Chapter 11

FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER the call from D.C., a blackGrand Marquis was waiting for me outside the DisneylandHotel. I shook my head in disappointment, but also inanger - this sucked in a way that broke new territoryThe FBI agent standing next to the car wore a pair of neatly pressed khakis and a pale-blue polo shirt. He looked ready for a round of golf at the Los Angeles Country Club. Hishandshake was vigorous, and a little too eager.

“Special Agent Karl Page. I'm really glad to meet you, Dr. Cross. I've read your book,”

he said. “Couple of times.”

He couldn't have been long out of the Academy at Quantico from the look of him. TheCalifornia tan and nearly white blond flattop suggested that he was a local boy Probablyin his midtwenties. An eager beaver for sure.

“Thank you,” I said. “Exactly where are we headed, Agent Page?” Page shut his mouthabruptly and nodded his head. Maybe he was embarrassed that he hadn't thought toanswer my question before I asked it. Then he started up again. “Yes, of course. We'reheaded to Beverly Hills, Dr. Cross. The scene of the homicide, where the victim lived.”

“Antonia Schifman,” I said with a sigh of regret.

“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 wayover 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 onthe driver's side. I climbed in the back, and once we were on our way, Page loosened upa 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, takingresponsibility fot the first homicide.”