Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (30 page)

"Everyone calls me Bea." The woman offered a Mona Lisa smile. "Are you tired of the festivities so soon? The party's just started." She blew a veil of smoke toward Sylvia. "I think family pictures are so revealing, don't you? They give the whole show away if you know how to look at them."

Sylvia sized her up. When she stepped closer to Bea's chair, she smelled musk, alcohol, and perhaps, the scent of sex. Duke's lover? Not his wife; the senator had never remarried after Lily's death. Sylvia's curiosity was cut short when the door to the library opened and Duke entered.

He took in the tableau of the two women and kept his hand on the open door. "Bea? This is a business meeting."

"It's been a pleasure, I'm sure." The woman rose languidly from her chair, shot Sylvia an enigmatic look, and ignored Duke Watson completely. When she walked into the hall, the senator closed the door firmly.

He rubbed his hands together in a hearty
Let's get down to business
gesture. His eyes brushed over her. He began with a question. "Were you surprised when I called?"

Sylvia spoke quietly, in part to hide her nervousness, but also because the room seemed to sap her energy. "My lawyer advised me not to come today."

"Of course. Please, won't you sit down?"

"I'm fine."

Duke nodded and casually eased himself into a leather armchair and crossed his legs. It was thirty seconds before he spoke, but Sylvia followed at least part of her lawyer's advice and kept her mouth shut. She'd had endless practice with therapeutic silence.

Duke studied the floor beyond the tooled needlenose of his cowboy boots, and his voice was muted. "It occurred to me, if you and I had worked together, Luke would still be alive. If I had followed up on your recommendation for a transfer . . . if I had pushed my weight around a bit. . ." He sighed.

His next words threw Sylvia off completely.

He spoke softly, but with a matter-of-factness. "They had to piece together parts of my son before they could put him in the coffin." The tenor of his voice became more unsteady. "They say that for parents, outliving your child is the worst thing that can happen. I think I agree. But I can't begin to describe what it's like to know your son suffered degradation before he found peace in death."

He closed his eyes, touched his chin with his thumb, shook his head. "How can I explain this? Luke had terrible guilt. It began when he was sentenced to prison. He thought he had harmed my political career. He became obsessed with the notion that I would never be able to forgive him."

"Was he right?"

Again, the senator sighed. He raised a finger to his temple in a gesture of contemplation. "No. Of course I forgave him. But I never denied that he was a disappointment; he fell so brutally short of his potential. He wore the mantle of his mother's problems." Duke's fingers massaged the arms of his chair as he spoke. "It's hard to have a mother who kills herself."

"That can devastate a child," Sylvia said.

Duke Watson spoke slowly in a faraway voice. "Yes. That's something I'll have to learn to live with." He walked to a small old-fashioned rolltop desk that stood alone in a corner of the library. The rolling mechanism made a comfortably aged sound when the top was raised. Duke Watson lifted several brown manila envelopes and scanned their labels. He selected one and walked to Sylvia.

He clasped his hands—and the envelope—behind
his back and gave her a sharp look. "I'm not the only one who is carrying around guilt. I believe you attended my son's funeral? And perhaps you made some statements in the heat of the moment to Herb Burnett?"

His hands came into view and he waved a finger at Sylvia. "I'll drop the complaint on one condition."

She waited without taking her eyes off the senator from Bernalillo and Sandoval counties.

"You leave my family's business alone. Respect our privacy." He gave her a sad smile. "And no more funerals."

He opened a plain brown envelope, pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph and studied it; his mouth curved up derisively.

Duke Watson's voice was louder and more confident now. He said, "Let's you and I forget that part of our lives. The past three months never existed." He offered her the photograph.

It was the same picture she'd seen in Herb's office. She looked down at herself, at her pouting mouth and her exposed breasts. Then she raised her head and stared at Duke Watson.

He said, "I'm sure you'd like to forget this. Take it with you. Get your life back on track."

Sylvia felt enraged; Duke Watson had made her feel cheap and small—and he took pleasure in the humiliation. She crushed the photograph in one hand and said, "You and your family have made my life hell."

More words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. "If any one of you comes near me, I'll slap a lawsuit on you so fast, you won't know what hit you." She turned, left the room, and left the house.

Outside in the cold, she signaled the valet for her car.
While he anxiously searched up and down the small rows, she steadied herself.

She found a cigarette in her purse and lit it with trembling hands. After three hits, the nicotine began to soothe her nerves.

The valet drove up in her Volvo, and accepted two bills with a big smile. Sylvia climbed behind the wheel. She almost choked on her cigarette when her passenger said, "Do you have another smoke?"

"Get out." Sylvia instantly recognized Duke Watson's daughter. Queeny was lash thin with skin the color of paste. Every possible part of her face had been pierced. Silver rings speared both nostrils, her upper lip, her chin, and, of course, each ear had multiple holes adorned with a variety of bangles, feathers, and beads.

"No." Queen's hands traveled from limp hair to settle against tight jeans. She was barely recognizable as the face in the prom portrait.

"I said get out. Now."

The girl looked disappointed. "Don't have a shit fit. I only want a ride to the road."

Sylvia realized her fingers were clamped around the steering wheel and she was gritting her teeth. She took a quick breath, released her muscles, and nodded. "Fine." She gave Queeny what was left of the burning cigarette, and the girl smiled gratefully. Her face looked almost pretty when she was genuinely pleased.

As they drove off the property toward the main road, Queeny examined Sylvia through a curtain of smoke. "Are you here about Billy? He doesn't live here." Queeny's fingers slid over the radio dial. "You don't have a CD player?" She shook her head as if the concept of a car radio was amazing. "You could be here about the
riot. My other brother died in that. His balls were cut off. They had to search for all his parts to put him in the coffin." She gnawed ferociously on her thumb, almost as if she was sucking. She cocked her head curiously and raised an eyebrow. "I bet that's why you're here."

They were approaching the main road and Sylvia slowed the Volvo. She glanced at Queeny and said, "I bet your nipples are pierced."

"No shit." Queeny grinned. "And so is my you-know- what."

"Your father hates it," Sylvia said. She smiled at the girl.

"Yep." Queeny's grin widened. As the Volvo pulled to a stop at the intersection, she opened the door and balanced one leg outside the car. "You know, he's a bastard. You shouldn't have wasted your time."

Sylvia nodded and pulled the new pack of cigarettes out of her purse. She tossed them to Queeny. "Do you have enough money?"

Queeny's eyes shone. "Oh, money isn't the problem in my family. See you." She slammed the door and began to walk up the road and around the corner.

Sylvia accelerated. Queeny smiled at her, raised her right hand, and separated her third and fourth fingers in a Trekkie salute.

T
HE
C
OYOTE
C
AFÉ
was a creamy blend of poured concrete, cut crystal, and wide-open space. It was also an acoustical nightmare; the noise level became frantic as Sylvia climbed the curving stairway to the dining area. A woman and two men, all wearing pale linen suits and ponytails, turned to watch as Sylvia passed by. She felt self-conscious in her contour-hugging dress and
high heels. She stopped next to a man she assumed was the maître d' and surveyed the room. Matt England wasn't visible at the small bar. Sylvia questioned the host, and he led her to a table hidden by a low wall. Matt England looked up blankly and then recognition flashed across his face. "Do you know how many quarts of blood one chicken holds?"

Sylvia caught the glances of the couple sitting at the next table. She said, "I take it the blood wasn't human?" The maitre d' excused himself abruptly.

He grinned. "Right. You look fantastic, by the way."

She smiled and said, "Thanks. So do you."

Matt spread both hands on the breast of his leather jacket. "I don't know why the hell I picked this place."

Sylvia studied his face, caught the slightest gleam in his eyes, and said, "Maybe you wanted to impress me."

"Maybe."

A very thin, very white waiter appeared suddenly and took drink orders. Matt was already nursing a beer. Sylvia asked for a vodka martini with olives.

"Duke Watson invited me to his house today."

The restaurant was full, and Sylvia could hear snatches of conversation from nearby tables, but she hardly heard England above the din. "You didn't go?"

"My lawyer's going to kill me." Sylvia made a face and kept silent while a waiter delivered her martini.

When the waiter was gone, Matt eyed Sylvia sharply. "Tell me about it."

Briefly, she relayed the details of her visit to Bernalillo. She said, "I'd call it a heavy mood swing from destroy the bitch, to let's kiss and make up, and then back to wreck her career. Basically, he'll drop the complaint if I forget he and his sons ever existed."

"You can't. Not until Billy Watson's in custody."

Sylvia snorted. "Yeah, well, the whole deal was off after he brought out one of the photographs Billy took. I truly wanted to kick him in the balls and watch him suffer."

Matt thought about his own visit to Watson's office and his conversation with Rosie yesterday afternoon. He considered Sylvia, watched her expression, and kept his voice low, "Duke has some business with a C.O. Jeff Anderson. Remember him?"

"Jeff Anderson?
That's who Herb meant? What kind of business?"

Matt said, "What we have is a C.O. driving a thirty- thousand-dollar car on an eight-dollars-an-hour salary. I think he's doing some extracurricular activities for the senator."

"What's your theory?"

"It's all speculation. But this is interesting. Jeff's father was Duke Watson's caretaker; he's the one who found Lily's body."

Sylvia stared at him. "I'd like to be there when you talk to Anderson."

"Not a prayer." His expression clearly read
end of subject
, and he opened the menu. Crab enchiladas with mango salsa, and duckling egg roll resting in a bed of broiled endive were advertised as the evening's specials.

Sylvia felt her stomach turn uneasily, and she gulped at her drink. When she looked up, she realized England had been gazing at her and not at the menu.

He finished his beer and raised an eyebrow. "What are you hungry for?"

"Actually . . . an enchilada or a burrito, Christmas chile, and a good Mexican beer. What about you?"

He nodded. "Sounds better than peach chutney on organic corned beef." He pulled his wallet from his pocket. "Do you think eight bucks will cover a beer and a martini?"

Sylvia shook her head.

He dropped a ten on the table. "Let's get out of here." He guided her gently into her coat and led the way past the frowning host and down the stairs.

El Chamaco was one of the last downtown holdouts amid the trendy newcomers. It was a tiny restaurant just two blocks east of the Coyote. Inside, there were three customers.

England knew the owners, Rita and Al Yaquib, a Lebanese couple newly arrived to Santa Fe via Los Angeles and Albuquerque. They cooked the food and waited tables. The evening special was an enchilada and tamale plate. Matt and Sylvia ordered two and fed quarters into the jukebox. Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings sang while Rita brought a candle to the table in a Pacifico bottle. When a robust Navajo man paid his bill and ushered his two companions from the restaurant, Sylvia and Matt were left alone except for occasional visits by Rita or Al.

"So how long have you lived here?" England asked after a long silence that seemed oddly comfortable.

"I was born here." Sylvia smiled. "In the house I live in now."

"You never traveled around?"

She paused, then said, "After my father left, we moved to California. When I was twenty-seven, I came back to finish up my thesis and found the house for sale."

"What did your father do?"

They were both silent while Rita brought their dinners on steaming plates. The compact, handsome woman fussed around the table briefly and then disappeared. Sylvia played with the enchilada that sizzled in a nest of lettuce, tomatoes, beans, and
pozole
. A memory of Malcolm coalesced briefly, dissolved, and was replaced by one of her father.

"He was an electrician. He was also in the Army Reserves, and when everyone started draft-dodging, he enlisted for a tour of Vietnam." She took a small bite of food. England was watching her, his face intent. "After that, he tried to farm."

Matt swallowed a mouthful of tamale and chased it with cold beer. "Was he wounded?"

"Not on the outside. They called it War Neurosis in those days. A label left over from World War Two. Or worse, it was diagnosed as simple schizophrenia or paranoid schizophrenia. They didn't know about post-traumatic stress disorder until mid-Vietnam." Sylvia held up her empty beer bottle and Al smiled from the kitchen alcove. "So what about you? Rosie says you're a good poker player."

The fact that Sylvia had changed the subject without any pretense of conversational tact was not lost on Matt England. He followed her lead, focusing on the most interesting part. "What else did Rosie tell you about me?"

"Just that you're old friends; she thinks you're a good man."