A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3)

by Sarah Lovett

  "It's a long story." Sylvia smiled, nodding slowly.

  "Congratulations. How's it going?"

  "Hard. Terrific. Really hard and really terrific."

  "I've got a son," Harry said. "An eight-year-old."

  "Great age."

  "Special age."

  They talked for a few minutes—about kids, music, food, Santa Fe, and L.A., where Harry was based. Any subject but the business that had brought them together at a ridiculously chichi cigar bar in northern New Mexico.

  Sylvia worked her way through most of the martini, all the while puffing on the cigar and suffering occasional flashes of queasiness.

  Finally, Harry asked, "Ready to get down to it?"

  She nodded, suddenly numb. He set a thick manila envelope on the table in front of her.

  "Summarize," she said.

  "Only if you're sitting down."

  Her eyes widened.

  Harry said, "Your father left Santa Fe when you were thirteen. He traveled through Arizona and Nevada under the name of Gristina."

  "His mother's maiden name."

  "After ten months on the road, he was arrested in California for vagrancy—spent a few nights in a San Bernardino hoosegow."

  Sylvia swallowed; her finger traced the stem of the cocktail glass.

  "When Daniel Gristina reached L.A., he talked to the folks at the V.A. hospital. While he was there, he met a woman named Cora Tate. She worked in administration for the V.A." Harry tilted his head, and his eyes settled on the psychologist. "Cora helped your father acquire a new identity. He became James or Jim Rule."

  Sylvia finished the martini, took a drag on the cigar, then automatically tipped the now empty glass to her lips.

  "You want another drink?" Harry signaled the bartender.

  Sylvia found enough voice to ask, "My father and this woman had a relationship?"

  "A bit more than that."

  She bit down on the cigar and waved her fingers at the P.I. in a gesture that clearly meant, Spill it.

  "Almost two years to the day your father left Santa Fe, he and Cora were married in Los Angeles."

  She deposited the cigar in an ashtray and took a deep breath, holding herself in check while the bartender set a second round of drinks on the table. When they were alone again, Sylvia lifted her glass. "To my dad, the polygamist." She drank, then said with mock cheer, "Hey, it could be worse."

  "It is," Harry said. "You've got a sister."

  "Shit." Sylvia began to laugh while tears overflowed her eyes. "Give me a minute," she sputtered.

  He did; he gave her several, and then said, "You're green."

  "I think I'm going to be sick."

  Harry twisted in his faux leopard-skin chair. "Where's the toilet? I'll help you."

  Sylvia held up both hands, eyes closed. "Wait . . . it's passing." She wiped her hair from her face and mumbled, "It's the cigar."

  "Yeah, right." Harry produced a clean white handkerchief from a pocket.

  Sylvia accepted the offering and blew her nose. When she had recovered, she looked the investigator in his lovely face and said, "Thank you. I mean it."

  "You want to hear about your sister?"

  "Whoa. Don't think so." She shook her head and held up her glass. "Not until I have another drink. My editor will be happy." When she saw the bemused look on Joshua Harold's face, she explained. "I've got the last chapter of my book. El fin. That's all she wrote, folks." She expelled air in a great huffing sigh. "Well, that wasn't so bad."

  Harry said, "It's usually better to know the truth than to let your imagination fill in the blanks."

  Sylvia nodded. She sat up straighter, readying herself to ask the next question that had popped into her head. "When did he die?" When Harry didn't respond, Sylvia leaned forward anxiously. Her elbows dug into the hard surface. "He is dead."

  "Not officially." Harry took one of her hands in his and patted it gently, a grandfatherly gesture. "About eight years ago, Daniel Strange, a.k.a. Daniel Gristina, a.k.a. Jim Rule disappeared."

  "He walked out on his second family, too?" Sylvia began to laugh, a deep, snorting guffaw. The bartender and two new customers turned to stare.

  Harry had witnessed a hundred people take the news about lost family members. As he watched the striking woman across the table, hearing the slightly wild sound of her laughter, he smiled. He recognized her laughter as a healthy noise.

  POCKET BOOKS

  PROUDLY PRESENTS

  THE

  DR. SYLVIA STRANGE

  NOVELS

  SARAH LOVETT

  DANGEROUS ATTACHMENTS

  A DESPERATE SILENCE

  DANTES' INFERNO

  Available in paperback from Pocket Books

  and

  DARK ALCHEMY

  Available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster

  Turn the page for a preview. . . .

  DANGEROUS ATTACHMENTS

  Hunted by the escaped killer known as the Jackal, Sylvia must stay one step ahead or become the madman's next prey.

  El chacal, the Jackal, stood on the second tier of cell block one and stared down at the activity on the floor below. In the common area, four inmates were playing a round of bridge. A fifth inmate sat rigid in front of the TV and whispered to Brooke, a regular on The Bold and the Beautiful. The Jackal sighed; an honest day's labor was rare in this world.

  He closed his eyes and silently recited the words of St. Ignatius Loyola. "Teach us, good Lord, to serve Thee . . . to toil and not to seek for rest; to labour and not ask for any reward save that of knowing that we do Thy will."

  It was a lesson most of the occupants of CB-1 had not yet learned. And there were other lessons: thou shalt not steal . . . thou shalt not kill.

  He turned back to gaze into an open cell. The small square window was already charcoal gray. Each day another two minutes of daylight were lost. It would keep on that way—getting darker and darker—until the winter solstice.

  Day and night, just like his own two selves. He'd grown so used to them, he hardly noticed the transformation anymore. Day getting shorter. Night, longer and longer, ready to take its due.

  It was the killing that made him split apart in the beginning. Or maybe the split was the reason he had begun to kill.

  Thou shalt not kill. Finally, after doing so many bad, hurtful things, he had learned: thou shalt not kill.

  Unless you are doing His will.

  To labour and not ask for any reward

  Save that of knowing that we do Thy will.

  The Jackal had been offered a task, but had not even considered it, until the Lord intervened. The Lord said, "Accept the task, Jackal, and be rewarded." His will be done.

  The task was to kill. Not a senseless, selfish kill like some of the men had done, like he himself had done a long time ago. This kill was part of the Lord's divine plan.

  On earth as it is in heaven.

  The reward was great it would become the crowning glory of his work for the Lord.

  He sighed and gazed down at the sheet of paper he'd been clutching in his right hand. Things had been going so well.

  But then, a snafu. Somebody was nosy.

  And now, he had twice the work.

  One hit had become two hits.

  The second name was written in pencil, faint but legible. His own handwriting. Over and over. Just the way the nuns had taught him to write Be sure your sin will find you out—on the blackboard one hundred times.

  The second name covered the page ninety-seven times. The Jackal thought it was an odd name. He took the stub of pencil from his pocket, licked the tip, and smoothed the sheet of paper over the rail. In minute script he added the last three repetitions: Sylvia Strange Sylvia Strange Sylvia Strange.

  ACQUIRED MOTIVES

  When Sylvia's wish for lethal justice comes true in the form of a serial killer who targets rapists, she must find the means to stop him—before he turns on her.

  Anthony Randall didn't look like a self-confess
ed sadistic rapist His large blue eyes were free of guile, his cheeks were tinged pink, his Lips habitually worked themselves into a soft frown. He looked younger than his twenty-two years.

  He looked like an altar boy.

  Sylvia Strange shifted in the hardwood chair where she had been poised for more than thirty minutes. The glare of the fluorescent lights made her head ache. Her navy silk skirt was creased. She hoped dark circles of perspiration weren't visible under the arms of her suit jacket. It was her job to maintain the illusion of control even when the courtroom resembled the inside of a pressure cooker.

  Sylvia noticed sweat easing down Judge Nathaniel Howzer's throat to the collar of his black robes. The judge had summoned opposing counsel to the bench three times during the past fifteen minutes. Clearly, he wasn't pleased with the most recent turn of events.

  Just days earlier, Erin Tulley, an officer with the New Mexico State Police, had admitted that Anthony Randall had been reeling under the effects of drugs and alcohol when he confessed to rape. The law demanded that confessions be knowing and voluntary—tricky when the confessor's system was toxic.

  Immediately following Tulley's turnaround, the defense had filed a motion to suppress the confession. If granted, there would be no trial, and the defendant would walk. The judge had refused to render a decision on the motion until he heard the testimony of the evaluating forensic psychologist: Sylvia Strange.

  As Judge Howzer conferred yet again with defense and prosecuting attorneys, the bailiff fanned himself with both hands. It had to be pushing ninety degrees in the courtroom. A female journalist in the gallery lifted a ponytail of graying hair above her neck and strained forward to catch the breeze from a portable fan. The nose and mouth of another reporter were covered with a white mask to filter out environmental impurities.

  Behind the press row, the family members of the rape victim were huddled together. The victim's mother looked as if she was shell-shocked. Sylvia could hardly bear to glance at the woman.

  Judge Howzer finished his murmured consultation with the attorneys. Sylvia took a deep breath to regain her focus as Tony Klavin, the defendant's attorney, approached the witness stand. Klavin was thirty-five, athletic, and aggressive; he committed every ounce of energy to this examination.

  "Dr. Strange, at any time during the fifteen hours you spent with the defendant Anthony Randall, did you discuss his family history?"

  Sylvia saw Randall seated at the defense table, his blond head held perfectly still. She said, "During the examining interview I obtained a clinical history to establish the individuality of the defendant's background, his family, education, and life experiences."

  Tony Klavin nodded sagely and the dark curl that licked his forehead bounced ever so gently. He'd earned a reputation as a cunning and oily defense attorney by taking on offensive clients and winning their high-profile cases. He jammed both hands into his pants pockets and hunkered down. "Did Anthony Randall have a tragic childhood?"

  "Objection." The prosecutor, Jack O'Dell, was on his feet. He shook his head in disgust. "Dr. Strange has not been qualified by this court as a dramaturge, Your Honor."

  "Mr. Klavin, rephrase the question in less theatrical language."

  Tony Klavin touched the tips of his fingers together; his hands formed a triangle. "Dr. Strange, did Anthony Randall become a substance abuser when he was eleven years old?"

  For a split second she locked eyes with the defendant; it was like looking into the eyes of something dead. Six weeks ago, during the final clinical interview at the jail, Randall had been cocky, convinced that his ability to manipulate would get him whatever the hell he wanted. He wasn't sophisticated enough to be cognizant of the MMPI-2 validity scales, which detected "fake bad" crazies—those hard-core cases who wanted the world to think they were too sick to take responsibility for their crimes. But he had a good handle on his sociopathic skills: deceit, control, exploitation.

  To hear Anthony Randall tell it, he was the victim.

  Sylvia felt the dampness between her shoulder blades, and one droplet of sweat slowly traveled down her spine. She ran her tongue over her lips and willed herself to speak. "Anthony Randall was hospitalized for alcohol abuse when he was twelve."

  "At what age did he begin to drink?"

  "Between the ages of ten and eleven."

  "And did he also begin sniffing glue?"

  Jack O'Dell interjected, "Your Honor—"

  While the attorneys argued another point of admissibility, Sylvia took a breath and centered her mind on the business at hand. In this case, she was a witness for the defense. As a forensic psychologist, she worked for prosecution, defense, or the court—whoever requested her services. Impartiality was a professional requirement.

  Sylvia had evaluated hundreds of criminal offenders. She had heard enough truly horrific life stories to fill volumes. And most of the time, she felt empathy for the defendants. But Anthony Randall left her cold. He enjoyed inflicting pain.

  Sylvia continued to answer Tony Klavin's questions, to build a case for Anthony Randall, the conduct-disordered child who had grown into a dysfunctional, antisocial adult. With each response, Sylvia felt her stomach muscles clench. Months ago, when she first read the police crime reports, she'd wept. Anthony Randall had beaten and raped a fourteen-year-old girl with a metal pipe. And then he'd left her for dead.

  Flora Escudero had survived—just barely. But she had been unable to identify her masked attacker.

  Sylvia was no proponent of the death penalty. It was an archaic, unjust system—racially and economically biased, outrageously expensive, imperfect, and inhumane.

  But she couldn't deny the intensity of the primitive emotion that welled up inside her: she wanted Anthony Randall to die.

  DANTES' INFERNO

  The clock is ticking as Dr. Strange tracks a serial bomber—her only lead, notorious killer John Dantes.

  April 23, 2000—11:14 A.M. Los Angeles was wearing her April best: cerulean sky, whipping cream clouds, rain-washed air that whispered promises of orange blossoms and money. An LA day of sweet nothings.

  Wanda Davenport, schoolteacher and amateur painter, expertly gripped the T-shirt of ten-year-old Jason Redding just as he was about to poke a grimy finger between the sculptured buttocks of a 2,500-year-old Icarus. Antiquities were the thing at the Getty Center. And so were toilets. The lack of toilets. Four of her fifth-graders needed to pee, and her assistant was nowhere in sight.

  "Line up, guys," Wanda barked with practiced authority. "Jason, you get to hold my hand."

  The boy moaned and rolled his eyes, but his face was glowing with excitement. Her class had been planning this trip for six months. Given a choice between Universal Studios and the Getty, they'd gone with art. Fifth-graders! Who woulda thunk?

  But then again, Wanda Davenport wasn't your everyday teacher. She was so passionate about Art a wee bit of her passion rubbed off on just about anyone who spent a few weeks under her tutelage. She loved the realists, the impressionists, the dadaists—from the classical artists to the graffiti artists, she was a devoted fan.

  She smiled to herself as she gave the command to march. Jason caused her a lot of grief, but secretly he was one of her favorites. He was smart, hyper, and creative. One of these days he could be a famous artist, architect, inventor, physicist, whatever.

  "Turn right!" Wanda should've had a night job as a drill sergeant.

  Jason nearly tripped over his own two feet, which were audaciously encased in neon green athletic sneakers, one size too big. Wanda knew that his mother, Molly Redding, was a recovering substance abuser; she was also a single mom supporting her only child by waiting tables. These were rough times in the Redding household, but there was love and hope, and Jason was a terrific kid.

  "Turn left!" Wanda ordered her students, watching as Maria Hernandez accepted a fireball from Suzie Brown; the bright pink candy disappeared between white teeth.

  Twenty minutes earlier, Wanda had herded her troop of ten
- and eleven-year-olds onto the white tram car for transport to the hilltop. The 1.4-mile drive had provided a startling view of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean. The moneyed view. The new J. Paul Getty Center was situated in Brentwood, nuzzled by Santa Monica, nosed in by mountains.

  From the tram and the marble terrace fronting the museum at the hilltop, Wanda had called out city names for her children: Ocean Park, Venice, LA proper (the downtown heart of the metropolitan monster, with its constant halo of smog), San Pedro's south-end industrial shipyards, a tail in the distance . . . then back to Santa Monica and the ocean pier extending like a neon leg into blue waters . . . and last but not least, up the coast to movie-star Malibu, which had incorporated just as mud slides devoured great bites of earth and forest fires grazed the landscape down to bare, charred skin.

  With that lesson in geographic and economic boundaries, the kids had marched into the reception building; Wanda barely had time to glance at the program provided for the tour; her students demanded 110 percent of her energy. No matter—she knew this place by heart. In her mind the architectural design was Greek temple married to art deco ocean liner. She'd wandered Robert Irwin's chameleon gardens for hours; each season offered new colors, new scents, new shapes and shades. Santa Monica's Big Blue Bus ran straight to the grounds. She'd lost count of her visits. Nobody had believed Culture could draw a crowd in LA. Well, just look at her kids!

  With one expert swipe, Wanda removed a wad of gum from behind the ear of one of her oldest charges while simultaneously comforting the youngest, who was complaining of a stomachache. She couldn't wait to get them into the garden, her very favorite part of the facility. They began the trek across the first exterior courtyard. Water ran like glass between slabs of marble. The children shuffled and slid their shoes across the smooth stones.

  "Hey, guys, remember the name of the architect? We covered this in class."

  She barely caught Jason's mumbled response: "Meier."

  "Richard Meier. That's correct, Mr. Redding."

  They were almost to the stairway leading to the museum café and the outdoor dining deck. Within seconds, the central garden would rush into view. Lush with primary color and geometric form (chaos and pattern all at once), it overflowed the space between the multilevel museum and the institutes.