Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1)

by Sarah Lovett

  Gonzales led the way to the C.O.s' lounge ,where he let a quarter clang into a bright-blue vending machine. He whisked out the package of white powdered doughnuts and retraced his tracks down the hall. As he tossed the doughnuts into the air and caught them again, he said, "These are a goodwill offering. Bubba loves his doughnuts. And now he loves you, too."

  They took the hall that led past Administration's control center. Behind the glass, Rosie saw an unfamiliar face staring up at six closed-circuit television screens. In the background, the bright green-and-yellow screen of the computer looked like a baseball diamond on a child's video game. Rosie knew the image would flash an alert if there was any penetration of North Facility's chief barrier.

  Colonel Gonzales passed the base of the guard tower and unlocked the door that opened out to North's largest yard. The door was made of unmarred steel, replaced immediately after the riot.

  Cold stung Rosie's nose and mouth. In the northwestern sky, sullen clouds loitered over the Jemez Mountain Range. She wondered if the temperature could have dropped several degrees in the few minutes she'd been inside North. The door clanged shut behind her. Colonel Gonzales stood by her side, his hands in his pockets. They surveyed the yard in silence.

  There was little change since Rosie's last visit before Christmas. Some debris had been cleared from the area near the bleachers, but the yard was unused. Housing unit one faced this yard—the only H.U. in North that was currently functional. Thirty-eight maximum security prisoners had been moved here and remained under twenty-three-hour lockdown. Other state facilities had been reluctant to accept the worst of the bad.

  Without a word, Gonzales strode across the dried grass and dirt to the asphalt walkway skirting Town Center—law library, chapel, education center, and visitor's center—and the gym. He still gripped the doughnuts in his hand, presenting an absurd picture, Rosie thought. Again, Gonzales used his keys to unlock the door. When Rosie stepped into the gym, her skin tightened in the frigid air.

  "No heat yet," Gonzales muttered.

  "It feels like a freezer," Rosie said. It took her eyes several minutes to adjust to the dim interior. "I trust we have a reason for staying in here."

  Colonel Gonzales nodded. After a beat, Rosie realized he was acknowledging a presence. Bubba Akins. The huge man sat casually on a bench, staring back at them with a faint smile on his round face.

  "Bubba preferred an informal meeting," Colonel Gonzales said. He tossed the packet of doughnuts into the air and Bubba caught them without moving anything but two fingers and a thumb.

  "Get the bull out of here," Bubba said.

  "McKevitt?" The colonel raised his voice and sent it out into the gloom. Another shape materialized, this time a guard standing about ten feet behind Bubba. "You can leave us alone for five minutes."

  They waited until C.O. McKevitt closed the door quietly, and then Bubba ripped open cellophane and bit deeply into sugar. As he ate, he made the slushy sounds of hogs at the trough. He grinned up at Rosie and stuffed the last doughnut between thick wet lips. Pink skin was peeling from his nose and there were pronounced bruises shading his cheek, eye, and forehead.

  "Bobby Jack been treated worse than 'n animal." Bubba spoke so low that Rosie leaned forward in an effort to hear. "Since that riot, been nothin' but shi' for my family." He smiled politely at Colonel Gonzales and nodded his head. "Thank you, Colonel, for the refreshmen'."

  Rosie kept plenty of space between herself and Bubba. He loomed larger than she remembered, but his face looked battered and his eyes projected a dull weariness.

  Rosie said, "So what are we going to discuss?"

  Bubba shook his head and his skull swung slowly on the axis of his thick neck. "Un. I ain't discussin' to nobody. I'm doin' my studies in the library."

  Colonel Gonzales spoke easily. "Bubba's got some big complaints, and he's filing with the court pro se."

  "Tha's right. Defend myself this time."

  "What complaints?" Rosie asked.

  The big man waved his fleshy hand in dismissal. "Abou' my personal comfort and safety . . . but don' need to go into it now. I'll send you a copy fo' sure."

  Rosie exchanged a fleeting glance with Gonzales and let out her breath. "What do you want, Bubba?"

  Bubba raised his eyebrows and shook his head as if excusing Rosie's lack of social graces. "An exchange."

  "What for what?"

  "I wan' out of hea'."

  Rosie scoffed. "I can't get you paroled."

  "I didn't say parole. I jus' want to enjoy a different environmen'. I want Bobby Jack to enjoy somethin' different, too." He paused and rubbed a finger against the darkest part of his bruised face. "Texas, mebbe. Or Tennessee."

  "Why?"

  " 'Cause I kinda figured I'd like to live to be thirty- three."

  Rosie said, "It's a nice age."

  Bubba cut her off with an explosion of sharps and flats that passed for laughter. "My friends ain't gonna wait for the birthday party. We havin' a disagreement—payback time. They take care of me like tha'." Bubba snapped his fingers with a final sound. "Like they almost take care of Bobby."

  Rosie waited, watching his eyes, the canny gleaming dots. "Who did it?"

  "Right. You want to play or not?"

  "If the game's right. . ."

  "Cut me a deal."

  Rosie's eyes narrowed. "What is it you've got to trade?" She held her breath waiting for the answer.

  Bubba grinned as if Rosie were a hundred-pound bass dangling at the end of his hook. He worked up to words with several wheezing breaths. "You still lookin' for the jacka'?" He nodded. "Yeah, I see you are."

  "He's alive, isn't he? Did he do Bobby Jack?"

  "We got us a deal yet?"

  Rosie tipped her head. She could see the toes of Colonel Gonzales's shoes, boot black and streaks of dust. The shoes moved.

  "I think I better find C.O. McKevitt. He's been gone so long he probably got lost somewhere." The door opened briefly and a thin arm of sunlight reached in only to be severed when the door slammed shut.

  "Well?" Bubba leaned on the syllable, denting it in three places.

  "We have a deal."

  Bubba strained forward on the bench, and for a moment Rosie feared he might be coming at her, but he was only shifting his weight. "I got your word of honor as a lady." His tone was only half ironic.

  "You've got it."

  "And Bobby Jack?" Bubba's voice was barely audible.

  "And Bobby Jack."

  Bubba seemed to study his belly for several seconds, then he ran a meaty palm along the side of his neck.

  Rosie couldn't wait for the fat man to speak. "So which of the guys who cut Bobby Jack is the jackal?" Bubba shook his head. "None."

  "Bubba, I need to know who did the cutting. We have a deal."

  "The deal is I tell you who's the jacka.' The jacka' jus' happen to be in the right place to pick himself up another piece of meat."

  Rosie asked, "Why would he take an arm?" Her voice was a whisper.

  "Maybe he thinks he's Doc Frankenstein . . ." Bubba said. He scratched his chin, and white sugar dust rose in the air. "After the riot, you sure you matched up all those arms and legs?"

  Rosie's eyes widened and she swallowed carefully. She remembered the scene from the movie where the mad scientist applied electric currents to his creation—smoke, lightning, and then the monster's eyes opened.

  She ran a quick mental inventory: right hand, right pinkie, left arm, penis, nose . . . She was startled by the sound of Bubba's laughter; she could see his face turning red.

  "You look like you believe me," Bubba said when he caught his breath.

  Rosie lifted her chin. "You said the jackal had a job to kill someone."

  "Yeah, I said that. Mebbe you talk to Anderson."

  "Anderson?" Rosie scanned a mental file of inmates—several Andersons came to mind.

  "Correctional Officer Anderson." Bubba grinned. "He might help you find Doc Frankenstein before the monster
comes a callin' on you."

  "Who is the jackal?"

  "Charl' Co. My lie. That's where you'll find you a jacka'." His eyes disappeared behind fatty flaps of skin. "I can't say no more," he murmured hoarsely.

  It took her a minute, but Rosie got it. My Lai. Vietnam.

  "An" when you find that jacka'—give Bobby Jack his arm back."

  "YOU'RE TOO LATE." Criminal Agent Terry Osuna thunked her fist on the roof of Matt England's Chevy Caprice. She leaned into his open window and plunked both elbows on the frame. "Captain Rocha and I just spent thirty stimulating minutes with Senator Watson." Osuna fluttered her eyelashes. She was standing on the sidewalk in front of the four-story Schumacher Building where Duke Watson maintained his Santa Fe offices. Matt's Caprice was parked in a loading zone.

  Osuna said, "Basically we got zip. He says Billy's out of town with friends, but he doesn't know their names. He says he'll give us his utmost cooperation. He says Burnett didn't have an enemy in the world." This time she rolled her eyes and she reminded Matt of Betty Boop.

  He said, "Didn't your mother ever tell you you'd go cross-eyed?" He pulled a tin of Copenhagen tobacco off the dash and popped the lid. "I had a talk with an old friend, a renowned Albuquerque P.I. who shall remain nameless. When the legislature's in session, he's been known to work as an analyst. His hobby is watching politicos screw each other from behind."

  Matt sifted tobacco between his fingers and packed a wad into his mouth. "The buzz is that some members of the party think Duke may be a little hot to handle right now. They say good riddance to one son, but hello, he's got another one. One top of that, his lawyer got whacked." Matt climbed out of the Chevy and locked the door. "So I thought I'd stop by to cuss and discuss."

  "Rocha isn't going to like the idea of you going after Duke alone." Osuna started to walk away, then she flashed him a smile. "But I do."

  The offices in the Schumacher Building were arranged off short and thickly carpeted corridors; footfalls were prohibited. Breathing a little too heavily from the three-floor walk up, England scanned the doors on the third floor of the west wing. Number 306 was stained mahogany as were all the others. A tasteful gold plaque with black lettering and a longhorn logo had been attached at eye level: Duke Land and Cattle Co.

  The door was unlocked and Matt entered. He was greeted immediately by a very efficient and very pert woman seated behind a desk. "May I help you?"

  The entire wall behind her chair was lined with books. The spines ran in color series; red on the middle shelf, olive green on the top shelf, and so on. A healthy habanero plant bearing tiny, bright red chiles decorated a low table where the magazines were fanned across glass. Two comfortable chairs, now empty, were there to oblige visitors.

  Matt showed his badge, and she reached out a thin arm and gripped it between even thinner fingers while she studied it for several moments. When she was satisfied, she gave a quick nod and a smile and said, "You're here to speak with Senator Watson, but he has just stepped out for lunch."

  Before Matt actually heard the door open, he turned and found himself four feet from Duke Watson.

  "It's all right, Mary."

  Matt repressed the urge to butt heads, lock horns, and settle the long-running score like a pair of rutting rams. Instead, he stayed within "butting" range and watched as Duke decided which approach he would take. The senator's subtle emotional transitions rolled over his face like fruit on a slot machine. Three lemons lined up and Duke scowled. The politician regained control almost immediately.

  "Agent . . . England, isn't it?" He glanced at his watch. "I just finished speaking with your superior, Captain Rocha, and your associate, Agent Osuna."

  Matt nodded. "I'd like a few more minutes of your time, Senator."

  Duke Watson sighed, raised both palms in a gesture of surrender. He said, "Mary, please let me know when Mr. Cane arrives."

  Mary said, "Yes, Senator." The look she gave Matt England was a blend of reproach and flirtatiousness.

  Inside his private office, Duke Watson motioned to Matt to take a seat while he closed the door.

  Matt chose a fat leather armchair.

  Duke dropped into the chair behind his desk and his face darkened with contained emotion. "Herb Burnett's death was shocking. It makes me sick . . . and very, very angry."

  Matt nodded slowly. "Burnett outlined a letter the night he died."

  Silence.

  "Burnett mentioned you." Matt thought the smell of aftershave in the room had intensified. He said, "Herb also referred to someone named Jeff. Do you know who he meant?"

  "Not offhand. If you want to make a copy of the letter available to my office, I would appreciate it, Agent England." He started to rise. "Is there anything else?"

  Matt said, "Yes," and Duke sat back down. "You know we want to visit with Billy about Burnett's murder." "I already told Captain Rocha—"

  Matt interrupted him. "I've got another case I'd like to discuss with Billy." He crossed his legs and settled deeper into the chair. "Do you know a man by the name of Gideon?"

  Duke shook his head impatiently.

  "He was a tattoo artist. Pretty good . . . did almost anything you'd want: roses, tigers, swastikas, well-endowed ladies, Virgins. In fact, he did a tattoo of the Virgin for your son, Lucas. Very special." His tongue poked against his gums. "But he won't be doing any more tattoos because he was murdered a few days ago."

  "What has this got to do with me?"

  "Did your boys used to get their teeth taken care of by Dr. Ortiz, Henry Ortiz, the dentist?"

  "I knew Henry."

  "Ah, then you know he's been murdered also." Matt's face hardened. "And so was his wife Myra. Both shot in the head." He let out a breath and made a show of relaxing. "You know, this job gets to me sometimes."

  "Why don't you retire?"

  "Henry Ortiz was retired. Did your boys have lots of cavities?"

  "Henry Ortiz was our family dentist for many years. I read about his death. It's awful, but Santa Fe has changed. You know that . . . we used to have no crime at all. Now . . ."

  "Do you own a Colt .45, Army-issue pistol? Senator?" Matt lifted his gaze to a polished steel sword mounted on the wall directly above and behind Duke's head. Its bone hilt was carved with a formal Asian motif. It looked like a Japanese military or ritual sword, perhaps a trophy from the Second World War.

  "Why the fuck do you want to know?" There was a long silence while Duke Watson took a breath and reminded himself he was a politician. He leaned back in his chair and set the tips of his fingers together. "I had one years ago. I'm sorry to say it was stolen."

  "That's a shame."

  "Yes, it is. The Colt belonged to my father. He fought in the Pacific."

  "I've heard through the vine that you've got a Lee- Enfield .303. I'd like to see your collection someday."

  The intercom buzzed and Duke Watson was on it immediately. "Yes, Mary."

  Mary's scratchy voice was audible: "Mr. Cane is here."

  "Tell him I'll be right out." Duke Watson stood and adjusted his broad shoulders inside a tweed jacket. "I hope that I've been helpful, Agent England."

  "No, not yet." Matt stayed in his seat. "Tell me about Blue Mountain Business Park."

  There was no question about it, the senator's mouth twitched.

  Matt said, "You bought that land in 1983 as a partner with Henry Ortiz. I wondered if it's been a good investment."

  Duke Watson focused on a spot behind England's head. "Your time is up."

  Matt stood and moved two steps closer to Duke Watson. He topped him by four inches. "People around you keep dying, Senator. You know, if I were you, I wouldn't destroy an innocent woman's career."

  The senator's blue eyes seemed to flare for an instant. Matt closed the door gently as he left the private office.

  He crossed the room and Mary gave him a warm smile. He nodded to a mousy man he assumed was Mr. Cane. As his fingers were about to close around the doorknob, the door to the hall flew o
pen, and a white male with red hair and freckles squeezed past him and into the room.

  The man said, "Is he in, Mary? I just need a minute—"

  "I'm sorry, but he has a luncheon appointment, Jeff." The secretary sounded like a demure bouncer.

  Matt thought about the red-headed male named Jeff as he walked to his car. Inside the Caprice, he turned on the engine and sat. He hadn't intended to get on the subject of Sylvia Strange; his own outburst had taken him by surprise.

  After only a few minutes, Jeff left the Schumacher Building. He got into a hot-red 1995 Mustang and drove away.

  The Mustang had a New Mexico plate, and Matt caught it in his rearview mirror as the Mustang disappeared down the street: HOTSHOT.

  He smiled, pulled the Caprice out into traffic, and managed a U-turn. While he drove down Guadalupe Street, he kept a leisurely distance between Caprice and Mustang. He called in the plate number and looked longingly at Bert's Burger Bowl as he drove past the tiny stand with its outdoor umbrellas.

  He kept thinking about a green chile burger with all the works while the dispatcher ran the MVD check: the hotshot was one Jeffrey Hookman Anderson, D.O.B. 6-21-66. No outstanding moving violations, two outstanding parking tickets.

  Jeff Anderson. Now he had the name; the face jogged into place. Anderson was employed as a correctional officer at the penitentiary. Nice wheels for a guy who earns $17,000 a year. He would talk to Rosie. Then it would be interesting to keep an eye on hotshot for a few days.

  A FAMILY OF fat, black ravens squawked from the trees as Sylvia and Jaspar crossed the Santa Fe Plaza late that afternoon. Even though the temperature had dropped to twenty-eight degrees during the past thirty minutes, a guitarist still strummed folk songs with stiff fingers, and plenty of tourists and locals strolled the streets or huddled on public benches. Three large buses sent toxic fumes into the air as they unloaded exhausted-looking skiers.

  "Banana or chocolate?" Jaspar asked. He had Rocko on the end of a leash and he was being pulled toward the Plaza Bakery.

  "Chocolate," Sylvia said. They had come from another dog obedience class, and the stop for frozen yogurt was a spur-of-the-moment treat. "But don't tell on me."