Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (19 page)

"Of course not, kiddo." She tried to keep her voice light. "I just remembered I have to do something urgent." She unlocked the car. "Buckle your seat belt, and let's find your mom."

Tony Vitino rapped on the window as she pulled out of the parking lot. His mouth was moving, but Sylvia couldn't hear him over the noise of the heater. How the hell could Lucas get photos of her? And why was a reporter telling her she had a complaint with the board of ethics? Albert Kove was the head of the state's Board of Psychologist Examiners, the very same board that investigated grievances, ethical and otherwise. She'd talked to him this morning, but he hadn't mentioned a word about a complaint. She didn't dwell on the fact that she was very close to a contract with Kove and Casias.

After she dropped Jaspar with Monica, Sylvia drove directly to Kove's office. He was scraping ice off the windshield of his Subaru when Sylvia slid the Volvo to a stop.

"Albert!" She stepped out of the car.

Kove turned and wiped his glasses with gloved fingers. "Sylvia?" He frowned. "What a madhouse today. Who says there's more domestic violence in hot weather?"

"We need to talk," Sylvia said.

"Tonight. I've got to be across town in ten minutes."

She could barely see his eyes behind fogged glasses. "Albert, is there a complaint against me?"

"This isn't the place to discuss it."

"Who filed it?" Sylvia asked. "I've got a right to know."

Albert Kove steadied himself on the hood of the Subaru and said, "It was filed this morning by Duke Watson."

"On what grounds?"

Kove opened his car door and spoke reluctantly. "Sexual misconduct."

"That's absurd. What possible evidence—"

"Photographs." Kove climbed into his car. He removed his glasses and gazed up at her bleary-eyed. "Watson claims you sent them to his son as part of an ongoing sexual relationship."

"You're taking this seriously? You think I'd seduce an inmate?" Her pulse was racing. "Does Duke Watson think I had sex with Lucas in his cell?"

"I'll see that you get copies." Kove started the Subaru's engine.

"Albert, this is crazy!" Sylvia watched the Subaru's rear tires spin on a patch of ice as Kove drove off. Rocko barked fiercely at the retreating vehicle.

She wasn't surprised when she didn't find Herb at the courthouse complex. At the modest stucco offices of Cox and Burnett, she parked behind his red-and-black Bronco that sported an ego plate:
SF LAW
. She ignored the receptionist's questioning look and strode down the short hallway to his office. She entered without knocking.

"Sylvia," Herb shifted his cowboy boots off the desk, leaned forward in his chair. He clicked off the dictaphone and ran a hand through curly hair. "Did I miss something? Did we have an appointment?"

"We do now." She ignored his gestured invitation to sit. "I want you to tell me exactly what Duke Watson gave to the Board of Psychologist Examiners."

Herb coughed "You know that's inappropriate. My client—"

"Show me the goddamn photos!"

Herb stared at her, opened his mouth, closed it, and shrugged. He pulled a manila envelope from a top drawer and slid it across the desktop. "These don't leave my office."

Sylvia forced herself not to turn away from him. She opened the envelope and pulled out four black and white eight-by-tens. They were all of her; in each, she was wearing her bathrobe, standing in her own kitchen brushing her hair, apparently smiling and talking to the camera. In the last photograph, she had her head forward, eyes cast down, and the robe was open exposing her breasts. Sylvia felt sick.

She put the pictures carefully back in the envelope and fastened the clasp. She set them on Herb's desk. In a hard voice, she demanded, "Who took these?"

Herb met her eyes and glanced away. "I think you can answer that question," he said.

She wanted to slap him. "Where did you get them?"

"They were with Lucas Watson's possessions."

"And how did they come into
your
possession, Herb?"

Herb stood. "Sylvia, I let you see the photos because I consider you a friend—"

"Those pictures were taken by Duke Watson without my knowledge, without my permission. I'm not a lawyer, but it sounds like I can get him for invasion of privacy, harassment—I'll have a warrant sworn out. I'll hit him with a lawsuit. You tell him that!" She slammed glass doors behind her as she left the building.

By the time she reached her car, she had made up her
mind to do some homework on Duke Watson. She glanced at her watch: 12:40. She could make it to Albuquerque in fifty minutes.

T
HE HOURS
S
YLVIA
spent at the
Albuquerque Journal's
morgue were tedious but productive. She started with several stories on Watson's early political career. Jotting down notes, she scanned articles on his campaigns, his pledge to balance the state's economic and environmental demands, his efforts to modernize New Mexico's public schools. He was a champion of children's rights. A reformer. Unusual for a small-time politico. But Duke was different; for three decades he'd kept his eye on the big time.

A 1962 graduate of the University of New Mexico, Duke practiced business law in Albuquerque for several years. His political climb began after his marriage in 1970 to Lily Nash, daughter of a wealthy New Mexican land and cattle man. Sylvia found a nuptial announcement, but no photograph of the couple. Lily gave birth to two sons—Lucas Sharp Watson and William Nash Watson—within two years of the wedding.

Sylvia pushed away from the table and stretched. She wanted a cigarette and a long vacation. Even more, she wanted to know what had gone on in the Watson family for the next few years until Lily's death. Her imagination had always been potent, but it paled compared with what she'd seen in the course of her work. She could think of too many possible—and nasty—reasons why a young mother would leave two children behind in the wake of violent, self-inflicted death.

Lily Watson's suicide predated 1980 when all papers were catalogued and recorded on microfiche. But Sylvia
eventually unearthed two articles among the stacks of old newspapers.

The suicide was covered in the
Journal's
morning edition on July 7, 1977, page four. The headline read:
YOUNG MOTHER DIES.
The short article reported that Lily Watson, wife and mother, had died two nights before between 6:30
P.M
. and midnight. Her body was discovered the next morning by a caretaker. The medical examiner's office had not yet released the cause of death.

The second story—which ran the following day on page eight—explained that both of Lily's sons had been staying with the family's housekeeper on the night of the tragedy. It continued: "Away on business, state Sen. Duke Watson was not immediately informed of his wife's death. Watson, D-District 9, was not available for comment, but the dead woman's sister, Belle Nash, expressed the family's shock and sorrow."

Sylvia skimmed the next column and stopped short when she saw the article's last paragraph: "Medical investigators have determined that 28-year-old Lily Watson died from a self-inflicted bullet wound, Bernalillo Sheriff's Deputy Matthew England said Thursday."

So Matt England had investigated Lily's death when he was a deputy sheriff. He hadn't mentioned that fact last night. His antipathy for Duke Watson was almost two decades old.

She put her speculation on hold and turned her attention back to the stack of newsprint in front of her.

Six days after the tragedy, the
Journal
ran a photo
graph of Duke Watson standing over his wife's grave. Next to him, two small boys clutched the hands of Lily's sister, Belle Nash. Sylvia recognized the colonial church in the background; Lucas had been buried in the same cemetery as his mother.

It occurred to Sylvia to pull papers for the one-year anniversary of Lily's death.

Under funeral notices and memorials:

Lily Nash Watson, on that darkest of nights, you left us. Our prayers for your comfort seemed unanswered until we accepted God's will as all-knowing and ever-wise. We will meet again in the next world. We love you. And we miss you since you went away a year ago today.

As she copied down the memorial, she wondered who had placed it in the paper. Duke? Probably not two boys under the age of eight.

Lucas Watson's arrest for murder was easier to find because it was recent . . . the murder he committed, and his trial, were unremarkable, except for the brutality of the beating and the fact that his father was a state senator.

Finally, Sylvia pulled up the sole reference on William Watson. At the age of seventeen, Billy had been arrested for false imprisonment.

In print, the eighteen-year-old victim told a horrifying tale of stalking, kidnapping, and attempted rape. Three weeks later, the charges were dropped when the victim recanted—she now claimed to have willingly posed for the telephoto pictures found in Billy's possession.

I
T WAS HOT
in the court as Duke Watson slammed the ball against the whitewashed wall. "It takes balls to play squash, Herb."

Herb wiped sweat from his forehead on the sleeve of his gray T-shirt. "Just need to get in shape." "Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-one."

"Don't rub it in."

Duke tossed his squash racquet in the air, caught it in one hand, and slapped it against his thigh. "Let's get in the sauna. I need to burn out a cold." He led the way through the low wooden door to the locker area.

The Kiva Club was the only men's club in Santa Fe, and Duke Watson had joined in the mid-seventies. He continued to pay his dues because he enjoyed the squash games, and, most of all, he appreciated the gentlemen's agreements that were sealed with sweat and a beer from the lobby's vending machine—a sub rosa courtesy of the management.

The club was housed in a historic adobe complete with fifteen-foot ceilings, cracked vigas, and thick earth walls that were whitewashed year after year. From the outside, the building looked like a part of the old La Posada Hotel property that was immediately adjacent. No sign; to find the club, you had to know where you were headed.

Duke folded his clothes and laid them in a loose pile in front of his locker. As he strode toward the sauna, his gut trembled, but his thighs and butt didn't budge. Herb followed the older man into the dark interior of the cedarwood room. They were its only occupants, and Duke immediately ladled water from a bucket and splashed it over hot rocks. Vapor billowed
up, and Herb gasped as he sucked fiery air into his lungs.

Duke Watson took the high bench.

Herb eased his rear onto the low bench and wiped his hands over his face. "Toasty."

"That's the idea."

To Herb, Duke looked like Humpty-Dumpty. His legs were toothpicks, but above the hips he swelled into a huge egg. There was a strong chance Humpty would be New Mexico's governor by next term. A drop of sweat dripped from Herb's nose and landed on his penis; he remembered where he was.

"So, what's on your mind?" Duke asked.

"This complaint—"

"What about it?" Duke leaned back, spread his knees wide, and his genitals hung loose like a bird's wattles.

Herb said, "Sylvia saw the photos."

"How did that happen?"

"She barged into my office, screamed at me, said she'd get a lawyer."

"So you rolled over and showed her your belly?"

Herb didn't answer, and Duke's expression hardened. "It's her bad luck those pictures survived the riot. My son had them tucked inside that book she wrote."

Herb frowned. "But who took them?"

"Herb . . ." Duke spoke as if he were gently correcting an errant child.

Herb wiped the sweat from his face. He was breathing harder now. His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. "All I know is Lucas wanted a shrink for the parole board—he wanted Sylvia. Fine. You told me to keep him in the pen. I did. I killed two birds with that evaluation." He swallowed hard. "Now, he's dead."

Duke's eyes narrowed. "Neither you nor I could have prevented a riot."

Herb sputtered. "I just . . . It's just, to ruin her career—I know she didn't sleep with Lucas, and I don't like the idea of filing the lawsuit just now—"

"She was at Luke's funeral." Duke raised a finger, took a breath, then dropped his hand to the bench. "She had some kind of relationship with my son . . . she's to blame for his escape, his transfer to North Facility. In my mind, she's to blame for his death."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A
T
7:35
A.M
., Sylvia found Matt England shooting baskets in the gym of the Law Enforcement Academy. He was bounding around the court, drenched with perspiration, doing his best to intimidate the hell out of a young recruit.

He seemed to be succeeding. The recruit didn't get many shots in before the round ended and Matt tossed the ball to a noodle of a kid dressed in gym grays.

"Take over, Waters!"

England acknowledged Sylvia, picked up a towel, and joined her at courtside.

She said, "Can we talk?"

"How did you find me?"

Sylvia shrugged. "Rosie knows half of your buddies; she did me a favor." They both stood silent for a moment, watching the athletes, then Sylvia said, "Why didn't you tell me you worked on Lily Watson's suicide when you were a deputy?"

"None of your business." The basketball shot out of the court and slapped against England's thigh. He caught it between palms, hollered, "Heads up!" and tossed the ball back into play. The kid named Waters caught it, dribbled, and scored a basket.

Sylvia stared blindly at the game; she seemed oblivious to the screech of rubber soles on varnished wood, the high-intensity energy level of the players. Matt noticed her hair was uncombed, her clothes looked slept in, and she wore no lipstick, no makeup at all. She looked like she was under stress and buckling.

He said, "I've got some brochures at home—dream vacations where you can get away from it all for two weeks."

She frowned. "I'm serious—"

"I'm
serious. You look like hell. Get out of town, get your mind on other things. Get your life back together."