Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (18 page)

Sylvia avoided his gaze, shook the last of the grounds into a filter, and filled the base of the coffeemaker with water. The machine began its mechanical wheeze, and the first aroma of coffee mixed with the faint scents of Ajax and lemon. "Is delivering that advice the point of your visit?"

England's eyes narrowed. "Duke Watson has already slapped a lawsuit against the corrections department; I wouldn't be surprised if you're next."

Sylvia felt the involuntary contraction of her muscles. She took a deep breath and said, "Why do you hate
him?" When England didn't respond, she turned to face him. "What did he do to you?"

He massaged his neck and there was an audible crack as a vertebra realigned itself. "We've had a few run-ins."

Sylvia snorted as she took two cups from the cupboard. Steam exploded from the coffeemaker and she reached for the pot. Hot coffee bubbled over the side of the cup as she poured. She pulled her hand away and mopped up the excess liquid with a sponge.

She studied England as she slid the cup across the counter. "That's all? A few run-ins?"

"Save your therapy for your patients, Dr. Strange."

"Fuck you, Agent England. You've got an attitude problem."

He caught her off guard with his grin. His mouth was a lopsided angle against the irregular line of his nose. He pulled gently on one ear. "So I've been told."

Unexpectedly disarmed, Sylvia returned his smile. The man was attractive when he acted human.

He took a sip of coffee and said, "Why did you go to that funeral?"

"Closure."

"He was a sick bastard who destroyed your house. He would've raped and murdered you."

She was right back where she had started with Matt England—feeling frustrated and antagonistic. She guessed he felt the same way. Intentionally, she turned her back on him and sorted her mail. A badly creased envelope caught her eye. It was addressed to Sylvia Strange, La Cieneguilla. There was no route or box number and someone had scrawled "Please forward" near her name.

She slit the paper with her little finger. A single
hand-written page slipped out. The top was dated December 9, the day before the riot—the day she had talked to Lucas in North Facility.

      
Sylvia, what I have is time. Time to sleep, time to dream. The more I dream of you the more my hate turns to love. You are my power. In another time we knew each other. Remember this when the future happens. My only crime is loving too much. We must be together or others will die.

When Matt saw her face, he took the note from her hand and skimmed the page. "Lucas?"

She nodded slowly. "This is why I needed to see him buried. I'm tired, Agent England. Can we call it a night?"

He nodded a bit reluctantly.

She walked him to his car. The moon had climbed up behind the Sangres; it was milky and subtle, a woman behind a veil. Clouds covered all but a thin strip of sky, and a smattering of stars shone like winter fireflies.

England leaned against the door of the Caprice and gazed at the tall, dark-haired woman. He sensed her personal power, and he felt an odd affinity. He also felt the frustration she always seemed to elicit from him.

"What?"

He shrugged. "I've been meaning to apologize for the way I acted at Rodeo Nites." They were standing so close, she could smell aftershave and the scent of his worn leather jacket.

She studied his face. His eyes, unreadable in the darkness, searched hers. He shook his head and reached for her shoulders tentatively. His grip was strong.

"You'd better go," she said.

He stepped back and dug his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a bottle, tossed it in the air and caught it. "Somebody's been drinking Wild Turkey in your driveway."

The empty bottle threw her for a few seconds, but she said, "I get strays out here. Lovers looking for a place to park, guys who want to drink a six-pack. They end up turning around in my driveway."

It was impossible to read his expression in the darkness as he climbed into the Caprice and closed the door. She said, "I know how to take care of myself."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
NMATE
A
NDRE
M
ILLER
from CB-1 had been found stabbed in the prep area of Main's kitchen. Rosie had already secured the crime scene, then she'd called in the state cops. One of her best boys was assisting with evidence collection, so Rosie was free to continue the investigation in other quarters.

She traversed the slick, soapy penitentiary corridor and approached the metal barrier that separated Main's hospital from the cell blocks. She waited while the C.O. buzzed her through from the control booth. Andre Miller was a quiet, unassuming man who kept a low profile as far as Rosie knew. She'd seen him at chow, but only because he worked as a regular in the kitchen.

She would review penitentiary log-books this afternoon to see if she could get a bead on Miller's attacker. Daily logs tracked traffic to and from recreation areas, sally ports, towers, each control center, and the hospital.
They recorded who attended self-help groups, who went to art classes, who used the law library. Basements and closets were filled with illegible entries written on now-moldy paper stored in military-surplus trunks and files. The excessive paperwork was an incredible bureaucratic headache, but it was part of prison security. Rosie had already reviewed logs pertinent to the Angel Tapia missing-finger incident. She knew exactly who was where, and when. Or, more accurately, she knew what had been entered in the logs. In real life, Rosie understood things were overlooked, left out, intentionally or not.

Recently, she'd begun to doubt some of her own theories; namely, Angel's missing pinkie and the existence of the jackal. No one could remain invisible for decades. The most obvious theory—gang retribution—was looking more and more plausible. Her only confirmation of the jackal had come from Bubba, and he had his own reasons to obscure an investigation that might be centered around racism and gang rivalry.

She had other reasons to be concerned. At their last meeting, Warden Cozy had accused her of fanning prison fires by her pursuit of a phantom monster. What if Cozy was right?

Rosie reached the hospital door and opened it to find three inmates in the waiting area; they looked perfectly healthy. Of course, a third of the pen's inmates were chronic malingerers. Anything to get out of a cell. Who could blame them? A vinyl couch occupied most of the space, and Rosie recognized Chuey "Shotgun" Martinez sprawled on one end. In the past few years, she'd questioned him several times after his halfhearted suicide attempts.

She said, "Hello, Chuey, where's the nurse?"

Chuey smiled at Rosie. The wide gap where his front teeth should have been gave him an obtuse charm. "She's gone to the sally port to send Miller to St. Vincent's,'' Chuey Shotgun said.

Rosie frowned. If the shank damage was bad enough to necessitate a transfer to the hospital, the assault was more serious than she'd first thought. There had been one really odd thing about the kitchen crime scene: the shiny stainless steel counter—all of it!—had been smeared with Miller's blood. She thought about that fact as she walked back toward CB-1.

The trip took her downstairs to the ground-floor level, past the deputy warden's office and the inmates' visiting room, and through three sets of locked gates.

Two C.O.s were in the cage between CB-1 and the central corridor. Rosie said, "Keep an eye on me." They opened both gates and let her through.

Without turning her head, she scoped out the stairway to the second tier, the empty shower cubicle, and the location of visible inmates. She acknowledged the six men who were seated around a common television set. They were watching
The Price Is Right
. One of them—she thought she recognized "Stinky" Gray—kept jumping out of his seat to coach the game-show players.

He stabbed two fingers in the air, "Hey, asshole, two bills! Two and a half bills, ducksbreath! Lookatthatfatcow! He doesn't have a clue—"

While Stinky continued his running tirade, Rosie mentally I.D.'d the others: Roybal, Theo T. Bones, Robot Rodriguez, Elmer Rivak, and Del "Loco" Montoya.

She took the keys from her belt clip and approached Miller's locked cell. She felt eyes crawl along her back and her skin twitched like a dog shedding bothersome fleas. She unlocked the cell door and used her weight to pull open the door. The first thing she noticed was the small cloth bundle in the sink. When she shook it open gingerly, a small brown finger rolled out. Abruptly, the hair on her arms stood up and she backed out of the cell and firmly closed the door.
Madre de Dios
, she murmured silently. She'd found Angel Tapia's finger. It had to be. It certainly didn't belong to Andre Miller, whose skin was white as Wonder bread. Could Miller be
el chacal?

Rosie shook her head as she turned her key in the lock. For a moment, she'd forgotten where she was. Now, she turned slowly to face the five men in front of the television. Five heads turned, five faces stared.

Without speed, Robot and Loco Montoya stood at the same time and moved toward her.

Roybal crossed his arms over his muscled chest and smiled.

Rosie gauged the distance between her position and the entrance to the cell block: forty, forty-five feet. She could hear the C.O.s talking, something about the dinner menu.

Chinga
. She was getting too cocky, too stupid, letting her guard down. She could feel the tension emanating from the inmates—could see it in their bodies. Loco Montoya now stood two feet in front of her.

"What's up?" Montoya asked in a flat voice.

"Can we help?" A muscle in T. Bones's jaw twitched.

Rosie swallowed; her mouth was dry as dust.

"What'd you find in Miller's cell?" The voice sounded
normal, almost friendly. Rosie's eyes shifted; the voice belonged to Elmer Rivak.

Loco Montoya said, "Maybe Miller had a recipe for quiche."

The men snickered. Loco Montoya stepped back and slid a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket.

"Yeah," Loco Montoya said. "Somebody shanked Miller 'cause his chow stunk so bad."

Stinky Gray had intensified his television tirade. "Hey, penis head, why don't you teach her to hula? Why don't you just yank that flatulent tack? Yakkety-yak! Don't talk back, sweetheart."

Rosie heard footsteps approaching from behind. She stiffened and turned her head slightly. She saw the brown uniform of a correctional officer. Two more steps and the guard came into full view: C.O. Anderson.

Rosie breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Anderson said, "How's the game going?"

Since Rosie's entrance into CB-1, Stinky Gray's eyes hadn't left the television screen once. Now he turned and nodded to Anderson. "Going fine, but the price ain't never right."

J
ASPAR HELD ONE
end of Rocko's leash, Rocko strained at the other end, and Sylvia grasped the middle. They merged with the procession that circled the baseball diamond in Train Park. Bundled up against the cold in parka, cap, mittens, and wool scarf, Jaspar resembled a short Santa Claus.

Maggie Hunt, director of A Dog's Life obedience school, circulated among her clients offering words of encouragement or clucking her displeasure. "Don't let
him get away with that. Snap the leash. Release! Now say,
good boy
, and give treats, treats, treats!"

Sylvia leaned down to unwrap two layers of leash that had twined around Rocko's neck; she found herself looking into Jaspar's serious eyes. The child seemed more withdrawn than he had been at the petroglyphs. This morning, when Sylvia stopped to pick him up, Monica had quietly reported no changes in the frequency of bedwetting and bad dreams. Again, his mother had refused to accept a referral.

Sylvia directed child and dog across the grass. For now, she would go along with the supposition that Jaspar needed a friend more than he needed a therapist. Even so, she wasn't the best choice. Since last night, her thoughts had been on her encounter with Matt and the letter from Lucas.

While Sylvia's mind wandered, Rocko took advantage of the slack and lunged for a dalmatian. Maggie Hunt appeared, grabbed the leash, and snapped, "Uh!" In response, Rocko lifted his leg and peed very close to Maggie's loafer.

A man in his late twenties matched stride with Sylvia; she thought he was Maggie Hunt's assistant until he asked his first question. "Dr. Strange, how would you characterize your relationship with Lucas Watson?"

Sylvia came to a complete stop.

"Keep moving," Maggie Hunt commanded from center field.

Sylvia tapped Jaspar on the shoulder. "Can you handle Rocko?" He nodded. She gave him the baggie filled with sliced hot dogs, then stepped away from the circle. The man followed her.

"My name's Tony Vitino. I'm a reporter from the
New Mexican."

"I know who you are."

"I hoped you'd return my phone calls."

Sylvia had been ignoring calls from journalists for weeks—queries about Watson's escape from St. Vincent's and the riot. She'd been relieved that media interest and coverage had finally died down. Or so she'd thought.

Vitino said, "Could we grab a cup of coffee? We should discuss why Lucas Watson went to your house after he escaped from St. Vincent's Hospital."

"There's nothing to discuss," Sylvia said, turning away.

"Did you and Lucas Watson have a sexual relationship?" Vitino pitched the question, and it hit Sylvia like a fastball from left field.

She turned and jabbed a finger toward his chest. "What?"

Vitino shook his head and kept talking as he stepped backward. "You gave Lucas Watson pictures of yourself. Would you describe them as intimate?"

Sylvia opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

"I'm talking about the complaint lodged against you with the Board of Psychologist Examiners." He cocked his head and eyed her with a mix of surprise and pity. "You don't know about this?"

She made a mental grab for bearings and then forced herself into motion. "I have nothing to say." She caught up with Jaspar and took hold of Rocko's leash. Heading toward the car, both boy and dog had to trot to keep up with her. Jaspar kept his eye on Sylvia. "Are you mad at me?"