Free Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Page A

enforcement insignia.
    â€œDr. Strange?” There was some shuffling on the outside stoop; two faces appeared—one, then the other—in front of the peephole.
    Groaning, Sylvia cracked the door, safety chain still fastened, taking a closer look: badges advertised the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Los Angeles Police Department. They were shiny, and they looked real.
    â€œI’m Special Agent Purcell.” The woman wore her hair buzzed, her milk chocolate face squeaky clean, and her affect flat. She looked so buff she’d bounce.
    Next to the woman, the man loomed. In order to meet his dead-on gaze, Sylvia had to raise her chin, an action that only made her headache worse. When he introduced himself as Detective Church, LAPD, the words rumbled in histhroat. “Yesterday you were at Metro Detention Center,” he told her, voice stalling out on the final syllable.
    Sylvia flicked her hair from her face. Her heartbeat slowed a tad—this didn’t concern New Mexico or her family, thank God . She croaked out the beginning of a question: “What’s this a—”
    â€œYou had an interview with John Dantes,” Church finished. He smiled without showing teeth; his eyes were sharp. “Do you mind if we step inside?”
    â€œI do mind,” she said slowly. For fifteen seconds, she stood unrelenting. Nobody budged, nobody spoke. Then Sylvia blinked, and they won the first round.
    Reluctantly, she released the security chain, watching as they entered; first the agent, then the detective. They couldn’t be more different: Mutt and Jeff. Only their grave expressions were congruent. She was flanked by law enforcement—one five foot five, the other six foot two.
    â€œDr. Strange, what exactly did you want with John Dantes?” The LAPD detective’s gaze, openly assessing, stayed pinned to her face.
    â€œYou just told me what I wanted,” Sylvia answered quietly. She felt as if the detective could see straight through her. “An interview.”
    She tightened the belt of her terry robe until her stomach ached. She knew she looked wild; her mouth tasted of sand. “I met with Dantes to complete a series of psychometric inventories— tests —for a federal profiling project.”
    â€œAnd did you complete the inventories?” Purcell asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you complete any tests?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNot even one?” Church crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. Without appearing to do so, he was scoping out the interior of the bungalow.
    â€œNot even one, Detective.” Sylvia was beginning to regain enough sense to feel annoyed. “Maybe that omission is unfortunate, but as far as I know, it’s not a crime.”
    â€œYou need to come with us,” Purcell stated firmly.
    â€œOh, no .” Sylvia raised her index finger and squared her shoulders. “There’s been some mistake—my work in LA is finished.” When neither agent looked convinced, she expelled air in a huff, adding, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve got a plane to catch.” As if on cue, the alarm clock in the bedroom began to shriek.
    â€œSorry, Doc,” Detective Church drawled. “Your country needs you.”
    Eight minutes later Sylvia slid into the back of the dark unmarked Ford while the two investigators took the good seats for the drive over to the FBI’s Wilshire offices.
    She still felt like hell—probably looked almost as bad as she felt—but at least her teeth were brushed and she was fully dressed. She tucked her white shirt deeper into the waistband of her jeans. The smell of coffee, the two Starbucks cups on the dash, made her nose itch. No one offered her a sip.
    During the drive, she had the opportunity to study her escorts. Behind the wheel, Purcell was doing a passable imitation of a tough guy. The special agent might qualify for that category of female cop