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.
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 I 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.
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, I 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?