Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (25 page)

When Jaspar turned to Sylvia and held out his hand, his eyes were red.

"I still cry about my father," Sylvia said. She had to struggle to hold on to Jaspar's hand as he took horse leaps over the stone walkway.

"Why?" Jaspar kept moving as he spoke. In an especially energetic leap, his hand broke away from hers.

"Because it's always hard to say good-bye." The words caught in her throat. The grave had brought back memories of Malcolm, but mostly of her own father. What it had been like to walk by his side as a child.

Sylvia suddenly realized she'd been standing still, tears streaming down her face. Jaspar watched her, and then he reached up and put his hand in hers.

When they drove out of the cemetery, Sylvia caught a glimpse of a woman adding plastic wreaths to a marble headstone. A man, so thin he seemed made of sticks, sat
in a wheelchair nearby. His hand moved like a leaf in the breeze, and Sylvia saw Jaspar wave back.

D
UKE
W
ATSON SLAMMED
the ax into a frozen chunk of piñon. With a solid crack, the wood split apart like a sheet of ice. He grabbed one of the halves, balanced it squarely on the worn chopping block, and swung again. In one strike, the piece split nicely down the seam. He split the remaining half and set the next chunk on the block. The natural smell of wood turpentine and the gas-oil fumes of the chain saw mix filled his head. He inhaled deeply and went to work on the piñon.

This load of century-old wood had been trucked down from his three-hundred-acre parcel in the Pecos. He wished he were there right now, instead of standing a stone's throw from his house. He could see Christmas tree lights twinkling through the windows.

He set up the next log, focused on the grain and struck.
Thwack
. Another log. Another split. Quickly, he worked through a dozen pieces before he stopped to pull a bandanna from his pocket and wipe sweat off his face.

Queeny's inside the house right now with her tattoos and her pierced body. Somebody's punk nightmare with her pain on display. She has everything a girl could want but she stains and stabs herself for public consumption. It's the exposure I hate. It's the idea that others can see what should remain private
.

He brought the ax down for a clean cut. He set up the next log.

Billy's been gone since yesterday or the day before. I don't want him around the house anymore unless he
straightens up. It's impossible to look at him
—
he's become the image of his brother
.

Thwack
. Sawdust sprayed out from under the ax blade and a pine-bark larva escaped from its wooden bed. The perfect wood was never green, always seasoned and free from knots. Duke set up a log the size of his thigh and tore it cleanly down center.

On Christmas, they call to warn me that I'm too visible in the media. Got to tone things down if I want to win the big war. They're behind me for now, but it's not the time to rock the boat
.

The ax struck true and he quartered fifteen more logs. The last one was a wishbone where a branch had grown off the main trunk. He spread his feet, gripped the ax with both fists, and drove it toward the belly of the wood. The ax sideswiped the log, edged off to the left, and missed tearing off his shin by millimeters.

A
FTER
J
ASPAR HAD
gone home with his mother, and Sylvia was alone, the depression settled in like fog between cracks. The visit to Malcolm's grave had stirred painful memories. She remembered the dreams she used to have. Her father standing deep in a tunnel. He called out to her as earth rained down and the tunnel gradually collapsed in on itself. She never made it inside, she never saw him suffocate. In the dream, like life, they were both encased in constant, entropic limbo.

She wondered what her father was doing at this instant. Was he alive? Or had he died years ago as her mother insisted? In Sylvia's mind, her father lived forever in shadowy memories and speculation. The child in her never quite let go.

He had become increasingly withdrawn and moody after his return from Southeast Asia. Still, she would have done almost anything to please her father . . . to win back his love. Because she felt she had lost it, somewhere, sometime in the years of her girlhood.

She threw on her coat and gloves and left. Suddenly, the house that once belonged to Daniel Strange had become unbearably macabre for Sylvia. It was almost as if her father's eyes watched her with some ghostly, haunting need.

W
HEN
S
YLVIA AND
the Sánchez family were seated at the dinner table, Ray filled plates with food. Tomás said a blessing, and eighty-year-old Abuelita Sánchez made several elaborate toasts.

"Too bad Mart's missing an incredible meal," Tomás said.

Sylvia saw Ray wink at Rosie.

Tomás looked puzzled. "I thought he was dating that blonde with the ti—"

Rosie blurted out, "Did I tell you something funny, Sylvie? Matthew lives at your old elementary school."

"Salazar?"

"He has a trailer parked on the school grounds, six blocks from here. He keeps an eye on things." She snapped her tongue against her teeth. "Quite a coincidence, huh?"

Sylvia hid a smile.

Tomás said, "Is he your boyfriend now, Sylvia?"

"Zip it, Tomás," Ray said.

The scent of
bizcochitos
and
pozole
mingled with the savory aroma of
carnitas
. Sylvia felt tiny arms embrace her legs under the table and looked down to find the
family's newest addition, Rosie's one-year-old nephew, Miguel.

His newness in the world was astonishing, Sylvia thought Having grown up without a brother or sister, she never took the company of children for granted. The time she spent with them was oddly comforting, like something new and shiny that didn't quite fit. She felt that way about Jaspar.

They were halfway through the meal when Rosie reached across the table and clasped Sylvia's wrist in her fingers. Rosie's eyes were melting, her skin pink from rum and eggnog, and she opened her mouth to whisper a question when Ray proposed a toast to friendship. Sylvia drank, glad the moment with Rosie was past. She knew what her friend would have asked: Do you miss Malcolm? Yes. Are you okay? No.

At 9:30, the telephone rang. A minute later, Tomás relayed a message: "Matt's on the phone. He wants to speak to Sylvia."

Sylvia felt her cheeks redden. She hurriedly excused herself from the table.

"We missed you at dinner," she said into the phone.

"I couldn't call sooner." He paused for a moment "I'm at Herb Burnett's house."

She knew instantly that something was wrong.

"He's dead."

"What do you mean, dead?" Her words sounded ridiculous to her own ears.

"He was murdered. His skull was crushed. Probably died between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning."

"My God . . ." Sylvia swallowed, and beads of sweat broke out on her brow. "He left my house late Christmas Eve. About ten-thirty."

Sylvia heard noises in the background, and then Matt put his hand over the receiver and spoke to someone for several moments. When he came back on the line he said, "I've got to go, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Give my apologies to Rosie and Ray. Oh, and Sylvia, don't be alone tonight." Before Sylvia could respond, he hung up.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

H
ERB
B
URNETT'S HOUSE
perched on an eastside ridge top. Thick adobe walls, square footage that could double for a football field, and all the Santa Fe-style trimmings announced prosperity.

The Volvo shimmied over washboard ruts on the road to the ridge. Sylvia took the last stretch in first gear and eased onto an asphalt driveway. A county sheriff's department vehicle, England's Chevy Caprice, and a Volkswagen Beetle were clustered in the turnaround.

She found level ground, set the emergency brake, and stepped out into the leaden air of a storm front. To the west, low clouds were settling over the city. She gathered her wool jacket around her neck and turned to see two people standing outside the yellow crime scene tape that surrounded the open garage. One was a petite woman with red hair; she clutched a notepad. The other was Matt England. They were both staring up at the sky where two fat crows cried alarm, in high-speed pursuit
of a hawk. The raptor's wings made a soft quick fanning sound as they beat the air. When the crows veered off from the chase, England turned and caught sight of Sylvia. He waved and then shook hands with the departing journalist. "Check back with me late this afternoon. I may have something for you."

As the woman climbed into her Volkswagen and backed out of the driveway, Sylvia walked over to England. He seemed edgy and nervous, and his eyes skimmed over her.

"Reporter from the
Albuquerque Journal,"
he explained. "She wrote the lead in today's paper—Local Lawyer Murdered—and now she wants the rest of the story." As England spoke he found himself staring into Sylvia's troubled eyes. "I should've called you, but we've been busy."

They entered the house through antique double doors. Sylvia barely took in the foyer before they stepped down to the living room. An attractive Hispanic woman was listening to a man seated on the corner of a leather couch. She took notes on a steno pad and nodded to Matt but kept her eyes on the man.

Matt directed Sylvia down a hall to what had to be the master bedroom. A king-size water bed, dwarfed by massive ceilings, offered a floating view of the Santa Fe Basin. Sylvia scanned the room and noticed the contrast between plush carpet and bare windows.

She stared at the tiled archway leading to the bath and dressing area. The coffee in her stomach threatened to come back up when she saw the trace of blood on the floor.

England said, "According to the MI's preliminary report, Burnett probably didn't feel much after the first
couple of blows." He frowned and massaged the base of his neck. "His skull was crushed with a wooden club or bat."

Sylvia nodded. She felt an overwhelming rush of sadness and pity for Herb.

"No forced entry that we can find. Burnett drank a martini, put on some music. Seems to have settled down to a leisurely bath. After it was done, the murderer took Burnett's Bronco; we found it abandoned on 1-25." When England tightened the skin around his eyes, he was unreadable, a tortoise retreating into its shell. He scratched his chin and stifled a yawn. "You saw Burnett on Christmas Eve?"

Sylvia nodded. "Twice." There was an uncomfortable stillness in the room.

"When exactly?" He pulled a notebook from his pocket.

"In the afternoon, around three o'clock. That was the Christmas party at Fern, Martínez, and Peña." She examined the patterns left by many feet walking over two-inch plush. "He was drunk." She felt tired and cheerless as she gave England the details of her brief conversation with Herb and his later visit to her house.

"When did he leave?" The pen was poised above paper.

"Ten-forty. I know because after he left I tried to reach my mother in California." She took a breath. "Who found him?"

"When he didn't call his kids all day Christmas, his ex-wife had a neighbor check." He ran his fingers across the dark stubble on his cheek and kept his gaze locked on her face. "Were there any cars around your house on Christmas Eve?"

"Just Herb's." She became aware of another presence. The woman from the living room eyed Sylvia with frank curiosity as she approached Matt.

"Sylvia Strange, Agent Terry Osuna."

While Sylvia shook hands with Agent Osuna, she took in the other woman's perfect features and neatly manicured hands. Agent Osuna's manner was intelligent and assertive.

Osuna asked, "Do you know anyone who'd want to kill him?"

Matt was guiding Sylvia toward the door. She eased herself away from the tip of his finger. "His ex-wife, half the attorneys in town, more than half of his clients, and a judge or two."

"He sounds like a great guy," Osuna said dryly.

"He was. His kids adored him." Sylvia walked into the living room and sat in a chair next to a small Christmas tree. She doubted that Herb had been on great terms with his children, but she wanted to defend the man she'd known for almost a quarter of a century.

"Watch the dust," England said, following her. The house had been dusted for prints, and gray aluminum powder and black carbon powder were visible on various hard surfaces.

Sylvia stared at the tree: a half-dozen red bulbs were draped with tinsel. The house was depressing—would have been so even if Herb had not been murdered—and Sylvia didn't want to stay any longer. "What a stupid realization . . . I'll miss Herb. Even with the complaint and everything, I was actually fond of the man."

He watched her for a moment, then said, "When you're ready, I want you to look at something." He
pointed to a glass coffee table and a folder she hadn't noticed before. "Go ahead and read it."

The yellow legal pad was new and only the first page had been used. It was a letter to Duke Watson, or, more accurately, the outline of a letter.

Duke:

                  
1)
   
balance due/will not protest in fact encourage you to seek other counsel

                  
2)
   
unable to continue present undertaking

                  
3)
   
will not stand for harassment inflicted by you and your son

Fuck you most sincerely, HB

At the bottom of the page a few words were scrawled: tell Sylvia about Jeff.

"Who's Jeff?"

Matt scratched his chin. "I hoped you could tell us."

She shook her head.

Matt followed her outside and opened the door of the Volvo.

Sylvia climbed in, started the engine, and shifted into reverse. When she turned her head again, England was motioning toward her window. She rolled it down. Light refracted off the gray-green of his pupils. Both hands rested firmly on the rim of the door, dark hairs shaded thick fingers. Fatigue clouded his features. "Look," he said, "I don't like how this is shaping up. There are too many unknowns, and it doesn't feel right." He stared out toward the city in the distance. "Until we know exactly what's going on."