“Griner and Washington just moved in,” Page said, flipping through a small notebook. “Three days ago, in fact. I know Griner changed all his info and kept everything unlisted, so Mary would have had to go to at least a little trouble to keep up with him. That’s consistent with the stalking aspect, right? And even though Griner doesn’t fit the victim profile, he’s been part of Mary Smith’s landscape all along. She started with him, and now, I don’t know, maybe she’s ending with him. Maybe this represents some kind of closure for her. Maybe her story is over.”
“Doubtful,” Fielding said, without even looking at Page. “Too much anger expressed here. Too much rage in Griner’s murder. Have you seen The Grudge? Not important. Forget I said it.”
“What about the blue Suburban?” I asked. “Any progress there?” As of that afternoon, LAPD hadn’t turned up anything promising, which was a little surprising given the urgency.
Fielding pulled out a handkerchief, took off his glasses, and began to polish them before he spoke. “Nothing yet,” he finally said. “But as long as you brought it up, let me make one thing clear. I’m not Detective Galletta. I’m her boss, and I’m not going to be checking in with you at every turn. If the Bureau wants to take full jurisdiction on this case, they could argue for it. After the way things have gone around here, I’d almost welcome it. But until then, you just do your job and try not to screw up my investigation any more than you did Detective Galletta’s. I hope we’re clear.”
It was bald cop-to-cop loyalty. Without asking a single question, he decided I had wasted the case for Jeanne. I’d seen this kind of thing before, even understood it a little. But I couldn’t keep quiet now.
“Little piece of advice,” I told him. “You should know what you’re talking about before you start throwing accusations around. You’re just going to make your own job harder.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible at this point,” he said curtly. “Now I think we’ve covered everything. You know how to reach me if you have questions, or hell, even if you have something that will help us out.”
“Absolutely.”
I could have punched him in the back of the head as he walked away. It was maybe the only thing that could have taken our first meeting to a lower level.
“Great guy,” Page said. “Lots of personality, social skills, the whole package.”
“Yeah, I’m all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Instead of dwelling on it, I turned back to the work. If the lines of communication with LAPD were going to be strained further, we needed our own analysis more than ever. Page didn’t ask me to, but I walked him through my process. We worked in a spiral out from the bodies, as anyone else would, but much more slowly.
First we covered the condo, inch by inch; then we worked out to the hallway, front and back stairs, and then the grounds around the building.
I was curious to see how Page’s patience held, or if everyone his age was too hurry-up to do this work right. Page did just fine. He was really into the case.
We were outside when we got word from the Bureau’s electronic surveillance unit. At 5:30 that morning, another e-mail had shown up at Arnold Griner’s L.A. Times address.
A letter from Mary Smith had arrived—written to the man she had just killed.
Chapter 73
To: [email protected]
From: Mary Smith
To: Arnold Griner:
Guess what? I followed you home to your new apartment, after you had dinner with friends at that Asia de Cuba place on Sunset.
You parked under the building and took the stairs up the back. Huffing up a single flight? I could see that you’re out of shap
e, Arnold. And out of time, I’m afraid.
I waited outside until your apartment lights came on, and then I followed. I wasn’t as afraid anymore, not like I used to be. The gun used to feel strange and unwieldy in my hand. Now it’s like I barely know it’s there.
You haven’t installed a dead bolt on your back door. Maybe you’ve been meaning to but you’ve been too busy with the move; or maybe you just felt a little safer in the new place so it didn’t seem to matter. You’d be right about that last part. It doesn’t matter—not anymore.
It was dark in the kitchen when I came in, but you had the lights and TV on in the living room. There was also a carving knife on the counter next to the sink, but I left it where it was.
I had my own, which is something you probably already knew about me—if you read my other e-mails.
I waited for as long as I could bear to in the kitchen, listening to you and your companion. I couldn’t hear exactly what you were saying to each other, but I liked the sound of your voices. I even liked knowing that I’d be the last person to ever hear them.
Then the nervousness started to come back. It was just a little at first, but I knew it would get worse if I waited much longer.
I could have left the condo right then if I wanted to, and you’d never even have known I was there.