“Excuse me.” I got Karl Page in the crisis center.
“I thought you'd want to know right away - yeah, just a second, I'll be there - her time sheets check out perfectly Mary Wagner wasn't at work for at least two hours before and two hours after every estimated time of death. No exceptions. Cha-ching!”
“Okay thanks. I'm out of here. She's working today.”
“When did you last see her?”
“About ten minutes ago. I have to go, Page.” Perkins was looking at me expectantly, and I didn't want him asking too many questions. The receiver was halfway back to the cradle when I heard Page shout, “Wait!”
I gave Perkins a sorry with my eyebrows. Sometimes Agent Page could be a little exasperating, almost as if he was trying too hard.
“What, Karl?”
“Mary Smith's last e-mail, Alex. The murder that's supposed to happen by twelve tomorrow”
“Yeah, I got it,” I said, and hung up the phone. I already knew what Page was trying to tell me.
Tomorrow was Mary Wagner's day off.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 90
I WAS ALREADY CONVINCED it was crucial that I try to speak with Mary Wagner before the trauma of an arrest. That was my strong gut response on this strange case. I knew LAPD was going to be under a lot of pressure to move quickly, though. It meant I had to move even faster if I could.
I hurried back to the Bureau and found Van Allsburg in his office. “Don't ask me. Not my call,“ he said, after I'd made my case for the interview. ”If Maddux Fielding wants to move in on her-”
“Then do me one favor,” I said.
Minutes later, we were on the phone in Fred's office. I knew Maddux Fielding probably wouldn't take my call, but Van Allsburg got patched through right away “Maddux, I've got Alex Cross here. He's making a pretty good argument for holding off on Mary Wagner, just long enough to interview her.“ ”How much more do you think we're going to get on her?“ Fielding asked. ”It's done. We've got plenty to take her in.”
“It's all circumstantial,” I said into the speakerphone. “You'll have to let her go.”
“Yeah, well I'm working on that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, already starting to fume. “What aren't you telling us, Maddux? What's the point of shutting us out?”
He ignored my legitimate question with one of his trademark stony silences.
“Listen, between LAPD and the Bureau, she's under constant surveillance; she hasn't shown any sign of making a move. We know her timetable. Let me just talk to her at home. This could be a last chance to get her in a nondefensive state.” I hated the conciliatory tone of my voice, but I knew the interview with Mary could be important.
“Detective, I know you and I have our disagreements,” I said, “but we're both going for a quick resolve here. This is what I do best. If you'll just let me “Be at her house by six,” he said suddenly. ”I'm not making any promises to you though, Cross. If she doesn't go home after work, or if anything else changes, that's the end of it.
We grab her."
By the time I had arched my eyebrows, there was a click on the line and the call was over.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 91
SHE DIDN'T BOTHER to use the chain lock. I heard it rattle on the back of the front door as she opened it.
“Mary Wagner?”
“Yes?”
Her large feet were bare, but she still wore the pink maid's uniform from the Beverly Hills Hotel. She smiled engagingly before she knew who I was.
“I'm Agent Cross with the FBI.” I held up my ID, which included my shield. “May I come in and ask you a few questions? It's important.”
Her tired face sagged. “It's about the car, isn't it? Lord, I wish I could just paint that thing or trade it in or something. I've been getting all kinds of embarrassing looks - you wouldn't believe.”
Her manner was more outgoing than anything I'd seen at the hotel, but she had the beleaguered, animated quality of a public-school kindergarten teacher with way too many students.
“Yes, ma'am,” I said. "It is about the car. Just a formality; we're following up on as many blue Suburbans as we can.
May I come in? It won't take long."
“Of course. I don't mean to be rude. Please, come on inside. Come.”
I waved to Baker on the curb.
“Five minutes,” I called out, mostly just to let Ms. Wagner know I wasn't alone at her house. Hopefully, the unmarked LAPD units up and down the street were more invisible to her eyes than mine.
I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. Adrenaline shot through my body in an instant. Was this woman a killer, possibly an insane one? For some strange reason, I didn't feel threatened by her.
The neatness of the house made a strong first impression on me. The floors were recently swept, and I saw no signs of clutter anywhere.
A wooden cutout hung in the front hallway. It was in the shape of a curtsying farm girl with the word Welcome stenciled across her skirt. The relative disrepair outside, I suddenly realized, was the landlord's domain. This was hers.
“Please sit down,” she said.
Mary Wagner gestured me toward the living room through an archway to my right. A mismatched sofa and love seat took up most of the room.
Her television was on mute, and a can of Diet Pepsi and a half-eaten bowl of soup sat on the worn redwood coffee table. “Am I interrupting your dinner?” I asked. “I'm real sorry about that.” Not that I was going to leave.
“Oh, no, no, not at all. I'm not much of an eater.” She quickly turned off the TV and cleared the food away.
I stayed in the hail and glanced around while she put the dishes on the kitchen counter in the back. Nothing looked out of place. Just a regular house that was almost too neat, uncluttered, spick-and-span clean.
“Would you like something to drink?” she called out from the other room.
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Water? Soda? Orange juice? It's no bother, Agent Cross.”
“I'm fine.”
Her journal was probably here in the house, but nowhere that I could see. She'd been watchingJeopardy! on TV “Actually, I'm out of orange juice, anyway,” she said genially, coming back toward me.
She was either completely comfortable or very good at faking it. Very odd. I followed her into the living room, and we both sat down.
“So, what can I do for you?” she asked in a kindly tone that was oddly unsettling. “I'd like to help, of course.”
I kept my own tone casual and nonthreatening. “First of all, are you the only driver for your car?”
“Just me.” She smiled as though the question was vaguely funny. I wondered why “Has it been outside of your supervision at any time in the past six weeks or so?”
“Well, when I sleep, of course. And when I'm at work. I do housekeeping at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“I see. So you need the car for transportation to work.” She fingered the collar of her uniform and eyeballed the pad in my hand as though she wanted me to write that part down. On an impulse, I went ahead and did it.
“So I guess the answer is yes,” she went on. "Technically, it has been outside of my. . .
whatever you said. Supervision.“ Her laugh was a tiny bit coy. ”My purview."
I scribbled a few more notes of my own. Eager to please? Busy hands. Wants inc to know she's intelligent.
As we continued, I watched her as much as I listened. Nothing she said was really out of the ordinary, though. What struck hardest was the way she concentrated on me. Her hands kept landing in different places, but her brown eyes didn't travel very far from my own. I got the impression she was glad I was there.
When I stood up at the end of the interview, as if to leave, her face dropped.