She sat at the computer and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “What do you know so far?”
she asked when Hatfield came over.
“Same kind of message, written to the same guy at the Times. Arnold Griner. It's possible someone got hold of those other e-mails, but this feels like her to me. You've heard of Carmen D'Abruzzi, right?”
“The chef? Of course. She's got her own show. I watch it occasionally; I just don't cook.”
Trattoria D'Abruzzi was a flavor-of-the-month restaurant in Hollywood, an A-list dinner and after-hours place. More important, Galletta knew, Carmen D'Abruzzi had a very popular syndicated show in which she cooked for her beautiful husband and her two perfect children. Everything was a little too perfect for Galletta's taste, but she did watch the show sometimes.
Galletta shook her head. “Goddammit. D'Abruzzi's just this killer's type. Have you found her yet?”
“That's the kicker,” Hatfield told her. “She's fine, no problem. A little freaked out maybe, but okay Same with her family We've got a unit at her house already Check it out - whoever wrote that e-mail never sent it or even finished it.”
Jeanne Galletta's head bobbed again. “What the hell? She didn't send it?”
"Maybe she got spooked for whatever reason, wasn't thinking clearly, and just left.
Maybe she didn't like the coffee here. I sure don't."
Galletta stood up and looked over the assembled customers and staff again. “Or maybe she's still here.”
“You really think so?”
"Actually, no fucking way She's not dumb. Still, I want to talk to every one of these dinks. This place is a closed box until further notice. Do some initial screening, but no one leaves without going through me personally Understand?
No one. Not for any reason. Not even if they have a note from their mom."
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Hatfield answered. “I got it.” As Hatfield walked away, Jeanne Galletta heard him mutter something like “calm down” under his breath. Typical. Male cops tended to respond one way to a man's orders and another to a woman's. She shrugged it off and turned her attention to the half-finished e-mail on the screen.
Half-finished? What the hell was that all about?
Mary, Mary
Chapter 39
To: agriner@latimes.com From: Mary Smith To: Carmen D'bruzzi: You worked at your restaurant until three in the morning last night, didn't you? Busy, busy girl! Then you walked two long blocks by yourself to your car. That's what you thought, isn't it? That you were all alone?
But you weren't, Carmen. I was right there on the sidewalk with you. I didn't even try to be careful. You made it easy for me. Not too bright. So into yourself. Me, me, me, me.
Maybe you don't watch the news. Or maybe you just ignore it. Maybe you don't care that someone is out there looking for people just like you. It was almost like you wanted me to kil1 you. Which is good, I guess. Because that's what I wanted, too.
Watching you, trying to be you, I had to wonder if you ever told your two darling children to look both ways when they cross the street. You sure didn't set a good example for thony and Martina last night. You never looked around, not once.
Which is too bad for all of you, the whole damn pretty-as-a-picture family as seen on your cooking show.
There's no telling when your children might end up alone on the curb without you, is there? Now they'll have to learn that important safety lesson from someone else.
After you got
Mary, Mary
Chapter 40
IT ENDED JUST LIKE THAT - in midsentence.
Even if it hadn't, this was a whole new wrinkle in the case. Carmen D'Abruzzi wasn't dead, and they had the death- threat note. That was something positive, right?
Jeanne Galletta squeezed her eyes shut, trying to process the new information quickly and correctly Maybe Mary Smith drafted her messages ahead of time and then finalized them posthomicide.
But why leave this one here? Would she do it on purpose? Was this even her at all?
Might not be.
Jesus Christ, the questions never ended on this one. So where the hell were the answers?
How about just one answer for starters?
She thought about Alex Cross - something he'd said in that book of his. “Keep asking until you find the keystone, the one question at the heart of it all. Then you can start working your way back out again. That's when you start finding answers.”
The one question. The keystone. What the hell was it?
Well, six hours later it was still a mystery for Galletta. Just after dark, she finally let the last of the morning's customers go home. Five people had given five different eyewitness accounts about who was sitting at the computer in question; the rest of them had no clue.
No one Detective Galletta spoke to struck her as remotely suspicious, but all twenty-six would require follow-up. The paperwork alone was more than she wanted to think about, now or ever.
To no one's surprise, Mary Smith's credit card turned out to be hot. It belonged to an eighty-year-old woman in Sherman Oaks who didn't even realize it was gone, a Mrs.
Debbie Green. Nothing else had been charged on the card; there was no paper trail, no anything. She's careful, and she's organized - for such an obvious nutcase.
Galletta asked Brett the manager for a full-strength espresso. From here, it was back to the office, where she would sort through the day's events while they were fresh in her memonj Her neighbor said he'd let the dog out. The Chinese place along the way to her office said twenty minutes for pickup. Life was good, no? No! She wondered if she'd be home before midnight and, even then, if she'd be able to sleep.
Probably not - on both counts.
So what was the one question she needed to ask? Where Was that keystone?
Or was Alex Cross just full of shit?
Mary, Mary
Chapter 41
“SHE NEVER KNEW what she wanted, Sugar, and maybe she still doesn't. I liked Christine, but she was never the same after what happened in Jamaica. She has to move on, and so do you.”
Sampson and I were holed up at Zinny's, a favorite neighborhood dive. B.B. King's “I Done Got Wise” was wailing on the jukebox. Nothing but the blues would do tonight, not for me anyway What the place lacked in cheeriness, it made up for in Raphael, a bartender who knew us by name and had a heavy pour. I contemplated the Scotch in front of me. I was trying to recall if it was my third or fourth. Man, I was feeling tired. I remembered a line from one of the Indiana Jones movies: “It's not the years, honey It's the mileage.”
“Christine's not the point, though, is she, John?” I looked sideways at Sampson. “The point is Little Alex. Ali. That's how he calls himself. He's already his own person.”
He patted me on the top of my head. “The point is right here on your skull, Sugar. Now you listen to me.”
He waited until I sat up and gave him my full attention. Then his gaze slowly drifted up to the ceiling. He shut his eyes and grimaced. “Shit. I forgot what I was going to say Too bad, too. I was going to make you feel a whole lot better.”
I laughed in spite of myself. Sampson always knew when to go light with me. It had been like that since we were ten years old and growing up in D.C. together.
“Well, next best thing then,” he said. He motioned to Raphael for two more.
“You never know what's going to happen,” I said, partly to myself. “When you're in love. There's no guarantee.”
“Truth,” Sampson said. "If you'd told me I'd have a kid, ever, I would have laughed.