I WOKE UP SUDDENLY to a slightly bemused flight attendant staring down at me. I remembered that it was the next morning and I was on a United jet back to L.A. Her curious expression indicated she had just asked a question.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Could you please put up your tray table? Put your seat forward. We’ll be landing in Los Angeles in just a few minutes.”

Before I had drifted off, I’d been thinking about James Truscott and how he’d suddenly appeared in my life. Coincidence? I tended not to believe in it. So I’d called a researcher and friend at Quantico, and asked her to get me some more information on Truscott. Monnie Donnelley had promised that soon I’d know more about Truscott than even I wanted to know.

I gathered up my papers. It wasn’t a good idea to leave them out like that, and not like me; it was also unlike me to sleep on flights. Everything was a little upside down these days. Just a little, right?

My Mary Smith file had grown considerably thicker in just a few days. The recent false alarm was a conundrum. I wasn’t even sure that Mary Smith was behind that one.

Looking at the murder reports, I had a picture of someone who was growing more confident in her work, and definitely more aggressive. She was moving in on her targets—literally. The first site, the Patrice Bennett murder, was a public space. The next time was outside of Antonia Schifman’s home. Now, all indications were that Mary Smith had spent part of the night inside Marti Lowenstein-Bell’s house before eventually killing her in the pool.

Anyway, here I was back in L.A. again, getting off a plane, renting a car—even though I probably could have asked Agent Page to pick me up.

Looks-wise, the L.A. Bureau field office put D.C. headquarters to shame. Instead of the claustrophobic maze I was used to back East, this was nine stories of open floor plan, polished glass, and lots of natural light. From the cubicle they had assigned me on the fifteenth floor, I had a great view of the Getty Museum and beyond. At most field offices, I’d be lucky to get a chair and a desk.

Agent Page started hovering about ten minutes after I got there. I knew that Page was a sharp enough guy, very ambitious, and with some seasoning, he was going to make a good agent. But I just didn’t need somebody looking over my shoulder right now. It was bad enough to have Director Burns on me, not to mention the writer, JamesTruscott. My Boswell, right? Or was he something else?

Page asked if there was anything at all that I needed. I held up my file.