I can believe she’s dead, he wanted to tell them. First, I put one in her head; then I hacked her face until her own mother wouldn’t recognize her. Believe it or not, there’s even a method to my madness. There is a grand plan, and it’s a beauty.

But he didn’t speak to the creepy bereaved, just made his way to the pearly gates of the Schifman house. He stood there respectfully with the others—probably a couple of hundred mourners. The Beverly Hills sideshow was just getting started, just getting warmed-up.

Man, this was some huge story, and guess what? Not one of these reporters had the real story. Not about Antonia—and not about her murder.

Only he did—he was the only person in L.A. who knew what had happened, where it was going, and it felt pretty good to be in the know.

“Hey, howya doin’?” he heard. The Storyteller froze, then turned slowly to see who was talking to him.

He recognized the guy’s face but not exactly who the hell it was. Where do I know this jerk from?

“Jeez, I was just passin’ by. Heard what had happened on the radio. So I stopped to pay my respects, or whatever this is. What a shame, some tragedy, huh? This crazy world out here, you just never know,” said the Storyteller, realizing he was babbling a little bit.

The other guy said, “No, you never do. Who the hell would want to kill Antonia Schifman? What kind of maniac? What kind of complete lunatic?”

“Out here in L.A.,” said the Storyteller, “it could be anybody, right?”

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER the call from D.C., a black Grand Marquis was waiting for me outside the Disneyland Hotel. I shook my head in disappointment, but also in anger—this sucked in a way that broke new territory.

The 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. His handshake 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. The California tan and nearly white blond flattop suggested that he was a local boy. Probably in his midtwenties. An eager beaver for sure.

“Thank you,” I said. “Exactly where are we headed, Agent Page?”

Page shut his mouth abruptly and nodded his head. Maybe he was embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to answer my question before I asked it. Then he started up again. “Yes, of course. We’re headed to Beverly Hills, Dr. Cross. The scene of the homicide, where the victim lived.”

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