“Little piece of advice,” I told him. “You should know what you’re talking about before you start throwing accusations around. You’re just going to make your own job harder.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible at this point,” he said curtly. “Now I think we’ve covered everything. You know how to reach me if you have questions, or hell, even if you have something that will help us out.”

“Absolutely.”

I could have punched him in the back of the head as he walked away. It was maybe the only thing that could have taken our first meeting to a lower level.

“Great guy,” Page said. “Lots of personality, social skills, the whole package.”

“Yeah, I’m all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Instead of dwelling on it, I turned back to the work. If the lines of communication with LAPD were going to be strained further, we needed our own analysis more than ever. Page didn’t ask me to, but I walked him through my process. We worked in a spiral out from the bodies, as anyone else would, but much more slowly.

First we covered the condo, inch by inch; then we worked out to the hallway, front and back stairs, and then the grounds around the building.

I was curious to see how Page’s patience held, or if everyone his age was too hurry-up to do this work right. Page did just fine. He was really into the case.

We were outside when we got word from the Bureau’s electronic surveillance unit. At 5:30 that morning, another e-mail had shown up at Arnold Griner’s L.A. Times address.

A letter from Mary Smith had arrived—written to the man she had just killed.

Chapter 73

Chapter 73

To: [email protected]

From: Mary Smith

To: Arnold Griner:

Guess what? I followed you home to your new apartment, after you had dinner with friends at that Asia de Cuba place on Sunset.

You parked under the building and took the stairs up the back. Huffing up a single flight? I could see that you’re out of shape, Arnold. And out of time, I’m afraid.

I waited outside until your apartment lights came on, and then I followed. I wasn’t as afraid anymore, not like I used to be. The gun used to feel strange and unwieldy in my hand. Now it’s like I barely know it’s there.

You haven’t installed a dead bolt on your back door. Maybe you’ve been meaning to but you’ve been too busy with the move; or maybe you just felt a little safer in the new place so it didn’t seem to matter. You’d be right about that last part. It doesn’t matter—not anymore.