Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (26 page)

     
"Yeah, you're haunted," the boy repeated.

     
The boy spit at something on the dusty ground, then he wiped spittle from his chin. "You go inside there, you get cursed. . . we saw you go in."

     
Sylvia stared at the children. The fading daylight seemed to turn them into little demons—bad seeds. She knew it was her mood, not the day.

     
Three minutes after she turned out of the ranch, the state trooper picked up her trail again. This time he stayed right behind the Taurus. Sylvia set her cruise control for sixty-four miles per hour and forced herself not to glance in the rearview mirror. At Ventura he pulled off the road and let her continue, apparently unescorted, to Santa Barbara.

     
She couldn't have been happier to see the Biltmore. Her bungalow, and the luxury of the hotel, felt like a refuge. From the day, from the world—for a moment. She would have plenty of time to dress for dinner with Leo, Mark Chism, and their business associates. Tomorrow morning, by eight
A.M
., she would be on a plane to Albuquerque.

     
There was a message on her hotel voice mail from Roxanne White. Dupont's mother had the slurred speech of a woman on depressants and alcohol. Sylvia thought she had probably needed chemical support to make this call. The message was brief and bitter.

     
"
If you really want to have some fun, ask Nathan Howzer about the Gentlemen's Club
."

J
UDGE
N
ATHANIEL
H
OWZER
couldn't remember how long he'd been sitting in the dark. For the third time he let the telephone ring and ring until the jarring sound finally died away. It took a great effort when he lifted the crystal decanter from his desk and drained the last of the alcohol into his glass. This was the pattern of his recent days—to drink himself into a stupor that almost passed for sleep.

     
He was in his study with the timid Adobe sprawled beside his chair. His fingers touched warm fur and the Doberman whined gently.

     
The phone began to ring again. This time he picked up the receiver and listened.

     
"Nathan? It's me."

     
The judge recognized the fretful voice. He said, "Hello, Garret."

     
For his lack of caution he was rewarded with silence. He welcomed the space. He fantasized that Garret Ellington had turned into dust and blown away, leaving him in peace.

     
Howzer sighed. Garret Ellington was the least of his troubles.

     
Ellington said, "Do you know a woman named Sylvia Strange? She was here asking questions. . . and she went out to the ranch."

     
Judge Howzer grunted and took another sip of his drink. "Yes, I know her."

     
Ellington felt the other man's loathing, and he blurted out his complaint. "I thought you were going to handle Fuller Lynch. Now he's called Roxanne, and I think she's folding. She's catching on. You said you'd handle it."

     
"I am."

     
"I don't like to be pushed! Especially not by lowlifes."

     
The judge was enjoying Garret's discomfiture.

     
Ellington said, "From the beginning, I wanted to handle this
my
way. But oh no,
you
knew better. Well, I expect closure."

     
The judge grimaced and took a breath to calm himself. Through the French doors he could see the lights of the city intruding into a blackened sky.

     
He closed his eyes, kept his voice low. "I don't think you understand what's at stake here, Garret."

     
"I know damn well what's—"

     
"Shut up," Howzer snapped. Adobe whined and the judge patted the Doberman's head soothingly. "I don't want you calling here again. I don't want you mucking up the waters. Just stay out of this, and let me do what I was paid to do for so many years—keep secrets."

     
"Just remember your ass is on the line, too."

     
The judge smiled in the dark. He was pleased to discover how little he cared about his own fate anymore. He forced himself to speak. "I'll remember."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I
N A
S
ANTA
F
E
motel—on Monday morning—Kevin Chase aimed his .44 Magnum at the bouncing heads on the television screen—Samantha, on
Bewitched
, wiggled her nose, and her husband Darrin made a pug face. Kevin's finger caressed the revolver's stainless steel trigger—he imagined Darrin's head exploding—but he didn't apply enough pressure to fire the round and whatnot. He wasn't stupid.

     
When the Nickelodeon station break began, Kevin lay back on the bed and aimed the revolver at the light fixture overhead. "Ptoow. Ptoow, ptoow!" The meth he'd just snorted was kicking in, kicking him in the butt.

     
He flashed on how Killer knew so much about everything. Killer was a genius, like other chosen people. Had a mission. Like some kind of
god
. Sure, Killer got bossy or crazy sometimes, but there was always a reason. Kevin knew there was a reason for everything.

     
He aimed his gun, a present from Killer, at the cornflake girl on screen. She just grinned at herself in the mirror and wiggled her butt like she was swimming.

     
"Ptoow. Ptoow."

     
Kevin swung his legs off the bed and began to pace the motel room. He'd covered every inch of that floor at least a hundred times during the last three days. By now he should've worn a path into the rug. He began to hum a tune—off-key—his own special song. As he walked, his right hand swung the .44 Magnum like a parade salute, and his left thumb slipped into his mouth.

     
Kevin couldn't get Killer out of his mind: how they saw eye to eye the very first time they hung out and shared a bottle of tequila. They could talk for hours about life and death, how the biggest crime was criminals getting away with rape, and the murder of little kids and whatnot. How guys in Jersey and Idaho and Texas were starting to get smart and make justice happen. How the government had turned bad and the cops and the courts were all bad. The only one to trust was yourself and your partner. You could be your own god.

     
Long before the first kill, their partnership was established.

     
Call me Killer
.

     
Trust my will
.

     
Know my discipline
.

     
Follow my path
.

     
With Randall, they had sealed their partnership in blood.

     
Kevin didn't pretend to understand everything Killer said. But he was learning quickly. Maybe he was even ready to do something big on his own. Only Killer wouldn't believe it until it was already a success.

     
A sigh escaped Kevin's lips. He wanted to prove his worth, he wanted to prove to the world that he could carry out a mission. Make Killer stand up and be proud. And he would. Damn right, he would! "Ptoow." He had a pretty good idea how to do it. "Ptoow!"

     
He thought about his plan for a minute. A shiver of anticipation—and what he would never admit was fear—ran up his spine. His thumb popped busily in and out of his mouth.

     
And he smiled. Yes . . . it would work out perfectly and whatnot.

M
ATT PULLED UP
in a parking slot outside the Law Enforcement Academy. As he got out of the car he heard the sharp, repeated ping of metal from the flagpole. Overhead, state and national flags were flapping in the hot wind.

     
"Matt."

     
He recognized Erin's voice before he saw her standing in the shade of a Cottonwood tree. Her hair was loose and tousled, her clothes were clean. She looked much more rested than the last time he'd seen her. He glanced around to see if anybody was watching—since her suspension it was a bad idea for her to be here. He strode across hot asphalt. As he got close, he could see her eyes were clear.

     
Matt kept his voice soft. "What are you doing here?"

     
"Waiting for you."

     
"You shouldn't—"

     
She frowned. "Just listen. I've got something on the Randall murder." She swallowed as if her throat hurt, and she licked bare lips. "One of my people told me there's going to be trouble tonight. Another kidnapping."

     
Matt frowned. Erin's "people" were her snitches. She had always maintained a solid snitch file—the bad guys trusted her. And so they should, because, as far as Matt knew, she'd never given away an informant

     
He said, "What's the deal?"

     
"You remember Manny Dunn?"

     
"Pedophile, got out of the joint a few months ago."

     
"Right. My guy says Manny's been in the market for kiddie porn, and he's making a buy tonight."

     
"Who's the supplier?"

     
"Kevin Chase and somebody he's working with." Erin shook her head. "Manny has no idea he's the next target. Number Three."

     
"Where's this deal supposed to go down?"

     
"La Bajada rest stop. Men's toilet."

     
An appropriate choice. Matt knew that several murders had taken place at the rest stop in the past few years. It was frequented by transients, gang-bangers, voyeurs, and eighteen-wheel truckers who'd pay any out-of-luck kid for sex.

     
He said, "Who's your source?"

     
Erin turned away in disgust. "Damn you, Matt. This is the last place I want to be today." She turned and began to walk to her car.

     
Matt stopped her gently with one hand. "Erin, I appreciate what you're doing. You know I've got to ask."

     
"And you know I've got to protect my sources. Just because I've been through some hard times, I don't plan on not being a cop." She shrugged. "Do whatever you want with this, I don't really care anymore."

B
ENJI
M
UÑOZ Y
C
ONCHA
squirmed on the hard bench outside Dr. Cray's penitentiary office. From where he sat he could see inmates' vacant faces. They were staring out at him from behind screened glass. They were locked inside tiny examination cells waiting for a visit from medical staff. There was a physician's assistant on duty today. Benji liked her because she was nice. But he wasn't here to see the nurse. In fact, he shouldn't be here at all. He had an emergency on his hands.

     
Ten paces down the hall, an inmate moaned and plastered one cheek to the small window. Benji could see whiskers on flattened skin and the dark circle beneath a walleye. He hardly noticed. He was thinking about Rosie Sanchez, and how he couldn't find her anywhere in the prison. If he didn't find Rosie—well, he didn't know any other way to get a message to Sylvia Strange. He had already tried to call her three times, but she wasn't home, and her answering machine didn't seem to work right.

     
A door opened across the hall. Dr. Cray peeked his head out. He stared down at a clipboard. "Benji Concha?"

     
"Muñoz y Concha," Benji murmured.

     
"I was told you're having another problem?" Dr. Cray's face was stern.

     
"No problem." Benji shook his head.

     
Dr. Cray frowned in consternation. "Don't stand out there in the hall, come inside."

     
"I don't need to come inside," Benji said.

     
"Inside, right now!"

     
Reluctantly, Benji passed over the threshold into the doctor's office. It was dingy, a blur of dull colors and fading tile, the office of bland men who came and went with the seasons.

     
Benji stood with his hands behind his back, and his fingers tripped over one another nervously. "I don't need to see you. I need to see Rosie Sanchez, but I can't find her."

     
"This morning you made a spectacle of yourself outside her office," Dr. Cray said. "You had to be restrained."

     
"I just needed to talk to her. Where is she?"

     
"Why don't you talk to me?"

     
Benji set his lips and shook his head.

     
"Is it one of your
visions?
" When he didn't get a response, Dr. Cray let out a great sigh of exasperation. Just three days ago Rosie Sanchez had lit into him like a bitch with a new litter, and apparently, Benji was her favorite pup.

     
Cray stiffened at the memory of the penitentiary investigator's stinging words—she'd called him ignorant and patronizing. She'd accused him of cultural insensitivity just because he suggested a light dose of Thorazine for Benji. Well, this inmate was pathological, not visionary, dammit.

     
Unconsciously Cray made a face. If anything, he was
too
culturally sensitive . . . that came from having a Polish grandmother and a French mother.
For God's sake, I know suffering, too
.

     
He tried for the severe but compassionate expression of a schoolmaster. "Benji, I'm sorry, but it's none of your business where Ms. Sanchez has gone."

     
"She wasn't here yesterday, either."

     
"I'll give her a message. How's that, Benji?"

     
Benji shook his head slowly and deliberately. And then he said what came to his mind. "Ms. Sanchez doesn't work here anymore."