Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (23 page)

Rosie said, "Any idea when the attorney general's riot report will be complete?"

Matt shrugged. "Governor's pushing for completion
by the legislative session. You can bet they're feeling the pressure."

"So am I," Rosie said. She accepted a Life Saver from England and sucked on the lozenge thoughtfully. "Bubba didn't happen to mention the jackal, did he?"

England shrugged out a kink in his shoulder muscle. "Bubba says the jackal's dead. He says he died in the riot."

"Well, of course he'd say that; you're a cop. But I don't believe it."

"Because of Andre Miller? Miller might have been the jackal." Matt England stood and stretched. His knuckles scraped against the tiled ceiling.

Rosie tipped her head and let her eyes close. "Then why did he cut off his own finger?"

"He didn't. Somebody did it for him—payback for Angel."

Rosie made a face. "What about Swanson's penis?"

"Destroyed in the riot." Matt grinned. "Or maybe Miller ate it."

"Now you sound like Sylvia," Rosie said. "She told me back in November that the jackal might be a cannibal or a serial killer who collects trophies."

"See? There's a logical explanation for everything."

When Rosie smiled, England moved toward the door and said, "Tell Ray we're playing poker tomorrow night."

"Oh, no you don't. You're sitting down to Christmas dinner, and you two will eat
carnitas
until you can't move."

"Yes, ma'am!" With his hand on the doorknob, England turned casually toward Rosie. "By the way, who else is coming to dinner?"

Rosie cocked her head and her eyes widened. "Tomás will be there with his girlfriend."

"Your boy has a girlfriend? Already?"

"He's almost seventeen. Then there's Abuelita Sánchez, and Ray's
tío
. . ." Rosie batted her eyelashes. "Do you want to bring Angelique?"

England cut her off. "Did you invite your friend Sylvia Strange?"

"Oh." A pause. "She said she might stop by. I hope she does because she needs some holiday cheer." She set her chin in the palm of her hand. "Why do you ask, Matthew?"

"Because if you didn't ask her, I was going to." Rosie's mouth dropped open and England winked. "Merry Christmas, Rosita."

S
YLVIA TURNED OFF
Paseo de Peralta into the parking lot of Fern, Martínez, and Peña. As she pocketed her keys and climbed out of the Volvo, she saw Juanita Martinez marching through the firm's hand-carved front door. Juanita barely reached the five-foot mark in stockinged feet, but her size didn't diminish the terror she was able to instill in opposing counsel. Sylvia caught a flash of scarlet—ribbon and holly—in Juanita's raven hair. Decked to the hilt for Christmas, Sylvia thought as she caught up with the other woman.

"We need to talk," Sylvia said.

Juanita smiled, "Let's get a drink and—"

"Now. Please."

Juanita led the way through the plush lobby. It was overheated and crowded with partying paralegals, secretaries, and support staff. Conflicting scents of cologne, sweat, and hair gel stung Sylvia's eyes. The
women continued down the hall to Juanita's office. Sylvia was ushered inside. The closed door shut out the heavy bass of Christmas rock and roll.

"So?"

"I need your help," Sylvia began. She told Juanita about the complaint and the offending photographs. She did not mention her most serious suspicions about Duke Watson. She didn't need another person suspecting she was crazy. When she was finished, Juanita leaned against her large walnut desk and considered Sylvia.

"Can I talk to the Board of . . . ? "

"Psychologist Examiners. I'll give you Albert's number."

"Are you willing to take this to court? Fight fire with fire?"

Slowly, Sylvia nodded. "I'll do whatever it takes to clear my name."

"Okay, then." Juanita shook her long hair away from her face. "If you're right, and that creep son of his, Billy, shot those photos, and if we can prove it, Duke may back off. His boys have always been his Achilles' heel."

Juanita's eyes glazed over as she said, "I'll bust his balls. Do you have your checkbook with you?"

Sylvia gave Juanita a thousand-dollar retainer.

They left the office and made their way past revelers to the huge conference room with its massive table and twenty matching chairs. She couldn't walk without elbowing past various loud conversations.

"I filed that brief on the fifteenth and—"

"They'd have to be crazy to try for a dim cap."

"It cost me a million-five for a ridge-top, but the view is fabulous!"

"I told them to screw the interrogatories!"

Sylvia couldn't take the noise level and the crowd; the wet bar adjoining the conference room was less congested. Several people mouthed greetings, and she had a brief conversation with a young lawyer she hadn't worked with in almost a year. When he alluded briefly to the ethics complaint and expressed embarrassed sympathy, Sylvia gulped her drink and excused herself. As she set her empty glass on the counter, she felt an arm insinuate itself around her shoulders.

"Hey, there, beautiful!" Using two hands, Herb Burnett turned Sylvia so she was facing him. She had her back to a very tight corner. His eyes worked their way down her body and returned slowly to her face. His whites were bloodshot and the pupils dilated and contracted. He lowered his voice. "You just missed Duke. I want you to know I don't feel good about what's going on."

"What is going on, Herb?" Burnett was the last person Sylvia had expected to run into at this party. Juanita had represented Herb's ex-wife in divorce proceedings.

"Those pictures . . ."

"Billy Watson took them, Herb. He's taken pictures of other women before, or didn't you know that?"

"Please don't be mad at me," he said. His words were beginning to mud at the edges; he wasn't as drunk as he was going to get.

"Out of my way." She tried to squeeze past him.

"You always break my heart, Sylvia. Forgive and forget?" He leaned closer, exuding alcohol fumes. "You were nicer to Lucas than you are to me, Sylvie."

Sylvia's reaction was swift and deliberate; she stomped the heel of her shoe directly down on Burnett's toe.

"You're an asshole, Herb." She left him with a flabbergasted look on his face.

T
HREE HOURS LATER,
Sylvia saw the headlights flash off her living room wall. She frowned. She'd had enough holiday festivities for one day; she was in the middle of wrapping her small cache of presents, a strand of silver ribbon caught between her teeth. She switched on the porch light and peered out the front window. The car was familiar, a Bronco. When Sylvia saw Herb Burnett stumble out of the driver's side, she shook her head in exasperation.

Before Herb made it very far up the walk, a snarling mass of fur came charging from behind the coyote fence. Herb started and raised his arms defensively. The momentum propelled him backward and he landed, butt first, on the ground. Sylvia swung the door open and yelled at Rocko. The terrier gave her an injured look, then the ruff on his shoulders stood straight up, and he lunged at the inebriated lawyer's ankles.

"Rocko!" Sylvia grabbed him by the collar. "Enough!" From his horizontal position, Herb grinned up at Sylvia.

"Lookin' good." He held out a hand, too drunk to be fazed when she ignored him. "I feeeeeel good!"

"You're drunk, Herb."

"As a skunk! Christmas martinis," he said. His speech was surprisingly lucid now, as if he'd gone beyond intoxication. "Make it a double shot of Beefeater, two olives, two cherries."

For a moment, Sylvia was tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This man had pursued her in high school, he'd introduced her to Lucas Watson, he'd
delivered a complaint to the ethics board, and he might be about to file a lawsuit that named her as defendant. Now he was crawling on hands and knees toward her feet. She sighed. "You're going home in a cab."

"Wait!" He managed to hoist himself. "You shouldn't be all alone here." He tried to embrace Sylvia. She kept out of reach and lured him toward the door away from his car. She couldn't let him kill somebody on the highway.

"Herb, give me your keys."

"What for, Sylvie? Mind if I call you Sylvie for old times' sake?" He stuffed the key deep into his hip pocket.

"I'm calling you a taxi."

"Okay, I'm a taxi."

They were almost to the stoop when Rocko began to bark again; the terrier charged around the side of the coyote fence.

"What's his problem?" Herb mumbled.

Sylvia didn't bother to call her dog back; he wouldn't come. She eased Herb through the door and had him positioned over the couch when she pushed him down physically. "Stay here."

"Whaaa?"

Sylvia scanned the phone book for taxi companies. She placed the call and hung up as Herb entered the kitchen.

"You got a nice bedroom," he said with a wink.

"The taxi's on its way."

"Why'd you do that?" Herb breathed closer, exhaling gin fumes. "You want to go somewhere, Herb can drive you. I got a great set of wheels."

Sylvia steered the lawyer back toward the living
room; he moved like a sailboat tacking side to side. "The cab is for you, Herb."

Herb tapped the couch with his right hand. "Your stupid dog's barking again. C'mon, sit down."

Sylvia ignored him. She moved toward the window and heard Herb struggle to his feet behind her. She was about to turn around when she smelled his breath. The alcohol fumes were overpowering. She jumped as his hands slid around her waist to cup her breasts. Herb tightened his grip and kissed her on the neck. Sylvia pulled away, but he managed to swing her around, strong-arm her, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She brought her knee up and caught him below the groin. She moved her thumb to his eyelid and pressed hard. Herb let go with a groan, a balloon losing air.

"Jesus, Herb," Sylvia snapped, "I could bring charges against you."

"I jus' stopped by to wish you a Merry Christmas."

She sighed. "You always manage to fuck things up. You never grew past high school."

". . . and to tell you, Lucas was right."

"What?" She turned, but he was through the front door before she could stop him. Herb ignored Rocko, who was barking fiercely at the rear fender of the Bronco. He climbed up into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and managed to start the engine. As he drove away, he honked the horn three times.

Sylvia screamed after him, "Right about what?" Frustrated, she watched as the Bronco disappeared in the distance. She locked her door and leaned her back against cool wood, every muscle aching. When she closed her eyes, she saw her father instead of Herb. She was all too familiar with binges.

From the kitchen, Sylvia canceled the taxi. She dialed again, but no one was home at the second number. She checked the clock: 10:45. It was an hour earlier in California, and her mother would be playing bridge and celebrating the holiday with other widowed and retired women. Sylvia would call again in the morning.

Ten minutes later, when she was getting ready for bed, she saw two words scrawled in the vapor that covered the windows.
HERB
+
SYLVIA.
They were contained inside the outline of a heart.

A
S THE
B
RONCO
bounced over the cattleguard at the end of the dirt road, Herb had to swallow to keep bile from rising into his mouth. He felt suddenly sick, could taste the alcoholic stew in his stomach, and he was cultivating a nasty headache. He lowered the window so the cold air could ease the nausea. The lights of Rodeo Road seemed to melt and lengthen into luminescent strands; they reminded him of when he was a kid night-writing with sparklers on Independence Day. The lump was growing larger in his throat, but he resisted the impulse to cry. Not the time to lose control. On the overpass above St. Francis Drive, he swerved to avoid a twenty-five-ton truck. Stupid driver, can't keep his rig in the stupid lane.

Lights gleamed from the foothills directly ahead. The signal at Old Pecos Trail turned red just as he entered the intersection; there were no other vehicles in sight. Herb smiled; he needed a drink—that's all he needed. He turned east onto dirt at the cutoff.

The Bronco was well named; it kicked and bucked over potholes like a green colt; the right road could realign vertebrae and strain muscles. Herb caught sight
of himself in the rearview mirror. He scowled at his reflection—the thick bridge of his nose, the small eyes. He felt gross, ugly; no wonder a woman like Sylvia wasn't interested in his attentions. Out of your league, buddy—she always was—she's the majors and you're the minors.

Mountain Drive traveled straight for a mile, then it began a switchback ascent to the top of the ridge and home. He thought about how good it would feel if he were bringing Sylvie home. He'd met her when he was eleven, and he'd loved her a little ever since then. Was it doomed from the first moment he saw her? Probably. Everything in his life seemed to go to shit—his marriage, the kids he never saw, his work. He was a lawyer for Christsake! What did he expect? Lawyers did what they were paid to do; he'd filed Duke's complaint against Sylvie. Herb laughed, then caught himself. Don't lose control now.

He pulled the Bronco back on center and cut into a sharp turn. He'd veered perilously close to the drop-off. Shift down, grind gears, roll her over the top. His driveway was here somewhere. The car eased onto asphalt, a smooth relief. Herb fumbled for the electronic garage opener; the Bronco slowed to a stop.

The car door flew open with too much force and he half fell out, stumbled, then caught himself. The house key was on the ledge above the door where he always kept it. He managed the lock, entered, and switched on a hall light. Behind him, the door to the garage didn't quite close. The car door hung open and the space was softly illuminated by the Bronco's overhead light.

Herb was already in his kitchen, a double shot of gin
in hand, when the other man rose from the backseat floor of the Bronco, slid silently out the open door, and entered the house.

Herb, barefoot now, sprawled in the white chair by his pathetic effort at a Christmas tree; sparse branches draped with clumps of tinsel and cheap red bulbs. Pen in hand, he began the outline of a letter to Duke, but the effort was too much for his boozy mind. He'd finish it tomorrow. He sipped his martini with eyes closed and thought, Don't forget to call the kids, Birdbrain.