Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (20 page)

"I can't." She tipped her head forward and dark hair tumbled in front of her eyes.

"I read about the complaint in this morning's
New Mexican."

Sylvia had started her day over an hour ago when she walked down the road to pick up her morning paper. The headline ran
COMPLAINT LODGED AGAINST LOCAL PSYCHOLOGIST.
The byline belonged to Tony Vitino. The article at the bottom of page one was short and to the point. Duke Watson had filed a complaint against psychologist Sylvia Strange alleging sexual misconduct with his son and her client, Lucas Watson. Watson's attorney, Herb Burnett, was quoted briefly, "The evidence is being considered by the state's Board of Psychologist Examiners."

England assessed her for an instant, not unsympa
thetically, then said, "Let me throw on some clothes. I'll meet you in the cafeteria."

She watched him jog back to the court to confer briefly with both recruits. By the time she reached the stairs, he had disappeared. She exited the gym and found the cafeteria on the lower level.

A half-dozen tables were occupied in the small self-service snack area. Male and female state police recruits hurriedly consumed institutional-style scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, and coffee.

Sylvia had bypassed the steam trays and had just taken her first sip of coffee when England pulled out a chair and joined her at a corner table. Her eyes skimmed over Matt, tan slacks, leather jacket, and boots. "That was quick. It takes me that long to pull on a pair of cowboy boots."

He grinned and clicked the heels of his boots together. "Lucchese's. They're made with local ostrich hide, completely handcrafted, the dyes are natural."

She dredged up a smile. "Can I buy you breakfast?"

"Thanks, I ate three hours ago." He pulled a napkin from a plastic container and blotted up a small puddle of coffee near the sleeve of her sweater. She was close enough so he could see a tiny freckle on her nose.

She lifted her chin and gazed directly at him. Her eyes were almost black under fluorescent lights. She watched his tongue working behind his cheek while he considered what he would say next.

When he finally spoke, his voice was subdued. "It was the first real case I worked in New Mexico. I'd been a sheriff in Oklahoma, but I left in a hurry and took what was offered when I got here: deputy." He glanced out the window, saw a somber, cloudy sky, and frowned. "That
morning, I was the first officer on the scene. I got there after a security cop showed up." He predicted her question and said, "The caretaker—he'd worked for the family for three or four years—he found her mid-morning. Called us, then he called his buddy who worked a few minutes away from the house."

Three recruits finished their coffee and walked past the table with a nod to England; Matt watched them silently until they exited the cafeteria. "It was hot that day. Sweltering. I remember it made me think of Oklahoma. Muggy, dense, big thunderheads." He frowned. "She was on her bed. You could tell she'd been beautiful."

Sylvia imagined an overheated bedroom and a dead woman stretched out on a large bed. The story fed some empty internal place in her, but her eagerness to hear it disturbed her, made her feel unclean.

He continued. "I felt it right away—something was hinky. They'd already moved evidence . . . and they'd left coffee cups on the vanity and cigarette butts in the ashtray."

"The security man?"

"And the caretaker. Later, they claimed it was accidental."

"Did Lily have any history of previous attempts?"

"Her doctor admitted she'd had a problem with downers and booze. OMI found a generous supply of Valium in her system. From what the sister said, Lily was high-strung . . . a firestorm."

"Where was Duke Watson?"

England gave her a speculative look. "According to one of his law partners, he was in Denver at the Brown Palace."

"Did the hotel confirm that?"

"A maid, a bellhop, the desk man all vouched for him—he was registered for three nights—but they couldn't swear he was there the night Lily died. There was nothing to place Duke at the suicide." He crumpled up a napkin. "That's it. End of story."

Sylvia nailed him with her eyes. "Not quite."

Matt resisted the urge to shift his butt in the hard chair.

She said, "Ten people a week tell me their stories, and I know when it's time to peel back another layer and go deeper." Sylvia inched forward in her seat "We haven't reached the end of your story."

She waited, kept her eyes on him, and ten seconds crept by before she saw him make up his mind.

"When I got there, the .22 was a few feet from the body." Matt had lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Later, after I was off the case, I had a chance to read the medical investigator's report; it said the weapon was found in her hand." His voice stayed even as he continued. "The hole in her face, to me it looked like an exit wound. The one in her neck looked like entry. It's hard to shoot yourself in the back of the head . . ." With his finger he traced an invisible infinity sign on the table. "The autopsy report disagreed with my opinions."

"You think he murdered his wife? What motive?"

"There was none . . . her money went in trust to her children, he never remarried, her family gave him the connections he needed."

"But you still think he killed her." Sylvia stood and gathered her things. As she left, England didn't say a word.

T
HE PENITENTIARY PSYCH
office was too cold, and the jackal said so. He watched as psychologist Sylvia Strange rolled her chair a few inches along the floor, adjusted the thermostat, and rolled back behind her desk. She eyed him intently.

He had just spent the last hour drawing pictures, looking at ink-blots, and free-associating. Now, they were discussing his past.

He wondered,
Does she know who I am? If she doesn't, she lives. If she does, she dies
. He wanted to spare her; he didn't kill anymore for pleasure.

He said, "I first heard the voices in Vietnam. I killed babies and innocent women. I don't do that anymore; that's what separates me from all the predators."

It was interesting to confide in her, to tell her about himself. He knew she was smart. He knew he didn't frighten her; his dark corners didn't even make her blink. He was sorry they couldn't be friends. He had a feeling she might understand his mission in the Lord's Army.

"The voices, what were they like?" Sylvia asked.

He thought,
She wants to know if I'm psychotic
. "They were loud. They said I should kill myself. The Army docs said they were the voices of people I'd killed. Guilt."

"Do you think that's right?"

"It seemed right."

"Is there anything else you can describe about the voices?"

"Sometimes they spoke Vietnamese." The blade was taped under his armpit. It was scalpel-sharp and bore no resemblance to a blunt, clumsy shank.

"Do you speak Vietnamese?"

"Just the little bit I learned over there."

Her questions continued. She encouraged him to elaborate and focus: Were the voices repetitive? Did they speak in complete sentences? Did they come from inside or outside?

He said, "They could've been my own thoughts. But the orders to kill came from Washington. You'd be court-martialed if you didn't obey." He smiled at her. "The voices from Washington, they weren't crazy."

He told about the shock therapy and how the voices disappeared for a while. About his second time in the hospital. About his discharge. The way she sat so quietly, accepting him, his words, made him feel better.

She was silent, leaving him space to continue.

"That's when the Lord's voice came," the jackal said simply. He could tell she was interested. "He talks to me."

"When?"

"Whenever he has important things to say." He felt the need to change the subject. "I've always been religious." It was the first lie that he'd told her, and it made him feel bad.

Her eyes were following him closely. "I'd like to hear more about the Lord's voice."

"I'd rather talk about growing up."

"You seem uncomfortable," she said softly.

"Yes. I'd really rather back up." He shifted in his chair and the tape under his arm gave way. The blade slipped down his shirt sleeve and fell out his cuff. It lodged in the seat of the chair next to his thigh. His mouth tightened. She was watching him so closely.

He closed his hand around the base of the blade; he
nicked a finger as he told her he had been a Boy Scout. She was impressed. They talked about his childhood, his younger sister, and the way his pa had screamed at his ma. It occurred to him that her father may have been a soldier, too. Korea? Maybe Nam in the early years. The jackal nodded to himself; that was probably the genesis of her darkness.

"You said you started committing the robberies when you were twelve?"

"Twelve or thirteen." He felt blood drip from the cut on his finger.

"Did your sister know about the robberies?"

His sister had asked him to see a psychologist. She was worried about him, about the letters he was writing her every week.

She worried about the money—after it was delivered by one of the hacks—even when he told her an Army buddy had finally paid back an old debt.

But it was payment from higher powers for a job well done, he thought.

Sylvia asked, "What are you thinking about?"

He saw that she had her head tipped at an angle like a bird. He felt a sense of relief:
She doesn't know who I am
. "My sister."

He'd sent his sister every penny; all he needed was the head.

When the session was over, he stood and thanked the doctor.

She stood also and walked around her desk. Her hand brushed his arm just as he covered up the now-bloody blade.

"—you ever a medic in the Army?"

He heard the edge in her voice; she'd picked up his
panic.
Shit, she does know who I am
. The Lord had okayed his plan; it was quick and efficient. He would put her out of her misery.

As he turned in readiness, she stepped back, and the office door opened. A woman breezed in, her arms overflowing with files.

"Oh, sorry," Linda DeMaria said. Files tumbled onto the desk. She was a compact, perky woman with short dark hair, bright eyes, and forceful brows. "I thought you'd already finished."

Sylvia said, "We were just leaving. We'll give you back your office." She stared at the jackal. "I'll see you in the new year."

The general in the Lord's Army had no choice but to make his exit. As he reached the door, he caught the ghost of his reflection in the frosted glass and he turned his head abruptly away.

T
WENTY MILES SOUTH
of Santa Fe, Billy drove the Corvette off 1-25, parked on pueblo land near the underpass, and watched a crow glide past the windshield. He pressed his head against the neckrest and closed both eyes. With the mouth of the Wild Turkey pint, he traced the dark outline of the tattoo on his chest and thought about his mother. And Luke.

His brother had been Lily's favorite and she gave him her
special time
. That made Duke furious. It made Billy jealous.

He opened his eyes, leaned forward, and stared at his own shadow in the rearview mirror. The oblong shape of his temples, dark brown eyes, and the bridge of his nose were reflected back. Since Luke's funeral, he'd done a lot of thinking. And drinking, and shooting at crows.
And he'd made a decision, a commitment to pick up where his brother left off.

His gaze shifted to the heavy Army-issue Colt .45 in his lap. The old man's shooter. Billy took another taste of whiskey and pulled the trigger.
Click
. Empty chamber. He squeezed the trigger again and again. Metal against the firing pin was a good sound.

The Duke had fifty "gun" rules he'd drilled into his boys. He gave his sons guns the way other fathers gave out baseball mitts. He'd made them oil and polish fucking metal for hours at a time.

Billy dry-fired the Colt again and smiled—Duke wouldn't like it. Duke didn't like much of anything these days. He didn't like all the questions Luke had started asking six months ago.
Where were we the night Lily died? Where did we go? Why weren't we home?
Duke hadn't liked those questions at all.

And Billy wasn't sure he liked them either. He remembered the housekeeper's home. And images that flashed through his mind like scraps of a cut-up photograph. He didn't know where Luke fit into the picture. But he had one fleeting vision of his father weeping . . .

Billy got out of the car. He finished the last of the Wild Turkey, threw the bottle against a rock, and yelled at the fat blackbird circling lazily overhead. It surfed air currents like waves.

He began the quarter-mile walk to reach the arroyo, a walk he'd made many times. It was huge, a sand river that flowed from the southeast and the Ortiz Mountains to the Rio Grande. The Sandias loomed behind the mineralized Ortiz range. This was the place he loved, the place he always came to shoot and drink and work things out when they got knotted up.

Billy could see the highway in the distance. Cars crawling like ants at 10
A.M
. Early to him; he'd stayed out all night to party. That bitch he'd tried to make it with had laughed at him when he couldn't finish what he started. The fact that the evening had been fucked was no big surprise. His entire life was fucked.

Here he was, hungover and thirsty in an arroyo somewhere between Algodones and Budaghers. He loaded the Colt .45, raised the gun overhead, and shot at the crow.

He missed. Another shot, another miss. He used up three rounds shooting at the damn bird.

He tore up an aluminum can with the next three rounds. He reloaded, fired at the crow again, and the bird squawked but stayed airborne.

The last bullet almost took off his right foot. He forgot where the Colt was pointed when he squeezed the trigger. Billy stared at the fresh bullet hole in his boot heel. The crow cruising overhead belted out a mocking caw.

A
T
10:50, B
ILLY TOOK
the La Cienega exit and cruised slowly north along the frontage road. Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the neat two-story house. A large sign, weathered by age, declared forty acres as the site of Blue Mountain Business Park. But no mountain was visible, and the closest business appeared to be the Santa Fe Downs racetrack, a half mile away. Billy climbed out of the Corvette, walked to the porch, wiped his soles on the boot-scrape, and took the three steps in one leap. He released his fingers from the Colt .45 that was tucked into his waistband and rang the doorbell. He recognized the neat plaque mounted on
the front door;
HENRY ORTIZ, D.D.S.
had been seared into burnished oak. Although Henry was retired now, he'd been the Watson family dentist forever. Mostly, Billy had pleasant memories of the man who had supplied candy for his younger patients.