Free Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) by Sarah Lovett Page A

halfway down Billcap's back to indicate height, or, more accurately, lack of height. "And I hate short guys. Short guys got—" Shoshone held up her little finger. Billcap and Cowboy snorted derisively.
          Shoshone took a slow pull on her beer. "This short guy had eyes like Charlie."
          "Charlie?"
          "Manson." She leaned close to Matt until he felt her breath like a small, hot wind. "I thought Manson was cool. I mean he was crazy and weird, but he had a philosophy. About war and society and shit. These days, nobody's got a philosophy."
          Kiki moved back along the bar until she was standing opposite Matt. She caught his eye, and emotions scuttled across her features. Anger, shame, disgust.
          Shoshone was caught up by her own words. She said, "Manson, he controlled those Manson girls . . . he willed them to kill. How many people you know have that much will?"
          Billcap looked suddenly worried. He mumbled, "It was all the acid they took."
          Shoshone shook her black hair. She smiled slyly. "I think Anthony Randall's killer has that Charlie Manson kind of will. Better watch out, Mr. Cop."
    "Y OU SCARED ME , Dan!" Sylvia took in the familiar features of Special Agent Dan Chaney. He was an old law enforcement buddy of Matt's. Broad, muscular, and gray-blond—normally she would describe him as handsome. Not today. Today, he was hollow-eyed and haggard.
          She said, "Are you all right?" Then her brain caught up with her mouth. "I was so sorry to hear about Nina, Dan. I know she was a good friend."
          Special Agent Nina Valdez had been Dan Chaney's lover for more than a year. It had been one of those secret affairs that everyone seemed to know about—everyone except Chaney's wife and his supervisors. The F.B.I. morals code of conduct was so strict that agents were subject to discipline for extramarital affairs.
          Now, she tried to pull together recent details: Nina Valdez had been dead for almost two months—killed in Las Cruces. She, Dan Chaney, and other F.B.I. and D.E.A. agents had closed in on suspects just as an arms deal was going down. When the suspect warehouse exploded, Nina went with it.
          The media had christened the incident "Blowout at Las Cruces."
          Sylvia reconsidered the man standing next to her: Dan Chaney looked just the way a burned-out federal agent burdened by grief should look.
          "I've got to talk to you." His voice was a hoarse whisper. He still gripped her shoulder. She looked into his eyes—they were light blue with pinprick pupils. They were the eyes of someone who suffered from sleep deprivation, caffeine overload, and maybe something more ominous. Sylvia had seen speed freaks more relaxed than Special Agent Dan Chaney.
          "What's this about?"
          "We can't talk here." Abruptly, he let go of her shoulder.
          Sylvia felt infected by the federal agent's profound unease. His anxiety was palpable. "Have you seen Matt? We heard you were—"
          "I know about last night," Chaney interrupted sharply.
          "You were up at the crime scene, where Anthony Randall was murdered. . . ." Sylvia's voice trailed off.
          Chaney nodded once. He said, "Sylvia, I know what's going on. I know who assaulted you." For an instant, his face softened, and the old Dan Chaney appeared like a ghost. Curious, diligent, oddly gentle. Then he was gone, buried under this taut mask.
          "You know who broke into Matt's trailer?" Sylvia surrendered to Dan Chaney's urgency. Her instinct to help Matt's old friend was shoved aside by the pressing need to hear what he had to say about her attacker. Chaney might be functioning on emotional overload, but he had always been an excellent federal agent.
          "Sylvia, you've got yourself a problem." He gestured to a tan Lincoln Town Car double-parked on the street. "Follow me."
          Sylvia was two cars