“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 easy to blow off a little steam with him, but I wasn’t ready to start bonding with Agent Page yet. The whole idea was to float through this case as unattached as possible.
“No big problem. Nothing to do with you, anyway. Let’s get over to the murder scene. I’m only supposed to take a quick look.”
“Yes, sir.”
I caught Page’s blue eyes in the rearview mirror. “You don’t have to call me sir. I’m not your dad,” I said. Then I grinned, just in case he couldn’t tell it was a joke.
Chapter 12
HERE WE GO AGAIN. . . . The president has asked for our help. . . . I want to hear your take on what happened. My take? That was a laugh. My take was that I was being used and I didn’t like it. Also, I hated it when I whined like this.
We took the Santa Ana Freeway into downtown Los Angeles and then the Hollywood Freeway back out again. Agent Page drove with a kind of automatic aggressiveness, passing cars closely and frequently. One cell-phone-using businessman took his other hand off the wheel long enough to give us the finger.
Page seemed oblivious to all of this as he sped northward and told me what else he knew about the grisly double murder.
Both Antonia Schifman and her driver, Bruno Capaletti, had been shot somewhere between 4:00 and 5:30 in the morning. A gardener had discovered the bodies around 7:15. Schifman’s beautiful face had also been slashed with a sharp blade of some kind.
Apparently no money or other valuables had been taken. Bruno Capaletti was found with almost two hundred dollars in his pocket, and Schifman’s handbag was still in the limo next to her body. It held credit cards, diamond earrings, and more cash.
“Any prior connection between the two of them?” I asked. “Schifman and the limo driver? What do we know about the two of them?”
“The only other movie of hers Capaletti worked on was Banner Season, but he drove for Jeff Bridges on that one. We’re still checking the driver out, though. You ever see Banner Season?”
“No, I didn’t. How hot is the crime scene? Our people, LAPD, the media? Anything else I should know before we arrive?”
“I haven’t actually been there yet,” Page admitted. “But it’s probably going to be off the charts. I mean, it’s Antonia Schifman, you know? She was a really good actress. Supposed to be a nice lady.”
“Yes, she was. It’s a shame.”
“She had kids, too. Four little girls: Andi, Elizabeth, Tia, and Petra,” said Page, who clearly liked to show off.
Minutes later, we were off the highway and driving west on Sunset. I watched as the cityscape changed from the cliché-defying urban grittiness of downtown Hollywood to the lush green—and cliché—residential avenues of Beverly Hills. Rows of palm trees looked at us from above, as if down their noses.
We turned off Sunset and drove up Miller Place, a winding canyon drive, with stunning views of the city behind us. Finally, Page parked on a side street.
Television and radio vans were everywhere. Their satellite towers extended