AT 6:20 THAT NIGHT, I was parked up the block from Mary Wagner's house. This could definitely be something, our big break, and we all knew it. So far, we'd been able to keep the press away.
A second team was in the alley behind the house, and a third one had trailed Wagner from work at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They had just sent word that she'd stopped for groceries and was nearly home.
Sure enough, a blue Suburban, puffing smoke from the exhaust pipe, pulled into the driveway a couple of minutes later.
Ms. Wagner hoisted two plastic bags from the truck and went inside. She appeared to be a strong woman. It also looked as though she was talking to herself, but I couldn't tell for sure. Once she'd gone inside, we pulled down the street for a better view My partner for the evening was Manny Baker, an agent about my age. Manny had a good reputation, but his monosyllabic responses to polite conversation had long since dropped off to silence. So we settled in and watched the Wagner house in the gathering dusk.
Ms. Wagner's rented bungalow was in poor shape, even for a marginal neighborhood.
The gate on the chain-link fence was completely missing. The lawn overgrew what remained of the brick edging along the front walk.
The property was barely wider than the house itself, with just enough room for a driveway on the south side. The Suburban had nearly scraped the neighbor's wall when she pulled in.
Jeremy Kilbourn, the man who had called in to us about the Suburban, lived next door and owned both houses. We'd learned from him that Ms. Wagner's bungalow had belonged to his mother until she died fourteen months prior. Mary Wagner moved in shortly after that and had been paying cash rent, on time, ever since. Kilbourn thought she was “a weird chick” but friendly enough, and said she kept mostly to herself.
Tonight, his house was dark. He had taken his family to stay with relatives until Mary Wagner was checked out.
As dusk changed to night, it grew quiet and still on the street. Mary Wagner finally turned on a few lights and seemed to settle in. I couldn't help thinking, life of quiet desperation. At one point, I got out my Maglite and my wallet, and I stole a glance at the pictures I had of Damon, Jannie, and Little Alex, wondering what they were doing right now In the dark, I didn't have to worry about the goofy grin it put on my face.
For the next several hours, I divided my attention between Mary Wagner's unchanging house and a file of case notes in my lap. The notes were more of a prop than anything else. Everything there was to know about Mary Smith was already lodged in my head.
Then I saw something - someone, actually - and I almost couldn't believe my eyes.
“Oh, no,” I said out loud. “Oh,Jesus!”
Poor Manny Baker almost jumped out of his seat.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 87
“HEY! TRUSCOTT! Stop right there! I said stop.” I got out of the car as I saw the writer and his photographer approaching Mary Wagner's house, What in hell were they doing here?
We were about the same distance from the bungalow, and suddenly Truscott started to run for it.
So did I, and I was a lot faster than the reporter, and maybe faster than he thought I might be. He gave me no other choice - so I tackled him before he got to the front door. I hit him at the waist, and Truscott went down hard, grunting in pain.
That was the good part, hitting him. What a mess, though, a complete disaster! Mary Wagner was sure to hear us and come out to look, and then we'd be blown. Everything was going to unravel in a hurry now. There wasn't much I could do about it.
I dragged the reporter by his feet until we were out of sight from the Wagner house, and hopefully out of sound.
“I have every right to be here. I'll sue you for everything you have, Cross.”
“Fine, sue me.”
Because Truscott had started to scream at me, and his photographer was still snapping pictures, I put him in a hammerlock, and I ran him even farther up the street.
“You can't do this! You have no right!”
“Get her! Take that camera away!” I called to the other agents coming up from the rear.
“I'm gonna sue your ass! I'll sue you and the Bureau back to the Dark Ages, Cross!”
Truscott was still shouting as three of us finally carried him around the fist corner we reached. Then I cuffed James Truscott and shoved the writer into one of our sedans.
“Get him out of here!” I told an agent. “The camerawoman, too.”
I took one last look into the backseat before Truscott was hauled away. “Sue me, Sue the
