Mary, Mary

dead,
he wanted to tell them.
First, I put one in her head; then I hacked her face until her own mother wouldn’t recognize her. Believe it or not, there’s even a method to my madness. There is a grand plan, and it’s a beauty.
    But he didn’t speak to the creepy bereaved, just made his way to the pearly gates of the Schifman house. He stood there respectfully with the others—probably a couple of hundred mourners. The Beverly Hills sideshow was just getting started, just getting warmed-up.
    Man, this was some huge story, and guess what? Not one of these reporters had the
real
story. Not about Antonia—and not about her murder.
    Only he did—he was the only person in L.A. who knew what had happened, where it was going, and it felt pretty good to be in the know.
    “Hey, howya doin’?” he heard. The Storyteller froze, then turned slowly to see who was talking to him.
    He recognized the guy’s face but not exactly who the hell it was.
Where do I know this jerk from?
    “Jeez, I was just passin’ by. Heard what had happened on the radio. So I stopped to pay my respects, or whatever this is. What a shame, some tragedy, huh? This crazy world out here, you just never know,” said the Storyteller, realizing he was babbling a little bit.
    The other guy said, “No, you never do. Who the hell would want to kill Antonia Schifman? What kind of maniac? What kind of complete lunatic?”
    “Out here in L.A.,” said the Storyteller, “it could be anybody, right?”

Chapter 11
    FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER the call from D.C., a black Grand Marquis was waiting for me outside the Disneyland Hotel. I shook my head in disappointment, but also in anger—this sucked in a way that broke new territory.
    The FBI agent standing next to the car wore a pair of neatly pressed khakis and a pale-blue polo shirt. He looked ready for a round of golf at the Los Angeles Country Club. His handshake was vigorous, and a little too eager.
    “Special Agent Karl Page. I’m really glad to meet you, Dr. Cross. I’ve read your book,” he said. “Couple of times.”
    He couldn’t have been long out of the Academy at Quantico from the look of him. The California tan and nearly white blond flattop suggested that he was a local boy. Probably in his midtwenties. An eager beaver for sure.
    “Thank you,” I said. “Exactly where are we headed, Agent Page?”
    Page shut his mouth abruptly and nodded his head. Maybe he was embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to answer my question before I asked it. Then he started up again. “Yes, of course. We’re headed to Beverly Hills, Dr. Cross. The scene of the homicide, where the victim lived.”
    “Antonia Schifman,” I said with a sigh of regret.
    “That’s right. Oh, uh, have you already been briefed?”
    “Actually, no. Not very well, anyway. How about you tell me what you know on the way over to the house? I want to hear everything.”
    He turned toward the car as if to open the door for me, thought better of it, and got in on the driver’s side. I climbed in the back, and once we were on our way, Page loosened up a little as he told me about the case.
    “They’re coding this one ‘Mary Smith.’ That’s because there was an e-mail from a so-called Mary Smith, sent to an entertainment editor at the
L.A. Times
last week, taking responsibility for the first homicide.”
    I think my eyes might have crossed. “Wait. This case has been coded already?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “So this isn’t an isolated incident?” I could hear the tension in my own voice. Had Burns withheld that information from me, or hadn’t he known himself?
    “No. This is at least the
second
murder, Dr. Cross. Too early to classify it as anything, but there’s an indication of solo activity, an organized approach, possibly psychosis. And maybe some level of ritual by the same person at each of the two murder sites. We also believe the killer is a woman, which makes this very unusual.”
    So Page did know a thing or two. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help feeling duped by Burns. Why couldn’t he have just told me the truth? We were scarcely off of the Disneyland property, and already this murder case was a whole lot more complicated than he’d made it seem.
    “Son of a bitch,” I said between gritted teeth. I was getting tired of being played, and maybe tired of the Bureau, too. But maybe I was just in a bad mood because I’d been pulled away from my vacation.
    Page stiffened. “Is there a problem?”
    It would have been