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

     
Sylvia raised an eyebrow and caught the compact smile on Tony Klavin's lips; it was his way of saying,
You done good
.

     
The prosecutor, Jack O'Dell, prepared to launch a last-ditch assault. He didn't have the slick good looks of his opponent, but he cultivated an earnest, professorial demeanor. He was a man who, when the time came, would welcome the addition of white strands to his dark brown hair because distinguished gray would be an asset with a jury.

     
At the moment, O'Dell wore the grim expression of a man who knew he was beaten. Today's decision on the motion to suppress would be based on the fact that law enforcement had
coerced
a confession from a guilty defendant. The prosecutor had considered the variables—public outcry over crooks going free on a "technicality," the weight given a cop's recanted testimony, the odds of ever making it to trial without a confession. He moved heavily, almost sluggishly, from his chair.

     
As O'Dell scanned his notes, a rangy man wearing a tan jacket and cowboy boots entered the courtroom and stood by the door. Sylvia barely glanced at State Police Criminal Agent Matt England before she returned her attention to Jack O'Dell. She'd worked for the prosecutor on other cases, and she knew from the look in his eyes that he had sensed her enmity for Randall.

     
She waited for him to ask one more question:
Will Anthony Randall rape again?

Yes
.

     
Her answer wouldn't change the decision, but it would be a public indictment of Anthony Randall.

     
But it was Judge Howzer who spoke, and his voice wavered with emotion. "Mr. O'Dell, what does the government have to say in closing?"

     
The prosecutor dropped all pretense as he said, "You know, Your Honor, if you suppress this confession, this is all we've got."

     
Judge Howzer took a labored breath. "I am all too well aware of that."

     
Tony Klavin bolted forward. "Your Honor, we have clearly demonstrated that the defendant was incapable of making a legally valid confession. Without this bogus confession, the state has no evidence to implicate Anthony Randall—"

     
Howzer snapped, "Enough, Mr. Klavin." The judge's skin had an unhealthy yellow cast and it drooped from his square jaw; he looked like a man melting from heat and disappointment. He said, "Motion to suppress the confession is granted."

     
The courtroom came alive with the hum of voices expressing protest, shock, grief. Howzer was forced to wield his gavel. He gave a weary nod to Sylvia to release her from the court.

     
Sylvia stepped down from the witness stand. As she passed the defense table, Anthony Randall drew his lips into a smile. Light glinted from the diamond stud that he wore in his right earlobe. He whispered, "Thank you."

     
She couldn't wait to get out of the courtroom. As she strode past the reporters and the small group of spectators, a woman in the gallery sprang to her feet. Angie Escudero had been lovely before her daughter's assault. Now, her naturally soft features were twisted with rage. Her skin was blotched and shadowed. Her eyes burned dark furious holes in her face.

     
She pushed away the restraining arms of her husband and son. In a terrible voice she hissed at Sylvia, "You're a bad woman. He hurt my Flora, and
you
let him go."

CHAPTER TWO

S
YLVIA FOUND
C
RIMINAL
Agent Matt England waiting just outside the courtroom door. She shook her head—frustrated, angry, unable to speak. She wanted to be far away from the accusations and the suffering that surrounded this failure of justice. She walked straight for the double glass doors at the end of the long hall. Matt matched her stride.

     
"What happened in there?" he demanded in a low voice.

     
"Randall's going to walk because of Erin Tulley."

     
Like every cop in the county, Matt had already heard about Tulley's turnaround minutes after she began recanting her testimony; the courthouse had been swarming with cops and at least one of her supervisors, all ready to get in some digs. It burned him too when somebody in the ranks screwed up. He took it personally. Tulley had been a good cop—top of her class at the academy; idealistic and smart. She should have come clean three months ago about Randall. Come clean or shut up—he could have lived with that, too. But not this last-minute spin that set a rapist free.

     
Matt clenched his jaw. Tulley had been more than a friend.

     
Behind them the courtroom door flew open. Sylvia heard keening—it could only be Flora's mother—and then someone called out: "Dr. Strange!" When she turned, she felt the hot lights on her face before she saw two reporters and their minicams.

     
She gripped Matt's arm so hard her fingernails cut into his skin. "Get me the hell out of here."

     
They passed the security guard, and Matt pushed open the doors of the Santa Fe Judicial Complex.

     
Outside, the air reeked of rotting apricots and smoke. The fifth of July had produced record-breaking temperatures, continuing the trend of the previous three months. The mountains surrounding Santa Fe were besieged by forest fires—already more than twenty thousand acres had been destroyed.

     
A dry wind swept Sylvia's shoulder-length hair from her face. The sun's glare was blinding. She pulled sunglasses from her briefcase and took the steps two at a time.

     
"Dr. Strange! How do you feel about today's hearing?" At least one reporter was going to rate a "P" for persistence.

     
Matt pressed the car key into Sylvia's palm and nudged her forward with a command: "Get in."

     
His unmarked Caprice was directly in front of her, blocking entry to the lot, illegally parked as usual. Grateful for the chance to escape more questions, she used the key, yanked open the passenger door, climbed inside, and reset the lock. The interior was still slightly cool and quiet—an island of tranquillity.

     
She saw Matt pivot suddenly. The reporter—a gawky man with a hawkish nose—backpedaled to avoid a collision with the big cop.

     
Matt loomed over the reporter. His grin was standard issue for the criminally insane. His voice was an ominously pleasant baritone when he said, "Hey, McPeavey, why don't you get yourself a day job? I hear they're hiring the handicapped at Lotta Burger."

     
McPeavey fired back, "They'll be happy to have you on staff, Matt."

     
Matt jogged around to the driver's side and hitched a farewell finger at McPeavey. "Just remember to wash your hands before you handle the meat."

     
He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed so close to McPeavey that the reporter stumbled on the steps.

     
Sylvia groaned, shook her head, then laughed as Matt guided the Caprice onto Grant Avenue. "You're crazy."

     
"Don't go all technical on me, Doc." He glanced at the woman sitting beside him as they pulled up to a stop sign. She was slumped against the seat, but she wasn't relaxed. Her opaque brown eyes gave her away; they were focused too intently on a fire truck as it inched across the intersection. The rumble of the truck's engine made speech impossible for fifteen seconds.

     
She picked at a loose thread on the hem of her skirt. If she tugged in the wrong spot, the entire seam would unravel, but she couldn't keep her fingers still.

     
Matt turned left onto Catron Street and said, "You better stop appearing as witness for the defense."

     
"Then tell the prosecution to give me a call." Her skin had lost its usual olive warmth, her lower lip was trapped between slightly crooked front teeth.

     
When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. "Flora Escudero's mother stood up in court and blamed me for letting Randall walk."

     
"She should be blaming Erin Tulley and the case investigators."

     
The words were meant to soothe, but Sylvia heard something else in her lover's voice. She stared at him. "Don't tell me you think she's right. You think I'm responsible?"

     
He caught the dangerous glint in her eyes, and he knew it was too late to convince her that her instincts about him were off base. A part of him couldn't stomach the fact that she had anything to do with a scumbag like Anthony Randall.

     
He said, "I don't always understand your career choice."

     
"Is this the I-work-like-hell-to-put-them-away-and-you-let-them-off speech?" They were on opposite sides of the fence when it came to professional issues. That wouldn't change. His job was enforcement and control; hers was evaluation and treatment. They'd had their share of fights, but so far they'd managed to avoid a showdown. They agreed on one crucial point: the protection of the public had priority.

     
Matt's voice was soft. "No. Not that speech."

     
"Good." Sylvia brushed an unruly strand of dark hair from her face and tried to shift internal gears. But she felt overwhelmed by the constraints of her professional identity. She shrugged off her jacket, pulled her blouse loose from her skirt, and stripped off damp pantyhose. Then she dug her fingers into her hair and brushed it into wild disarray.

     
She was edgy, volatile. And right now she was wired. Matt knew that. But there were times when she let her guard down, when she let go, and a different woman emerged. A vulnerable woman. She kept him off balance.

     
She asked, "Where are we going?"

     
He glanced at her. "I thought you said the Zia for lunch."

     
"Did I?" She tucked her legs under her butt and touched his shoulder gently. "Let's go back to your place instead."

     
"Hey, I'm happy to take advantage of your mood swings." His delivery was deadpan, but one arched eyebrow gave him away.

     
"Or we could fuck in the car." She turned and stared out at a school playground. It was empty except for two teenage boys perched on tires that swung beneath a large cottonwood. The air was hazy with smoke and dust and gave the scene a soft-filter quality like a Hallmark memory, trading nostalgia for gritty reality. While Sylvia watched, the smaller boy eased himself back, his knees hooked over rubber, and hung upside down. His hair brushed dirt and weeds. Both boys grinned.

     
"Will somebody keep an eye on Randall?" Sylvia's voice was suddenly harsh.

     
"Yeah . . . but when we get too close, his lawyer's going to scream harassment."

     
"Somebody better ride Randall's ass."

     
"Hey, relax." Matt reached across the seat with his right hand and touched her bare knee. He could smell the soft scent of her perfume intensified by heat. His eye caught the curve of one breast, visible where the fabric of her blouse puckered between buttons.

     
Sylvia smiled. "Hey, yourself." She glanced at her watch and groaned.

     
"What?"

     
"I've got a session in forty-five minutes. With Kevin the Terrible." She didn't usually talk about her clients with Matt, but he knew about this particular case. He had made the initial arrest that resulted in probation and court-ordered counseling.

     
Matt nodded. "Kevin Chase. Lucky you."

     
They were approaching Guadalupe Street, and Sylvia pointed like a kid. "I can't go back to work without my chile fix."

     
Muttering under his breath, Matt cut the wheel to the left, and the Caprice swerved across the curb into the parking lot of Bert's Burger Bowl. It was a fifties-style takeout stand where locals had been ordering chile-cheeseburgers for forty years.

     
Before the car rolled to a complete standstill, Sylvia was out the door.

     
Matt followed her past a cherry 1960 Buick filled with teenagers. At eleven-thirty, the lunch rush had barely begun; only a handful of customers waited inside Bert's. When the order was ready, Matt carried out iced tea and burgers wrapped in wax paper. Tin umbrellas provided tiny islands of shade for the tables. Sparrows patrolled concrete surfaces for crumbs. One bird hopped across the table where Sylvia waited.

     
She tore off some bun for the sparrow and then she took a bite of burger. Matt watched her eat. He saw a striking woman. Her bone structure was all angles, almost too sharp. Her brown eyes were wide set. Her lips were full, lipstick worn away, mouth fixed now around a thick green-chile cheeseburger.

     
He asked the question that had been on his mind. "Why did you agree to evaluate Randall?"

     
She set the burger on the paper plate and wiped mustard from her chin. Her gaze was unflinchingly direct. She said, "He was accused of false imprisonment, criminal sexual penetration, attempted murder. Stacked, those felonies carry a maximum stretch of fifty years. If the prosecution had requested the evaluation, the results would have been the same—the outcome was inevitable. Bottom line, the man had the right to a competent psychological evaluation."

     
Matt nodded slowly. "That didn't have to be you. There are other shrinks out there." His expression went dark, suddenly unreadable. "You've handled more than your share of creeps lately. Why didn't you just let this one go?"

     
She tipped her head; her look said,
You're out of line
.