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

behind Dan Chaney's Lincoln, driving south on Cerrillos. They were headed to his motel instead of the Santa Fe office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Chaney had insisted on an informal meeting. Sylvia guessed he was working a stakeout.
          As she passed Siler Road, a cloud cleared the sun, and the light became brilliant. Luminous. This was the high desert's familiar and legendary summer light: crystal clear and achingly beautiful. For the past few weeks, the sky had been hazed by smog and the residue of wildfires.
          Sylvia braked at a red light. Forty years earlier, Cerrillos Road had been a dirt lane fronting farms and orchards. Now, because it connected downtown with the interstate, a hodgepodge of fast-food joints, franchises, and minimarts lined its shoulders. The light went green, and traffic crept forward. Just ahead Sylvia saw Chaney turn off to the right. She followed and parked in the lot of the Rode Inn.
          Elbowed between Burger King and Carpet World, the Rode Inn rented by the week or the month. The interior hallway smelled of cigarettes and soiled laundry. The frayed carpet was a sorry clash of orange and red. Sylvia took a shallow breath. Special Agent Dan Chaney was definitely living on the fringe these days.
          Uneasy, she followed him down the hall. He kept his body erect and butt flat; Sylvia noticed the right shoulder canted slightly. She hoped he hadn't been trying to bust through doors. When he reached Number 222, he used a key.
          Inside, Sylvia squeezed past Chaney. The odor of sweat and apprehension hit her dead on. She stepped over a T-shirt, between stacks of what seemed to be files, newspaper clippings, official reports. A map of the Western states lay open on the bed.
          The only window in the room was curtained. Straight ahead, the television was on, humming softly, but the screen glowed blue. The agent had placed a framed photograph of Nina Valdez on top of the TV. Sylvia felt wooed by the high cheekbones, deepset eyes, and wide mouth; she knew how the woman's lovely face must haunt Dan Chaney.
          Now Sylvia was also certain that Dan Chaney wasn't working a case—at least not officially.
          And that made her feel worse. Her heart sank. She paced the room, glanced out the curtained window for a view of the parking lot, Chaney's Lincoln, and her Volvo. The motel windowpane was cracked. In the tiny open closet, one shirt hung limply over a hanger. The bathroom's fluorescent lights revealed cheap tile and fixtures. Chaney fit right in.
          She turned to face him now. "How did you know about last night?"
          He ran a thick hand over his stub-cut hair and shrugged. "Shit, Sylvia, I'm an agent. It was all over the scanner." In the next room, a door slammed and the plywood and plaster motel walls vibrated. Chaney's body went rigid.
          Sylvia fought her own instinct to tighten up. The man was behaving like a crazed alcoholic coming off a binge, not a law enforcement professional.
          She faced him, and her dark eyes explored his limpid blues for a moment, but that particular entrance to his soul was closed. Her voice was gentle when she said, "Dan, does anybody know you're here? Can I call someone?"
          He ignored her questions, hunkered on the edge of the bed, and eased a photograph from a dog-eared file. "See if this reminds you of anything?"
          The photo was an enlargement. The subject was a corpse. The victim had been bound and burned, just like Anthony Randall. Sylvia said, "Where did you get this?"
          When Chaney saw the fear in her eyes he gave a quick nod of approval. "California law enforcement raided a ranch south of Mojave earlier this year. They found Polaroids of two other victims—both adult males—and they found home movies of the murders."
          She sat wearily on the bed. "So are we talking about a serial killer? Vigilantes? I don't understand