Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (26 page)

"Don't worry," Sylvia said softly. "I'm scared." She remembered the last words Herb had spoken to her:
Lucas was right
.

She let out the clutch and the Volvo glided down the driveway. She understood, but she didn't need the warning. Herb's murder had made her think of Lucas Watson and how, three years ago, he had brutally bludgeoned a man to death.

B
ILLY STARED DOWN
at the tattoo needle pecking his chest like a bird. Now that he'd been here twice, he was getting used to the feeling. Gideon was standing, completely caught up in his work. He was so short, barely topping five feet, that he didn't need to hunch over. Billy could see the stripe of pale scalp where Gideon parted his hair and tied it into braids. The sharp scent of the other man's sweat and the animal musk of leather blended with the smell of alcohol and hot electrical cord. Tattooed figures—a raven, a crouching cougar, a naked woman astride a Harley—covered the bare skin of both his arms. The smoking barrel of a .45 peeked out between the neck edges of his black deerskin shirt. The inked weapon pointed dead on at Gideon's Adam's apple. That made Billy smile.

Billy's own tattoo was taking shape. The man had been working around his pecs for twenty minutes. Red laced blue and brown; roses were sprouting from clouds beneath the Virgin's bare feet. Billy grunted and closed his eyes to absorb the singular sensation. It wasn't pain, more like something eating at him from inside, things left unfinished. He tipped the whiskey bottle and drank.

"You better take it easy with that," Gideon said quietly. "It's Satan's brew."

Billy ignored him. His chest burned, it was swollen and red, but the tattoo felt as if it belonged to him. He didn't want to think about his brother's tattoo on dead skin under dirt.

"Worms," he whispered to himself. The squirming image made him queasy. At least the lawyer was going to the worms, too. Herb Burnett had made the front page of the
New Mexican
,
PROMINENT LAWYER FOUND MURDERED.
He started to laugh and Gideon pulled the needle away and stared at him.

"You need to take a break?" Gideon asked.

"No," Billy said. His expression changed, his eyes went flat. "How come lawyers always survive shipwrecks?"

Gideon shrugged and went back to work.

"Sharks don't eat their own kind." Billy pressed his head against the high neck of the chair and set his jaw. What bothered him was that bitch doctor. Lucas was dead, and she was walking around free and easy. Doing what she pleased. Fucking whoever she pleased.

Something had changed for Luke near the end. The last time he'd seen him, when Luke was in North, he'd told Billy that Sylvia was really Lily, that she'd come back to be with both her boys.

Now, Billy had remembered something on his own. He'd remembered the morning after his mother died, Duke was yelling in their housekeeper's living room. And then he'd remembered something new: Lucas. His six-year-old brother walking toward him, trembling. When Luke opened his hand, Billy had seen an object in his brother's palm. It was a wedding ring.

He reached down to touch the tattoo on his chest and felt a pang of regret. Gideon was an artist. Even
though killing got a little bit easier each time, Billy was almost sorry he was going to have to take this man out.

"A
PPROPRIATE CRISIS RESPONSE,
post facto mobilization," Rosie muttered to herself. The words snapped out a counterbeat to the clack of her stiletto heels, and the sound echoed around Main's administration hall. She was angry and indignant. It was the day after Christmas for Christsake; Warden Cozy knew better than to call her back to work for a special meeting.

"Information management specialist. Bullshit specialist is more like it." Her back ached after the hour-long encounter. She hated meetings! She was part of a bureaucracy, she didn't deny it, but wallowing in its worst aspects on holiday weekends was beyond the call of duty.

Rosie nodded absently at two women carrying stacks of files. Her mind was racing. During her entire tenure as penitentiary investigator, she'd walked a very thin line politically. The warden was not her ally, nor she his. But she had friends in appropriately high places and enough clout to keep her operational . . . or so she'd assumed.

Today's meeting—Cozy rambling on about press management, public relations, legislative analysis—had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth.

Cozy had graced her with his infamous smile, part smirk, part sneer. "I know that you care as much about this institution as I do, Ms. Sánchez. I know you take your commitment to the inmates of the penitentiary seriously." He had pulled his belt higher on his belly. "The rumors that are circulating interfere with the functional level of everyone on this ship—especially
after the riot—and we've got to man the oars together. I don't want to hear another word about body snatchers or escape attempts unless you've got serious substantiation."

That had floored Rosie. She hadn't mentioned one word about escape attempts. She just prayed that the warden had been speaking in the abstract.

S
HE WAS STILL
wound up when she left the prison an hour later. Chewing on her thumbnail, she darted in and out of traffic on Highway 14 and then rode somebody's tailgate down Cerrillos Road. At Second Street, she scraped rubber from the front tire when she cut the turn too close.

There was one parking space left in the lot fronting Gold's Gym. Rosie grabbed her shoes, jogged to the women's locker room, and squeezed her body into flower-covered Lycra leggings and a neon pink stretch top. She and Sylvia had made a plan to meet at aerobics class to work off holiday calories. The class was already halfway through the warm-up when Rosie chose a spot next to Sylvia in the back row. After twenty minutes of agonizing floor work followed by thirty minutes of peak aerobic exertion and a cool-down, Rosie's tense muscles finally loosened up.

For ten minutes after class, the women's locker room was crowded. Sylvia managed to grab one of the three showers. When she finished washing, Rosie took her place, quickly rinsed, and began to dry off with her leotard.

"Use this." Sylvia held out her towel. She had pulled on form-fitting jeans and a red cotton sweater. She bent over at the waist and shook her hair out. It fell naturally
into loose curls. Rosie pulled her own hair gently out of a ponytail and fluffed it up. She tried to tame the slightly wild effect she saw in the mirror. As she dressed, the locker room emptied out.

Sylvia said, "I went to Herb's house." She took a manila file out of her bag.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going there? I would have gone with you." Rosie pulled on her dress and zipped it up the side.

"You had family to visit—"

"If you needed me, I would have gone with you." She slipped on her heels. "You don't reach out enough. You don't ask for support. I don't understand you."

Sylvia stood silent for a moment, then she placed the file on the bench in front of Rosie. "This is what I have so far on the jackal. Look it over. We should get together soon and talk about it; for now, everything's in there."

Rosie stared at her friend and shook her head. "Fine, let's talk about the jackal."

"I'm beginning to narrow down your choices. You'll see, I'm leaning toward a select group." She pointed to the file. "You knew one of these guys was a murderer, but I don't think you knew he cut up his victims and hid the parts. I put a star in front of his name."

"Shit."

"Another
star
is a raving schizophrenic. Even if he's not the jackal, he should be transferred to psych."

"What about the jackal's collecting?" Rosie asked.

"It's childlike regressive behavior. Most likely, he's regressing because his early life was safer and more secure. Or at least, he perceived it that way."

"You still think this thing with mirrors and his reflection is right?"

Sylvia crossed her arms and shrugged. "So for every one of his crime scenes—or at least what we believe are his scenes—fits my little theory. But that's all it is—a theory. I did find a candidate who showed absolutely no reflection responses on the Rorschach."

Rosie looked bemused, and Sylvia explained. "Reflection responses have to do with the symmetry of the cards: someone will say, this is a bat, and this is his reflection in the water. Antisocial, narcissistic guys—like most guys in the joint—tend to have lots of reflection responses. They see everything as a reflection of themselves."

Rosie still looked puzzled. "But you said this guy had no reflection responses?"

Sylvia nodded. "Right He's masking . . . just like the jackal is covering up shiny surfaces. I put two stars by his name." She gathered up her bag and tossed her coat over her shoulders.

Rosie had to hurry to catch up with her. There were only a half-dozen cars left in the lot when the two women left the building. They walked in uneasy silence. As they crossed the asphalt, there was a sudden clatter of bottles from a nearby Dumpster. Rosie took several steps before she realized that Sylvia had frozen in her tracks.

"What?" Rosie felt the contagion of the other woman's fear.

Sylvia gazed wide-eyed toward the darkness of the alley. "Did you see something?"

"I don't know. Was it a cat? Something moved."

Sylvia shook her head. All she could hear was the heavy bass beat of the next aerobics class. Suddenly, a dark shape rose above the Dumpster, and she stifled a
scream. In the dim light, she saw what looked like a homeless man. He was swaddled in rags, and she felt his watchful, accusing gaze before he disappeared again below the rim of the metal container.

Rosie shuddered. "Herb's murder has you spooked, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Sylvia replied.

"Me too."

CHAPTER TWENTY

A
T
8:05
ON
S
UNDAY
morning there were nineteen inmates at work in the warehouse that served as a woodworking and metal shop for Prison Industries of New Mexico. Last-minute finish work on a big contract order included oiling, staining, and the detailing on five dozen Taos-style chairs. The air reeked of turpentine and linseed oil while band saws created a steady hum.

Most of the chemical labor was taking place in the first third of the shop; a group of five inmates worked the saws at the opposite end. The detail had been selected on the basis of their efficiency and skill; this order needed to be delivered before the New Year's Eve open house at the new offices of the Department of Corrections.

Two correctional officers were in charge of the group and they alternately stood on opposite sides of the warehouse or "floated" the floor for two or three min
utes at a time. Fifteen of the inmates were Hispanic, one was black, and three were white.

Juan "Ball" Barela switched on the circular saw and hefted an oak four-by-four to the metal platform. Although he kept his eyes only on his work, he was acutely aware of the homeboys to his left and right and the two white boys—Stick and Hall—in front of him. The whine of the band saw changed pitch as wood was cut and reshaped by the blade.

At 8:20, one of the C.O.s tapped inmate Roger Stick on the shoulder. Stick cut the motor of the saw he was working and strained to hear the message the guard delivered. Finally, he nodded slowly, glanced at the young man next to him, inmate Bobby Jack Hall, and followed the C.O. to the front of the warehouse where they joined the second guard.

Bobby Jack had his plastic safety goggles low on his face, wood chips were stinging his skin; over the noise of the saws, he didn't register Stick's disappearance.

Ball Barela clicked his tongue behind his teeth and tipped his chin, and the men at his sides moved with the lethal grace of bullfighters. In one flowing turn they had Bobby Jack on his back, a rag stuffed into his mouth, and his left arm under the blade of the circular saw. Blood exploded and spattered their faces like red oil. Ball Barela clutched the severed arm and cast it across the room; it rolled to a stop in a pile of debris and sawdust. Before the C.O.s could control the three men, they had sliced most of Bobby Jack's right arm off, too.

Reinforcements arrived, but the scene in the warehouse remained chaotic until the dogs cooled things down. Several of the nineteen inmates were found outside where they had fled at the first sign of trouble.
Bobby Jack Hall went to the hospital with his right arm attached by a three-inch thread of fascia. His left arm was missing.

W
HEN
R
OSIE ARRIVED
at the breakfast table at eight o'clock, Ray greeted her with a kiss.

"Eggs?" He waved the frying pan in his hand.

"Ummm." Rosie sighed; exhaustion had seeped into her bones like the cold. She stood by the table and traced a flower on the brightly colored oilcloth. "Where's Tomás?"

She accepted the steaming mug of coffee that Ray handed her and watched her husband turn back to the stove. From the rear, in his chef's apron, he looked chunky.

"I sent him next door to help Mrs. Flores with her bathroom pipes. Her son is working up in Taos for the week."

Rosie pulled a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth. "It's not supposed to turn colder, is it?"

Ray cracked two eggs expertly into the pan and hot grease cackled. "Sure is. Weather report said wrap the outdoor pipes and keep the faucets on drip until next year." He dropped slices of pale bread into the toaster, humming as he worked.

"Storm?"

Ray nodded and flipped one egg. "Maybe a ten-year storm. Coming from California. Washing away all those movie-star homes in Malibu."

Rosie grunted and shuffled to the coffeemaker to refill her mug. Ray pinched her on the rear as she passed by.

"Ray Sánchez!"

He grinned at her, held both arms open, and swiveled his hips in a comic bump and grind. "Come and get me!"

Rosie brandished a finger at her husband and then collapsed in laughter at the table. After several kisses, Ray served up eggs over easy, toast, and jam. They ate in comfortable silence, and then Ray swallowed a last mouthful of egg and wiped his mouth with his napkin.