Free Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Page B

obsessed with keeping up with the boys. If Purcell was out to cut some notches on her belt, Sylvia didn’t plan to be one of them.
    Filling the passenger seat with a cell phone in his lap, Detective Church was large and rangy, and he had the air of the chronically rumpled; his shiny suit clung to his body like a hungry orphan. His hat, a molded fedora, seemed to have taken root over a thatch of red hair. Freckles dotted his thick nose, turmeric sprinkled on a carrot. If hedetoured to central casting they’d hand him a Scottish kilt and bagpipes.
    Something had hold of Sylvia thoughts, tugging like a small dog on a sleeve: an LAPD detective who worked on the Getty investigation . .  .
    â€œOh, come on,” Sylvia protested, coming back to reality. Purcell had just cruised past the Westside offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and they were still headed east on Wilshire Boulevard. “Where the hell are we going now?”
    Church answered. “Roybal Federal.”
    Sylvia plunked back in the seat, arms crossed. Staring out the window, she felt LA’s international airport growing more distant by the mile. “Roybal Federal—that’s right next door to MDC.”
    â€œRight next door,” Purcell said, eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.
    â€œSo, what am I doing here? How long will this take?” Sylvia shot out questions, rat-a-tat. “Am I under arrest?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œYou tell me. Jaywalking? If not, I’ve got a ticket back to New Mexico, and I’d like to use it today.” For an instant, she thought Church was going to apologize.
    Instead, he said, “We need input on your interview with Dantes.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you just say so in the first place?” She ran the back of her hand across her mouth. Her stomach rumbled from hunger, her headache was worsening, and she wished she had her sunglasses to ease the glare. “We could’ve covered this back in Santa Monica. The entire session is on tape if you can straighten out jurisdiction. The profiling project is federal anyway—” She was cut off by the bleat of a cell phone.
    Church answered, shifting into listening mode for thirtyseconds. He hung up with a casual, “Okay, Sweetheart.”
    Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Can’t your girlfriend wait until you’re off the clock?”
    Purcell snorted, and Church shot her a dirty look before he returned his attention to Sylvia. “How did you feel about your meeting with Dantes?”
    â€œI wasn’t prepared for him.” Sylvia felt the energy coming from Church—the detective had eyes that penetrated like sharp blue darts. She watched his mind work; he was putting together pieces of a puzzle, matching color, texture, pattern, nuance.
    Well, so was she.
    â€œSo . . . you’ve got another bomb, right?” she asked slowly.
    Church didn’t move a muscle. “What are you, bomb squad?”
    â€œI’m not stupid.” Sylvia felt herself mirroring the investigator’s tension, told herself to breathe. Inside the vehicle, the level of mistrust was palpable. She stared back at Church. “You were part of the Calbomb Task Force. Detective Red Church. You helped track down Dantes.” Her eyebrows arched. “You even made Vanity Fair . Not a very good picture.”
    â€œNobody said you were stupid,” Church said finally.
    She glanced at her wristwatch, then the sky, depressed by the sight of a distant metal bird climbing toward the clouds.
    Church followed her gaze. “They all look alike.”
    â€œFuck,” she whispered.
    6:05 A.M. Flanked by Purcell and Church, Sylvia crossed the already warm asphalt of Alameda Street. The route was becoming familiar. She couldn’t resist looking up as they passed by the Metropolitan Detention Center. The narrow vertical windows caught the sun’s rays, measuring the hourwith light. Dantes