Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (29 page)

Sylvia contracted her muscles to control the tremor that had begun twenty minutes ago in her bedroom. She dropped onto the couch.

Matt said, "We've got about four minutes before we need to go back to your house." He set two mugs of water into a microwave, closed the door, and set the timer for two minutes. "If it was Billy, how did he know about the shoes?"

"It has to be something he and Lucas talked about; it's part of a ritual. A ceremony centered around their mother's death. I think it was a
folie à deux
—" She stopped, shook her head in apology, and started again. "The two brothers shared their psychosis, and Billy has taken over where Lucas left off."

The intensity of Rocko's growl increased when the microwave bleeped. Matt busied himself with a jar of instant coffee. He carried both mugs from the kitchenette and handed one to Sylvia. He glanced at his watch as his long legs straddled the end of the couch.

Matt said, "I talked to Hansi Gausser at the crime lab. He just matched the shell casings—same Army-issue .45 A.C.P.S—at two very different Santa Fe homicide scenes."

"A.C.P.s?"

"Automatic Colt pistol. During World War Two, special ball ammo was manufactured for the army. Each casing had a headstamp that equaled the factory. For instance, Frankfurt Arsenal. Very distinctive."

Sylvia set her coffee on the floor and scratched Rocko's back to quiet the animal. "And ammunition from the 1940s still fires?"

"This stuff sure did. Hansi's expert says that as long as it's been stored at moderate temperatures, no great fluctuations in humidity, it's fine." Matt stood up again. He was wearing faded Levi's and an old sweater. He was barefoot.

"So . . ." Sylvia tipped her head and closed one eye.

Matt kept moving, a shift of feet, a few steps back and forth just to keep the blood flowing to his brain. "The first homicide was a tattoo artist, Tony Regis, who got whacked two days ago—aka Gideon."

"Gideon? That's who did the Virgin on Lucas's chest. He's dead?"

"Shot in the head, one through the back of the neck, one through the mouth."

Sylvia burned her lips when she sipped the scalding coffee.

"Then a retired couple, a dentist and his wife, were shot in their home last week. Guess who used Dr. Ortiz as the family dentist?"

"The Watsons." Sylvia felt jittery and the coffee didn't help. She set the cup down and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. As Matt talked, he took a small crocheted blanket from a shelf and draped it over her shoulders. She murmured her thanks.

He said, "The point is, Duke Watson and the dentist Henry Ortiz were business partners. They owned a parcel of land they tried to turn into Blue Mountain Business Park. The development hasn't really caught on yet, but Mr. Ortiz had his home on the land and that's where the murders occurred." He checked his watch again. "You're the expert on weirdos. Why would Duke or Billy want to whack a dentist and a tattoo artist?"

"I don't know." Sylvia sank deeper into the soft couch. She felt much younger than her thirty-four years. She was at a loss. It was as if all her years of study and training had let her down, left her flat. And hyperactive. And exhausted. She had to force herself to think.

She said, "You kill because someone has some power
over you. At least, that's your perception. Even the sociopath is dealing with power issues." Her eyes glazed over and she disappeared inside herself for a moment. "All the usual motives . . . blackmail, love, revenge, or the need to eliminate a witness . . . those are the externals, but the internal issues have to do with rage, self-esteem, power." She brushed a strand of hair from one eye. "And control."

Matt had been watching her closely and he realized she made him uneasy. There was something that happened to her face, her energy when she got caught up in her mind. The only way he could describe it was a sort of manic gleam.

He said, "Let's go. I'll get some shoes on." He finished his coffee in one swallow and stood, and Rocko let loose a series of yips. "Dogs usually like me."

"It's your testosterone," Sylvia said flatly.

W
HEN
S
YLVIA WOKE
it took her a few moments to orient herself. Pale green and yellow wallpaper, blue net curtains capturing direct sunlight, a turquoise bedspread, and a framed Helen Hardin print on the wall. The Inn at Loretto. Room 213.

Something wet kissed her cheek: Rocko. She hugged the terrier to her breasts, then she pushed him away. Last night, in her bedroom, he'd had his nose in blood.

She pictured the gory scene and felt the pressure of sudden anxiety in her chest; depression would follow if she didn't do something to interrupt her emotional spiral. If she had been dealing with one of her clients, she would suggest simple steps, positive action: a hot shower, a nutritious breakfast, take the dog for a walk, talk to a friend.

She pictured Matt England: Levi's, sweater, barefoot, looking rumpled like he'd be good . . . After the trip to her house, he had offered to let her stay the night.

You can have the bed or the couch. Alone
—
I mean, I'll—

She had declined. But the offer was nice. And off-limits. The last thing she needed to do was get involved with a cop. The last thing she needed was to get involved with any man so soon after Malcolm's death.

Still, she was looking forward to their date; six o'clock at the Coyote Café.

After she was dressed, lipstick and sunscreen applied, she used her remote code to check her answering machine. Duke Watson had left a message.

"Dr. Strange? I'm having a social gathering at my home this afternoon for a few dozen friends and supporters . . . to celebrate the new year . . . I'd be flattered if you'd accept this invitation to join us."

There was a pause, a long hesitation as if he didn't like to commit himself to tape. He finally continued, "I'm thinking very seriously about dropping the complaint against you. All I ask is a few moments of your time."

She was astounded by his call. She was also suspicious, skeptical, a little frightened, and sorely tempted to accept the invitation. She'd give a lot to have the complaint, and the lingering threat of a lawsuit, erased from her life.

She called Juanita Martinez at the firm; her lawyer was in her office, working. Juanita listened patiently to Sylvia's report, then she said, "Are you fucking insane? You want to go to Duke Watson's house?" She didn't wait for a response. "I had a chat with his new lawyer yesterday. Maybe that's why . . ."

"It's a party, Juanita. He can't do anything to me." As Sylvia spoke calmly to her lawyer, a voice in her head screamed,
What the hell are you doing? What's happened to your judgment?

"That's what you think. Come to think of it, I got an invitation a few weeks ago. It's a gala with a chamber quartet or quintet or whatever the fuck they're called. Lots of strings."

"So, I'll be safe."

"Never." Juanita tapped the phone with something hard. "Want me to come along?"

"You don't think he might get defensive if I come armed with my lawyer? Especially
you
."

"My best advice is, do not go." Juanita sighed. "Since I've worked with you before, and I know you somewhat, my second-best advice is, keep your mouth shut! Listen to any offer, but don't say a word, and get everything in writing whatever the fuckety-fuck you do!"

O
N THE INTERSTATE,
a single seam had been cut by an early snowplow. La Bajada was slick where snow had melted from the touch of hot rubber and then refrozen. Sylvia kept herself focused on the strip of asphalt that stretched down into the snowy valley. She passed the turnoff for Santo Domingo Pueblo. Twelve miles later, the sign for San Felipe Pueblo was only a white blur. She could barely make out the orange stucco community center to the west. At the off-ramp to Bernalillo, she slowed to twenty miles per hour and steered toward the descending parade of mesas. The trees lining the course of the Rio Grande stood like distant, snowy hoodoo formations.

She followed the river road until she passed the
graveyard, the site of Lucas Watson's funeral. Every mile or so she saw a car with headlamps glaring, but not many people were braving the blustery weather this afternoon. She had to rely on a state map to find the county road where the Watsons lived.

The large house was set off a lane about a mile and a half from the main road. It was a rambling ranch-style structure painted a glossy white. The roof was covered with red-stucco tiles. Carefully trimmed and tended Navajo willows lined the gravel drive and the front door faced a wide turnaround where fifteen or twenty cars were parked.

Sylvia slowed the Volvo and let the engine idle. A teenage boy stepped up to the driver's door. He wore clean blue jeans, a cowboy shirt and boots, and a tuxedo jacket that was three sizes too large.

"Valet parking?" Sylvia asked in surprise.

He nodded sheepishly.

She surrendered her car, walked gingerly over freshly scraped snow to the front door of the house, and entered.

A huge fir tree dominated the foyer. It was covered with antique ornaments and twinkling white lights. The branches were so symmetrical, the tree looked artificial, but the delicious scent of fresh pine was unmistakable.

One wall of the foyer was lined with mirrored tiles. Sylvia caught her own reflection severed and graphed into gilded rectangles. Her hair was in disarray, and she fluffed it quickly with her fingers. She couldn't do anything about the dark shadows under her eyes. A waiter appeared at her side and offered her a sparkling beverage. She accepted, glad to have something in her hands. It tasted like quality champagne.

She followed the waiter away from the Christmas tree toward the sound of voices and music. Juanita had been right about the string quartet.

In the living room, the musicians were arranged in front of a very large and perfectly square fireplace. An audience of forty, perhaps fifty coiffed and manicured guests seemed to be enjoying the chamber music. The spacious room made it difficult to gauge the size of the crowd. People stood in small groups or sat on settees, love seats, and delicate chairs. Sylvia recognized the governor and his wife seated near a violinist. The governor smoked his trademark cigar. The governor's wife smiled at Sylvia.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Strange." Duke Watson had a soft voice with a Good Old Boy twang. When Sylvia turned, he took her hand graciously. She wondered how he'd recognized her, then she remembered the photographs.

Duke Watson's face was smooth, clean-shaven, and set off nicely by neatly layered graying hair. His expensive tweed suit fit him impeccably and gave him a look that was conservative but not priggish.

He said, "I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends, but perhaps we should talk privately first?"

She followed him from the room, back across the foyer, and down a dimly lit hall. He stopped and was about to enter a room when a young woman hurriedly approached from the other end of the house.

"Senator? Can I whisk you away from your guest for sixty seconds?" She waved a typewritten page. "Your speech—"

Duke Watson turned to Sylvia. "I'm very sorry. Will you excuse me for just a few minutes?"

Sylvia nodded. "I'll wait in here." Before Watson could steer her elsewhere, she stepped around him and entered what appeared to be a library. She closed the door, pleased to have a few minutes to explore.

It was a medium-size room, and the long view revealed bookcases filled with dark leather volumes, a crackling fire burning in the ornate fireplace, and three glass guncases each displaying firearms of varying shapes and sizes.

Sylvia walked quickly to the fireplace mantel to examine the array of photographs. She scanned the faces and figures and recognized the stocky shape of Duke Watson shaking hands with governors and senators. Other pictures showed him playing golf, mounted on a blue-ribbon quarterhorse, and ascending in a hot air balloon. There were several shots of a young and rather shy Billy. And one of his smiling sister Queeny in what looked like a prom dress.

At one end of the mantel, almost hidden behind other frames, was the portrait of a lovely woman. Even in its worn condition, the photograph revealed striking features: thick, dark curls framed high cheekbones, the chin reached a soft point, the lips were full, the eyes deeply lidded and gently almond-shaped. It had to be Lily Watson. Both boys had inherited her perfect bone structure.

Beside the portrait, another photograph drew and held her eye. This time she was looking at Duke Watson, Lucas, and Billy. Sylvia guessed the shot was more than ten years old. The man and both boys wore orange hunter's caps, wool jackets, and high leather boots. Each of them cradled a rifle in his arms. A freshly killed buck lay prone in the foreground. Behind the animal—
standing over its rack—Duke presented himself to the camera as a virile, arrogant Hemingway type. Next to him, Lucas had the haunted look of a boy in his first week of boot camp. Around the edge of his cap, his hair was shaved military-style and the cut made his ears look unnaturally large. His eyes gleamed with characteristic cloudiness, but a trick of the camera made him sightless. His shoulders were narrow and he was too thin for his height. What struck Sylvia most was the way he shrank under the weight of his father's arm; he was both an extension and a shadow of Duke. He was the anointed fuck-up. Finally, Sylvia's gaze moved to Billy. He must have been nine or ten. He stood slightly apart from the others and his face disappeared behind a huge grin.

"You don't grow up in this house without carrying on the fine family tradition of the second amendment."

Sylvia started.

A bleached blonde gazed up at her from the lap of a brocade armchair. She appeared to be in her mid-forties. The first four buttons of her silk chambray blouse were undone, and Sylvia glimpsed the cleavage of large breasts hanging loose. Making no effort to cover herself, the woman pulled on a long cigarette. She examined Sylvia carefully, her eyes tiny slits between the shutters of her lids.

Sylvia extended her hand and introduced herself.