Then I followed you to the hotel in West Hollywood. At first I didn’t know why you went there, but I figured out pretty quickly that you weren’t going to die alone. That delicious-looking blond man you met—you two were perfect for each other. Central casting all the way.

I could tell just by looking that he’s the kind of somebody you are. Am I right? He went to the Olympics, after all. He’s an exec at your network. Another fast-tracker. And now you have another thing in common. You’re both dead somebodies. Killed by a nobody you couldn’t even see when you looked right at her.

I gave you two some quality time before I came up there for you. Enough time to feel safe in your little cocoon of deceit. Maybe even enough to do what you had in mind for your sneaky little rendezvous. Then, when I came in, I saw him first. That was a bit of good luck. Know why? I wanted you to see him die. It put the fear of God on your face before I shot you—and then I got to cut that fear away, one piece at a time, until you weren’t afraid anymore.

You weren’t anything anymore.

You were nothing, Suzie Cartoulis.

Just like me.

Chapter 61

Chapter 61

I WAS STILL ON THE ROAD when word came about Mary Smith’s latest—a triple homicide this time, the killer’s deadliest strike to date, at least as far as we knew for certain. I was still chasing down leads on the triple homicide in New York, but progress was slow, and suddenly I was off to another crime scene.

Susan Cartoulis, a prizewinning newscaster, had been found dead, along with her lover, in a room at the Ramada Plaza Suites in West Hollywood.

The dead man was Brian Conver, a sports producer at the same network where Ms. Cartoulis worked. A second woman, Mariah Alexander, a college student who attended Southern Cal, had also been killed. What was that all about?

I asked Agent Page to read Mary Smith’s latest e-mail message over the phone while I drove. The text made clear that the newswoman had been the primary target. Mr. Conver was never mentioned by name, and there was no reference whatsoever to any Mariah Alexander.

“What do we know about Susan Cartoulis?” I asked Page. “Does she fit the MO?”

“Basically, yeah. She fits right into the puzzle. Married with one son, good-looking woman, high profile in the city. She was a ten-o’clock anchor for a local affiliate. Also the honorary chair of the Cedars-Sinai pediatric burn unit capital campaign. Nine-year-old son. Another perfect mom.”

“With a boyfriend on the side.”

“Well, I guess nobody’s perfect. Is that what Mary’s trying to tell us?”

“Maybe,” I said.