Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2)

by Sarah Lovett

Sylvia stiffened. Hurt. And Matt's eyes were sad. Even in moonlight, she could see them clearly.

  He spoke slowly, in a very quiet voice. "You're wrong about Erin. She has real problems . . . but they're not what you think." He was silent for a moment while he waited for a man and his dog to pass out of earshot.

  Finally, Matt continued. "I'll trust you to keep this confidential. Erin's been in treatment for almost a year. With a psychiatrist in Albuquerque."

  Sylvia blurted it out: "Who does she see?"

  "Burt Webster." Matt bit his lip. He was ashamed of Sylvia's desperation, of her need to indict Erin for murder.

  "Shit . . ." Sylvia bent her head and groaned. She didn't like Burt Webster, but she knew he was damn good at his job. He deserved his reputation as one of the best in the business.

  Quietly, Matt said, "Your killer may be a woman, but it's not Erin Tulley."

  KEVIN FELT HER fingernails dig deep into his flesh as Killer rolled him over and straddled his belly. She had that smile on her face. He turned his head away.

  She whispered. "If you don't help me, I'll have to get someone else."

  Silence. He could keep his mouth shut and whatnot.

  "Don't I take care of you, Kevin?" Her voice had darkened, and now it held menace, made him shiver. "Look at me!"

  He looked. And whispered, "Yeah."

  "You're a murderer. You killed two men."

  "No, I didn't—"

  "You'll get the death penalty." She slapped his cheek, and he cried out. She said, "That's because you didn't listen. From the beginning you haven't trusted me. You haven't really surrendered yourself."

  Slowly—his eyes never leaving her face—he slid his thumb between his lips. After his fiasco on the monastery road, she had agreed to take him back on one condition—follow orders.

  And he'd done that. He left the car and its silent passenger near the motel. But even that wasn't enough.

  She moved her mouth close to his and whispered, "That's right, baby."

  The muscles in her short arms rippled. She was a medium-boned woman, but her body was lean and muscular.

  "Bad boy," she crooned, "you're my bad boy." She stroked his chest. "Why don't you do what Killer tells you to do, bad boy?" She raked her fingernails gently across his nipples. "Shouldn't Kevin be good?"

  As he sucked on his thumb, Kevin's eyes began to close; the whites of his eyeballs were visible under half-closed lids.

  His eyes shot open as she raised herself up on her haunches.

  He cried out, "No, don't—"

  "Don't what?"

  "Don't hurt me."

  "Don't hurt me what?"

  "Don't hurt me, Killer."

  "Don't hurt me, Killer, what?"

  "Don't hurt me, Killer, please."

  Her voice was sweet and slow, but poison. She crooned, "That's what you like, Kevin. You like it when I'm strict with you." With one hand, she grabbed the roll of duct tape that was on the table next to the sofa. She slapped the silver tape around his wrists, once, twice, three times.

  "It's time to be a man."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MATT ALMOST COLLIDED with Nathaniel Howzer as the judge stepped out of the offices of juvenile probation services at the Santa Fe Judicial Complex.

  "Watch yourself—"

  "Sorry, Judge."

  "Agent England." The frown evaporated from Howzer's countenance. His big hand clasped Matt's firmly, then his face clouded. "I heard about Sylvia's run-in with Kevin Chase. Is she recovering?" He stepped back to let a tall woman enter the probation offices.

  Matt nodded. Both men began walking down the long corridor toward Howzer's chambers and the main entrance to the courthouse. The building was just beginning to come to life, and bailiffs, lawyers, and clerks all had a sleepy look about them.

  Howzer said, "Are you here to testify in Judge Tafoya's court?"

  "Actually, I'm here to speak with you."

  The judge studied Matt for a moment, then nodded. "I see. I'm not due in my courtroom until eight forty-five." He glanced at his watch. "I can give you fifteen minutes."

  The two men entered the outer sanctum of Howzer's chambers. Ellie Gomez, the judge's secretary, greeted both men with a quizzical smile, then patted a stack of pink message slips.

  She said, "I'll hold your calls, Your Honor."

  "Thank you, Ellie." The judge continued past her desk to the door that led to his private chambers. Matt followed.

  Though the room was not large, it had wall-to-wall shelves to accommodate the judge's law books, and a spacious walnut desk was free of clutter. Healthy bougainvillea and lobelia plants added life to the room. A globe, beautifully crafted and brightly colored, had been placed on a stand beside the desk.

  For a moment Matt studied the judge. He had appeared in Nathaniel Howzer's courtroom countless times as a law enforcement witness in robbery, assault, and even capital murder cases.

  He didn't like the yellow tinge to the judge's complexion . . . or the dark circles under his eyes. There was a desperate spark in his light irises.

  The door opened and Ellie stepped into the office. She stood staring at Howzer. The judge sighed and nodded. "It's all right, Ellie. I'm going to deal with it."

  Elbe withdrew and closed the door quietly.

  Howzer said, "Ellie wants me to admit to you that I've received unpleasant communications."

  Matt eyed the other man; he wasn't surprised by the news, he was surprised by the admission. He said, "Why did you deny these—"

  "—notes."

  "Why did you deny these notes when we talked at your home?"

  "I thought I was doing the best thing."

  "For who? You've obstructed an investigation." Matt held out one hand. "May I see them now?"

  "I destroyed them."

  "Jesus, Nathan . . ." Matt shook his head. He took a few long breaths, then he pulled four photographs from his jacket pocket and placed them on the judge's desk. They were from the glossies Sylvia had found at the Roadrunner Motel—portraits of Dupont White and Jayne Gladstone as vulnerable, exploited children.

  When Nathaniel Howzer gazed down at the pictures, a sigh escaped his lips. Matt read the expression on the judge's face: relief.

  "Where did you get these?" Howzer asked softly. He extended a finger toward a photograph of Jayne Gladstone.

  Matt said, "From a motel on Cerrillos Road. I think Dupont White brought them to Santa Fe." He braced himself for a reaction, some protest from Howzer. There was none. He continued, "Dupont's body was discovered yesterday, near that same motel."

  The judge sat heavily in his leather chair. He reached out one arm and pushed at the globe. The colorful orb spun lazily with a soft shuing sound.

  For the first time, Matt noticed a large animal beside the desk: the judge's Doberman, Adobe. The old dog struggled to raise itself on its haunches. Howzer reached out a calming hand. The dog whimpered gently under his master's touch, then settled again on his pillow.

  Matt sat in a wide wooden chair opposite the judge. He placed one booted ankle over his knee, and he put both hands on his thighs. "You were Roland White's attorney in California?"

  The judge ran a thick-veined hand over Adobe's smooth coat. His expression was twisted with derision. "I was the keeper of the family secrets."

  Matt said, "Tell me about the Gentlemen's Club."

  Howzer nodded, but no new emotion showed on his face. He began to speak as if he were in the middle of a very long story. "Roland White never loved his wife—she was far below his station—but he married her for convenience. He wanted access to her young son, Dupont. . . and he wanted access to Jayne."

  "For this purpose?" Matt gestured to the photographs.

  "Yes."

  Matt knew that it wasn't uncommon for male pedophiles to marry women in order to get close to their children. The most extreme pedophiles could be calculating and radically patient predators; they would wait as long as necessary for their victim of choice.

&
nbsp; Howzer continued, "For many years, I had no idea what had gone on at the ranch." Beside the desk, the Doberman moaned softly in sleep. The judge looked down at his dog, then he closed his eyes. "I don't say that to exonerate myself. I have no claim to innocence. It's a simple statement of fact."

  "Were the children raped?"

  "They were used. . ." The judge swallowed with difficulty. "I believe they were molested, yes."

  "By Roland White?"

  "Yes."

  Matt leaned forward imperceptibly. "And by the other men?"

  The judge touched his fingertips together. "The Gentlemen's Club included wealthy men with connections and power. There were a dozen members, give or take. They all had their excesses. But I only know of one other who may have shared Roland White's sexual appetites."

  "Garret Ellington?"

  The judge's eyebrows shot high into his creased forehead. He nodded slowly.

  Matt shifted in the wooden chair and cleared his throat. The judge was implying that a right-wing presidential hopeful was a pedophile. Under his excitement, Matt felt the subsequent empty space—the next missing piece of the puzzle. It bothered him the way a missing tooth bothers a tongue.

  He said, "All those years ago, and no one ever found out about any of this? No one ever tried to put pressure on the club's members?"

  It was a slip of Howzer's body language that gave Matt his answer. Howzer was right-handed, and his dominant fingers contracted twice, unconsciously beckoning: Come on, come here.

  Both men sat in silence for a moment, then Matt followed through. "When did Fuller Lynch and his son, Cole, make the first blackmail demand?"

  "Two months ago; as soon as the story of Dupont's death and the Las Cruces debacle hit the media. But I have not been their primary target."

  "Garret Ellington?"

  The judge nodded slowly.

  Matt asked, "What did the Counselor use for leverage?"

  "I believe he had copies of these photographs. Fuller knew about the darkroom at the ranch. . . . I think he guessed long ago what was happening. As for true leverage, the Counselor plays a very good bluff."

  "Why did they wait so long?"

  Nathaniel Howzer frowned. "For years, Cole and Fuller were afraid of Dupont and what he would do if they acted on their own." He took a breath with effort. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. His color was now an unhealthy pink. "Dupont had grown into a paranoid killer. He didn't want his family secrets bartered and sold, and he had his own agenda."

  "Which was?"

  "True justice."

  Matt was unnerved by the desolation in Howzer's voice. He said, "Dupont White is dead, Nathan."

  "Oh, I know." The judge nodded, and his voice held irony. "Dupont's death gave Cole Lynch and his father the freedom to pursue another source of income." He stroked fingers over Adobe's soft ears. "But while he was alive, Dupont planned to give the feds something on Garret Ellington."

  "Did he have evidence to tie Ellington to these photographs?"

  "I gave him proof. He came to see me right before he went to Las Cruces. There was one photograph that incriminated Ellington. But when I heard Dupont had died in Las Cruces, I thought it was all over." Howzer shook his head in response to the criminal investigator's searching glance. "I never heard from Dupont again."

  Matt's self-control snapped. "Why the hell didn't you tell me this when I came to your house? Why did you destroy those notes? Weren't you going to do anything at all?" He pulled back and tried to interpret the expression on Nathaniel Howzer's face. He saw exhaustion and despair. Even so, he pushed the man further. He said, "Tell me about Jayne Gladstone."

  Now Nathaniel Howzer shut down completely, his eyes went flat, his mouth tightened into a frigid line. He said, "I can't do that because there is no Jayne Gladstone. She no longer exists."

  "That's not good enough." Matt shook his head, refusing to let it go.

  Howzer said, "I'm afraid I'm due in court."

  "You've covered up their secrets for fifteen years. It's all crashing down around you."

  The judge smiled. His voice was calm. "I tried to erase the damage done to innocent children. I tried to erase the perversion, the sickness. . . but I only encouraged new sickness. Events must follow a predetermined course. There is such a thing as fate."

  SYLVIA PULLED THE sheet over her head and groaned. Not only was she hungover, but she'd overslept. Not a good idea. If anything, she was more exhausted than ever. Her head ached, her body ached. Her mouth had a bad taste. She felt almost feverish. She rolled over in Matt's bed and lay still with her eyes closed.

  Although her mind was barely functional, she tried to review the events of the previous day—and night: with Matt, Albert, and Carlos at El Farol. She'd made a fool of herself.

  Matt was probably talking to Judge Howzer right this minute. Sylvia rolled over again and stretched her arms above her head. Her fingers touched the headboard.

  She wondered how Nathaniel Howzer had reacted to the photographs of the children. Not with shock. . . he knew about their existence, she was certain. She was also certain Howzer had not participated in any abuse. His sin was silence.

  Sylvia sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. Matt and Terry Osuna would probably question Jackie Madden again because she was their best lead to Kevin Chase. But hadn't Matt said something about business with Chaney? God, her mind was really foggy. Thoughts were slow to clarify, and her brain wasn't connecting details. Finally it came to her: Matt and Chaney were going to check out the source of the bad stakeout tip on Manny Dunn.

  She forced herself out of bed and into the kitchen to make a pot of strong coffee. Tom the cat greeted her with throaty demands for breakfast. She popped open a can of Mighty Dog that Matt had purchased by mistake. Tom didn't seem to mind.

  After two large cups of coffee and a dose of CNN, Sylvia's mind refused to stop working. Manically it sifted and sorted details. The lack of peace finally drove her into action.

  It was a day free of clients, so Sylvia had time to follow up a loose end that had nagged at her all morning. She didn't bother to shower. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and stole a pair of Matt's jockey briefs. They bunched between her thighs, but they were clean. She pulled on Levi's and one of her lover's large cotton shirts; her blouse had been ruined at the monastery.

  Then she switched on the handset of her cell phone and punched in the number for directory assistance in Albuquerque. Within sixty seconds she was dialing Burt Webster's office.

  She bit her lip and waited while the phone rang a half dozen times. Only six days ago, Marty "the Bagman" Connor had bandied Burt Webster's name around Café Escalera. Webster was lobbying for the state's forensic contract. Webster was a schmuck, but he could accurately predict violent behavior. He had also served as national president of the American Psychological Association, he had been extensively published, and he testified in courtrooms all over the country.

  Sylvia needed something from him; one bit of information.

  A woman with a South American accent finally answered the phone.

  Sylvia gave her name and asked to speak with Burt Webster.

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Webster is busy."

  "Is he with a client?"

  The woman sounded offended by the question. "I can't say."

  Sylvia told a lie: "He's expecting this call."

  There was a small silence, but the woman did not hang up the phone. She was debating which way to go. Finally, she gave in, grudgingly. "Hold, please."

  Sylvia lay back on Matt's couch. The minutes ticked by. Tom jumped up on her stomach and dug his claws into her skin. She thought, You have a way with women, cat. And just then, she heard an arrogant voice.

  "Sylvia Strange. What's up?"

  "Burt. I'll jump right in; I need to know if someone is not your client." She realized she was ignoring professional and social protocol. She was doing this all wrong. Patient confidentiality demanded that a therapist not reveal anything about his or her
patients—including identity—unless the circumstances were life-threatening.

  Burt Webster cleared his throat. "Sylvia, when I receive written permission from my client—whoever that might be—to share information with you, then I will be willing to do so."

  "I know the protocol. This is an emergency."

  Webster sighed. "This must be connected to Kevin Chase. My sympathy goes out to you, Sylvia. But all inexperienced psychologists get burned once or twice in forensic practice."

  She said, "The individual is Erin Tulley. Has she ever been in treatment with you?"

  "Sylvia, please, I can't give you that information."

  Quickly, clearly, Sylvia recited the number of her cell phone. She said, "If the answer is negative, all you have to do is call me and say, 'No.'"

  As she clicked off her phone, Tom the cat jumped off her lap and stalked from the room in a huff.

  TINY TAPIA'S WORK detail identification tag had a laminated color photograph—just like the tag of each of the other seven inmates headed out to pick up trash along the Old Las Vegas Highway. Correctional Officer Suzanne Dillon, a recent graduate of the Corrections Academy, had supervised a work detail only twice in her life. In contrast, C.O. Abel Dietz knew his way around the system and the inmates. He had forty extra dollars in his pocket—and the promise of more installments. He was always willing to do a low-risk favor for a hardworking inmate.

  Normally, two veteran officers took out the crew—today was an exception. C.O. Dillon didn't notice anything odd about inmate Tapia. But had she thought much about it, she would have realized that inmate Tapia had become much more handsome, a decade younger, and a good six inches taller than normal.

  Benji Muñoz y Concha kept his eyes down as he and the other members of the work detail boarded the inmate-transport van. Supplies on this detail were minimal: rakes, plastic trash bags, and orange hazard vests. Benji settled into a seat in the rear of the van. No one else made eye contact with him—they didn't want anything to do with "Tiny Tapia's" new look. Then again, they weren't going to snitch.

  Both correctional officers rode up front, and they bitched about eighty-hour weeks and low pay during the entire twenty-minute ride. Benji sympathized, but he had his own problems.