Dantes' Inferno (48 page)

“After Samantha Grayson died, Lang started investigating on his own and found a string of incidents: abrupt arguments; paranoia, accusations of misconduct and negligence leveled by Palmer against her coworkers. He also found a disturbing number of ‘untimely' deaths—accidental and ‘natural'. Together, the incidents and the deaths began to carry weight.”

“Were the accusations of negligence and misconduct groundless or did Palmer have a point?”

“Either way, a punishment of death is a bit harsh,” Sweetheart said, his expression flat, his voice deadpan.

Sylvia took a drink of her vodka tonic. Ice beaded on the
glass, dripping onto her fingers and then onto deep mahogany wood. “In her line of work, psych screens are a given. Is she a full-blown psychopath? Is she paranoid? Schizotypal?”

“Her test scores fall within normal range.”

“So she's smart enough to fake good.”

“As far as the world's concerned, she's hyper-functional. She's
abnormal
only because she's brilliant, ambitious, highly moral, and charismatic.”

“Since when do you care what the world believes? What's the real story?”

“The surveillance team has seen some eccentric behavior.” Sweetheart crossed his arms over his broad chest. “And there have been fleeting rumors of a breakdown, time spent at private retreats—we'll have to look more closely at the rumors. It's our job to figure out why she kills, her pattern, her particular system of reference.” He paused, his expression shrewd, opting then for understatement. “It's an interesting case.”

Sylvia didn't speak immediately. In her glass, the last of the ice was melting in front of her eyes.
What's there, what's not there?
It took her a moment to focus on Sweetheart's face. She said, “Why do I have the feeling you've left something out?”

He didn't blink, didn't react. From a distance Sweetheart could almost pass for a tourist.
Almost
. He was dressed in slightly rumpled linen, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of gray slacks, his broad, muscled shoulders softened by the casual yellow shirt. But even in shadow his symmetrical features teased the viewer with alternating glimpses of European and Polynesian ancestry, the power of his body was undeniable, and the dark eyes gleamed with extraordinary intelligence.

The dead cases, the inactive files—there were no such things in Sweetheart's language. She'd heard whispers of his alliances with the CIA and M.I.6, as well as the FBI. (She didn't know how much was truth versus lie.) But his specialty could be summed up in the phrase,
The ones that got away
.

She stared at him. She didn't know exactly what drove him—hadn't figured it all out yet. But she would. She was filling
in the pieces slowly. Constructing her own profile of the profiler. The ice clinked softly in her glass as she set it down.

The first fugitive she'd known about was Ben Black, a terrorist with ties to the IRA and Osama bin Laden. Sweetheart had pursued Black for years—he'd seen Black ‘killed' more than once. In the end, Black had died in an explosion of his own design. And there were others on his ‘most-wanted list.' A bomber responsible for a plane crash in British Columbia that claimed 221 lives. A sixties radical who had participated in a bank robbery that ended with three civilians dead, including a pregnant woman. (This one arrested a month ago, tracked down with the help of Sweetheart's profiling system, MOSAIK.)

And now, this—a serial poisoner . . .

Sweetheart shook his head, a gesture meant to dismiss her appraisal.

But Sylvia felt his hesitation. She considered the fact that he hadn't told her the whole truth; she didn't press him. She'd learned not to push Edmond Hommalia Sweetheart.

As partners she and Sweetheart made interesting chemistry.
He
—analytical, obsessed with empirical data, prone to intra-psychic denial.
She
—an equal mix of intellect and intuition, capable of faith under pressure.

Officially, Sweetheart was an expert in psycholinguistics, an anti-terrorism specialist, and the creator of a multi-tiered computer profiling system known as MOSAIK. In his spare time he practiced Sumo, collected rare timepieces, and consulted with federal and international agencies.

Officially, Sylvia was a forensic psychologist who had extensive experience with criminal and institutionalized populations; she was the author of several books, including one that had brought a popular readership. She had a mother in San Diego and a father who'd been missing for more than two decades. She had a highly perceptive eleven-year-old foster daughter named Serena, two dogs (a scrappy terrier with chronically “bad hair” and a three-legged Belgian Malinois
who snored), and a lover named Matt England whom she adored and was about to marry and who shared her tendency to prefer an adrenalized life in the trenches over mundane, day-to-day problems. In her spare time she ran miles, played “Mom”, and consulted with law enforcement agencies and private parties.

Placing the empty glass on the table, Sylvia stood and stretched her arms above her head. “You haven't asked about my life.” She crossed the room to join him on the balcony. When she reached his side, she waved her ring finger in front of his nose. Light made the ruby shimmer. “You haven't said a word about my wedding.”

“How was it?”

“Do you work hard to be this—
obtuse—
or does it just come naturally?”

“I want you on this case.”

“Why?”

“Because you'll understand Palmer in a way I can't.” He waited a beat, waited for the question she refused to ask, before he finished his answer. “Because you worked Riker.”

Sylvia turned away from him, from unbidden memories and the vague daylight hangover of a nightmare, to stare out at the city—a shadowy, muted Santa Fe at sunset, purple and peach waves across a turquoise sea. Sounds drifted up from the streets: a car horn, laughter, radio songs. At that instant she felt poised between two worlds, between dark and light, between bad and good. “Hey, Sweetheart.” Her voice was soft and flat. “What do you think of my city? How do you like this view?”

He shook his head, his gaze impolite in its intensity. His carotid artery was responding visibly to his heart. She felt as if she'd been penetrated and recognized.

“You want me on this case because of what I saw in Riker,” she said. “It's what I saw in
me
that gives me nightmares. Riker made me touch a place within myself that knows no compassion, no mercy, no humanity.” She turned away for a moment and her eyes were drawn toward the glass, but what she saw
was her own reflection, her face distorted, a softening that read as compromise, a blurring of line. Her voice came out as a whisper. “That's a horrible realization when compassion is what keeps you safe and mercy is what separates you from the monsters. And you know that mercy and compassion must be the lifelines that offer the only glimmer of salvation—if not humanity, what's left? But all I touched was emptiness. A dark, cold place that made me too akin to the Rikers of this world. Do you understand why I can't keep going back?”

“I know you can't turn away.” He reached toward her, she shook her head, and he said, “You're burned out from the Riker case, I understand that. You've lost your balance, but just for a moment—”

“It's more than that.”

“I need you, Sylvia.”

She heard the urgency in his voice and when she looked into his eyes she saw an almost desperate entreaty that left her shaken. She took a breath, trying to retreat, but feeling the internal pull. Strong. Sharp.

She sighed, abruptly exhausted—taking the first step in his direction. “What's the timeline on Palmer?”

He nodded. “Four months ago she joined a team of researchers who've been working on a highly sensitive contract for the DOD—potent marine toxins, which are being analyzed and manipulated in a way that's cutting edge,” Sweetheart said. “There's no evidence to arrest, and she's too valuable to freeze off the project.”

“I can spend the next few days reviewing the files. I'll let you know—”

“Not acceptable. I need you now.”

“I can't do that.” She pushed away from the rail—physically distancing herself once again, as if she were freeing herself from some invisible force-field. “Not until after the wedding.”

“As of last Friday morning, we have a new victim. A molecular-toxicologist. Part of the original research team in England.”

“What did she use?”

“We're not sure.” He faltered. “A neurotoxin—”

Sylvia shook her head, and Sweetheart countered harshly: “You said it yourself, the beauty of poison is invisibility. The toxicology screens will take time. They're not looking for the standard compounds.”

“What happened to him?”

“The victim drove his car at seventy miles per hour directly into the path of oncoming traffic. Yes, it might have been a vehicular malfunction, it might have been an accident, it might have been suicide. But I'll stake my career it was murder.”

“Can't they temporarily shut down the project on some excuse?”

“They'd lose valuable research, and they'd tip her off.” He shook his head. “She's under 24-hour surveillance. The feds need to catch her in the act. Or, they need a confession. That's where you and I come in. Sylvia, I'm asking you—give me five days—then go have your life.”

“She's in England? What—London?”

Sweetheart shook her head. “Dr. Thomas died on U.S. soil—and his murderer's in your neighborhood. Why do you think I'm here? Dr. Palmer's heading up this project at LANL.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Copyright © 2001 by Sarah Lovett

Originally published in hardcover in 2001 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-02646-1

First Pocket Books printing October 2002

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