Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (8 page)

     
Sylvia said, "That's not my decision. You both know, as part of the contractual agreements Kevin made with the courts, his probation officer is notified when he misses a session. I spoke with Frankie Reyes yesterday afternoon when Kevin didn't show up. This may affect his probation. That's all I can tell you."

     
"But he did call—" Jackie Madden cut her protest short and nodded her resignation. "I'll wait for him in the lobby."

     
When Sylvia was seated across from Kevin again, he said, "What did
she
want?"

     
"Jackie's concerned that your probation will be revoked. I don't know what your probation officer will decide, but you and I may need to process that possibility."

     
"I got here, didn't I?"

     
"No bullshit, Kevin." Sylvia's dark eyes flashed. "You're facing prison time. Is that getting through to your brain?"

     
"Yes, ma'am."

     
He was a well-fed calf. Moderately intelligent, an emotional runt, passive-aggressive. When he talked, his hands moved constantly, drawing pictures in the air. When he was silent, his fingers still fluttered, drummed, or curled into fists. A scar ran from his left elbow to his wrist; he said it was a memento of a motorcycle accident. His shoulder-length reddish hair was neatly layered and framed round features. Translucent blue eyes peered restlessly from a pink face marred by adolescent acne.

     
For an uncomfortable moment, an inner voice warned Sylvia she was missing signals. But unless Kevin Chase was an obvious danger to himself or someone else, Sylvia's job was to present the facts to Probation and Parole.

     
Kevin blurted out, "I just wanted to say it, you know, I'm sorry for missing and whatnot." Although he curled his lips into a smile, he did not relax his grip on the arms of the oversize chair. "What was I supposed to do?"

     
"Get here."

     
"Oh."

     
Ten minutes before the hour
. It was time to end the session.

     
In the outer office, she watched as Jackie Madden ushered Kevin Chase toward the stairs. She was struck by their odd symbiotic connection.

     
When Sylvia was alone, she dialed Matt at the Department of Public Safety. The phone rang six times before someone answered. She didn't recognize the voice: "Matt's out, but try his pager."

     
Sylvia scanned the appointment book. Her afternoon was clear; she had already canceled a three-hour evaluation session. Her five o'clock client had canceled himself the previous afternoon when he was arrested on a parole violation.

     
She made the only intelligent decision: get out of the office and call Matt from her house. She notified her service that she had closed shop for the day. A stack of papers—psych tests that she needed to score—went into her briefcase, along with a paperback of Patrick O'Brian's
Desolation Island
, the fifth volume in a series she enjoyed for its heroes—a scrungy naturalist and a lusty sea captain.

     
She locked the office door and took the stairs of the Forensic Evaluation Unit two at a time. The courtyard of the Diego Building was filled with apricot trees, thick green cornstalks, cosmos in rainbow colors, and petunias. Water gurgled from a stone Spanish-style fountain in the courtyard's center, then flowed through narrow
acequias
, water channels, that fed the garden. The soft sound was refreshing. A quick breeze stirred the residual tang of smoke, which mingled with the Russian olive tree's scent like that of fresh-cut lemons.

     
In the office parking lot, Sylvia ran her index finger along the Volvo's trunk. When she examined her hand, the tip of the dusty finger showed a perfectly defined print, an accidental whorl pattern. Ash from the Jemez fire had coated the city, and everything glowed with a faint orange hue. Sylvia rubbed thumb against finger just as a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder. She spun around. It took her a moment to recognize the F.B.I. agent's familiar features.

M
ATT SENT THE
Cock 'n' Bull's lady bartender a sleepy—and he hoped halfway sexy—smile. The Pojoaque watering hole was a down and dirty party spot for drug dealers, bikers, and your everyday working stiffs. The bartender looked like she could hoist her Harley overhead, one-handed. In contrast to her strapping body, she had a delicate, heart-shaped face.

     
She reminded Matt of a bartender he'd known in Enid, Oklahoma, when he was a sheriff. More than twenty years ago. He kept his voice soft. "So Kiki . . . that's a pretty name. Kiki. What about yesterday?"

     
Kiki lit a hand-rolled cigarette and inhaled so deep that the smoke went all the way to her toes. She washed down the nicotine with a shot of Black Jack. "I wasn't here. Got a day off for once." Her sweet mouth pulled into a smile. She set down the almost empty shot—but not the cigarette—and picked up a damp rag with her free hand. She began to wipe down the rough pine bar with a steady stroke.

     
Matt thought about the stark contrast—this bar and the home of Flora Escudero and her family. He'd visited the Escudero residence on his way to the bar. Criminal Agent Terry Osuna had been there, too. They'd both had a long talk with Flora's mother and older brother. Their home was small, meticulously and lovingly kept, and filled with objects that symbolized their faith in God: paintings and statues of the Madonna, Jesus on the cross, and various saints; an ornate, leather-bound Bible.

     
But it wasn't the religious effects that convinced the investigators that Flora's immediate family was not involved in Randall's murder. It was the fact that they had spent the night in a hospital waiting room while Flora Escudero had aspirin and Valium pumped from her stomach after a suicide attempt. Matt's heart went out to the girl and her family.

     
Still, there were probably a hundred Escuderos who were more or less related to Flora's family, and they did not all have alibis to cover the hours of Randall's kidnapping and murder. Terry Osuna and Matt were both convinced the crime was one of revenge that could be traced back to
la familia
.

     
Now Matt leaned closer, nosing the bar with his cowboy boots. "You ever take your bike out by Little Peaks?" He kept his breath shallow. The sour stink of rubber bar mats and margarita mix was close to lethal.

     
"Yeah." This time Kiki's smile was shy. "You?"

     
He nodded. "My buddy's got a three-fifty trail bike and I put her through her paces."

     
Kiki gave up on wiping the bar. She raised a soda gun in her right hand. "You want something? Pepsi? Seven-Up? A beer?"

     
"I'll take one of your smokes." He'd been able to lay off cigarettes a few years ago, but the inevitable replacement was a tin of Copenhagen. He was trying to break the habit. In a pinch, he still smoked the odd cigarette. Like now.

     
Kiki shrugged, secretly pleased, and went to work with a little American Spirit shag and a rolling paper. When she sealed the cigarette by moistening the paper with her tongue, Matt said a silent prayer that her shots were in order. He slid the cigarette between his lips as Kiki struck a match. She held out the flame, and Matt sucked in smoke.

     
Kiki drained the last of the Black Jack from her shot glass. "I liked him."

     
"Randall?"

     
She nodded. "Nobody else did. But we were friends, kinda. And I know he didn't rape that girl. He wasn't all bad like people say." Her hands pressed down on the bar. "I don't like cops."

     
"Who does?" Matt tried a smile.

     
"You guys have given me some rough times."

     
"I'm sorry about that, Kiki." Matt pushed his tongue against one cheek.

     
"But Robbie says you're different.''

     
"Robbie's an okay guy." Robert Wiggits, owner of the Cock 'n' Bull, biker, speed freak. Occasional snitch. For some reason—which probably had something to do with Robbie's bisexual preferences—he'd taken a shine to Matt.

     
"So. . ." Kiki picked up the bottle of Black Jack, tipped it until the metal pour spout clicked glass, and reached a decision when the gold liquid formed a soft dome at the top of the shot glass. "Yesterday, I wasn't here when Anthony came in." Her expression darkened. "I wish I had been. He'd still be alive."

     
Matt watched the bartender closely. Some twist of her delicate mouth made him question her true feelings about Randall's death. Matt thought that maybe this large, rough woman had fallen for the man's pretty face and sociopathic charm, but now, the reality was starting to sink in about Anthony Randall.

     
Or perhaps something more ominous was going on, something she wasn't talking about.

     
Suddenly, Kiki yelled out, "Hey, Shoshone!" The shrill sound pierced Matt's ears.

     
A few seconds later, another full-size Anglo woman—hair dyed black, late thirties—stuck her face between the saloon's swinging doors.

     
Shoshone said, "What?" Then she stomped into the bar, kicking off a parade: two guys followed—one sporting worn Levi's, a faded T-shirt, work boots, and a billcap, the other in manure-spatted cowboy boots and duds.

     
Matt thought they looked like they were buzzed on meth.

     
Kiki set up beers for her friends. She told Matt, "These guys were here. They saw Anthony Randall, the whole thing."

     
Matt's heartbeat revved as he stubbed out the last of Kiki's cigarette. He leaned casually against the bar. "Anybody see who he was with?"

     
Shoshone had a rumbling voice, a deep bass. "He was looking for Kiki so I poured him a shot of tequila."

     
Matt said, "You were a friend of his?"

     
"That little shit?"

     
Matt saw a sulking Kiki ease down to the end of the bar, where she began to roll another smoke. He said, "It must've been really busy in here."

     
Shoshone stuck a finger into her mouth, and retrieved a wad of gum. "I know what Randall looked like. And I saw him yesterday."

     
Matt believed that much was true.

     
Billcap sniffed and wiped his nose. "I remember him, too, and he sat back by the pool table. A guy sat down with him—a black dude."

     
"No way." Cowboy shook his head. "He sat over by the toilet. Him and a tiny Mexican chick—"

     
Billcap shrugged, then chugged his beer.

     
For an instant Matt's excitement level plummeted. These guys weren't going to tell him squat about Randall. Not if they could help it. They talked like Randall was drinking with a shape-shifter.

     
But Matt's curiosity was piqued. Why all the bullshit? Just for his benefit? Just to mess with a cop?

     
Shoshone growled in Matt's face: "I remember the guy Anthony Randall was drinking with. Tight body, you know? Guy was buff. But he was kinda short."

     
She turned and chopped a hand halfway down Billcap's back to indicate height, or, more accurately, lack of height. "And I hate short guys. Short guys got—" Shoshone held up her little finger. Billcap and Cowboy snorted derisively.

     
Shoshone took a slow pull on her beer. "This short guy had eyes like Charlie."

     
"Charlie?"

     
"Manson." She leaned close to Matt until he felt her breath like a small, hot wind. "I thought Manson was cool. I mean he was crazy and weird, but he had a philosophy. About war and society and shit. These days, nobody's got a philosophy."

     
Kiki moved back along the bar until she was standing opposite Matt. She caught his eye, and emotions scuttled across her features. Anger, shame, disgust.

     
Shoshone was caught up by her own words. She said, "Manson, he controlled those Manson girls . . . he willed them to kill. How many people you know have that much will?"

     
Billcap looked suddenly worried. He mumbled, "It was all the acid they took."

     
Shoshone shook her black hair. She smiled slyly. "I think Anthony Randall's killer has that Charlie Manson kind of will. Better watch out, Mr. Cop."

"Y
OU SCARED ME
, Dan!" Sylvia took in the familiar features of Special Agent Dan Chaney. He was an old law enforcement buddy of Matt's. Broad, muscular, and gray-blond—normally she would describe him as handsome. Not today. Today, he was hollow-eyed and haggard.

     
She said, "Are you all right?" Then her brain caught up with her mouth. "I was so sorry to hear about Nina, Dan. I know she was a good friend."

     
Special Agent Nina Valdez had been Dan Chaney's lover for more than a year. It had been one of those secret affairs that everyone seemed to know about—everyone except Chaney's wife and his supervisors. The F.B.I. morals code of conduct was so strict that agents were subject to discipline for extramarital affairs.

     
Now, she tried to pull together recent details: Nina Valdez had been dead for almost two months—killed in Las Cruces. She, Dan Chaney, and other F.B.I. and D.E.A. agents had closed in on suspects just as an arms deal was going down. When the suspect warehouse exploded, Nina went with it.

     
The media had christened the incident "Blowout at Las Cruces."

     
Sylvia reconsidered the man standing next to her: Dan Chaney looked just the way a burned-out federal agent burdened by grief should look.