Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (28 page)

The door was unlocked and Matt entered. He was greeted immediately by a very efficient and very pert woman seated behind a desk. "May I help you?"

The entire wall behind her chair was lined with books. The spines ran in color series; red on the middle shelf, olive green on the top shelf, and so on. A healthy
habanero
plant bearing tiny, bright red chiles decorated a low table where the magazines were fanned across glass. Two comfortable chairs, now empty, were there to oblige visitors.

Matt showed his badge, and she reached out a thin
arm and gripped it between even thinner fingers while she studied it for several moments. When she was satisfied, she gave a quick nod and a smile and said, "You're here to speak with Senator Watson, but he has just stepped out for lunch."

Before Matt actually heard the door open, he turned and found himself four feet from Duke Watson.

"It's all right, Mary."

Matt repressed the urge to butt heads, lock horns, and settle the long-running score like a pair of rutting rams. Instead, he stayed within "butting" range and watched as Duke decided which approach he would take. The senator's subtle emotional transitions rolled over his face like fruit on a slot machine. Three lemons lined up and Duke scowled. The politician regained control almost immediately.

"Agent . . . England, isn't it?" He glanced at his watch. "I just finished speaking with your superior, Captain Rocha, and your associate, Agent Osuna."

Matt nodded. "I'd like a few more minutes of your time, Senator."

Duke Watson sighed, raised both palms in a gesture of surrender. He said, "Mary, please let me know when Mr. Cane arrives."

Mary said, "Yes, Senator." The look she gave Matt England was a blend of reproach and flirtatiousness.

Inside his private office, Duke Watson motioned to Matt to take a seat while he closed the door.

Matt chose a fat leather armchair.

Duke dropped into the chair behind his desk and his face darkened with contained emotion. "Herb Burnett's death was shocking. It makes me sick . . . and very, very angry."

Matt nodded slowly. "Burnett outlined a letter the night he died."

Silence.

"Burnett mentioned you." Matt thought the smell of aftershave in the room had intensified. He said, "Herb also referred to someone named Jeff. Do you know who he meant?"

"Not offhand. If you want to make a copy of the letter available to my office, I would appreciate it, Agent England." He started to rise. "Is there anything else?"

Matt said, "Yes," and Duke sat back down. "You know we want to visit with Billy about Burnett's murder." "I already told Captain Rocha—"

Matt interrupted him. "I've got another case I'd like to discuss with Billy." He crossed his legs and settled deeper into the chair. "Do you know a man by the name of Gideon?"

Duke shook his head impatiently.

"He was a tattoo artist. Pretty good . . . did almost anything you'd want: roses, tigers, swastikas, well-endowed ladies, Virgins. In fact, he did a tattoo of the Virgin for your son, Lucas. Very special." His tongue poked against his gums. "But he won't be doing any more tattoos because he was murdered a few days ago."

"What has this got to do with me?"

"Did your boys used to get their teeth taken care of by Dr. Ortiz, Henry Ortiz, the dentist?"

"I knew Henry."

"Ah, then you know he's been murdered also." Matt's face hardened. "And so was his wife Myra. Both shot in the head." He let out a breath and made a show of relaxing. "You know, this job gets to me sometimes."

"Why don't you retire?"

"Henry Ortiz was retired. Did your boys have lots of cavities?"

"Henry Ortiz was our family dentist for many years. I read about his death. It's awful, but Santa Fe has changed. You know that . . . we used to have no crime at all. Now . . ."

"Do you own a Colt .45, Army-issue pistol? Senator?" Matt lifted his gaze to a polished steel sword mounted on the wall directly above and behind Duke's head. Its bone hilt was carved with a formal Asian motif. It looked like a Japanese military or ritual sword, perhaps a trophy from the Second World War.

"Why the fuck do you want to know?" There was a long silence while Duke Watson took a breath and reminded himself he was a politician. He leaned back in his chair and set the tips of his fingers together. "I had one years ago. I'm sorry to say it was stolen."

"That's a shame."

"Yes, it is. The Colt belonged to my father. He fought in the Pacific."

"I've heard through the vine that you've got a Lee- Enfield .303. I'd like to see your collection someday."

The intercom buzzed and Duke Watson was on it immediately. "Yes, Mary."

Mary's scratchy voice was audible: "Mr. Cane is here."

"Tell him I'll be right out." Duke Watson stood and adjusted his broad shoulders inside a tweed jacket. "I hope that I've been helpful, Agent England."

"No, not yet." Matt stayed in his seat. "Tell me about Blue Mountain Business Park."

There was no question about it, the senator's mouth twitched.

Matt said, "You bought that land in 1983 as a partner with Henry Ortiz. I wondered if it's been a good investment."

Duke Watson focused on a spot behind England's head. "Your time is up."

Matt stood and moved two steps closer to Duke Watson. He topped him by four inches. "People around you keep dying, Senator. You know, if I were you, I wouldn't destroy an innocent woman's career."

The senator's blue eyes seemed to flare for an instant. Matt closed the door gently as he left the private office.

He crossed the room and Mary gave him a warm smile. He nodded to a mousy man he assumed was Mr. Cane. As his fingers were about to close around the doorknob, the door to the hall flew open, and a white male with red hair and freckles squeezed past him and into the room.

The man said, "Is he in, Mary? I just need a minute—"

"I'm sorry, but he has a luncheon appointment, Jeff." The secretary sounded like a demure bouncer.

Matt thought about the red-headed male named Jeff as he walked to his car. Inside the Caprice, he turned on the engine and sat. He hadn't intended to get on the subject of Sylvia Strange; his own outburst had taken him by surprise.

After only a few minutes, Jeff left the Schumacher Building. He got into a hot-red 1995 Mustang and drove away.

The Mustang had a New Mexico plate, and Matt caught it in his rearview mirror as the Mustang disappeared down the street:
HOTSHOT.

He smiled, pulled the Caprice out into traffic, and
managed a U-turn. While he drove down Guadalupe Street, he kept a leisurely distance between Caprice and Mustang. He called in the plate number and looked longingly at Bert's Burger Bowl as he drove past the tiny stand with its outdoor umbrellas.

He kept thinking about a green chile burger with all the works while the dispatcher ran the MVD check: the hotshot was one Jeffrey Hookman Anderson, D.O.B. 6-21-66. No outstanding moving violations, two outstanding parking tickets.

Jeff Anderson. Now he had the name; the face jogged into place. Anderson was employed as a correctional officer at the penitentiary.
Nice wheels for a guy who earns $17,000 a year
. He would talk to Rosie. Then it would be interesting to keep an eye on hotshot for a few days.

A
FAMILY OF
fat, black ravens squawked from the trees as Sylvia and Jaspar crossed the Santa Fe Plaza late that afternoon. Even though the temperature had dropped to twenty-eight degrees during the past thirty minutes, a guitarist still strummed folk songs with stiff fingers, and plenty of tourists and locals strolled the streets or huddled on public benches. Three large buses sent toxic fumes into the air as they unloaded exhausted-looking skiers.

"Banana or chocolate?" Jaspar asked. He had Rocko on the end of a leash and he was being pulled toward the Plaza Bakery.

"Chocolate," Sylvia said. They had come from another dog obedience class, and the stop for frozen yogurt was a spur-of-the-moment treat. "But don't tell on me."

The shop was filled with teenagers, tourists, and several families with small children. At the table, Jaspar sucked his vanilla malted through a long straw. He'd finished half before he sat back and rubbed his tummy. "I was hungry. Don't you want yours?"

Sylvia realized that Jaspar was staring at her. "Sure." She spooned a bite of her yogurt and smiled.

"My dad liked you," Jaspar said suddenly.

"I liked your dad, too. And I miss him a lot."

"Me too," Jaspar said.

Sylvia touched Jaspar's hand with her finger. "Your father told me how much he loved to spend time with you. He told me you guys did lots of special things together."

Jaspar twisted his straw around one finger until the thin plastic cracked. His round eyes latched on to a tiny child who crawled across the floor. "We made things " he said finally. "Trains, and an airplane, and stuff like that."

"I'd like to see those trains sometime. Will you show me?"

Jaspar nodded, his head tilted forward so Sylvia couldn't read his expression. The last of the malted gurgled up through the straw. Sylvia waited for the inevitable and sure enough, Jaspar reversed the flow of the liquid to blow bubbles in the bottom of his cup.

She said, "My father went away when I was quite a few years older than you, and I still miss him."

Jaspar stopped his blowing. "Did he die?"

I don't know, Sylvia thought. After all these years, I still don't know what happened, why he walked out and left us. She reached for words of safety. "He got very sick," she said.

"Cancer," Jaspar said.

Sylvia nodded. "A kind of cancer."

Jaspar stared at her and his eyes seemed to pierce her skin. "Did you say good-bye?"

I never forgave my mother
. Sylvia said, "It took me a long time to realize it wasn't my fault. I thought maybe I had caused him to go away. But I didn't." She reached across the table and took Jaspar's hand. "Jaspar, did you ever wish your daddy was gone? Like sometimes when you got mad at him for some reason?"

Tears welled up in the child's eyes.

"Because that's a normal thing to wish. But it didn't make him sick. It did not make him sick."

That sentence kept running through Sylvia's mind while she dropped Jaspar with his mother and drove to her own house.

In her kitchen, she unpacked the groceries as a few feathery snowflakes began to fall against the window. She stared out at the river and the dark shape of the Calidros' house in the distance. Her neighbors were gone until after New Year's, visiting family in Colorado.

From the kitchen door, she called Rocko, who materialized immediately at her feet. When she reached down to pet him, he slipped under her hand. "Hey, big guy, what's up? Long day?" He ignored her and trotted right on by. When she straightened and looked back at the window, she noticed that the mobile Jaspar had made her for Christmas was gone.

Puzzled and uneasy, she followed the terrier down the hall toward the bedroom. Rocko stopped abruptly and sniffed along the edge of the carpet. A deep growl rumbled up from his chest

The paper mobile—crushed and torn—was a tiny pile on the floor.

Suddenly, the dense, suffocating smell hit her in the face.

Sylvia stared at the open bedroom door. Blood was spattered on the wall, on the bed, the floor, even on the door itself. Rocko was inside the room whining and turning circles. Sylvia didn't make a conscious decision to continue down the hall, but she found herself by the edge of the bed. The world seemed to slide into halftime as she stared down at the crumpled, bloody duvet.

A pair of black brocade heels were blood-stained as if someone had taken a brush dipped in scarlet ink, and whisked it violently. They were positioned next to her bed, just like the shoes that Lucas Watson had left in her room so many weeks before.

This time it wasn't Lucas. It must have been Billy living out his brother's nightmare. Then another name registered in Sylvia's mind: Duke.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I
N THE GLARE
of the Volvo's headlamps, fresh snowflakes spiraled in a wild vortex. Sylvia drove too fast, and Rocko was tossed side to side by the car's motion.

Traffic was light on Agua Fria Street—the reds and greens of the traffic signals put on their show for almost empty roads—and the trip from her house to Osage Drive lasted less than twelve minutes. At Osage and Hopi, she hesitated. From here it was six blocks to the Sánchezes' home or a half block to Matt England.

The grounds of Salazar Elementary School were dark and deserted. It took a moment to spot the trailer. It was set back from the asphalt play area, forty feet west of the main school building.

The double chain-link gates were open and Sylvia guided the Volvo onto the school grounds. She pulled up next to Matt England's Caprice and a pickup truck.
Before she was out of her car, the door to the trailer opened and light spilled out.

England jumped off the porch, and approached the Volvo. "Sylvia?"

Rocko growled and pressed his nose against the passenger door window.

"My house—" Sylvia took a breath to steady herself and closed the car door to keep Rocko from escaping. He began to bark hysterically.

"Someone got in again. There was blood all over my bed, on the walls—"

"Did you see who it was?"

She shook her head. "I know who it was."

"Come on. Bring the mutt."

Inside the trailer, Rocko backed his tail into a corner in the small living room, and his constant growl was punctuated by single explosive barks. Fueled by excessive adrenaline, Sylvia paced in front of the couch and described the scene in her bedroom. She said, "It has to be Billy."

"What about Duke? He could've hired somebody—"

"It's possible as part of some psychotic family pattern. Believe me, I've seen sicker things."

Several different scenarios were running through her mind while Matt spoke with the state police dispatcher. "—get an officer over to the dead end, state route 32, a one-story adobe. That's right, the same one." He answered a series of questions with yes or no, then said, "And tell Hansi to bring a mop, there's lots of blood." He hung up.