Mary, Mary

D.C. I picked up the bedside phone and dialed the number while lying there flat on my back. I finally looked at my watch—4:00 P.M. The day had flown, which was a good thing, sort of. Until now, anyway.
    “Ron Burns,” I mouthed to Jamilla while I was on hold. “This can’t be good.” This has to be bad.
    She nodded. A call from the top of the pyramid had to mean some kind of serious business that couldn’t wait. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear about it right now.
    Ron Burns himself came on the line. This was getting worse by the second. “Alex? Is that you?”
    “Yes, sir.” I sighed. Just Jamilla, and me, and you.
    “I appreciate your taking this call. I’m sorry to be bothering you. I know it’s been a while since your last real vacation.”
    He didn’t know the half of it, but I kept quiet and listened to what the director had to say.
    “Alex, there’s kind of a sticky case in L.A. I probably would have wanted to send you out on this one anyway. The fact that you’re in California is a lucky coincidence. Lucky, of course, being a relative concept.”
    I shook my head back and forth. This was sounding really bad.
    “What’s the case? This lucky coincidence that I’m out here?”
    “You ever heard of Antonia Schifman?”
    That got my attention a little. “The actress? Sure.”
    “She was murdered this morning, along with her limo driver. It happened outside her home. Her family was inside sleeping.”
    “The rest of the family—they’re okay?” I asked.
    “No one else was hurt, Alex. Just the actress and her driver.”
    I was a little confused. “Why is the Bureau on this? LAPD request a consult?”
    “Not exactly.” Burns paused. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping this between the two of us, Antonia Schifman was friends with the president. And a close friend of his wife. The president has asked for our help on the murder investigation.”
    “Oh.” I saw that Ron Burns wasn’t quite as immune to Washington pressure as I had thought. Even so, he was the best thing that had happened to the FBI in a long time. And he’d already done me more than one favor in my short tenure. Of course, I had done him a few good turns, too.
    “Alex, just do a quick in-and-out on this one. I’d really appreciate it. We’ll have you back with your family for dinner. A late dinner, anyway. Just check out the murder scene for me. I want to hear your take on what happened. I took the liberty—they’re waiting for you to get there.”
    I finished the call and cast a look at Jamilla. “Well, the good news is, I don’t have to fly anywhere. It’s something in L.A. The actress Antonia Schifman was murdered today.”
    She pushed up next to me in bed. “Oh, that’s terrible, Alex. I liked her movies. She always seemed nice. That’s really a shame. Well, at least I’ll get to dish with Nana and the kids while you’re out of earshot.”
    “I’ll meet you all back here for dinner. Might be a little late.”
    “My flight’s not until eleven, Alex. But I have to be on the late flight out.”
    I kissed her, just a little sheepishly, ashamed that I’d given in to Burns. But what choice did I have?
    “Go make California safe—safer,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on Mickey and Donald to make sure they don’t go postal.”
    What a thought.

Chapter 10
    THE STORYTELLER drove right by the Schifman murder scene,
right by the crime scene.
He knew he shouldn’t have come out here again, but he couldn’t help himself. In a way, he thought this might even be a good idea. So he stopped his car and got out to look around.
    What an incredible rush it turned out to be. He knew the house, knew the ritzy neighborhood in Beverly Hills really well—Miller Place. Suddenly, he almost couldn’t catch his breath, and he loved the feeling of danger, of “anything can happen now!” And it definitely could. He
was
the Storyteller, after all.
    The press was everywhere, along with the LAPD, of course, and even some police brass, and he’d had to park about a quarter of a mile away. That was fine with him—safer, smarter. A minute or so later, he joined in with fans and other lookyloos making the pilgrimage to the shrine where poor Antonia had checked out of the rat race this morning.
    “I can’t believe she’s dead,” a young couple was saying as they walked arm in arm, heads bowed as if they’d lost a real loved one. What was with some people? Could anybody be this nuts?
    I can believe she’s