Mary, Mary

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.
    The actress’s clothing appeared to be intact. No indication of any kind of sexual assault. And no sign of blood froth from the nostrils or mouth, which meant she’d died and stopped breathing almost immediately. Who would make this kind of violent attack? Why Antonia Schifman? She’d seemed like a nice person, got good press. And everybody liked her, according to, well,
everybody
. So what could explain this massacre? This desecration at her home?
    Agent Page appeared and leaned in over my shoulder. “What do you think the cutting is about? Some kind of reference to plastic surgery maybe?”
    The young agent had shaken off every subtle and not-so-subtle clue I had dropped that I needed to be alone right now, but I didn’t have the heart to dress him down.
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “But I don’t want to speculate yet. We’ll know more once she’s checked in and cleaned up.”
Now, please let me work, Page
.
    A dull-brown wash of dried blood covered the actress’s ruined face. What a terrible waste. And what exactly was I supposed to relay to the president about what I’d seen here, about what had happened to his friend?
    The driver, Bruno Capaletti,