Mary, Mary

around the room. This was the stuff coincidence was made of, but it wouldn’t have shocked me to know that our killer—with her penchant for public attention—was actually using her own first name.
    “She’s a virtual Jane Doe,” Snyder went on. “No driver’s license here, or in any state for that matter. The plates on the car are California, but guess what?”
    “They’re stolen,” someone muttered from the rear.
    “They’re
stolen,
” said Snyder. “And they don’t track. She probably got them off an abandoned car somewhere.
    “And then, lastly, there’s her address. Mammoth Avenue in Van Nuys. It’s only about ten blocks from that cybercafe where the one aborted e-mail was found.”
    “What else do we know about the woman herself?” Van Allsburg asked Snyder. “Any surveillance on her?”
    An agent in front tapped some keys on a laptop, and a slide came up on the conference room screen.
    It showed a tall, middle-aged white woman, from a vantage point across a parking lot. She wore what looked like a pink maid’s uniform. Her body was neither thin nor fat; the uniform fit but still looked too small for her mannish frame. I put her age at about forty-five.
    “This is from earlier this morning,” Fred said. “She works in housekeeping at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
    “Hang on.
Housekeeping?
Did you say housekeeping?”
    Several heads turned to where Agent Page was sitting perched on the window ledge.
    “What about it?” Van Allsburg asked.
    “I don’t know. Maybe this sounds crazy —”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Actually, it was something in Dr. Cross’s report,” Page said. “At the hotel where Suzie Cartoulis and Brian Conver were found.
Someone made the bed
. Perfectly.” He shrugged. “It’s almost too neat, but . . . I don’t know. Hotel maid . . .”
    The silence in the room seemed to intimidate him, and the young agent shut up. I imagined that with more experience, Page would come to recognize this kind of response as interest, not skepticism. Everyone took the theory in, and Van Allsburg moved on to the next slide.
    A tight shot of Mary Wagner.
    In close up, I could see the beginnings of gray in her dark, wiry hair, which was tamed at the nape of her neck in an unfashionable kind of bun. Her face was round and matronly, but her expression neutral and distant. She seemed to be somewhere else.
    The mutterer from the rear spoke up again. “She sure doesn’t look like much.”
    And she didn’t. She was no one you’d notice on the street.
    Practically invisible.

Chapter 86
    AT 6:20 THAT NIGHT, I was parked up the block from Mary Wagner’s house. This could definitely be something, our big break, and we all knew it. So far, we’d been able to keep the press away.
    A second team was in the alley behind the house, and a third one had trailed Wagner from work at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They had just sent word that she’d stopped for groceries and was nearly home.
    Sure enough, a blue Suburban, puffing smoke from the exhaust pipe, pulled into the driveway a couple of minutes later.
    Ms. Wagner hoisted two plastic bags from the truck and went inside. She appeared to be a strong woman. It also looked as though she was talking to herself, but I couldn’t tell for sure.
    Once she’d gone inside, we pulled down the street for a better view.
    My partner for the evening was Manny Baker, an agent about my age. Manny had a good reputation, but his monosyllabic responses to polite conversation had long since dropped off to silence. So we settled in and watched the Wagner house in the gathering dusk.
    Ms. Wagner’s rented bungalow was in poor shape, even for a marginal neighborhood. The gate on the chain-link fence was completely missing. The lawn overgrew what remained of the brick edging along the front walk.
    The property was barely wider than the house itself, with just enough room for a driveway on the south side. The Suburban had nearly scraped the neighbor’s wall when she pulled in.
    Jeremy Kilbourn, the man who had called in to us about the Suburban, lived next door and owned both houses. We’d learned from him that Ms. Wagner’s bungalow had belonged to his mother until she died fourteen months prior. Mary Wagner moved in shortly after that and had been paying cash rent, on time, ever since. Kilbourn thought she was “a weird chick” but friendly enough, and said she kept mostly to herself.
    Tonight, his house was dark. He had taken his family to stay with relatives