay You get any more e-mails? You need help on this, right? I'm here for you. You need a woman's point of view.”
“Seriously, I just need some space. Okay? I'll let you know if I get anything else.” He turned abruptly and walked away from her.
“No you won't,” she called after him.
“No I won't,” he said, and kept walking.
In some ways, even the annoying distractions were a relief. As soon as he turned away from Bloom, his mind went back into the disturbing loop it had been on before.
Why me? Why did Crazy Maty pick me out? Why not Jennie Bloom?
Would it happen again today? Another high-profile murder?
And then it did.
Chapter_24 A CALM, MEASURED FEMALE voice said, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“This is Arnold Griner at the Los Angeles Times. I'm supposed to call a Detective Jeanne Galletta, but I don't . . I can't find her number on my desk. I'm sorry I'm a little rattled right now. I can't even find my Rolodex.”
“Sir, is this an emergency call? Do you need assistance?”
“Yes, it's definitely an emergency Someone may have been murdered. I don't know how long ago this happened, or even if it did for sure. Has anyone called about someone named Marti Lowenstein-Bell?”
“Sir, I can't give out that kind of information.”
“It doesn't matter. Just send someone to the LowensteinBell residence. I think she's been killed. I'm almost sure of it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I just am. Okay? I'm almost positive there's been a murder.”
“What is the address?”
“The address? Oh, Jesus, I don't know the address. The body is supposed to be in the swimming pooi.”
“Are you at the residence now?”
“No. No. Listen, this is a ... I don't know how to make this clear to you. It's the Mary Smith murder case. The Hollywood celebrity killings. Do you know what I'm talking about?”
“All right, sir, I think I understand. What was the name again?”
“Lowenstein-Bell. Marti. I know her husband's name is Michael Bell. You might find it under that. I don't know for certain if she's dead. I just got this awful message. I'm a reporter at the L.A. Times. My name is Arnold Grinet Detective Galletta knows who I am.”
“Sir, I have the information now. I'm going to put you on hold for just a minute.”
"No, don't -
Mary, Mary
Chapter 25
LAPD DISPATCH PUT OUT A CALL at 8:42 A.M., sending officers, backup, and emergency medical personnel to the Lowenstein-Bell address in Bel Air.
Two separate 911 calls on the same incident had come within a few minutes of each other. The first one was from the Los Angeles Times. The second came from the Lowenstein-Bell residence itself.
OfficersJeff Campbell and Patrick Beneke were first at the scene. Campbell suspected before they arrived that this was another celebrity murder. The address alone was unusual for this kind of call, but dispatch had mentioned a single adult female victim. And possible knife wounds. The couple who owned the house were both Hollywood types. It added up to trouble no matter what.
A short, dark-haired woman in a gray-and-white maid's uniform was waiting in the driveway She was wringing some kind of towel. As the patrolmen got closer, they could see that the woman was sobbing, and walking in circles.
“Great,” Beneke said. “Just what we need, some Carmelita who doesn't even speak English, bawling her eyes out and acting nitty loco.”
Campbell responded the way he always did to the younger officer's tiresome, racist cynicism. “Shut the hell up, Beneke. I don't want to hear it. She's terrified.”
As soon as they were out of the car, the maid went hysterical. “Aqui, aqui, aqull” she screeched, motioning them toward the front door. “Aqui! Aquif”
The residence was an ultramodern stone-and-glass structure high in the Santa Monica Mountains. As he approached, Officer Campbell could see straight through the green- glass entryway to the back patio and the sweeping coastal view beyond.
What was that on the front-d oor glass? It looked totally out of place. A label or a sticker of some kind. A kiddie decal? With a large A on it.
He had to practically pry the maid's grip from his forearm. "Ma'am, just please be calm.
Uno momento, por favor Corno te llamas?"
The woman may or may not have heard him. Her Spanish came much too quickly for him to understand. She pointed toward the house several more times.
“Let's just get in there,” Beneke insisted. “We're wasting time with her. She's living the vida coca.”
Two more cruisers and an ambulance pulled up. One of the paramedics spoke quickly, and more efficiently, with the maid.
“In the pool in the back,” he reported. “No one else is here - as far as she knows.”
“She don't know shit,” said Beneke.
“We'll go around,” Campbell said. He and Beneke took the north side of the house, their weapons drawn. The other teams went to the south, straight through a set of hedges.
Campbell felt the old rush of adrenaline as they worked their way through a dense cluster of hydrangea. Homicide calls used to be almost exhilarating. Now they just made him feel light-headed and weak in the legs.
He squinted through the thick brush as best he could. From what he knew of the Hollywood murders, there was no way the killer would still be around.
“You see anything?” he whispered to his partner, who was twenty-nine, a California cowboy, and a total asshole most of the time.
“Yeah, a bunch of flowers,” Beneke answered. “We were the first ones here. Why'd you let them go ahead of us like that?”
Campbell stifled his first response. “Just keep your eyes open,” he said. “The killer could still be here.”
“That's my hope, podjo.”
They emerged onto a sweeping black-slate patio in the back. It was dominated by an enormous dark-bottomed infinity pool. The water seemed to flow right up to and over the edge of the terrace.
“There she is.” Campbell groaned.
A woman's stark-white body floated facedown, arms perpendicular to the torso. She wore a lime-green one-piece. Her long blond hair was splayed gently over the surface of the water.
One of the paramedics jumped into the pooi and with some difficulty turned her over. He put a finger to her throat, but it was already obvious to Campbell there would be no pulse.
“Holy shit!” Campbell grimaced and looked away, then back again. He held his breath to keep everything down. Who the hell could do something like this? The poor woman was practically erased from the neck up. Her face was a tangle of cut flesh. The pool's water was tinted bright pink all around the body Beneke walked over to get a closer look. “Same killer. I'll bet you anything. Same crazy killer did this.” He leaned over to help pull the woman out.
“Wait,” Campbell barked. He pointed to the paramedic who was still in the water. "You.
Get out of t
he pool. Get out of the pool right now."
Stone-faced, they all looked at Campbell, but they knew he was right. Even Beneke didn't say a word. There was no sense putting any more of their stamp on the murder scene until an investigative team got there. They would have to leave the victim where she was.
“Hey! Hey, guys!”
Campbell looked up to see another officer, Jerry Tounley, calling down from an open window upstairs. “Office is completely trashed up here. There's broken pictures, stuff everywhere, glass. And get this - the computer's still on and open to a mail program! Looks like someone was sending an e-mail before they left.”
Mary, Mary
Chapter 26
To: agriner@latimes .com From; Mary Smith To: Marti Lowenstein-Bell: I watched you having dinner last night. You and your fine family of five. Very cozy and nice. “Mother Knows Best.” With those immaculately clean glass walls of yours, it couldn't have been easier to watch. I enjoyed seeing you with your kids at your last supper.
I could actually see the delicious-looking food on your plates, prepared by your cook and nanny, of course. You were having a swell time, and that's fine with me. I wanted you to enjoy yourself on your last night. I especially wanted your kids to have a lasting memory.
Now I have a memory of them, too.
I'll never forget their sweet faces. Never, ever forget your kids, Marti. Trust me on it.
What a beautiful, beautiful house you have, Marti, as befits such an important writer and film director. Is that the right order, by the way? I think so.
I didn't come inside until later, when you were putting the girls to bed. You left the patio doors open again, and this time I used them.
I couldn't resist. I wanted to see things just the way you see them, from the inside looking out.
But I still don't understand why all you rich people feel so safe in your houses. Those big castles can't protect you if you aren't paying close attention. And you weren't. You weren't paying attention at all. Too busy being a mom- or too busy being a star?
I listened to you upstairs, doing bedtime with the girls. It was kind of touching, and I mean that. You probably thought you would be the last one to tuck them in, but you weren't.
Later, when everyone was asleep, I watched each of those girls in her bed, breathing so peacefully. They were like little angels with no cares in the world.
I didn't have to tell them they had nothing to worry about, because they already knew. It was just the opposite for you. I decided to wait until the morning, so that I could be with you alone, Madam Director.
I'm really glad I waited, too. Your husband, Michael, took the girls to school today. His turn, I guess. That was lucky for everyone, but especially for him. He got to live, and you didn't have to watch him die. And I got you the way I wanted, just the way I had imagined it for such a long time.
Here's what happened next, Marti.
Your last morning started like any other. You did your precious Pilates and then went for laps in the pool. Fifty laps, just like always. It must be nice to have such a big swimming pool. Heated, too. I stood and watched you gliding back and forth in the sparkling blue water. Even there, so close, it took you forever to see me.
When you finally looked up, you must have been good and tired. Too tired to scream I suppose. All you did was turn away, but it didn't stop me from shooting you. Or then cutting your pretty face to ribbons and shreds.
Tell you what, Marti, that was the best part of all. I'm starting to really like defacement.
Now, let me ask one final question-do you know why you had to die? Do you know what you did to deserve this? Do you know, Marti, do you know?
Somehow, I doubt it.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 27
BUT THAT WASN'T EXACTLY the way it happened, the Storyteller knew.
Of course, he wasn't going to tell the L.A. Times and the police everything, only what he needed them to know, only what was in the story he wanted them to help authenticate.
It was such a good story, a helluva story if he didn't say so himself. Mary Smith! Jesus. A classic horror tale if ever there was one.
Speaking of stories, he'd heard a good one the other day - the “psychopath's test.” It was supposed to tell you if you had the mind of a psycho. If you got it right, you did. The story went like this. At her mother's funeral, a woman met this guy and fell instantly in love. But she never got his name, number, or anything about him. A few days later, the woman killed her sister. Now . . . the test! Why did she kill the sister? If you answer correctly, then you think like a psychopath.
The Storyteller did, of course. He figured it out immediately This woman killed her sister . . . because she was hoping the guy she liked would appear at the funeral.
Anyway, after he killed Marti Lowenstein-Bell, he was high as a kite, but he knew he had to stay in control, more or less anyway He had to keep up appearances.
So he hustled on back to work.
He roamed the halls of the office building in Pasadena and talked to half a dozen coworkers about things that bored the living shit out of him, especially today He wanted to tell every one of them what had just happened - about his secret life, about how none of them got him at all, about how smart and clever he was, and about what an incredible planner, schemer, and killer he was.
Jesus, how they loved to toss that word around - so and so was a killer this one had a killer smile, a killer act, but it was all such incredible bullshit.
All of these people were wimps. They didn't know what real killing was all about. But he sure did.
And he knew something else - he liked it a lot, even more than he thought he would.
And he was good at it.
He had this sudden urge to pull his gun at the office and start shooting everything that moved, squeaked, or Squealed.
But hell, that was just a fantasy, a little harmless daydreaming. It would never measure up to the real story his Story, Mary's story, which was so much better.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 28
“ALEX, YOUR OFFICE AT THE FBI called so many times, I had to stop answering the phone. Good Lord, what is wrong with those people?” My great aunt Tia was holding forth at the kitchen table at home, admiring the colorful scarf we had brought her as thanks for house-sitting while we were in California. Nana sat next to Tia, sorting through a thick stack of mail.
Our cat, Rosie, was in the kitchen, and looked a bit heavier if I wasn't mistaken. She rubbed hard up against my legs, as if to say, I'm mad you left, but I'm glad you're back.
Tia sure is a fine cook.
I was glad to be back, too. I think we all were. Christine's taking Alex away to Seattle had more or less ended our vacation, at least the joy in it. My one conversation with her had been tense and also sad. She and I were both so controlled, so intent on not losing our temper, that we ended up with almost nothing to say But Christine worried me - the ups and downs, the inconsistencies 1 saw all the time these days. I wondered what she was like with Little Alex when I wasn't around the two of them. Alex never complained, but kids usually won't.
Now I was back in my kitchen in D.C., feeling almost as if I hadn't had any time off at all. Today was Thursday I had until Monday morning to not think about work - a resolution that lasted a whole five minutes.
Almost by habit, I wandered up to my office in the attic. I threw my fat pile of mail on the desk and, without thinking about it, pressed Play on the answering machine.
Big mistake. Nearly fatal.
Nine new messages were waiting for me.
The first was from Tony Woods at the Bureau.
“Hello, Alex. I've tried paging you a few more times but haven't had any luck. Please call me at Director Burns's office as soon as you can. And please apologize to your house sitter for me. I suspect she thinks I'm stalking you. Possibly because I am. Call me.”
I smiled thinly at Tony's dry humor and delivery as a second message from him began.
�
�Alex, Tony Woods again. Please call in as soon as you can There's been another incident with the murder case in California. Things are most definitely running out of control there. There's a lot of hysteria in L.A. The L.A. Times has finally broken the story about Mary Smith's e-mails. Call me. It's important, Alex.”
Tony knew enough not to leave too many specific details on my home phone. He may also have been hoping to hook my curiosity with his vagueness.
He did.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 29
I WAS FAIRLY CERTAIN the latest victim would have to be another Hollywood mother, but I couldn't help wondering if Mary Smith's methods had continued to evolve.
And how about the e-mails to the Times? The TV news and the Web would only give me half the story, at best.
If I wanted to know more, I would have to call in.
No, I reminded myself. No work until Monday No murder cases. No Mary Smith.
The machine beeped again, and Ron Burns came on. He was brief and to the point, as he almost always is.
“Alex, I've been in touch with Fred Van Allsburg in L.A. Don't worry about him, but I do need to ask you a few questions. It's important. And welcome back to Washington, welcome home.”
And then another call from Ron Burns, his voice still carefully modulated. “Alex, we've got a phone conference next week, and I don't want you coming in cold. Call me at home over the weekend if you have to. I'd also like you to speak with Detective Galletta in L.A. She knows something you need to hear. If you don't have her phone numbers, Tony can get them for you.”
The implication was clear already Ron Burns wasn't asking me to stay on this case. He was telling me. God, 1 was tired of this - the murders, the horrific cases, one after another. According to estimates at the Bureau, there were more than three hundred pattern killers currently operating in the United States. Hell, was I supposed to catch all of them?
Alex Cross 11 - Mary, Mary Page 5