“LAPD is urging area residents to remain calm and go about their business. Many people, however, aren’t buying it.

“One citizens’ group appeared at the local precinct, demanding to see the ‘kill list,’ which police claim doesn’t even exist. Either way, and whoever you choose to believe, one thing is clear: The Stalker has this community”—she inserted a reporterly pause—“very much on edge. Lorraine Solie, reporting live from Beverly Hills.”

Kill list? What the hell was this? Had the LAPD found out something and then not shared it with us? It wouldn’t be the only time.

The first person I was able to reach at the FBI field office was David Fujishiro, another special agent assigned to the murder case.

“It’s way, way out in left field,” he told me. “There’s this supposed list with twenty-one names, starting with Patrice Bennett, Antonia Schifman, and Marti Lowenstein-Bell. The idea is that it’s Mary Smith’s agenda.”

“And everyone in L.A. wants to know if they’re on it?” I asked. “One of the twenty-one?”

“Right. And it gets even better than that. The rumor is that anyone on the list can buy their way off by sending a hundred thousand dollars to a post office box in Orange County that doesn’t seem to exist. We’ve checked it all out, not that anyone believes us. People are actually threatening legal action against the LAPD.”

“But there’s no truth to the rumor, David? You’re sure?”

“Not that we know of. But hey, what the hell do we know? We’re only the FBI.”

“This case is getting its own social life,” I said. “Has anybody spoken to Detective Galletta about the list?”

“I don’t know, but—what?” There was a pause on the line. “Hang on, Alex.”

“David? What’s happening?”

I could hear voices in the background, but nothing distinct. Agent Fujishiro came back on and told me to wait another second. “Something’s up,” he added.

“Wait!” I yelled, but it was no good. He was gone again.

More voices came, then a general rumbling, rising in pitch. What the hell was happening?

Then I heard Fujishiro saying “Yeah, I’ve got him right here on the phone.”

“Alex? Fred Van Allsburg needs to talk to you right now. Hold the line.”

I was never glad to hear from Van Allsburg, but his voice had a no-bullshit tension to it.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out right now. All we know at the moment is that Arnold Griner at the Times just got another e-mail. Can you get over to the L.A. Times office right away?”

“Not if there’s a new murder scene, I can’t. I need to see it now.”

“I’m not going to negotiate this, Alex. We’ll get word to you as soon as we know what’s what. Meanwhile —”