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

what's going on."
          Chaney leaned toward Sylvia, took the photograph from her fingers, and lowered his voice until it was sensual in its intensity. "The dead man in this particular photograph was a child molester until he met up with our mutual friend Dupont White."
          Although the name sounded only vaguely familiar, Sylvia knew that Dupont White must be Chaney's enemy—the man responsible for Nina Valdez's death. Then instinct was bluntly shoved aside by facts.
          "Dan, this man—this Dupont White—he was the gunrunner who was killed in Las Cruces. In the warehouse blowout. I remember now."
          Without moving a muscle, Chaney pulled himself back, reined in his emotions—almost invisibly, but Sylvia saw the transition.
          "Dupont White's death"—Chaney stood and cocked fingers to sign quotations around "death"—"his death is an official lie. The Bureau has no proof. All the evidence went up with the warehouse."
          Dread ran through Sylvia's body like a chemical. She didn't know if Chaney was delusional or a whistle-blower. The mattress springs dug into her buttocks. She was hot and sweaty. And she wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. But she also wanted to hear what proof Dan Chaney had—if any.
          It was a hard sell, and Chaney sensed his narrow window of opportunity. He paced a few steps andcontinued quietly. "Dupont White hawks black-market hardware to skinheads in Idaho, the Aryan Nation in California, and Lone Star Nazis. It's all part of his paranoid mission to fuck over the cops, the feds, his daddy—everyone who fucked him over first." Chaney stopped moving, rubbed his neck with short, thick fingers, and studied Sylvia for an uncomfortably long time. She refused to veer her eyes under his gaze. Finally he sat down next to her, and his lips turned up into a crooked smile. "For your own safety, you really should believe me, Sylvia."
          "Believe you? Jesus, Dan, you're talking about a dead man." She took a breath and set her palms on her thighs, fingers spread. Apprehension pushed her to act, to get out of this room, this motel. She didn't move.
          In a quieter voice, she said, "It's been two months since the warehouse blowout. Hasn't the F.B.I. completed DNA tests? Don't they have proof of Dupont White's death?"
          Wearily, Chaney ran a hand across his temple to ease a throbbing pain. "It's more complicated than that. The Bureau won't release their findings. They don't want any of this made public."
          "Oh, come on, why the hell not? Are you suggesting this is a federal conspiracy?"
          "Don't forget, I was there," he answered quietly. Sylvia was startled when an image appeared suddenly on the television screen.
          "When they raided the ranch in California, they found this footage." Chaney nodded toward the screen.
          The camera panned, jumped, and a grainy image pulled into focus: a desert moonscape.
          Sylvia glanced at the agent. His mouth hung open—eyes glommed on film he'd seen a hundred times—his hand gripped the remote. Sylvia's attention was drawn back to the video. The quality was poor, black-and-white and grainy, but watchable.
          The camera's eye slid to the ground and closed in on something long and white. Rope. Sylvia swallowed uncomfortably as the camera moved again, jerked along, as if it were a hound following a ripe scent.
          The camera stopped on a man's face. Eyes stared blindly out at the viewer. His mouth was open, he was breathing hard and fast. Then there was blurred motion as if the camera had been dropped. For what seemed an interminably long time, the screen was gray. When the camera finally pulled roughly back to reveal the captive's naked body, Sylvia heard herself groan. He was on his back, arms and legs outstretched, lashed between four metal stakes. His skin was wet.
          She could hear Chaney's drawn breath; but it wasn't