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.