Mary, Mary

this one behind, but the details of the case would haunt most of the team for some time, just as the D.C. sniper case still lingered in the J. Edgar Hoover Building back East. It’s an unsatisfying and unpleasant feeling, but also part of what drives us to do better.
    “Alex, we owe you one on this.” Van Allsburg finally came over to me. “Your work on the case was invaluable. I have to say that. I see why Ron Burns likes you close to home.”
    A few uneasy laughs went through the room. Agent Page reached from behind and patted my shoulder. He would go far in the Bureau, if he could keep his passion for solving crimes.
    “I’d still like to take a peek at that final evidence LAPD found. And maybe get a real interview with Mary Wagner,” I said, diverting back to what
I
thought was most important.
    Van Allsburg shook his head. “Not necessary.”
    “There’s no reason for me not to stick around another day —” I started to say.
    “Don’t worry about it. Page and Fujishiro are good for the details; I can back them up. And if we really need you again, there’s always frequent-flier miles, right?” His tone was artificially bright.
    “Fred, Mary Wagner wouldn’t talk to anyone before I came. She trusts me.”
    “At least, she did,” he said. “Probably not anymore.” It was a blunt statement, but not aggressive.
    “I’m still the only person she’s opened up to. I hear LAPD is getting nowhere with her.”
    “Like I said, you’re just a plane ride away if we need you back. I spoke about it with Director Burns and he agrees. Go home to your family. You have kids, right?”
    “Yes, I have kids.”
    Hours later, packing my bag at the hotel, I was struck hard with another kind of realization: Actually, I couldn’t wait to get home. It was a huge relief that I’d be back in D.C. again, with no immediate travel plans.
    But—and the
but
was important—why had that fact been so far from my mind in Van Allsburg’s office? What were these blinders I wore, and how did I keep forgetting I had them on? What kind of dramatic wake-up call did I need before I got the message?
    On the way to the airport I figured out another piece. It just hit me. The
A
’s and
B
’s on the children’s stickers at the crime scenes. I knew what the letters meant. Mary’s imaginary children’s names—Ashley, Adam, Brendan. Two
A
’s and a
B
.
    I phoned it in on my way out of L.A.

Chapter 99
    THE STORYTELLER WAS DONE KILLING.
Fini.
It was over, and no one would ever know the whole truth about what had happened.
End of story
.
    So he threw himself a party with some of his best buddies from Beverly Hills.
    He told them he’d just gotten a gig writing a screenplay for an A-list director, a big, dopey thriller based on a dopey bestseller. He’d been given license to change anything he didn’t like, but that was all he could say about it right now. The director was paranoid—so what’s new? But a big party was definitely in order.
    His friends thought they understood what was going down, which gave him some idea how little they knew him. His best friends in the world—and hell, none of them knew him at all. None of them suspected he could be a killer. How fricking unbelievably crazy was that? No one knew him.
    The party was at the Snake Pit Ale House, a bar on Melrose where they’d held a fantasy football league during his early days in L.A., soon after he’d arrived from Brown University to act, and maybe dabble at writing scripts—serious, worthy stuff, not box-office crap.
    “The order of the night is free beer,” he said as each of his buds arrived at the bar, “and wine for the wussies among you. So I guess it’s vino all around?”
    Nobody drank wine, not one of the fourteen pals who came to the bash. They were all glad to see him out and about, and also about his new gig—though some of the more honest ones admitted they were jealous. Everybody started calling him “A-list.”
    He and David and Johnboy and Frankie were still at the bar when it closed at a little past two. They were overanalyzing a movie called
We Don’t Live Here Anymore.
They finally more or less stumbled outside and exchanged Hollywood hugs on the street next to Johnny’s fucking Bentley—talk about A-list—the spoils of the last movie he’d produced, a 400-million-dollar grosser worldwide, which made all the rest of them sick because all he’d done was buy a dipshit graphic novel for fifty thousand then sign up the Rock