Mary, Mary - James Patterson [40]
It was the only room with a closed door.
Inside, the office wall had conspicuous blank spots where I imagined family photos had hung. Everything else looked to be intact.
The killer is getting braver, taking more risks, but the obsession with families remains strong. The killer’s focus is powerful.
My attention went to a high-backed leather chair in front of a twenty-one-inch vertical monitor. This was the victim’s workspace and, presumably, the place where Mary Smith sat to send the e-mail to Arnold Griner at the L.A. Times.
The office also had a view of the terrace and pool below. Mary Smith could have watched Marti’s body floating facedown while she typed away. Did it repulse her? Put her into a rage? Or was she feeling gross satisfaction as she sat here looking down on her victim?
Something clicked for me. The destroyed photos here. The recent close call at the coffee house. Something Professor Papadakis had said about “avoidance.” Something else I had been thinking about that morning. Mary Smith didn’t like what she was seeing at the murder sites, did she?
The longer this went on, the more it reflected some powerful image from the past that disturbed her. Some part of herself she didn’t want to see was becoming clearer. Her response was to devolve. I hated to think about it, but she was probably losing control.
Then I corrected myself—the killer was losing control.
Chapter 46
I LAY FLAT ON MY BACK on the hotel bed that night, my head spinning in different directions, none of them worth a damn as far as I was concerned.
Mary Smith. Her pathology. Inconsistencies. Possible motivation for the murders. Nothing there so far.
Jamilla. Don’t go there either. You’re not even close to solving that.
My family back in D.C. Was I ever messing that up.
Christine and Alex Junior. Saddest of all.
I was aware that no part of my life was getting the attention it deserved lately. Everything was starting to feel like an effort. I had helped other people deal with this kind of depression, just never myself, and it seemed to me that nobody’s very good at self-analysis.
True to her word, Monnie Donnelley had already delivered some material on James Truscott. Very simply, he checked out. He was ambitious, could be considered ruthless at times, but he was a respected member of the Fourth Estate. He didn’t appear to have any connection to the Mary Smith murders.
I looked at my watch, muttered a curse, then dialed home, hoping to catch Jannie and Damon before they went off to bed.
“Hello, Cross residence. Jannie Cross speaking.”
I found myself smiling. “Is this the hugs-and-kisses store? I’d like to place an order, please.”
“Hi, Daddy. I knew you’d call.”
“Am I that predictable? Never mind. You two getting ready for bed, I hope? Ask Damon to get on the other line.”
“I’m already on. I figured it was you, Dad. You are kind of predictable. That’s a good thing.”
I caught up with the kids briefly. Damon tried to wheedle me into letting him buy a CD with a parental advisory label. No sale there, and still no word from him on the mystery girlfriend. Jannie was gearing up for her first science fair and wanted to know if I could hook her friends up to a polygraph. “Sure thing. Right after we hook up you and Damon.”
Then Jannie told me something that bothered me a lot. “That writer was here again. Nana chased him off. She gave him a good tongue-lashing, called him a ‘disgrace to his profession.’”
After I finished with the kids, I talked to Nana, and then I ordered room service. Finally, I called Jamilla in San Francisco. I was making the calls in reverse stress order, I knew, leaving the hard ones for last. Of course, there was also the issue of time zones to consider.
“This whole Mary Smith thing has gone national in a hurry,” Jamilla said. “Word up here is the LAPD isn’t even close to catching her.”
“Let’s talk about something besides work,” I said. “That okay with you?”
“Actually, I have to leave, Alex. I’m meeting a friend . . . just a friend,” she