Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2)

by Sarah Lovett

  And then, in an instant, flames exploded from the prisoner's gasoline-soaked belly, chest, face.

  Sylvia put her hand to her mouth, but she couldn't take her eyes from the burning man—not even when the camera pulled in for a blurry close-up. The body became alive and breathing with flames. Chaney leaned forward on the bed.

  Abruptly, the camera pulled back, refocused on a pair of black combat boots, panned up the legs of the killer.

  Sylvia knew this must be Dupont White.

  He was wearing army fatigues. He had his back to the viewer. A dark ponytail spilled over his broad shoulders.

  As he turned toward the camera, Sylvia realized she was holding her breath. Her lungs hurt, she was aware of sharp pain along her ribs.

  His face is smeared with mud or paint. Black pigment circled the whites of his eyes and spread up over his broad forehead. Dark stripes had been smudged along his cheeks. His thick, flat lips—smeared with black—pulled into a grin.

  Like the face of her attacker.

  He was arrogant, grandiose, a dark pagan god.

  Chaney froze the image.

  Sylvia felt numb with fear. She forced herself to speak. "If he's alive, if he's doing this, the authorities—"

  "I am the authorities," Chaney said tersely. "My superiors didn't believe me, and they won't believe you."

  Her fear exploded into anger, and she bolted up from the bed. "That's not good enough! You bring me here to tell me this crazy s.o.b. broke into Matt's trailer after he murdered Anthony Randall? You're telling me I was kicked by a dead man? If you really believe your story, let's talk to Matt, and then we'll go back to the F.B.I. and we'll deal with this in a sane way."

  "It's too late for that."

  "Well, come on, dammit." She was angry and she was scared. It was bad to think that Chaney might be on the run, paranoid, obsessed with a dead man. It was worse to think he might be telling the truth.

  Chaney wiped sweat from his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot. The stubble of his beard shaded the lower half of his face. He shoved a thick manila file folder into Sylvia's hands. "Read this if you want to know more about Dupont White."

  Sylvia stared down at the folder.

  Chaney's voice dropped to a whisper. "Everyone Dupont touches turns up crazy or dead. Violet Miller—his girlfriend—ended up in a California hospital for the criminally insane. His partner—a killer named Cole Lynch—he's at the pen."

  Sylvia shook her head. "Why would Dupont be after me?"

  "You'll have to answer that one—you're the shrink. But my guess is he doesn't like your clients."

  Chaney grasped Sylvia's hand, and he steered her across the room. When they reached the door, he said, "I brought you here to scare you, to warn you, Sylvia. We tracked Dupont to Santa Fe right before he came to Las Cruces for the deal at the warehouse. He was here—now he's back. He's alive. I hope to God you listen to me."

  Her voice was soft when she asked, "What about you, Dan? Do you need money, a place to stay? You need help."

  "Me?" Chaney stared at her vacantly. "I'm going to find the sonofabitch, and I'm going to kill him."

  Sylvia felt his eyes on her back as she retraced her steps down the motel hall.

  In a daze, she pulled out into traffic on Cerrillos Road. Her car radio was on, playing an old Righteous Brothers tune, but she did not hear the words. She couldn't shake the images of Dan Chaney or Dupont White.

  Five blocks beyond the Rode Inn, she turned into the parking lot of a paint store. An old man driving a fat Pontiac swerved to avoid a collision with her Volvo. She didn't see the other driver's fist raised in anger because she was already dialing Matt's pager on her cell phone. She entered her own number and hung up immediately.

  Within minutes her phone rang.

  "Hey, what's up?"

  Sylvia heard voices in the background. "Where are you?"

  "Waiting for a green-chile burrito at Baja Taco. Should I order a couple for you?"

  "I need to talk to you. I just spent an hour with Dan Chaney. He told me some really crazy things about Randall's murder and that Las Cruces warehouse blowout—"

  "Whoa. Slow down. Where did you see him?"

  "At the Rode Inn. I left him in his room, but I don't feel good about it. I think he needs help. I think he's gone AWOL."

  She believed she knew what Matt would be thinking about his old friend. An F.B.I. agent gone over the line was an F.B.I. agent without a country. The Bureau would be tracking Dan Chaney down. And when they found him, his career would be dead.

  Matt said, "Meet me there, in the motel parking lot. Don't try to go back to Dan's room. Don't spook him. I can be there in five minutes. I have to hear this from him."

  Sylvia hung up the phone and drove back to the motel. She had barely turned off the Volvo's ignition when Matt pulled the Caprice into the next parking space.

  Quickly, Sylvia led Matt back up the metal steps of the motel's side entrance. When they reached Chaney's room, the door was ajar.

  Matt knocked once and pushed open the door. "Dan? It's Matt."

  No answer. There was no one in the room. Except for some trash and the odor of fear, all traces of Dan Chaney were gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "JITA, LET ME get this straight. Dan Chaney thinks you should talk to Cole Lynch because then maybe you'll believe this Dupont White is alive?" Rosie Sanchez caught her lower lip between very even teeth and raised her eyebrows.

  "Dan Chaney didn't tell me to meet with anybody. I made the decision to see Cole Lynch because he was Dupont White's partner."

  "So you show up on my office doorstep. Well, I wish you'd give me warning, an hour or two, at least. You know what Fridays are like." Rosie clucked in gentle admonition. "Does Matthew know you're doing this?" In electric-blue high heels, the penitentiary investigator still managed to move briskly along the gravel path that fronted the dog runs at the penitentiary kennel.

  Sylvia followed, shortening her stride to match pace with her friend. She said, "Matt won't talk to anybody until he tracks down Chaney. He's left messages on Dan's voice mail in Las Cruces. And Chaney's acting hypervigilant, so you can bet he'll check that machine to see who's calling." A German shepherd growled as Sylvia passed by.

  The canine unit at the Penitentiary of New Mexico consisted of a small cinder-block building bordered by a kennel. In contrast to the functionally contained kennel space, the surrounding flatlands had a plain grace. The short grasses gained softness with distance. The almost invisible slope and dip of the land reminded Sylvia of a grassy sea. Reluctantly, she brought her attention back to the kennel.

  Each of twelve runs was defined by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence. Dobermans, shepherds, and rottweilers paced their cages. A hundred-pound rotty wagged his stubby tail and pressed his wet muzzle against metal when Rosie murmured, "Hi there, Maxwell."

  Sylvia found her gaze drawn to a fawn-colored shepherd in the farthest run. The dog had keen brown eyes, sleek fur, and a lean body.

  "A Belgian Malinois," Rosie explained. "Her name's Nikki; she's in training. She's going to be a sniffer for drugs, contraband. Maybe."

  Sylvia said, "Maybe?"

  "Nikki's on probation. Pobrecita, she can't keep her mind on her job. Not everyone's cut out to work at the pen." Rosie led the way toward the run. When they were several yards short of the Malinois, she stopped. For a moment Sylvia stood by Rosie's side; then she advanced two more feet. Nikki growled.

  Rosie said, "You should know the other inmates call Cole Lynch the Counselor. He lives in North's law library. He's our best jailhouse lawyer."

  Without turning her head, Sylvia focused her eyes on her friend. "Isn't the Counselor in for murder?"

  "It was almost murder. He beat a Hell's Angel just shy of death; part of a business deal." Rosie's milk-and-coffee skin gleamed under the summer sun. With one hand she shielded her dark eyes from the glare. The heat felt unnatural, foreign to New Mexico's high desert. "You really believe Dan Chaney is
AWOL?"

  "He's acting that way."

  Rosie's eyebrows arched again. "He gave an excellent speech two years ago at the New Mexico Correctional Association Conference. Wasn't he good friends with that murdered agent, Nina Valdez?"

  Sylvia's skin was damp with sweat. She pushed up her sunglasses until they rested again in the small of her nose. "He was in love with her."

  "Poor Dan. I met his wife, Lorraine, at the conference."

  "Poor Lorraine."

  The Malinois began to pace the six-by-nine run. Every few seconds she'd stop, set all four paws like table legs, and stare at Sylvia. When her canine attention broke—and she could no longer stand her ground—she'd bolt again.

  Sylvia whispered, "Keep your focus, Nikki."

  The Malinois growled.

  Rosie said, "You think Chaney might be right that Dupont White is alive?"

  A single, abrupt bark escaped from Nikki when Sylvia turned to face her friend. The stale, hot air made her feel short of breath. "No. I think Dan Chaney's acting like a conspiracy nut."

  Rosie studied Sylvia critically. She saw a woman who was strung too tight—that much contained energy had to explode somewhere down the line.

  Sylvia closed her eyes, suddenly aware of the pain along her ribs. "But I can't just ignore his warning."

  "If Dan Chaney's right, then maybe Benji saw Dupont White out at Dark Canyon."

  Sylvia tried to picture her attacker. In her mind's eye, his image had merged with Dupont White's painted face as it had looked on the video.

  She jumped sharply and covered her ears when Nikki barked. The shrill sound echoed off concrete. Then she squatted down and rested her elbows on her thighs. This time, she faced the dog like a beta dog in the pack hierarchy—eyes downcast.

  Rosie said, "What do you think you can learn from the Counselor?"

  "Maybe he'll start screaming and come apart at the seams when I mention Dupont's name." Sylvia kept a straight face and shrugged. "Rosita, what are we doing at the kennel?"

  "We're waiting for somebody I need to see."

  Sylvia shifted her feet; her knees were beginning to ache. Although a low growl was audible at intervals, the Malinois had stopped pacing. "This dog likes me."

  "She loves you to death." Rosie frowned.

  Still crouched, Sylvia scooted forward toward the shepherd while Rosie watched an off-white sedan raise a cloud of dust along the gravel road. At the far end of the kennel the car pulled smoothly to a stop and a man climbed out. Rosie waved and then returned her attention to Sylvia.

  "You've got to do something for me."

  "Anything, scout's honor," Sylvia said. She inched forward, and the dog growled.

  "I've known you for twenty years, jita. You were a delinquent, never a scout." She glanced at her watch, then at Sylvia. Finally, she couldn't contain her exasperation. "Why don't you leave the poor dog alone?"

  "What's the favor?" Sylvia could feel the Malinois's breath tickle her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw teeth, gold fur tipped with black, and liquid brown eyes.

  "Don't tell anyone we were out here."

  Sylvia turned to stare at Rosie, and she caught sight of Colonel José Gonzales approaching the runs. Gonzales had worked at the penitentiary for more than twenty years, and he was part of New Mexico's old-line corrections network that was based on family connections and nepotism. Wardens came and went, but the network stayed put like a rock foundation. Why was Rosie being so secretive about a meeting with the colonel?

  Sylvia frowned. "You know I won't say a word." Then she made a mistake; she let her gaze slide over the Malinois's face. For an instant, dog and woman locked eyes.

  The Malinois let out a ferocious snarl, her lips pulled back from serrated teeth, and she lunged forward; the cage vibrated from the force of impact.

  Sylvia heard the snap as the dog's jaws closed on metal. Saliva flecked her arms and face. Her heartbeat accelerated to a flat-out run; adrenaline followed the rush. There was a single smear of the dog's blood on chain metal.

  Sylvia stood and her knees trembled. "She likes me."

  "Jita, they don't know how to like." Rosie shook her head. "Too much prey drive."

  SYLVIA WAITED BESIDE Rosie's Camaro while, fifty feet away, the penitentiary investigator talked to Colonel Gonzales. Her curiosity was piqued, but Rosie had been unusually reticent. Gonzales hovered protectively, un-able to hide the fact that he was totally enamored of Rosie; she patted his arm in a friendly way, but there was tension in her posture. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't good news.

  Waves of heat rose from the Camaro's shiny candy-apple roof. Sylvia positioned herself under the stingy shade of a lone poplar. She thought about the night she had spent with Matt at her house. They'd both been keyed up. Neither of them had slept. Now, her eyes ached from dry heat, smoke, and fatigue. And the wound along her rib itched like hell. Maybe she should stop by First Care on her way home—pick up a supply of antibiotic ointment. Maybe she should get an AIDS test. Maybe I'm turning into a hypochondriac.

  But she wasn't ready to believe a dead man had attacked her in the trailer.

  Matt had agreed with her skepticism: "Dupont White died two months ago. Whoever did this isn't some goddamn serial killer. These are angry locals, these are vigilantes."

  "What about Chaney?"

  Matt had pulled a beer from a six-pack and slammed the refrigerator door. "From your description, I think he's seriously over the edge."

  Still, Matt had insisted on reading the file on Dupont White that Sylvia had taken from Chaney's motel room; a picture began to appear.

  Thomas Dupontier White, a.k.a. Dupont White, was a heterosexual male born in Santa Barbara, California, in 1970. His adoptive father, Roland White, now deceased, had been heir to the Smith & White manufacturing fortune. Dupont's mother, Roland's second wife, had been employed as a secretary at the company offices when she met her future husband. Her marriage had been opportune, both financially and socially. It had lasted thirteen years, until Roland White was killed in an unsolved hit-and-run accident. Dupont was sixteen at the time of his adoptive father's death.

  At age eighteen, against his mother's wishes, Dupont entered the Los Angeles Police Academy. Almost instantly, White encountered problems with authority. A psych evaluation—part of a recommendation to expel—labeled White as an antisocial personality with sadistic tendencies.

  Although Dupont's dream of a law enforcement career had been crushed, his criminal career began to flourish. He trafficked in illegal firearms—and Cole Lynch worked as his partner. Their interstate dealings ranged over Idaho, Texas, California, Oregon, and Nevada. It would make sense for Dupont to have a jacket the length of a novella. But after 1994, the official entries stopped dead. No mention of vigilante murders. No mention that Dupont burned his victims alive. On paper, the man vanished.

  Sylvia was startled to see Rosie standing next to her. For a moment she marveled at her friend's tenacity. Only five feet two on tiptoe. She is hell in high heels.

  Rosie raised an eyebrow at Sylvia. "What are you staring at? Let's go find the Counselor, Mr. Cole Lynch." She navigated the Camaro along the dirt road that skirted the penitentiary's security perimeter. They passed a white sedan on perimeter patrol, and the C.O. in the vehicle raised a hand.

  "How did your meeting go with Colonel Gonzales?" Sylvia asked too nonchalantly.

  "He told me the warden wants me fired."

  "What? Why?" Sylvia jerked around in the seat "Why?"

  "He wants a man in my job. He wants a college grad. One of his own kind." Rosie raised a placating hand. "That's all I know at the moment. This is a big secret, and José risked his job by telling me."

  Sylvia sank down in her seat and caught her thumbnail between two teeth. "If they try anything, we're going to sue." Her sunglasses slipped down her nose and she pushed them back.

  "We?"

  "I won't let you go through a lawsuit alone. Does Ray know about this?" Over the
past few years, Sylvia had become good friends with Rosie's husband. He was a warm and loving man who adored his wife and their teenage son, Tomás.

  "Ray would be happy if I just quit. You know he wants me out of the prison." The Camaro's windows were open, and Rosie let her elbow rest on the lip of the door. Warm, dry wind swallowed the sound of radio chatter.

  Rosie nosed the Camaro to forty-five m.p.h. as they approached the Corrections Academy, where a new class of officers was currently in training. A ragtag group of men and women attempted push-ups out on the field. Heat undulated from their bodies.

  Minutes later the penitentiary's main facility was directly ahead: dull gray, institutional, lifeless. With fingertips on the wheel, Rosie eased right at the fork and continued past Main Facility, where her office was located on the second floor.

  Cole Lynch, the Counselor, was housed at South Facility, medium security, three minutes away. But they would find him at North—the maximum-security facility—on the job.

  ROSIE SANCHEZ TAPPED on the reinforced glass window that topped the door to the law library. Inside, the inmate looked up from a stack of legal texts he was organizing. He had the ridged forehead of a Neanderthal man and a hook nose, his dark hair hung in short ringlets, his eyes were almost hidden beneath thick brows. Recognition soothed his wild features; he stood slowly, walked to the door, and opened it a crack.

  "Ms. Sanchez. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Cole Lynch's voice had the clipped, concise syllables, the theatrical enunciation, of a practiced attorney. He was clearly pleased to see Rosie Sanchez.

  "Could you spare us a minute, Counselor?"

  Cole Lynch, a.k.a. the Counselor, was custodian of North's law library; he was also a self-taught paralegal who helped inmates in disciplinary seg when they needed to file an appeal or write a brief.

  Usually, the Counselor supervised three separate and secure study cells, each occupied by an inmate, each a spoke off the hub of the compact reference library. This was where men who routinely spent twenty-three hours a day in lockdown could work on getting out. Legally. At the moment, the study cells were unoccupied.