Mary, Mary (6 page)
I’LL ADMIT,
when I hung up the phone, my pulse was racing a little, but I felt relieved as well. I thought that Ron Burns would probably back me up on this, but you know what? I didn’t even care.
An hour later I was dressed and ready to go be a tourist. “Who wants to have breakfast with Goofy?” I called out.
The hotel offered “character breakfasts,” and it seemed like a good way to channel our energies right back into vacation mode. A little corny for sure, but sometimes corny is good, real good, keeps everything in perspective.
Jannie and Damon came into the suite’s living room, both of them looking a little wary. I held out two fists, fingers up.
“Each of you pick a hand,” I said.
“Daddy, we’re not babies anymore,” Jannie said. “I’m eleven. Have you noticed?”
I put on a shocked expression.
“You’re not?”
It brought out the kind of laughter I was looking for.
“This is serious business,” I told them. “I’m not kidding. Now, pick a hand. Please.”
“What is it?” Damon asked.
But I kept mute.
Jannie finally tapped my left hand, and then Damon shrugged and pointed to the right.
“Good choice.” I turned it over and unclenched my fingers. Both kids leaned in for a closer look.
“Your
pager?
” Damon asked.
“I just turned it off. Now Nana and I are going to wait out in the hall, and I want you two to hide it somewhere. Hide it good. I don’t want to see that thing again, not until we’re back in D.C.”
Both Jannie and Damon began to whistle and cheer. Even Nana let out a whoop. We were finally on vacation.
MAYBE THERE WAS
a silver lining in all of this misery and desolation. Not likely, but maybe. Arnold Griner knew he had exclusive rights to his own story when this terrible mess was all over. And you know what else? He wouldn’t settle for just a TV movie. He was going to try to serialize the whole thing in his column, and then sell it as a prestige project at one of the studios.
Hollywood Under Siege? The War Against the Stars?
Bad titles. That was the concept, anyway.
He shook his head and refocused on the San Diego Freeway. The Xanax he’d taken was making him a little loopy. He’d kept the caffeine going, too, just to maintain some kind of balance through the day. Actually, the morning commute was the hardest time of his day. It was a daily transition from not worrying as much to worrying a lot and feeling sick to his stomach. The closer he got to his office, his desk, his computer, the more anxious he felt.
If he knew for certain that another creepy e-mail was coming, it would almost be easier. It was the not-knowing part that made it hell.
Would Mary be back? Would it happen today? But, most important, why was she writing to him?
All too soon, he arrived at Times Mirror Square. Griner worked in the older part of the complex, a 1930s-era building that he had a certain affection for, under normal circumstances, anyway.
The main doors were large bronze affairs, flanked with imposing twin eagle sculptures. He walked right by them this morning, around to the back entrance, and took the stairs to the third floor. One couldn’t be too careful, could one?
A reporter named Jennie Bloom fell into step with him the second he hit the newsroom floor. Among all the staff who had shown a sudden interest in his well-being, she was by far the most obvious about it. Or was that odious?
“Hey, Arnold, how’s it going? You doing okay, man? What are you covering today?”
Griner didn’t miss a beat. “Jen, if that’s your idea of a pickup line, you must be the most unlaid woman in L.A.”
Jennie Bloom merely grinned and kept on coming on. “Spoken like someone with experience in matters of the heart. All right then, let’s skip the foreplay. You get any more e-mails? You need help on this, right? I’m here for you. You need a woman’s point of view.”
“Seriously, I just need some space. Okay? I’ll let you know if I get anything else.” He turned abruptly and walked away from her.
“No you won’t,” she called after him.
“No I won’t,” he said, and kept walking.
In some ways, even the annoying distractions were a relief. As soon as he turned away from Bloom, his mind went back into the disturbing loop it had been on before.
Why me? Why did Crazy Mary pick me out? Why not Jennie Bloom?
Would it happen again today? Another high-profile murder?
And then it did.
A CALM, MEASURED FEMALE
voice said, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“This is Arnold Griner at the
Los Angeles Times
. I’m supposed to call a Detective Jeanne Galletta, but I don’t . . . I can’t find her number on my desk. I’m sorry. I’m a little rattled right now. I can’t even find my Rolodex.”
“Sir, is this an emergency call? Do you need assistance?”
“Yes, it’s definitely an emergency. Someone may have been murdered. I don’t know how long ago this happened, or even if it did for sure. Has anyone called about someone named Marti Lowenstein-Bell?”
“Sir, I can’t give out that kind of information.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just send someone to the Lowenstein-Bell residence. I think she’s been killed. I’m almost sure of it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I just am. Okay? I’m almost positive there’s been a murder.”
“What is the address?”
“The address? Oh, Jesus, I don’t know the address. The body is supposed to be in the swimming pool.”
“Are you at the residence now?”
“No. No. Listen, this is a . . . I don’t know how to make this clear to you. It’s the Mary Smith murder case. The Hollywood celebrity killings. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“All right, sir, I think I understand. What was the name again?”
“Lowenstein-Bell. Marti. I know her husband’s name is Michael Bell. You might find it under that. I don’t know for certain if she’s dead. I just got this awful message. I’m a reporter at the
L.A. Times
. My name is Arnold Griner. Detective Galletta knows who I am.”
“Sir, I have the information now. I’m going to put you on hold for just a minute.”
“
No, don’t
—”
LAPD DISPATCH PUT OUT A CALL
at 8:42
A.M.
, sending officers, backup, and emergency medical personnel to the Lowenstein-Bell address in Bel Air.
Two separate 911 calls on the same incident had come within a few minutes of each other. The first one was from the
Los Angeles Times
. The second came from the Lowenstein-Bell residence itself.
Officers Jeff Campbell and Patrick Beneke were first at the scene. Campbell suspected before they arrived that this was another celebrity murder. The address alone was unusual for this kind of call, but dispatch had mentioned a single adult female victim. And possible knife wounds. The couple who owned the house were both Hollywood types. It added up to trouble no matter what.
A short, dark-haired woman in a gray-and-white maid’s uniform was waiting in the driveway. She was wringing some kind of towel. As the patrolmen got closer, they could see that the woman was sobbing, and walking in circles.
“Great,” Beneke said. “Just what we need, some Carmelita who doesn’t even speak English, bawling her eyes out and acting
muy loco
.”
Campbell responded the way he always did to the younger officer’s tiresome, racist cynicism. “Shut the hell up, Beneke. I don’t want to hear it. She’s terrified.”
As soon as they were out of the car, the maid went hysterical.
“Aquí, aquí, aquí!”
she screeched, motioning them toward the front door.
“Aquí! Aquí!”
The residence was an ultramodern stone-and-glass structure high in the Santa Monica Mountains. As he approached, Officer Campbell could see straight through the green-glass entryway to the back patio and the sweeping coastal view beyond.
What was that on the front-door glass?
It looked totally out of place. A label or a sticker of some kind. A kiddie decal? With a large
A
on it.
He had to practically pry the maid’s grip from his forearm. “Ma’am, just please be calm.
Uno momento, por favor. Como te llamas?
”
The woman may or may not have heard him. Her Spanish came much too quickly for him to understand. She pointed toward the house several more times.
“Let’s just get in there,” Beneke insisted. “We’re wasting time with her. She’s living the
vida loca
.”
Two more cruisers and an ambulance pulled up. One of the paramedics spoke quickly, and more efficiently, with the maid.
“In the pool in the back,” he reported. “No one else is here—as far as she knows.”
“She don’t know shit,” said Beneke.
“We’ll go around,” Campbell said. He and Beneke took the north side of the house, their weapons drawn. The other teams went to the south, straight through a set of hedges.
Campbell felt the old rush of adrenaline as they worked their way through a dense cluster of hydrangea. Homicide calls used to be almost exhilarating. Now they just made him feel light-headed and weak in the legs.
He squinted through the thick brush as best he could. From what he knew of the Hollywood murders, there was no way the killer would still be around.
“You see anything?” he whispered to his partner, who was twenty-nine, a California cowboy, and a total asshole most of the time.
“Yeah, a bunch of flowers,” Beneke answered. “We were the first ones here. Why’d you let them go ahead of us like that?”
Campbell stifled his first response. “Just keep your eyes open,” he said. “The killer could still be here.”
“That’s my hope,
podjo
.”
They emerged onto a sweeping black-slate patio in the back. It was dominated by an enormous dark-bottomed infinity pool. The water seemed to flow right up to and over the edge of the terrace.
“There she is.” Campbell groaned.
A woman’s stark-white body floated facedown, arms perpendicular to the torso. She wore a lime-green one-piece. Her long blond hair was splayed gently over the surface of the water.
One of the paramedics jumped into the pool and with some difficulty turned her over. He put a finger to her throat, but it was already obvious to Campbell there would be no pulse.
“Holy shit!” Campbell grimaced and looked away, then back again. He held his breath to keep everything down. Who the hell could do something like this? The poor woman was practically erased from the neck up. Her face was a tangle of cut flesh. The pool’s water was tinted bright pink all around the body.
Beneke walked over to get a closer look. “Same killer. I’ll bet you anything. Same crazy killer did this.” He leaned over to help pull the woman out.
“Wait,” Campbell barked. He pointed to the paramedic who was still in the water. “You. Get out of the pool. Get out of the pool right now.”
Stone-faced, they all looked at Campbell, but they knew he was right. Even Beneke didn’t say a word. There was no sense putting any more of their stamp on the murder scene until an investigative team got there. They would have to leave the victim where she was.
“Hey! Hey, guys!”
Campbell looked up to see another officer, Jerry Tounley, calling down from an open window upstairs. “Office is completely trashed up here. There’s broken pictures, stuff everywhere, glass. And get this—the computer’s still on and open to a mail program! Looks like someone was sending an e-mail before they left.”
From: Mary Smith
To: Marti Lowenstein-Bell:
I watched you having dinner last night. You and your fine family of five. Very cozy and nice. “Mother Knows Best.” With those immaculately clean glass walls of yours, it couldn’t have been easier to watch. I enjoyed seeing you with your kids at your last supper.
I could actually see the delicious-looking food on your plates, prepared by your cook and nanny, of course. You were having a swell time, and that’s fine with me. I wanted you to enjoy yourself on your last night. I especially wanted your kids to have a lasting memory. Now I have a memory of them, too.
I’ll never forget their sweet faces. Never, ever forget your kids, Marti. Trust me on it.
What a beautiful, beautiful house you have, Marti, as befits such an important writer and film director. Is that the right order, by the way? I think so.
I didn’t come inside until later, when you were putting the girls to bed. You left the patio doors open again, and this time I used them.
I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see things just the way you see them, from the inside looking out.
But I still don’t understand why all you rich people feel so safe in your houses. Those big castles can’t protect you if you aren’t paying close attention.
And you weren’t. You weren’t paying attention at all. Too busy being a mom—or too busy being a star?
I listened to you upstairs, doing bedtime with the girls. It was kind of touching, and I mean that. You probably thought you would be the last one to tuck them in, but you weren’t.
Later, when everyone was asleep, I watched each of those girls in her bed, breathing so peacefully. They were like little angels with no cares in the world.
I didn’t have to tell them they had nothing to worry about, because they already knew. It was just the opposite for you. I decided to wait until the morning, so that I could be with you alone, Madam Director.
I’m really glad I waited, too. Your husband, Michael, took the girls to school today. His turn, I guess. That was lucky for everyone, but especially for him. He got to live, and you didn’t have to watch him die. And I got you the way I wanted, just the way I had imagined it for such a long time.
Here’s what happened next, Marti.
Your last morning started like any other. You did your precious Pilates and then went for laps in the pool. Fifty laps, just like always. It must be nice to have such a big swimming pool. Heated, too. I stood and watched you gliding back and forth in the sparkling blue water. Even there, so close, it took you forever to see me.
When you finally looked up, you must have been good and tired. Too tired to scream I suppose. All you did was turn away, but it didn’t stop me from shooting you. Or then cutting your pretty face to ribbons and shreds.
Tell you what, Marti, that was the best part of all. I’m starting to really like defacement.
Now, let me ask one final question—
do you know why you had to die? Do you know what you did to deserve this? Do you know, Marti, do you know?
Somehow, I doubt it.