by Sarah Lovett
Who’s the true sinner? Is it the murderer who kills for faith? Or the coward who preaches nonviolence? The nihilist who embraces his barren life with all its horrible emptiness? Or the moralist who finds comfort in righteousness and “belief”?
Anonymous
6:49 A.M. Sylvia sat up abruptly in bed. Bad dream. Underwater, gasping for breath, drowning.
She buried her face in her hands; her cheeks were wet with tears.
Just a bad dream.
She wasn’t in New Mexico, and no ocean tsunami had invaded the desert. No current had washed her foster daughter from her arms. She had not dived under the waves to find Molly Redding’s bloated body.
Sylvia shuddered. In sleep, she’d confused Molly Redding with Dantes’ mother, Bella.
The mother of a murdered child . . . and a mother who had committed suicide and left behind a young son.
Just like Mona Carpenter.
Nightmarish echoes of murder and suicide.
Waking wasn’t much better. She was in Los Angeles, at a Hilton in west LA. The day after a narrow escape. Two days since a bomb had killed Detective Church.
Brushing damp hair from her face, she checked the hotel’s digital clock. At least she’d slept for eight hours.
She kicked the sheets from her body and made her way to the bathroom. When she switched on the lights she caught a glimpse of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror: wild hair, a wrinkle from the bedding etched along one breast, bruised thigh, painted toenails. She switched the lights off again.
She lingered under a hot shower. While her skin was still damp, she slathered on moisturizer, courtesy of the management. Wrapping herself in the fluffy hotel kimono, feeling half human, she walked back into the room, ready to call Matt and Serena.
Leo was waiting with hot coffee, scones, and orange juice on a silver tray.
“Room service.” He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You look like you got some rest.”
“How did you sleep?”
“I didn’t,” he said, picking the corner off a raisin scone.
She raised her eyebrows. “Did Purcell call?”
“Not yet.” Leo opened the blinds, admitting daylight and a view of LA streets.
Sylvia poured herself a cup of coffee to go with breakfast. The orange juice and the pastry calmed her jittery nerves—the caffeine revved her up again.
“I’m not going to sit around waiting for the damn phone to ring,” she said, as she plunged the last bite of scone into her coffee. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Somehow I knew you’d say that.” Leo nodded, rising from his chair to cross the room. He opened the connecting door that turned their adjoining rooms into a suite, and the click of a computer keyboard was audible.
Sylvia stood, curious, but not surprised to see Luke at work on a laptop in Leo’s room.
“We set up about thirty minutes ago,” Leo said. “We’re tied into MOSAIK’s database.”
“Nice robe,” Luke said, smiling at Sylvia.
Leo picked up a black-and-white striped shopping bag from the bed. “I had them send up a few things in your size. Italian jeans okay?”
“Italian jeans are great,” Sylvia said, accepting the package. But her thoughts weren’t on fashion. “Where’s Sweetheart?”
The two men exchanged a look. “The professor’s at home—logged on to MOSAIK—running data batches,” Luke said. “He’s ignoring the Feds, and he’s refusing to give up the search. He left explicit orders not to be disturbed until we get a match on M.”
“Fine,” Sylvia snapped. “Let’s give him one.” She picked up a thick stack of pages.
“Everything Gretchen could pull on Simon Mole,” Luke said, answering her unspoken query. “Intelligence and aptitude tests, preparatory and college admission applications, letters from teachers and advisers, letters of recommendation, medical reports . . ..”
He gestured with one arm, and the flying fish on his biceps quivered. “Gretchen spent most of last night feeding Simon’s text sample—his UCLA application essay—through MOSAIK; she ran a linguistic comparison with the threat communications. She should be just about finished double-checking those results.”
He moved his fingers restlessly across the keyboard. “In the meantime, I can search in any direction you want.”
Fragments of nightmare imagery took shape in her mind—dead women underwater; murdered children and children abandoned by suicide.
She placed both hands on the table next to the computer and said, “Sweetheart said he wanted intuitive leaps—so let’s play wild card. See what you can find on Bella Dantes.”
“Dantes’ mother?” Luke scratched the top of his head. “You want to get any more specific?”
“Sure. Specifically, I want to know why she killed herself in front of her own child. Call it a hunch.”
Ignoring their curious stares, she aligned the stack of pages end to end before she carefully divided it, handing Leo his share. She was eager to get at the new information. This was part of her data input process—and part of her coping mechanism. What stress? Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?
Settled on the cream-colored leather couch, bare feet propped on a glass table, she slipped on her reading glasses and began to study.
Forty-five minutes later—accompanied by the click of Luke’s keyboard and the hum of the computer—she and Leo were beginning to glean some sense of the world according to Simon Mole. Chronologically with each page, each report, a profile—a variation on the poor little rich boy—began to take shape. Sylvia scrawled notes on a legal pad. Leo was working his way through another pot of coffee. When they came across items of particular interest, they read aloud.
“It was his kindergarten teacher who had him pegged,” Sylvia said dryly, playing with the bangle on her wrist. “Simon is obviously bright and shows an eagerness to learn, but he is not popular with the other children, on the playground or off. At times, Simon resorts to unpleasant passive-aggressive interactions (and even tantrums!) to get his way. This makes him all the more unpopular, encouraging a vicious cycle. He has managed to make only one or two friends, who seem to respond to his single-minded attentions, although these interactions often turn into rivalries.”
“As he grew,” Leo murmured, “so did his narcissism, his rigid internal schemata, his grandiosity.”
Sylvia removed her glasses, running one stem along the page. Sunlight poured through the hotel windows; it bounced off the walls of the room. She spoke softly, to herself—to Leo. “So we’ve got early childhood experiences defined by paternal puritanism, maternal praise and overprotection . . . desire to maintain that approval. . . . extreme attachment to his younger sister, Laura, and his mother.”
“Never bonded with Dad,” Leo said.
“But he sure as hell bonded with John Dantes.” Sylvia dropped the last report onto plush white carpet. “Do we have the transcript from yesterday’s debacle?”
“Dantes?” Luke asked, fingers already signaling new commands across the keyboard. “Give me a minute.”
Sylvia stood, moving toward the window. “What did he say about the bombing? Exact words.”
Luke scrolled, reading.
“Dantes: You found M. I can’t help you unless I have information.
“You: There was another bomb.
“Dantes: But you weren’t the target.
“You: How do you know?
“Dantes: ‘Do your eyes not see death near him?’”
Luke glanced up from the screen. “That’s a reference from the Inferno.”
He went right back to reading.
“Dantes: My guess would be Sweetheart.
“You: Why? Is Sweetheart your target—or Mole’s?
“Dantes: You found the master after all. How is the sadistic bastard?
“You: Healey told me about Simon.
“Dantes: Obviously. Sweetheart blames me for Jason’s death.
“You: Should he blame Mole?
“Dan
tes: He should blame himself.”
“Why?” Sylvia pushed herself up from the couch, moving restlessly.
“Manipulation,” Leo said. “Dantes was going for the closest jugular.”
“You think it was diversion?” Sylvia asked. “What if Dantes was on the nose?”
“About?”
Sylvia turned toward Luke. “The Getty bombing—was there ever any evidence that pointed toward Jason Redding as a target?”
“That possibility was certainly considered.” Luke shook his head. “But it was ruled out. The school field trip was rescheduled because the teacher was sick. There was no way Dantes could’ve known about the change.”
“What about M?” Sylvia asked. “For all we know he worked at the Getty.”
“You’re reaching, Sylvia,” Leo said. “The Feds were all over that investigation. Anybody at the museum could have found the box, triggered the bomb. Tragically, it happened to be a curious little boy.”
“All right,” Sylvia said slowly. “Back to Dantes going for the jugular. Why did Sweetheart go berserk? Why is he so close to the edge? What’s eating him?”
Luke shook his head warily. “I wouldn’t ask him today, if I were you.”
“Right. I’ll ask his niece. What’s Molly Redding’s number?”
2:02 P.M. Beverly Hot Springs was an exotic cave buried deep in Hollywood’s seedy heart.
A woman with a pleasant smile admitted Sylvia, leading the way to the wood-finished locker room. The dressing area was empty.
Sylvia left her new clothes in a locker, sliding the key band over her wrist. Draping the thick terry towel over her bare shoulder, she passed through the wooden door. At first she thought she was alone in the baths. In semidarkness steam swirled and settled over a small, free-form swimming pool. Glass doors to private stalls lined one wall.
Then, through the dim light of artificial dusk and mist, Sylvia saw a child.
A ghostly child-woman.
Molly Redding was so delicate she looked prepubescent. Her skin was pale, her hair a dark wispy fringe surrounding her pretty face. She reminded Sylvia of one of Modigliani’s nudes: wide eyed; long, slender neck; slight bones; small hips and breasts. She was resting on a towel next to the pool.
But her voice belonged to a woman. It was soft and low.
“Sylvia?”
“Thanks for agreeing to see me.” Sylvia set her towel down on the warm tiles. She sat easily, sliding her bare legs into warm water that was laced with the scent of minerals. Dark bruises stood out on her knees. “This is one of my favorites places in LA. How do you like it?”
“It’s pretty nice.” Molly blinked, working her mouth into a small frown. “On the phone, you said you’re working for my uncle. I don’t really understand why you want to talk to me.”
“The work we’re doing is—sensitive,” Sylvia said. “I think your uncle is under a lot of strain. Maybe you can help me figure out why.” In the subdued light, steam beaded on her skin; it ran from her neck and her breasts. A small droplet of water glistened in her belly button; a tiny rivulet disappeared in the dark tuft between her legs.
“What did he tell you about me?” Up close, Molly’s expression was serious, her eyes somber.
“Very little,” Sylvia answered truthfully. “I know you’re estranged.”
“You could say that. He stopped returning my calls after Jason.”
“But yesterday you tried anyway,” Sylvia said.
“It was—I . . .” Molly lay back on the warm stones and closed her eyes. Her ribs were defined by light and shadow; it seemed as if they were all that kept her from disappearing. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
Sylvia lowered her body into the silky mineralized water. Elbows on tile, she rested her head on her arms. The lazy drip of water from the cavelike roof, the hush of their breathing, the faintest strains of violin music were the sounds layered in the steamy air. The silver bangle on her arm bit into her cheek, and she readjusted herself just enough to relax to yet another level. Molly Redding was a bad liar; she was also skittish, and likely to bolt if pushed too far or too fast.
Molly’s voice drifted through Sylvia’s thoughts. “My uncle and I lost contact long before Jason died.”
“Would you mind telling me why?”
“I used to do drugs. At least, that’s what he’d say.”
“What do you say?” Sylvia asked gently.
Molly sighed. “Have you ever gone crazy?”
“Talking-to-myself crazy, seeing-things-on-the-wall crazy—does that count?”
“Ever wanted to die?”
“I’ve had my moments.” Sylvia studied Molly. “Are you feeling that way now?”
Silently, Molly skimmed her hand across steaming water. She let the liquid dribble through her fingers. Another scoop, and another. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Did my uncle tell you he was my guardian? My parents died when I was twelve. But Sweetheart was busy with his terrorists—his demons—bin Laden, Ben Black, Abu Mohammed . . .” Molly laughed wearily. “He pretends to be so evolved. Did you know he was born in Hawaii, but he lived in Japan for years? He even studied sumo.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sylvia said. “Does he still—”
“He gave it up to become a scientist, so he could measure the world in millimeters or something. Don’t let him fool you,” Molly said. “I used to be afraid of him, how smart he is; but when it comes to people, he doesn’t even understand the basics.”
“Maybe he spends too much time with his computers.”
“Machines don’t ask for love, they don’t go crazy or make demands, they don’t get strung out on meth, they don’t get pregnant.”
Molly’s face belonged to a guileless child, and her voice was soft. She slid into the water and buoyed herself with gentle strokes. “Do you have children?”
“A foster daughter,” Sylvia said. Eyes closed, she found herself absorbing the blue air of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Like a marble on a tilted surface, her thoughts kept drifting back to New Mexico. She imagined Serena and her father, Cash Wheeler, doing the simple things of family. At that moment she felt the separation as a physical pain. What would it be like to lose a child forever?
She said, “Serena’s eleven.”
“Jason’s age.” Sorrow flooded Molly’s face. “You can’t hold on to them,” she whispered. “No matter how hard you try, how often you check the weather, walk them to school, tuck them into bed. You can’t keep them safe.”
“No,” Sylvia agreed softly.
“I used to think God punished me because I was a bad mother . . . the drugs . . . everything.” Molly dipped underwater, returning to the surface to shake water from her head. “But I know that’s not true. God is forgiveness.”
“Do you blame Sweetheart for Jason’s death?”
“No . . .” Molly’s voice was barely audible. “Why would I do that?” She shook her head. Then, suddenly, she smiled and a light transformed her features; her face came alive, her eyes took on a glittery spark. “You can tell my uncle I’m healing.”
Sylvia was watching the other woman intently—she saw a dangerous edge. This wasn’t the slow return to balance after catastrophic grief; this was the manic swing from depression, the hydraulic lift effected by extreme chemistry, natural or otherwise.
“I have a message you can deliver,” Molly Redding said, pulling back physically and mentally. “Tell my uncle I’m getting well.” She took quick breaths; beneath taut skin her ribs expanded again and again—the rhythm of a desperately wounded creature struggling to maintain a fragile hold on life.
“Tell him I don’t need him anymore. I’ve moved on.”
5:21 P.M. Sylvia left the new rental car with the valet, and she entered the lobby of the hotel. It was a busy Thursday afternoon, and a line had formed at the registration desk. She was almost to the elevators when she felt someone grab her arm roughly. She swung around ready to defend herself.
“How dare you talk to my niece without my permission.” Sweetheart loomed over her, his face an angry mask, tension emanating from his body like electricity. “What you did was wrong.” Abruptly, he released his grip.
“I tried to talk to you,” Sylvia said, ignoring the stares of people passing by. “Come up to the room.”
“No.”
“Look at yourself,” Sylvia said sharply. “You’re so invested in the empirical equation, you can’t see what’s in front of your face. Molly’s on the edge. She needs you. If she doesn’t get help, she might—”
“Kill herself?” He shook his head. “I know my niece; I’ve seen her go to the edge a dozen times. Aren’t you talking to yourself, Dr. Strange?”
“I’m talking about missing pieces to a puzzle—something’s wrong.”
“This isn’t about Molly. It’s Dantes. He’s manipulating everyone—you most of all.” Sweetheart spun around and disappeared in the crowded lobby.
Sylvia found Leo and Luke spread wearily on the cream-colored couch. Room service trays with half-eaten meals had been left on the floor.
“You just missed Sweetheart,” Leo said.
“No, I didn’t.” Sylvia sighed, glancing at the blinking laptop monitor, where numerical columns lined the screen. “MOSAIK?” she asked, abruptly reenergized.
Leo nodded. “Gretchen sent through her results.”
“It’s a match?” She looked from Leo to Luke. “C’mon, guys.”
“Before you check it out,” Luke cautioned, “remember that MOSAIK aims for a profiling gestalt. We input all the data—forensic, geographic mapping, psycholinguistic, archaeological, as in personal history—and we get a numerical score.”
Sylvia frowned impatiently. “So, theoretically, the scored profile will be unique to the individual profiled.”
“Correct.” Luke pressed a key.
The computer chimed in, dropping to a frenzied hum, sending output to the printer. Leo retrieved it from the printer, handing it to Sylvia. “Simon Mole’s broad numerical profile.”
Sylvia studied the string of more than twenty numbers.
“Now take a look at M’s data; it should show a close correlation with Simon Mole—assuming they are one and the same person.”
