Dantes' Inferno (33 page)

M smiles sympathetically at the other man. “Why do they call you the Thief?”

“Because I steal,” the Thief says harshly. He can't stop the tremors, his teeth chatter.

“What do you steal?” M moves closer, careful not to frighten the other man. They have spoken before. This is not a chance meeting.

“Whatever I can,” the Thief says, beginning to laugh. “I'll steal your wallet, your clothes, your girlfriend if she's not half bad.” The laugh turns to a hard, hacking cough.

“I'll make you an offer.” M shakes his head. “I'll
give
you my clothes—once we get you cleaned up. I'll
pay
you, if you do a job for me.”

“I steal better than I work,” the Thief says, squinting through smoke suspiciously.

“The job is stealing, my friend,” M says. “That
is
the
job.” M frowns suddenly. “There's one thing you should know—you can have my clothes, but not my girlfriend.”

Both men laugh, enjoying the joke.

M produces a pint of good whiskey from his pocket. “Shall we drink on it?”

“What do you want me to steal?”

“Something holy.”

12:59
A.M
.
Even though it's dark on the street above, the Thief squints as if moonlight can blind. He doesn't say much; he's the quiet type. But he follows M along the dark streets and into the area known as the garment district.

The two men could be brothers—of a pair, as people say. Same height, same build, same coloring.

They pass the street people camped along the sidewalks, the proud owners of cardboard boxes and packing crates. These are the moles who have not yet accepted their fate, who have not surrendered to their
place
below ground.

They'll be there soon enough, M thinks.

They reach their destination, which is the Gentleman's Hotel on Sixth, where M has already arranged the room; by the hour, $11 per. Here, the Thief cleans himself up—a scrub and a shave—using the communal bathroom.

In the dingy, depressing room, the Thief sits on the thin, sagging bed. M cuts his hair, while the Thief is responsible for his own nails. “You sure I don't get to do your girlfriend?” he jokes, wagging his manicured hands.

The extra clothes M has brought fit the Thief to perfection. By the look on the Thief's face, he has suddenly discovered himself in the Ritz. Life is definitely looking up. Prosperity makes him hungry.

They find food at the flower mart, where the workday is in full swing at 1
A.M
. Steaming coffee with lots of cream
and sugar, pastries, an order of steak and eggs for the Thief.

As they leave, they pass through the huge warehouse where flowers overflow buckets and trays, and the fragrances are both as cloying as drugstore cologne and as delicate as the best French perfume.

The Thief steals a carnation for his boutonniere.

M's truck is parked a block away. Now, he feels that the Thief can sit in his vehicle, on his seats, without permanent damage, without soil and stench. M drives, the Thief whistles. In Chinatown, M parks. They will walk the five long blocks from here.

The Thief balks when they reach the manhole that will provide access to the ladder and their destination. “Can't we stay on top for a while?” he whines. He doesn't want to return to the darkness. Not yet.

“We won't be long,” M reassures. He can be unbearably smooth, incredibly soothing when he wants to be.

And so the Thief goes willingly, entering the chimney, descending to a space that is ten feet long by ten feet wide by six feet high. He can stand with the tops of his hairs just brushing the ceiling.

It is a utility station, abandoned these days, where the air is stale but the light is achingly bright. It illuminates the female corpse that is dressed in borrowed clothes, wrapped in plastic, and laid out on the floor.

Blinking and curious, the Thief turns to stare at M. “You want me to steal this?”

M just smiles.

The Thief's mouth drops open, and he spits up on his new clothes when M brings the rubber truncheon down on the back of his skull. The blow is professionally delivered; with perfect force. This is followed by an injection.

M works happily in his hole, forgetting time and space. Deep in the conduits leading from the subterranean room,
an echo can be heard by those creatures who thrive in the dark. It is the echo of laughter running like a steady stream beneath the city.

The Thief will sleep—through the night—through the operation.

M reaches into the left pocket of his pants, where he feels the hard round ball. He pulls it out, hefts its weight in his palm. A white marble with a design of blue and black.

He turns back to the Thief and sits, propping the unconscious man's head between his legs. A spoon works well to pop the eyeball—the
right
eyeball—from the socket. There is very little blood.

The marble will fit perfectly in the now empty socket. Of course. It is not a marble; it is a glass eye.

Before M leaves for the night, he binds the Thief's arms and legs simply but securely with duct tape; he tapes his mouth shut.

He props the Thief against one wall.

He places the severed eyeball in the middle of the floor near the corpse.

When the Thief opens his remaining eye—the
left
eye—this is what he will see: his
right
eye returning his horrified stare.

For hours, the Thief will be able to commune with his severed organ.

As for the rest of the operation, that will wait until I return, M thinks.

One thing at a time.

Judging from the style and content of threat demand, the operational methods of the threat actions, device construction and type, we are looking for a male, mid-twenties to mid-forties, solitary, opportunistic in relationships or friendships, who has a background in electronics or engineering, in a “low” or menial capacity versus a capacity that would demand high functioning or levels of high achievement.

Introduction, FBI profile, UNSUB, alias M

5:14
A.M
.
Sylvia heard a door slam. She opened her eyes, slowly taking in reality.

Room at the Hilton, seventeenth floor. Underpants and T-shirt instead of pajamas. Her lipstick stain on the wineglass by the bed; dregs of
fumé blanc
. Dimples in her skin where the cell phone had been pressed to her ear. Oh, yeah . . . she'd fallen asleep to the sound of Matt's voice. She experienced a sharp ache at the thought of her lover a thousand miles away. Then the breath of panic—
if I don't get out of here
—

Abruptly, she sat up, stretching her arms overhead. The quarter hour turned on the digital clockface. The sun was definitely awake, light leaking through the window drapes.

Sighing, she pushed away the sheet and stood. She sidestepped the room service tray with its leftover Caesar salad, saltines, oily decaf, and green napkin. On the way to the bathroom, she tapped lightly on the door to Leo's
room. He didn't answer, and she remembered he'd stayed up late, too.

Let him sleep a few more minutes while she showered and dressed.

The hot water soothed both muscles and mind, triggering memories of her conversation with Matt.

Sylvia had been startled by the soft ring of her cell phone.

“Hey, baby, I'm sorry it's so late. You all right?”

“I miss you. How's Serena?”

“Better. She's got a rash. The doc thinks it's an allergy—not measles.”

“Is she hurting?”

“Not bad. She says it's just
itchy
.”

“
Pobrecita
. God, I miss you guys. I miss the dogs.”

“They miss you, too.”

It had felt great to laugh and to share everyday intimacies. They'd barely talked about business—hers or his. Intentionally avoiding the world of criminals and their victims.

But Matt had eventually touched a nerve: “Sylvia . . . about Mona Carpenter . . . Robert Montoya told me they brought her husband into the DA's office for questioning.”

“Mona's husband? Why?”

“I'm going to make a few phone calls tomorrow morning. I'll let you know.”

And then she'd drifted off to sleep while Matt described Serena's latest watercolors and an anniversary party for their best friends, Ray and Rosie Sanchez.

Thank God for long distance.

In the misty bathroom, she toweled off, applied moisturizer and sunscreen, and wrapped a towel around wet hair. The new Italian jeans would go another day; she dug in her suitcase for a crisp cotton shirt the color of lime sorbet.

Last night, she and Leo had returned to Santa Monica just long enough to pack suitcases under the watchful eye of two local cops.

Luke had shut down his computer equipment and returned to the house on Selma; she imagined he and Gretchen had worked much of the night.

This time, she rapped with her fist on the connecting door. “Leo? Hey! Lee-oh.”

No answer. He was a light sleeper and an early riser. He must be in the shower.

She dialed his room and let the phone ring a dozen times in stereo before she hung up.

She jumped when her cell phone rang seconds later.

Fumbling for the handset, she kicked over the cold coffee on the room service tray.

“This is Purcell, Dr. Strange. I'm at City Hospital. Dr. Carreras is with me. How soon can you make it?”

“I'm leaving now.”

7:01
A.M
.
In the truth of daylight, LA City Hospital was another sister of mercy altogether. Gone were her mysterious and moody angles, the black and blue shadows of night; the hospital exterior had flattened to a dull, nondescript gray, presenting an uninteresting profile, a dreary facade to the surrounding city.

Sylvia pushed through the main doors and stopped. The vast admissions area felt foreign. Patients, their families, and staff occupied the echoing space. A young boy in a wheelchair pushed by an
abuelita
repeated a plaintive phrase in Spanish.

Sylvia reached the glassed-in reception area and stuttered at a tired clerk, who just stared at her blankly. Then she heard someone call her name and turned to see Purcell, beckoning with a quick jerk of the head.

“Do you know how
old
this is getting?” Sylvia asked.

“I really do.”

The special agent guided her quickly down a narrow hallway to a service elevator; they were its only passengers. A mesh grille clanged shut behind thick, pitted doors. The worn metal buttons offered three subterranean destinations, including theirs: B-3.

“Are you going to explain?”

“I'll let Dr. Carreras do that.”

The ride was slow, and working parts complained all the way down. When they hit bottom, the fifteen seconds before the door finally clattered open stole Sylvia's breath.

God, don't ever leave me locked in an elevator, she thought. Tight spaces, dark places . . . best left to night's furtive creatures.

“You all right?” Purcell asked.

“No.”

Outside the elevator, traversing the mazelike hallways, the area began to look both oddly amorphous and familiar. They stopped outside Dantes' room.

It was empty. The door was locked.

“Where is he?”

“This minute?” Purcell glanced at her watch. “They're just about finished with the sodium amytal interview.”

“Sodium amytal?” Sylvia shook her head, her voice flat. “Why wasn't I told?” She knew that sodium amytal, or sodium amobarbital—used in forensic settings—had originally been labeled a truth serum. A misnomer. The drug was mostly effective in reducing substance-induced amnesia. Clinical studies had proven that some subjects could lie very effectively under the drug's influence.

She heard footsteps and pivoted to find herself staring into the familiar face of Dr. Carreras.

In a voice so businesslike it sounded cold, Leo said, “The
FBI asked me to supervise the interview. He's on the IV for another five minutes; they want you there as he comes out.”

“Why didn't you just ask for my cooperation?” Sylvia whispered harshly.

“The interview was voluntary.” Dr. Carreras swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed visibly under taut skin. “You know he'll recover almost as soon as the IV's removed.”

“My connection with Dantes is tenuous. It depends on my being around when he's vulnerable.” Sylvia felt betrayed and angry. And maybe that was the point of all this manipulation—to keep her off balance.

“It wasn't my procedural call,” Leo said.

“Bullshit.”

Leo dropped his voice to a level only she could hear. “They called me two hours ago, Sylvia.”

She brushed past him, focusing on Purcell. “Where is he?”

“Straight ahead, first door around the corner.”