Mary, Mary

as if he didn’t exist and wasn’t worth coyote piss if he did. But this guy did exist, and actually, he’d gotten under the Storyteller’s skin, which really wasn’t advisable, was it?
    Eventually, he drifted behind the Lexus, as if chastened and remorseful, and then he followed. The moke’s black convertible got off two exits later. So did he.
    And this wasn’t in the story. He was improvising now.
    He continued to trail the convertible’s taillights up into the Hollywood Hills, onto a side road, and then up another steep hill.
    He wondered if the driver of the Lexus had spotted him by now. Just to be sure he did, he started honking and didn’t stop for the next half mile or so. Figured the other guy might be getting a little spooked by now. He sure would if it were him, especially if he knew
who
he had hassled down on the freeway.
    Then he pulled out and started to pass the convertible. This was the coolest goddamn scene yet—he had all the windows open in his car, wind whipping through.
    The driver of the Lexus stared over at him, and he wasn’t cursing or flipping him the bird anymore. Now who was showing a little remorse? A little r-e-s-p-e-c-t.
    The Storyteller’s right hand came up, aimed, and he fired four times into the other driver’s face, and then he watched the convertible veer into the rocky wall on the side of the road, carom off, swerve back onto the road, then hit the rocks again.
    Then nothing—the annoying bastard was dead, wasn’t he? Deserved it, too, the asshole. The shame of it, the pity, was that sooner or later this killing had to stop. At least that was the grand plan, that was the story.

Chapter 38
    DETECTIVE JEANNE GALLETTA floored her two-year-old Thunderbird. She had driven faster than this before but never on L.A. city streets. The storefronts on Van Nuys blurred past while her siren droned a steady rhythm overhead.
    Two black-and-whites were parked in front of the café when she got there. An unruly crowd had already begun to clot the sidewalk across the street. She was sure that TV cameras wouldn’t be far behind, and news helicopters, too.
    “What’s the situation?” she barked at the first officer she saw, who was halfheartedly doing crowd control.
    “All contained,” he said. “We did a silent approach, front and back. There’s a few of our guys up on the roof, too. You’ve got about two-dozen customers and staff inside. If she was here when we pulled up, then she’s still in there.”
    That was a big
if,
but it was something to go on, Galletta thought to herself.
Mary Smith might still be inside. This thing could end right here. Please, dear God.
    “All right, two more units inside as soon as you can get them here, two more on crowd control, and keep that guard front, back, and top.”
    “Ma’am, this isn’t my crew —”
    “I don’t care whose crew it is. Just get it done.” She stopped and stared into the officer’s eyes. “Am I clear? Do you follow?”
    “Perfectly, ma’am.”
    Galletta headed inside. The café was one big rectangle, with a coffee bar in front and rows of computer carrels in the back. Each electronic terminal was its own little booth, with shoulder-high privacy walls.
    Everyone in the place had been corralled at the mismatched tables, chairs, and couches. Galletta quickly surveyed their faces.
    Students, Yuppies, senior citizens, and a few Venice Beach hippie-freak types. An officer reported to her that they had all been searched and no weapons were found. Not that it meant anything. For now, they were all suspects by default.
    The manager was a very nervous young guy in horn-rims who didn’t look old enough to drink, and who had the worst case of acne Galletta had seen since her high school days in the Valley. A mini CD-ROM pinned to his chest said BRETT in red Magic Marker. He showed Galletta to one of the computer carrels near the back.
    “This is where we found it,” he said.
    “Is there an exit that way?” Galletta asked, pointing down a narrow hallway to her left.
    The manager nodded. “The police are already back there. They sealed it off.”
    “And do you keep some record of who uses the machines?”
    He pointed to a credit-card swiping device. “They had to use that. I don’t really know how to get the info out, but I can find out for you.”
    “We’ll take care of it,” Galletta told him. “Here’s what I want you to do, though. Keep everyone in here as comfortable as you can. To be honest, it’s