Dantes' Inferno (31 page)

As he worked, he cleared his mind.

Last thought:
I know what drives a man to destroy—all-consuming hatred; I know because Dantes taught me
.

I would give anything to feel pain again. That right was stolen from me. I want it back.

Mole's Manifesto

Thursday—12:13
A.M
.
M feels the world accelerating.

Over the next forty-eight hours, his routinely minimal quotient of sleep will drop to mere minutes. Catnaps. That is how he will survive from now until the end.

He is a busy, busy man.

His parrot, Nietzsche, keeps him company. He is below ground in the old shipyards in San Pedro—surrounded by concrete and steel and earth and water. His bunker was once a subterranean storage room in a now derelict factory that dates back to World War II.

It is perfect. The grounds are abandoned. Only a few stray bums come nosing around. Rent is cheap and there's no view.

It is like many other spaces he has known over a life-time.
Dark. Tight. Enclosed. Some he entered voluntarily, others not.

Over the past year, he has spent many nights in this concrete womb. He feels safe here. And productive.

Molly is used to his nocturnal wanderings—“It comes with the job, Angel Face,” he says, “and long hours mean more pay, and somewhere down the line a vacation on a perfectly white beach in Tahiti or Belize.”

But an entire night away, at this late date, might spook her, might jinx Operation Inferno.

Don't want to do that.

No reason for Angel Face to know he quit the job two months ago. He still leaves for work six days a week.

So he will dutifully return to the stifling apartment, to that shedding cat, and to Molly. In her sleep, she'll find him, wrap her body around his, let her mouth touch his most tender places.

A perk that brings him less and less pleasure.

He sidesteps the corpse at his feet. Through plastic, he can make out the crude details of her face. Just over an hour ago, she was warm, blond, petite, in her twenties. Now she's just a prostitute on ice. He'll move her body tomorrow. She—along with another—will provide the key to the next layer of hell.

Tidying up, M sweeps around the corpse. She has a part to play—a performance of sorts—to be enjoyed by those who believe they are smart.

Nietzsche breaks into the chorus of “My Way.”

M hums along.

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?

“
Dantes:
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.”