Touched by Fire Read online

  Serena knocked and entered without waiting to be acknowledged. “I don’t mean to be peevish,” she began in a deferential tone, “but I rather assumed I’d be doing the field work on this phase of OX-A?”

  “Well, you know what they say about assumptions, Doctor,” Lilah said with a little smile. She was thinking J.R.s were all a little too full of themselves, when it struck her that she’d been no different. She wouldn’t hire one who didn’t radiate a mild aura of conceit—you have to believe you can do the impossible to have a chance of pulling it off, she often lectured. “Sorry, that was uncalled for,” Lilah said, sounding as if she meant it. “I applaud your initiative, Serena, but—”

  “I initiated this protocol,” Serena interrupted, purposely making a play on Lilah’s word. “I wrote the grants, generated the correspondence—”

  “Under my guidance and signature,” Lilah countered gently. She sent a plume of, smoke toward the electronic air cleaner perched on her desk. “And the pressure to analyze the data and get that paper written in time for GRASP is on me too, isn’t it?” The acronym stood for Genetics and its Relevance to the Anti-Social Personality, and referred to an upcoming conference. Hosted by the Aspen Institute in Maryland, the controversial forum was barely a month away, and time—to process enough samples and produce meaningful statistics—was running out. “I think you’re a first-class scientist, Serena,” Lilah concluded with evident sincerity. “The best investigator I’ve ever had, but this prison study requires something more.”

  “Something more?”

  “Yes, the ability to look these inmates in the eye, gain their trust, and get them to spill their guts.”

  “Why? We’re screening their genes, not their minds. They either have the bloody marker or they don’t.”

  “It’s not that simple. The Dutch study is taking heat for being light on behavioral data. We have the resources to get into it, and we’re going to use them.”

  “If you mean collaborating with that head-shrinker over in Neuro-psy—”

  “You have your opinion of Dr. Schaefer and I mine.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “That was uncalled for, Doctor.”

  “Rather makes us even, doesn’t it?”

  Lilah filled her lungs with smoke and smiled in concession. “Yeah, but this one’s different. We’re not after a marker that might presage hemophilia or breast cancer. We’re talking deplorable human behavior. The implications are massive. We must know who these people are. Now—” She paused and brushed the waves of flame-red hair back over her shoulder. “Your interpersonal skills have come a long way, Serena, but you don’t need me to tell you they’re still way behind your feel for science.”

  So what? Serena thought. She was a scientist, not a politician! It seemed every time she was about to break out, Lilah found a way to contain her; she’d become convinced her boss was threatened by her brilliance. She was about to argue the point when Lilah handed her one of the data sheets. The photo of a fierce-eyed black man stopped Serena cold.

  “Raped his ten-year-old daughter,” Lilah said, handing her another. A cherubic Caucasian fellow with a warm smile peered from the photo. “Serial rapist. Thirty-nine victims.”

  Serena shuddered in stunned silence.

  Lilah watched the last wisps of smoke vanish into the air cleaner. “I’ve got this feeling in my gut that getting to know these”—She paused briefly and decided against using a pejorative—“these men is important, and I’ve got to go with it. Hope you understand.”

  “I still say, they have the marker or they don’t.”

  “Well, I guess when you get down to it, that’s why I’m going and you’re not.”

  Lilah dismissed her protégée, then called Schaefer’s office. He’d be with a patient at this hour, which meant she’d get his answering machine, and this time, that’s what she wanted. “Hi, it’s Lilah,” she said smartly after the beep. “Just got word that the first group of prisoners is a go. Need to coordinate our schedules when you have a minute. Thanks.” She hung up and hurried from the office. It was still painful, but this was business, and she had little choice but to resume the strictly professional relationship that had brought them together.

  “Mail call,” Cardenas chirped, holding up a bundle of envelopes and journals as Lilah approached.

  “Thanks. On my desk, okay?” she said, without breaking stride.

  “Oh, and those supplies came in,” he added, referring to the boxes he’d opened. One contained the sheets of X-ray-like film from which autorads were made; the other, vacutainers used to take blood samples.

  Lilah responded with a preoccupied nod, continued to the light table and spent the rest of the day in the bluish glow of the autorads. Then, as dusk fell and thermal winds rose, she went cruising. Campus cruising. Not for blood samples—though there was always a chance she might come up with one—but for a lover. She didn’t manhunt often. Mostly when a relationship soured. Sometimes in the sports bars that dotted the village, sometimes in the twisting streets, most often in the gym, the choice dependent on the level of risk she could tolerate; but whenever she did, she usually targeted the soft-eyed ones, the ones with wistful smiles who weren’t full of themselves, who had a certain withdrawn quality or vulnerability. They made her feel confident and secure, and quite literally on top of things, which—once she’d brought them back to her condo—they’d quickly discover was the case.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The workout rooms in UCLA’s Wooden Center—the vast complex named after the legendary basketball coach who led the Bruins to ten national titles—were packed with panting, red-faced students. Fueled by designer water four times more costly per gallon than gasoline, their bodies struggled with clanking chrome-plated torture racks while their minds came to grips with the downsizing of corporate America.

  It was always a student when Lilah really needed to be in control. She spotted this one at the far end of a row of exercycles, and smiled at the irony when she recognized him. The insecure ones often made the most outrageous comments in class. Faded undergrad T-shirt hanging from his bony frame, thatch of hair plastered to his forehead, eyes riveted to a textbook that was bending the rack affixed to the handle bars, big-boobs-or-small Kauffman was pedaling for all he was worth. Lilah jogged on an adjacent treadmill until he was finished, then orchestrated an impromptu meeting.

  “Sorry,” he said as she brushed past him, their sweat-slick bodies making brief contact.

  Lilah pirouetted, her flame-red ponytail sweeping the air, and smiled flirtatiously. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but that was the best sex I’ve had in months.”

  He laughed and pawed clumsily at the floor with his Reeboks. “You know, you look kind of familiar.”

  “So do you.”

  “Joel Kauffman,” he said, trying to place her.

  “Lilah. Lilah Graham,” she said, adjusting the straps of her halter. Translucent with sweat, the taut spandex covered her breasts with the same attention to detail as a coat of spray paint.

  Kauffman couldn’t help but stare; then he grinned nervously, head tilting this way and that. “Graham?” he wondered with a glimmer of recognition. “Lilah Graham . . . We have a class together or something?”

  “We sure do, Kauffman,” she replied in her most professorial tone.

  “Oh God, I’m so lame,” the kid prattled, his face burning with embarrassment. “Dr. Graham. Genetics.”

  “That’s me.”

  “You got me pretty good there this afternoon.”

  “I got you pretty good now,” she said, her face alive with that combination of childlike vulnerability and mature sexuality that men found attractive.

  “Yeah, well, you look . . . I don’t know . . . younger, I guess. Y-y-your—” he stammered, searching for a word, any word but the one his cupped hands unwittingly described. “Your leotards are really cool,” he finally blurted. “I mean, like, like you look so different without your smock and glasses.”
/>   “Like, you should see me without the leotards . . .” Lilah’s eyes—a soft dark blue with the soulful depth of sapphires, which sparkled with intelligence—left no doubt she meant it.

  Kauffman forced an uncomfortable smile, his mind racing to find a way to disengage. “Yeah, well, hey, I’ve got to hit the shower and get back to this,” he said, indicating the textbook as he backed away.

  Lilah grabbed the ends of the towel draped around his neck, stopping him. “Where you from, Kauffman?”

  “Skagit Bay. It’s a little town about fifty miles north of Seattle. Why?”

  “Rains a lot up there, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess . . .”

  “Well, L.A.’s working on a five-year drought, and you can do something about it.” Lilah pulled on the towel to bring his face down closer to hers; so close he could see the microfine beads of perspiration on her bosom; then she put her lips to his ear and, in a breathy whisper, said, “Conserve water. Shower with a friend.”

  Kauffman’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a channel marker. How to handle a horny genetics professor wasn’t one of the case studies in medical ethics class. “Well, Lilah,” he said, deciding this was one of those moments when valor wins hands down over discretion, “I knew there was a reason I didn’t go to NYU.”

  Minutes later, still in workout gear, they were hurrying across a pedestrian bridge toward the precast concrete parking structure adjacent to Mac-Med. Darkness had fallen, but the wind was still blistering hot, and their faces were smarting and taut by the time they reached her car. The green Jaguar sedan was a 3.8 model from the mid-sixties, with wires and a sunroof.

  “Nice set of wheels,” Kauffman said as Lilah swung out of the parking structure, beading toward Le Conte.

  “Extravagant set of wheels,” she cracked. “I always wanted an old Jag. Something civilized and classy about them. And one day, there it was, waiting for me. I couldn’t afford it, but I did it anyway.”

  “Pure impulse, huh?”

  “Nothing pure about it, nothing whatso—oh shit.”

  “What?”

  She reached for her briefcase—a leather tour de force of pockets, pouches, and compartments that served as purse, doctor’s bag, and document case—slipped the cellular phone from its assigned sleeve and pushed one of the autodial buttons. “Hi, it’s me . . . No, that’s why I’m calling. Something’s come up. I can’t . . . Uh-huh. In the morning. First thing.” She listened indulgently, nodding, grunting, as she made the turn into Gayley. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Mom? Mom, can I . . . Mom, can I get a word in here, please? I just said, I’d be there in the morning . . . Yes, I know. I’m sorry about dinner. Tell him I’ll be there, okay? . . . Yes, I promise . . . Love you too.” Lilah hung up, then sensed Kauffman’s curiosity. “She’s worried about my father. He’s old, he’s sick, and he has a daughter who’s a doctor.” A daughter who cares for him deeply, she thought; a daughter who is terribly frustrated by the fact that—despite all her training, knowledge, and connections in the medical community—there isn’t a thing she can do to save him.

  “Something serious?”

  Lilah slipped the phone back into her briefcase and nodded. “Waldenstrom’s disease.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An abnormal proliferation of lymphocytes and plasma cells.”

  He looked off thoughtfully. “That’d thicken the blood and effect immune response, wouldn’t it?”

  “Very good,” Lilah said, shifting into lecture-hall mode, which provided some emotional distance. “So once a month we do a CBC to check his . . . what?”

  “White cells, no?”

  “White cells, yes. And plasma count.” She punched the gas. The Jaguar responded with a throaty growl and accelerated up the hill toward the glittering lights of Spanish-style condominiums. The tightly clustered units were roofed in tiles of burnt orange clay, and sheathed in soft-edged stucco the color of adobe. Like many such complexes in Southern California, each unit had a subterranean garage directly beneath it, with automatic door opener and stair-case within that led up into the living area. But Lilah drove past the ramp that led down to the garages and parked at the curb.

  Kauffman’s brow furrowed with uncertainty. “You leave this thing on the street?”

  Lilah splayed her hands. “I could say it’s easier to pick up my mail this way, which it is; but actually I’m an incurable pack rat and my garage is loaded with junk.” She got out of the car, set the alarm, and sauntered toward the security gate, her ponytail beckoning Kauffman to follow with its rhythmic bob.

  Lilah had already picked up something far more interesting than mail; but as they passed the bank of mailboxes in the courtyard, something caught her eye. The slip of yellow paper taped to her box indicated she had a package in the receiving room where oversized mail and deliveries were held. She considered fetching it, but her curiosity was no match for the sexual current that had been surging through her since she had left the gym. The package would keep till tomorrow, she thought; till next week, if Kauffman’s appetite for her matched the hunger in his eyes; indeed, till eternity, if she knew what it contained.

  Lilah took his hand and made a beeline for her condo. “Buckle your seat belt,” she purred in a sexy whisper as she unlocked the door and pulled him into the darkened entry. “You’re in for the ride of your life.”

  The door had barely latched when she buried her hands in his hair and kissed him passionately. The next thing Kauffman knew, their clothes were strewn across the floor in a haphazard trail that led to the bathroom, and they were caressing beneath a tingling shower. Lilah soaped his lean body until he was lost in the ecstasy, then turned the water to full cold. He yelped, trying to avoid the icy blast, as Lilah slipped from the enclosure, her naughty laughter echoing off the hard surfaces.

  “You bastard,” Kauffman gurgled good-naturedly, stumbling into the bedroom after her, where they lunged into each other’s arms, their glistening bodies sliding sensuously against one another. “Oh, wow,” he exclaimed, fascinated by the synchronized movement in the mirrors. “Like we’re everywhere at once.”

  “Make love to me, Joel,” Lilah whispered through trembling lips. “Make love to me everywhere.” Kauffman soared with passion and began backing her toward the bed. “No. No, wait, wait,” Lilah said, kissing him as she spun him around in the opposite direction. She guided him into a chair in front of the mirrored wardrobe and straddled his thighs. “This way. It’s always better for me this way.”

  In truth, she’d never been with a lover and been beneath him. Never. The mere thought of it filled her with claustrophobic terror which she could neither fathom nor tolerate. But it had never been a problem. On the contrary, men always seemed relieved at her taking control. Even her first time, the eager high school wrestling champion with the rock hard body and short fuse had happily spent the entire time pinned to the shaggy carpet in the rear of his van. Maybe it was some sort of primal resonance that made them submit, she thought. Some pleasurable memory of their mothers hovering over them with a fresh diaper and a can of baby powder that made them so trusting.

  Joel Kauffman was no different. His eyes widened in brief protest, then glazed in watery abandon as Lilah eased back slowly, capturing him in her tight wetness. “I take it back,” she moaned, noticing she was literally face-to-face with her reflection, which, thanks to their position and proximity to the mirror, made Kauffman appear to be salaciously sandwiched between Lilah and her identical twin. “What I said about your shortcomings, I mean.” She emitted a naughty giggle, then dipped a shoulder, letting one of her nipples graze his lips. He turned his head this way and that, chasing after it like a hungry infant. His eager mouth soon found its target, sending waves of erotic sensations rippling across Lilah’s flesh. She savored the rush and quickened her pace, her flame-red mane snapping wildly from side to side, the soft blue cast of her eyes burning with unbridled passion.

  Kauffman arched his back, raising his hips to meet he
r, then shuddered as the sensation intensified. At these moments, he always thought of a sex education book his parents had given him as a child that likened an orgasm to a sneeze.

  For Lilah it was more like an incendiary whoosh. Like an entire book of matches igniting at once, and then igniting again, and again, and again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  An entire book of matches igniting at once—a perfect analogy for Los Angeles at this time of year: no dazzling foliage, no crisp arctic air, no frost on the pumpkin here. No, while much of the country reveled in autumnal bliss, Angelenos sizzled in stifling desert heat.

  They had a quirk of nature to thank for it.

  In mid-October the jet stream, which blew west to east the other eleven months, reversed direction over Utah and backtracked across the steaming Mojave. The superheated air rose over the mountains, emerging as the Santa Ana winds, and raced at freeway speeds down the hundreds of canyons that slashed across Southern California from desert to sea. The humidity plunged to five percent, the temperature soared to ninety-plus degrees, and hundreds of thousands of acres of vegetation turned into brittle tinder. Like ill-fated lovers, the hot winds and dry terrain needed only a spark to unite them in a passionate, self-destructive frenzy until only smoke and ash remained; and every fall, there was always some nut itching to play matchmaker and set their lonely hearts aflame.

  Tonight, the nut wore sunglasses and a baseball cap with a ponytail pulled through the back, and drove a dusty Econoline van. It turned into Las Flores Canyon south of Malibu and began the twisting climb past fine homes set on the lush hillsides above the Pacific. The driver had the serene demeanor and hyperactive eyes of someone who’d been living on the edge of reality and had just fallen off.