The Prophet Motive Read Online Free Page B

don’t you go inside the cult along with John and babysit him?”
    “Hmm,” she said. The captain didn’t want her involved in the investigation, of course. He was simply trying to salvage it, or at least guarantee its survival. Yet the offer tempted her enormously. From inside the cult, she could monitor and mitigate the psychological danger to Inspector Richetti while at the same time taking advantage of a rare research opportunity to observe a cult first hand, a bizarre cult, it seemed certain, based on what the FBI had reported. “Tempting.”
    John stared at the captain in disbelief. “You want me to work undercover with a . . . civilian?”
    Captain Switzer said, “She’s been through the police academy, Richetti. She’s a sworn officer, not just a shrink. Otherwise, the department couldn’t put her in harm’s way doing hostage negotiations. Doctor Michaelsen’s probably had a gun stuck in her face more often than you have.”
    Marilyn smacked the table with an open palm. “I’ll do it.”
    Captain Switzer smiled. “Hear that, Richetti? You’ve got yourself a babysitter.”
    John turned on her with a gruff exhale. “Any background in undercover work, Doctor Michaelsen?”
    “No.”
    “Any training or experience at all in detection?”
    “Outside the academy, no.”
    John swung his gaze back to Captain Switzer. “You know who’s going to babysit who, don’t you?”
    They were outside in the hall, meeting adjourned, heading back to their respective desks, when Marilyn pulled John Richetti aside with a tug at the sleeve of his jacket. His dark, sad eyes and the droopy folds of skin pulling down his face were Saint Bernard-like.
    “May I ask, Inspector, why it is that you volunteered to infiltrate the cult yourself?”
    “No,” he said, and a moment later, all she could see was the broad expanse of his back.
     
     
     
     

Chapter 4
     
     
     
     
    In blue jeans faded and torn at one knee Marilyn Michaelsen walked the streets of Berkeley. She’d been hoofing it all day.
    She would work her way down Telegraph Avenue, past folk musicians and performers, past New Age soothsayers offering I Ching and tarot card readings, past the ubiquitous coffee houses and book stores, past the international eateries and the European style specialty markets. Then she would turn onto Dwight Avenue, where a gauntlet of leaflet distributors would thrust color-paper tracts at her, treatises on every conceivable topic, including a purported CIA plot to assassinate aging pop star Mick Jagger.
    On she would go, skirting infamous People’s Park, where culture-rocking 60’s student protest had long since given way to junkie languor, then over to College Avenue, where a corner vendor sold aphrodisiac tree bark brews and silken robed Hare Khrishnas chanted. On she would go, returning to Telegraph Avenue by way of Durant Avenue, or sometimes Channing Way, where the Alternative Living Medicine Health Clinic stood. She planned to visit the clinic soon, not only to relieve her blistering feet, but also to experience whatever bizarre treatment would be prescribed.
    The local business folks, tourists, and counter culture aficionados were out in force. Normally, the streets would be teeming with students too, for the University of California at Berkeley’s campus ran up the nearest hillside. Yet because the Spring quarter had just ended and the first Summer session had yet to begin, few people of college age roamed the vicinity.
    Marilyn’s disguise took advantage of the missing students. She was trying to pass herself off as an alienated and lonely college age drop-out, someone considered the easiest of pickings by cult recruiters. Until the students returned, she would be a highly visible target in a highly active cult recruiting area.
    Her true age didn’t concern her much. She’d been blessed with youthful genes and kept a trim body. Even at thirty-two, she was still getting carded in restaurants and quite often when