Alex Cross 11 - Mary, Mary Read online

  I passed through stained-glass doors into a soaring lobby Redwood beams rose six floors overhead, and Tiffany lamps dotted the lower level, which centered on an enormous fieldstone fireplace.

  I barely noticed any of it, though. I was already thinking about Inspector Hughes up in room 456.

  Amazing - I was on vacation.

  Mary, Mary

  Chapter 8

  JAMILLA GREETED ME at the door, lips first, a delicious kiss that warmed me from head to toe. I didn't get to see much of her wraparound baby-blue blouse and black pencil skirt until we pulled apart. Black sling-back heels put her at just about the right height for me. She sure didn't look like a homicide cop today “I just got in,” she said.

  “Just in time,” I murmured, reaching for her again. Jamilla's kisses were always like coming home. I started to wonder where all this was going, but then I stopped myself.

  Just let it be, Alex.

  “Thanks for the flowers,” she whispered against my ear. “All of the flowers. They're absolutely beautiful. I know, I know, not as beautiful as me.”

  I laughed Out loud. “That's true.”

  I could see over her shoulder that the hotel's concierge, Harold Larsen, had done a good job for me. Rose petals were scattered in a swath of red, peach, and white. I knew there were a dozen long-stems on the bedside table, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the minifridge, and a couple of carefully chosen CDs in the stereo - best of Al Green, Luther Ingram, Tuck and Patti's Tears of Joy, some early Alberta Hunter.

  “I guess you really did miss me,” Jamilla said.

  Suddenly the two of us were like one body, my mouth exploring hers, my hands holding her up from the rear. She already had my shirt half unbuttoned, and then I was reaching down her side for the zipper on her skirt. We kissed again, and her mouth was so fresh and sweet, like it always was.

  “'If lovin' you is wrong, I don't want to be right,'” I sang in a half-whisper.

  “Loving me isn't wrong.” Jamilla smiled.

  I danced her backward toward the bedroom.

  “How do you do this in heels?” I asked along the way “You're right,” she said, and kicked off her shoes even as her skirt slid to the Hoot “We should light these candles,” I said. “You want me to light them?”

  “Shhh, Alex. It's already warm enough in here.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  There wasn't a whole lot of talking for a while after that. Jamilla and I always seemed to know what the other was thinking anyway - no conversation required at certain times.

  And I had missed her, even more than I thought I would.

  We pressed hard against each other, chest to chest, breathing in a nice rhythm. I rose and hardened against her leg, and I could feel moistness on my thigh. Then I reached up and held Jam's lovely face in both of my hands.

  I felt as though she could hear my thoughts. She smiled, drinking in what I hadn't even said. “Is that so?” she finally whispered, then winked. We had shared the mind-reading joke before.

  We kissed some more, and Jamilla breathed deeply as I slowly worked my lips over her neck, her breasts, and her stomach. Everywhere I stopped, I wanted to stay, but just as badly, I couldn't wait to move on. She wrapped her arms around my back and rolled us both over on the bed.

  “How can you be so hard and so soft?” I asked.

  “It's a woman thing. Just enjoy it. But I could say the same about you. Hard and soft?”

  A moment later, I was inside Jamilla. She sat bolt upright, her head thrown back, her lower lip clenched tightly between her teeth. Sunlight reached through the bedroom window and slowly crossed her face. Absolutely gorgeous, all of it.

  We climaxed together - one of those ideals that everyone says is just an ideal, but it's not, not always, anyway She lay lightly down on top of me, the air slowly escaping from her lungs, our bodies melding as they always did.

  “You're going to be too tired for the rides tomorrow,” she finally said and smiled.

  “Speaking of rides ...,” I said.

  She started to laugh. “Promises, promises.”

  “But I always keep mine.”

  Mary, Mary

  Chapter 9

  I DON'T REMEMBER when Jamilla and I eventually drifted off to sleep that afternoon, but I was woken up by my pager. My brand-new pager. The one I got especially for this trip so only a few people would have the number -John Sampson, Director Burns's assistant, Tony Woods, that's about it. Two people too many? So what now?

  I groaned. “Sorry sorry Jam. I didn't expect this. I don't have to answer it.” The last part I said halfheartedly. We both knew better.

  Jamilla shook her head. "I'll tell you a little secret: I've got mine here in the nightstand.

  Go ahead, Alex, answer the call." Yeah, answer the call.

  Sure enough, it was the director's office reaching out from D.C. I picked up the bedside phone and dialed the number while lying there flat on my back. I finally looked at my watch - 4:00 P.M. The day had flown, which was a good thing, sort of. Until now, anyway “Ron Burns,” I mouthed to Jamilla while I was on hold. “This can't be good.” This has to be bad.

  She nodded. A call from the top of the pyramid had to mean some kind of serious business that couldn't wait. Whatever it was, I didn't want to hear about it right now Ron Burns himself came on the line. This was getting worse by the second. “Alex? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I sighed. Just Jamilla, and me, and you. “I appreciate your taking this call. I'm sorry to be bothering you. I know it's been a while since your last real vacation.”

  He didn't know the half of it, but I kept quiet and listened to what the director had to say “Alex, there's kind of a sticky case in L.A. I probably would have wanted to send you out on this one anyway The fact that you're in California is a lucky coincidence. Lucky of course, being a relative concept.”

  I shook my head back and forth. This was sounding really bad.

  “What's the case? This lucky coincidence that I'm out here?”

  “You ever heard of Antonia Schifman?”

  That got my attention a little. “The actress? Sure.”

  “She was murdered this morning, along with her limo driver. It happened outside her home. Her family was inside sleeping.”

  “The rest Of the family - they're okay?” I asked. “No one else was hurt, Alex. Just the actress and her driver.”

  I was a little confused. “Why is the Bureau on this? LAPD request a consult?”

  “Not exactly” Burns paused. “If you wouldn't mind keeping this between the two of us, Antonia Schifman was friends with the president. And a close friend of his wife. The president has asked for our help on the murder investigation.”

  “Oh.” I saw that Ron Burns wasn't quite as immune to Washington pressure as I had thought. Even so, he was the best thing that had happened to the FBI in a long time. And he'd already done me more than one favor in my short tenure. Of course, I had done him a few good turns, too.

  “Alex, just do a quick in-and-out on this one. I'd really appreciate it. We'll have you back with your family for dinner. A late dinner, anyway Just check out the murder scene for me. I want to hear your take on what happened. I took the liberty - they're waiting for you to get there.”

  I finished the call and cast a look at Jamilla. “Well, the good news is, I don't have to fly anywhere. It's something in L.A. The actress Antonia Schifman was murdered today”

  She pushed up next to me in bed. “Oh, that's terrible, Alex. I liked her movies. She always seemed nice. That's really a shame. Well, at least I'll get to dish with Nana and the kids while you're out of earshot.”

  “I'll meet you all back here for dinner. Might be a little late.”

  “My flight's not until eleven, Alex. But I have to be on the late flight out.” I kissed her, just a little sheepishly, ashamed that I'd given in to Burns. But what choice did I have?

  “Go make California safe - safer,” she said. “I'll keep an eye on Mickey an
d Donald to make sure they don't go postal.”

  What a thought.

  Mary, Mary

  chapter 1 0

  THE STORYTELLER DROVE right by the Schifman murdei scene, right by the crime scene. He knew he shouldn't hav come out here again, but he couldn't help himself. In a way he thought this might even be a good idea. So he stopped hi car and got out to look around.

  What an incredible rush it turned out to be. He knew th house, knew the ritzy neighborhood in Beverly Hills reall) well - Miller Place. Suddenly, he almost couldn't catch hi breath, and he loved the feeling of danger, of “anything car happen now!” And it defInitely could. He was the Storyteller after all.

  The press was everywhere, along with the LAPD, 0 course, and even some police brass, and he'd had to parl about a quarter of a mile away That was fine with him - safer, smarter. A minute or so later, he joined in with fans amother lookyloos making the pilgrimage to the shrine where poor Antonia had checked out of the rat race this morning.

  “I can't believe she's dead,” a young couple was saying as they walked arm in arm, heads bowed as if they'd lost a real loved one. What was with some people? Could anybody be this nuts?

  I can believe she's dead, he wanted to tell them. First, I put one in her head; then I hacked her face until her own mother wouldn't recognize her Believe it or not, there's even a method to my madness. There is a grand plan, and it's a beauty.

  But he didn't speak to the creepy bereaved, just made his way to the pearly gates of the Schifman house. He stood there respectfully with the others - probably a couple of hundred mourners. The Beverly Hills sideshow was just getting started, just getting warmed-up.

  Man, this was some huge story and guess what? Not one of these reporters had the real story Not about Antonia - and not about her murder.

  Only he did - he was the only person in L.A. who knew what had happened, where it was going, and it felt pretty good to be in the know “Hey, howya doin'?” he heard. The Storyteller froze, then turned slowly to see who was talking to him.

  He recognized the guy's face but not exactly who the hell it was. Where do I know this jerk from?

  “Jeez, I was just passin' by Heard what had happened on the radio. So I stopped to pay my respects, or whatever this is. What a shame, some tragedy, huh? This crazy world out here, you just never kno” said the Storyteller, realizing he was babbling a little bit. The other guy said, "No, you never do. Who the hell would want to kill Antonia Schifman?

  What kind of maniac? What kind of complete lunatic?"

  “Out here in L.A.,” said the Storyteller, “it could be anybody, right?”

  Mary, Mary

  Chapter 11

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER the call from D.C., a black Grand Marquis was waiting for me outside the Disneyland Hotel. I shook my head in disappointment, but also in anger - this sucked in a way that broke new territory The FBI agent standing next to the car wore a pair of neatly pressed khakis and a pale- blue polo shirt. He looked ready for a round of golf at the Los Angeles Country Club. His handshake was vigorous, and a little too eager.

  “Special Agent Karl Page. I'm really glad to meet you, Dr. Cross. I've read your book,”

  he said. “Couple of times.”

  He couldn't have been long out of the Academy at Quantico from the look of him. The California tan and nearly white blond flattop suggested that he was a local boy Probably in his midtwenties. An eager beaver for sure.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Exactly where are we headed, Agent Page?” Page shut his mouth abruptly and nodded his head. Maybe he was embarrassed that he hadn't thought to answer my question before I asked it. Then he started up again. “Yes, of course. We're headed to Beverly Hills, Dr. Cross. The scene of the homicide, where the victim lived.”

  “Antonia Schifman,” I said with a sigh of regret.

  “That's right. Oh, uh, have you already been briefed?”

  “Actually, no. Not very well, anyway How about you tell me what you know on the way over to the house? I want to hear everything.”

  He turned toward the car as if to open the door for me, thought better of it, and got in on the driver's side. I climbed in the back, and once we were on our way, Page loosened up a little as he told me about the case.

  “They're coding this one 'Mary Smith.' That's because there was an e-mail from a so- called Mary Smith, sent to an entertainment editor at the L.A. Times last week, taking responsibility fot the first homicide.”

  I think my eyes might have crossed. “Wait. This case has been coded already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So this isn't an isolated incident?” I could hear the tension in my own voice. Had Burns withheld that information from me, or hadn't he known himself?

  “No. This is at least the second murder, Dr. Cross. Too early to classify it as anything, but there's an indication of solo activity, an organized approach, possibly psychosis. And maybe some level of ritual by the same person at each of the two murder sites. We also believe the killer is a woman, which makes this very unusual.” So Page did know a thing or two. Meanwhile, I couldn't help feeling duped by Burns. Why couldn't he have just told me the truth? We were scarcely off of the Disneyland property, and already this murder case was a whole lot more complicated than he'd made it seem.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said between gritted teeth. I was getting tired of being played, and maybe tired of the Bureau, too. But maybe I was just in a bad mood because I'd been pulled away from my vacation.

  Page stiffened. “Is there a problem?”

  It would have been easy to blow off a little steam with him, but I wasn't ready to start bonding with Agent Page yet.

  The whole idea was to float through this case as unattached as possible.

  “No big problem. Nothing to do with you, anyway. Let's get over to the murder scene. I'm only supposed to take a quick look.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I caught Page's blue eyes in the rearview mirror. “You don't have to call me sir. I'm not your dad,” I said. Then I grinned, just in case he couldn't tell it was a joke.

  Mary, Mary

  Chapter 1 2

  ___________________ HERE WE GO AGAIN The president has asked for our help. . . I want to hear your take on what happened. My take? That was a laugh. My take was that I was being used and I didn't like it. Also, I hated it when I whined like this.

  We took the Santa Ana Freeway into downtown Los An- geles and then the Hollywood Freeway back out again. Agent Page drove with a kind of automatic aggressiveness, passing cars closely and frequently One cell-phone-using business man took his other hand off the wheel long enough to give us the finger.

  Page seemed oblivious to all of this as he sped north ward and told me what else he knew about the grisly double murder.

  Both Antonia Schifman and her driver, Bruno Capaletti, had been shot somewhere between 4:00 and 5:30 in the morning. A gardener had discovered the bodies around 7:15.

  Schifman's beautiful face had also been slashed with a sharp blade of some kind.

  Apparently no money or other valuables had been taken. Bruno Capaletti was found with almost two hundred dollars in his pocket, and Schifman's handbag was still in the limo next to her body. It held credit cards, diamond earrings, and more cash.

  “Any prior connection between the two of them?” I asked. “Schifman and the limo driver? What do we know about the two of them?”

  “The only other movie of hers Capaletti worked on was Banner Season, but he drove for Jeff Bridges on that one. We're still checking the driver out, though. You ever see Banner Season?”

  “No, I didn't. How hot is the crime scene? Our people, LAPD, the media? Anything else I should know before we arrive?”

  “I haven't actually been there yet,” Page admitted. "But it's probably going to be off the charts. I mean, it's Antonia Schifman, you know? She was a really good actress.

  Supposed to be a nice lady."

  “Yes, she was. It's a shame.”

&nb
sp; “She had kids, too. Four little girls: Andi, Elizabeth, Tia, and Petra,” said Page, who clearly liked to show off.

  Minutes later, we were off the highway and driving west on Sunset. I watched as the cityscape changed from the cliché-defying urban grittiness of downtown Hollywood to the lush green - and cliché - residential avenues of Beverly Hills. Rows of palm trees looked at us from above, as if down their noses. We turned off Sunset and drove up Miller Place, a winding canyon drive, with stunning views of the city behind us. Finally, Page parked on a side street.

  Television and radio vans were everywhere. Their satellite towers extended 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.

  Mary, Mary

  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.