Mary, Mary

seemed to me that nobody’s very good at self-analysis.
    True to her word, Monnie Donnelley had already delivered some material on James Truscott. Very simply, he checked out. He was ambitious, could be considered ruthless at times, but he was a respected member of the Fourth Estate. He didn’t appear to have any connection to the Mary Smith murders.
    I looked at my watch, muttered a curse, then dialed home, hoping to catch Jannie and Damon before they went off to bed.
    “Hello, Cross residence. Jannie Cross speaking.”
    I found myself smiling. “Is this the hugs-and-kisses store? I’d like to place an order, please.”
    “Hi, Daddy. I knew you’d call.”
    “Am I that predictable? Never mind. You two getting ready for bed, I hope? Ask Damon to get on the other line.”
    “I’m already on. I figured it was you, Dad. You are kind of predictable. That’s a
good
thing.”
    I caught up with the kids briefly. Damon tried to wheedle me into letting him buy a CD with a parental advisory label. No sale there, and still no word from him on the mystery girlfriend. Jannie was gearing up for her first science fair and wanted to know if I could hook her friends up to a polygraph. “Sure thing. Right after we hook up you and Damon.”
    Then Jannie told me something that bothered me a lot. “That writer was here again. Nana chased him off. She gave him a good tongue-lashing, called him a ‘disgrace to his profession.’”
    After I finished with the kids, I talked to Nana, and then I ordered room service. Finally, I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I was making the calls in reverse stress order, I knew, leaving the hard ones for last. Of course, there was also the issue of time zones to consider.
    “This whole Mary Smith thing has gone national in a hurry,” Jamilla said. “Word up here is the LAPD isn’t even close to catching her.”
    “Let’s talk about something besides work,” I said. “That okay with you?”
    “Actually, I have to leave, Alex. I’m meeting a friend . . . just a friend,” she added a little too quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” But that sounded to me like code for
worry about it
.
    “Sure, go,” I said.
    “Talk to you tomorrow?” she asked. “Sorry. I have to run. Tomorrow, Alex?”
    I promised, and then hung up.
Just a friend,
I thought. Well, two calls down, one to go. The really hard one. I picked up the phone again and punched in numbers I knew by heart.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s me. Alex.”
    Christine paused—another undecipherable response. “Hi,” she finally said.
    “Could I talk to Alex?”
    “Of course. Hang on, I’ll get him. He just finished his dinner. He’s in the playroom.”
    I heard a rustling and then Christine’s muted voice. “It’s Daddy.” The word gave me a strange pang—warm and regretful at the same time.
    “Hi, Daddy.” A whole lot of mixed feelings intensified at the excited sound of his voice, but mostly, I just missed him like crazy. I could see his small face, his smile.
    “Hey, pup. What’s new?”
    Like any three-year-old, Little Alex wasn’t quite up to speed on the whole phone thing. It was a quick conversation, unfortunately. After a particularly long pause, I heard Christine again in the background.
    “Say bye-bye.”
    “Bye-bye.”
    “See you soon,” I told him. “I love you, buddy.”
    “Love
you,
Daddy.”
    Then Little Alex hung up the phone on me. With a dismissive
click,
I was back in my room, alone with the Mary Smith case, missing all the people I loved more than life itself. That was the exact thought in my head—but what did it mean?

Chapter 47
    MARY SMITH SAT on a park bench while her darling little Ashley monkeyed her way around the playground. Good deal. The exercise was just enough to tire her out before Mary had to pick up Brendan and Adam from their playdates; hopefully it was enough time to let Mary’s brain cool down from another impossible day.
    She looked at the brand-new diary on her lap, admired its nice heavy paper and the beautiful linen cover.
    Journals were the one big splurge in her life. She tried to write a little every day. Maybe later, the kids would read these pages and know who she really was, besides Cook, Maid, and Chauffeur. Meanwhile, even the journal had conspired against her. Without thinking, she had written
tomatoes, baby carrots, cereal, juice, diapers
on the first page. Shoot!
    That just wouldn’t do. She carefully tore it out. Maybe it was silly, but she thought this