Mary, Mary

emerged lately for Mary Smith. As for a “kill list,” I had no idea what the TV reporter was talking about.
    “LAPD is urging area residents to remain calm and go about their business. Many people, however, aren’t buying it.
    “One citizens’ group appeared at the local precinct, demanding to see the ‘kill list,’ which police claim doesn’t even exist. Either way, and whoever you choose to believe, one thing is clear: The Stalker has this community”—she inserted a reporterly pause—“very much on edge. Lorraine Solie, reporting live from Beverly Hills.”
    Kill list?
What the hell was this? Had the LAPD found out something and then not shared it with us? It wouldn’t be the only time.
    The first person I was able to reach at the FBI field office was David Fujishiro, another special agent assigned to the murder case.
    “It’s way, way out in left field,” he told me. “There’s this supposed list with twenty-one names, starting with Patrice Bennett, Antonia Schifman, and Marti Lowenstein-Bell. The idea is that it’s Mary Smith’s agenda.”
    “And everyone in L.A. wants to know if they’re on it?” I asked. “One of the twenty-one?”
    “Right. And it gets even better than that. The rumor is that anyone on the list can
buy their way off
by sending a hundred thousand dollars to a post office box in Orange County that doesn’t seem to exist. We’ve checked it all out, not that anyone believes us. People are actually threatening legal action against the LAPD.”
    “But there’s no truth to the rumor, David? You’re sure?”
    “Not that we know of. But hey, what the hell do we know? We’re only the FBI.”
    “This case is getting its own social life,” I said. “Has anybody spoken to Detective Galletta about the list?”
    “I don’t know, but—
what?
” There was a pause on the line. “Hang on, Alex.”
    “David? What’s happening?”
    I could hear voices in the background, but nothing distinct. Agent Fujishiro came back on and told me to wait another second. “Something’s up,” he added.
    “Wait!” I yelled, but it was no good. He was gone again.
    More voices came, then a general rumbling, rising in pitch. What the hell was happening?
    Then I heard Fujishiro saying “Yeah, I’ve got him right here on the phone.”
    “Alex? Fred Van Allsburg needs to talk to you right now. Hold the line.”
    I was never glad to hear from Van Allsburg, but his voice had a no-bullshit tension to it.
    “What’s going on?” I said.
    “That’s what we’re trying to figure out right now. All we know at the moment is that Arnold Griner at the
Times
just got another e-mail. Can you get over to the
L.A. Times
office right away?”
    “Not if there’s a new murder scene, I can’t. I need to see it now.”
    “I’m not going to negotiate this, Alex. We’ll get word to you as soon as we know what’s what. Meanwhile —”
    I couldn’t help myself—I cut him off. “Sir? Hello? Can you hear me?”
    I hung up in the middle of Van Allsburg shouting that he could hear me fine.
    Then I called Agent Page and told him to put me on hold until we knew if Mary Smith had a new victim.

Chapter 59
    SUZIE CARTOULIS WASN’T PAYING much attention to the real world as she backed out of the driveway that morning. Her thoughts were on an unfinished pool cabana in the backyard of the house in Pacific Palisades, and the blankety-blank contractor who wasn’t returning any of her phone calls, who never returned her calls, only her husband’s. Two more days like this and she was going to fire the guy’s ass. Right after she set it on fire.
    Another car, idling just past a neighbor’s cedar hedge, came into sight at the last second. Suzie braked hard to avoid hitting the jerk who was parked there. Her heart thudded. That certainly would have been an auspicious way to start her day, a fender bender ten feet from her driveway.
    She gave a quick wave into the rearview mirror.
    “Sorry!” My bad.
    Then she put her silver Mercedes wagon in drive and started down the cul-de-sac toward Sunset. The other car pulled out as well and began to follow, but Suzie Cartoulis didn’t notice.
    Her focus had shifted to the nine-year-old boy in the backseat. “Are you all right, Zach? I didn’t mean to stop so suddenly like that.”
    “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”
    “All right. Just checking, sweetie. How about a little music? What do you want to hear?”
    She tried not to be overbearing, but it was