I stared at the old woman for a quiet moment. I don’t know how most people feel about their grandparents, but I loved her so much it hurt sometimes. Nana raised me from the age of nine. I finally leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
“Did you get my voice mail?” I asked.
Nana glanced absently at the hotel phone, with its flashing red message light.
“I guess not,” I said with a shrug.
She put a hand on my forearm. “Oh, Alex. Christine was here at the hotel. She came, and she took Little Alex back to Seattle. He’s gone.”
My brain had a quick does-not-compute moment. Christine wasn’t due to pick Alex up for another two days. She currently had custody of our son, but the trip to Disneyland had been talked out and agreed to. She even said it was a good idea.
I sat down hard on the edge of the couch. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, she took Alex home? What’s going on? Tell me everything.”
Nana shoved her crocheting into a tapestry bag at her side. “I was so mad, I could’ve spit. She didn’t seem like herself at all. She was shouting, Alex. She shouted at me, even at Janelle.”
“What was she doing here, anyway? She wasn’t supposed to—”
“She came down early. That’s the worst part. Alex, I think she was coming to spend some quality time with you and Little Alex. With all of us. And then when she found out you were working, she completely changed. Turned into an angry hornet just like that. There was nothing I could say to her. I never saw anyone so angry, so changed.”
It was all coming too fast, and I struggled with a barrage of feelings. Most of all, I realized, I hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye to my son, and now he was gone again.
“What about Alex? How was he?”
“He was confused, and seemed sad, the poor little boy. He asked for you when his mother took him away. He said you promised him this would be a vacation. He’d so looked forward to it. We all did. You know that, Alex.”
My heart clenched, and I saw Alex’s face in my mind. It felt as though he was getting farther and farther from me, as if a piece of my life was slipping away.
“How were Jannie and Damon about it?” I asked then.
Nana sighed heavily. “They were brave soldiers, but Jannie cried herself to sleep tonight. I think Damon did, too. He hides it better. Poor things, they just moped around most of the night.”
We sat together on the sofa for a long, silent moment. I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here today,” I finally told Nana. “I know that doesn’t mean much.”
She took my chin in her hand and stared into my eyes. Here it comes. Batten down the hatches.
“You’re a good man, Alex. And you’re a good father. Don’t you forget that, especially now. You just . . . you have a very difficult job.”
A few minutes later, I slipped into the room where Jannie and Damon were sleeping. The way they lay on the covers, they looked like little kids again. I liked the visual effect, and I stood there, just watching them. Nothing ever healed me the way these two did. My babies, no matter how old you are.
Jannie slept at the edge of her bed with the comforter in a wad off to the side. I went over and covered her up.
“Dad?” Damon’s whisper from behind caught me off guard. “That you?”
“What’s up, Day?” I sat down on the edge of his bed and rubbed his back. I’d been doing it since he was an infant, and wouldn’t stop until he made me.
“You have to work tomorrow?” he asked. “Is it tomorrow already?”
There was no malice in his voice. He was too good a person for that. If I was a pretty good father, Damon was a great son.
“No,” I told him. “Not tomorrow. We’re on vacation, remember?”
Chapter 21
FOR THE SECOND DAY in a row, I got a disturbing wake-up call.
This one was from Fred Van Allsburg, the assistant director in charge of the FBI’s Los Angeles office. I had seen the name on organizational charts, but we’d never actually met or even spoken. Still, he treated me with a kind of instant familiarity over the phone.
“Alex! How are you enjoying the vacation?” he asked within seconds of saying hello.
Did everyone know my business? “Fine, thanks,” I answered. “What can I do for you?”
“Listen, thanks very much for making yourself available on Mary Smith yesterday. We’ve got a good jump on this case, and what feels like a relatively functional relationship with LAPD.
“Listen, I’ll cut right to the chase. We’d like you to represent us for the rest of the investigation out here. It’s big, and it’s important to us. And, obviously, to the director. This case is going to be huge, unfortunately.”
I thought of a line from The Godfather: Part III—“just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”
Not this time, though. I hadn’t slept much, but I did wake with a clear sense of what this day was going to be about—and it had absolutely nothing to do with Mary Smith, or any other heinous murder investigation.
“I’m going to have to give my regrets on this one. I’ve got family commitments that I cannot turn my back on.”
“Yes, I understand,” he said, too quickly to have meant it. “But maybe we could pry you away for just a while. A few hours in the day.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t. Not right now.”
Van Allsburg sighed heavily on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his tone was more measured. I don’t know if I was reading him right, but I got a hint of condescension, too. “Do you know what we’re dealing with here? Alex, have you seen the news this morning?”
“I’m trying to stay away from the news for a few days. Remember, I’m on vacation. I need a vacation. I just came off the Wolf.”
“Alex, listen, we both know this isn’t over. People are dying here. Important people.”
Important people? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Also, I’m not sure if he was conscious of it, but he seemed to start every other sentence with my name. I sort of understood the position he was in, the pressure, but I was going to hold firm this time.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “The answer is no.”
“Alex, I’d prefer to keep this between you and me. There’s no reason to go up to Ron Burns, is there?”
“No, there isn’t,” I told Van Allsburg.
“Good—,” he started in, but I cut him off.
“Because I’m turning off my pager right now.”
Chapter 22
I’LL ADMIT, when I hung up the phone, my pulse was racing a little, but I felt relieved as well. I thought that Ron Burns would probably back me up on this, but you know what? I didn’t even care.
An hour later I was dressed and ready to go be a tourist. “Who wants to have breakfast with Goofy?” I called out.
The hotel offered “character breakfasts,” and it seemed like a good way to channel our energies right back into vacation mode. A little corny for sure, but sometimes corny is good, real good, keeps everything in perspective.
Jannie and Damon came into the suite’s living room, both of them looking a little wary. I held out two fists, fingers up.
“Each of you pick a hand,” I said.
“Daddy, we’re not babies anymore,” Jannie said. “I’m eleven. Have you noticed?”
I put on a shocked expression. “You’re not?” It brought out the kind of laughter I was looking for.
“This is serious business,” I told them. “I’m not kidding. Now, pick a hand. Please.”
“What is it?” Damon asked.
But I kept mute.
Jannie finally tapped my left hand, and then Damon shrugged and pointed to the right.
“Good choice.” I turned it over and unclenched my fingers. Both kids leaned in for a closer look.
“Your pager?” Damon asked.
“I just turned it off. Now Nana and I are going to wait out in the hall, and I want you two to hide it some
where. Hide it good. I don’t want to see that thing again, not until we’re back in D.C.”
Both Jannie and Damon began to whistle and cheer. Even Nana let out a whoop. We were finally on vacation.
Chapter 23
MAYBE THERE WAS a silver lining in all of this misery and desolation. Not likely, but maybe. Arnold Griner knew he had exclusive rights to his own story when this terrible mess was all over. And you know what else? He wouldn’t settle for just a TV movie. He was going to try to serialize the whole thing in his column, and then sell it as a prestige project at one of the studios. Hollywood Under Siege? The War Against the Stars? Bad titles. That was the concept, anyway.
He shook his head and refocused on the San Diego Freeway. The Xanax he’d taken was making him a little loopy. He’d kept the caffeine going, too, just to maintain some kind of balance through the day. Actually, the morning commute was the hardest time of his day. It was a daily transition from not worrying as much to worrying a lot and feeling sick to his stomach. The closer he got to his office, his desk, his computer, the more anxious he felt.
If he knew for certain that another creepy e-mail was coming, it would almost be easier. It was the not-knowing part that made it hell.
Would Mary be back? Would it happen today? But, most important, why was she writing to him?
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 Mary 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 Lowenstein-Bell 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 pool.”
“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 Griner. 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—”
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.
Officers Jeff 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 muy 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. “Aquí, aquí, aquí!” she screeched, motioning them toward the front door. “Aquí! Aquí!”
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-door 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. Como 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 loca.”
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,” Be
neke 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 pool 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 the 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.”