Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (31 page)

     
"Sure." He ran his fingers along her cheek and sighed. "But sometimes you've got to roll with the punches." His voice softened to a whisper. "You don't work for the Department of Corrections anymore,
jita
. Maybe it's time to face that fact."

     
Rosie pulled herself up from the feathery tangle of sheets. She wasn't angry that he wanted her off the job. For years he'd put up with the hours, the worry, and the stress that came with a job at the penitentiary. She was grateful for his patience, and for his love. Ultimately, he would go along with her decision to reclaim her position as penitentiary investigator, even if he didn't like her choice of job. And Rosie knew that Sylvia would support her all the way through the legal system.

     
She said, "I'm going to take this to the courts if I have to; Sylvia's going to talk to Juanita Martinez."

     
Ray shook his head cautiously. Martinez was a lawyer with a reputation for busting balls—actually, pulverizing
cojones
. He said, "Lawsuits and lawyers and dirty politics—we're not kids anymore."

     
Rosie held her hand to her chin. Against her olive skin, her maraschino nails shone with a hard gleam. "You think it's a midlife crisis? You think I want my job back so I can prove I'm not getting old?"

     
"You
are
getting old. So am I,
jita bonita
. Let the young people do the dangerous work." Ray batted at the rumpled sheets impatiently.

     
Rosie covered Ray's lips with her hand. "Tomás is young. You want a boy like our son in my job?" She spoke her son's name with the accent on the second syllable; his name was a worry bead collected from her grandfather, who spoke only Spanish and refused to embrace the Anglo world. "I think my age, my experience, gives me value, an expertise that a kid in a three-piece suit doesn't have, no matter what fancy college he graduates from." For a moment, anger sharpened her eyes and flushed her cheeks.

     
Ray put his arm around Rosie. He pulled her gently to his body and hugged her. His heart turned over with helpless longing. Here was someone he loved completely.

     
In her ear he whispered what he felt.

     
Rosie raised her mouth to his. A shaft of milky light washed over their bodies as they fell into the familiar refuge of each other.

M
ATT
STOOD
IN
the hallway of the Department of Public Safety's basement and listened to the
tap-tap-tap
of computer keyboards. Through the closest doorway he saw three women seated in front of computer monitors. They were entering data into the N.C.I.C. system from recent crimes and arrests.

     
As if she sensed his presence, Jackie Madden turned to stare at Matt. She looked the way she always looked—very neat and well dressed. Her pale, freckled skin was flushed, and her sandy reddish hair framed her face with baby-soft waves. She didn't look like a woman who was guardian of a fugitive wanted for murder and—most recently—assault. Matt nodded to Jackie and approached her workstation. Calmly she returned her attention to her computer screen and her hands tripped over white keys.

     
He touched her shoulder lightly because, like the other word processors, she was wearing a headphone. He said, "Jackie?"

     
Now her hands slowed to a stop. She removed the headset without looking up. Her voice was almost inaudible over the continued tapping of keys. She said, "Is Sylvia all right?"

     
One of the other processors—a petite woman with a long black braid—glanced up curiously from her work.

     
Matt said, "She's doing fine. Can we go somewhere and talk for a few minutes?"

     
Jackie Madden stood and followed him out into the empty hall. She waited with her arms held stiffly at her sides, and distress flashed across her face. Matt ushered her into an empty kitchenette where employees took their coffee breaks.

     
He spoke softly. "The longer he's out there, the worse it gets. Where is he, Jackie?"

     
"I don't know. I haven't talked to him since they found Jesse Montoya's body. . . ." Her voice faded away. Her eyes focused on anything but Matt.

     
"Who were his friends? Who was he involved with?"

     
"I already told Terry Osuna, I don't
know
." She shook her head in frustration. "He wasn't that social. I mean, he hung out with someone in Pojoaque sometimes. But I never knew who it was. A woman, I think."

     
Matt hadn't been present when Jackie Madden was interviewed by Criminal Agent Terry Osuna, but he'd talked to Osuna after the fact. Jackie Madden had been a dead end when it came to Kevin's friends. Now, she was suddenly coming up with a place, a person.

     
He asked, "What made you think it was a woman?"

     
"I guess, the way he kept her a secret from me."

     
"Do you believe Kevin was involved in a sexual relationship?" Matt thought about the information Sylvia had relayed to him right after Jesse Montoya's murder: Kevin Chase had tried to hide chafe marks on his wrists.

     
"Why do you people keep asking me the same questions over and over? Can't you leave me alone?" Tears spilled from Jackie Madden's eyes. She brushed them away when a coworker, the woman with the dark braid, passed by the kitchenette and disappeared down the hall.

     
Jackie set her shoulders. "I thought he'd come back to me. . . I thought he'd tell me there was some mistake . . . there must be some mistake. Kevin can't be a murderer." She was crying softly. When she met Matt's gaze, she said, "Please go away. Just go away."

     
As Matt walked down the hall, he wondered why Jackie Madden had ever taken on the responsibility of Kevin Chase. He would be a burden for anyone. Certainly for a young woman who seemed to be without connections. But perhaps that explained it—Kevin was Jackie's
family
.

     
He turned the corner, and an arm extended out the doorway of the women's bathroom, and a tiny hand tapped him gingerly. The processor with the braid.

     
Her voice was faint, and he had to lower his head to hear her words. She said, "I think maybe I know why Kevin Chase would want to kill one of them."

     
Matt nodded encouragement.

     
"To kill a rapist." The woman pursed her lips in distaste after uttering the last word. "This is secret, but. . . Jackie told us she was raped . . . a couple of years ago. She never reported it, but Kevin knew." She lifted her chin and gazed at Matt.

     
He said, "Jackie Madden told you she was raped?"

     
The tiny woman looked embarrassed. "Well, no . . . not exactly, but I heard her talking to Kevin once on the phone. Don't tell on me, okay?"

     
As Matt left the D.P.S. building, he considered the best way to follow up on this new information. But right now, he had something that took priority.

     
He cruised across Cerrillos, past Villa Linda Mall, to Rodeo Road. Although he hit every red light along the route, it only took him minutes to reach Erin Tulley's home.

     
"Did your conscience get the best of you?" Erin Tulley stood in her doorway, arms crossed, and she allowed Matt a half smile. But when she saw the anger on his face, her smile faded.

     
She spoke quickly. "What's wrong?"

     
"You tell me." Matt pushed his way past her into the house. He crossed the living room and entered a hallway. He thrust the bathroom door open with one hand. The small room was spotless, the air was hot and close from a recent shower.

     
Erin had followed him down the hall, and she confronted him. "Who the hell are you looking for, Matt? I'm alone."

     
He continued a few more feet to the bedroom at the end of the hall. The room was a mess, bed unmade, clothes strewn everywhere.

     
Erin grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from the doorway. She slammed the door and stood in front of it. "Do you think I've got another lover hidden away?"

     
"That's not my business anymore."

     
She set her hands on her hips. "I don't fall in love easily, Matt."

     
He shook his head impatiently. "I don't want to play games with you. Did you set me up?"

     
Suddenly she understood what he was asking. Her expression softened. She said, "Something went wrong with the Manny Dunn stakeout."

     
Matt was standing in the center of the hallway, feet planted. "Erin, I need to know who your snitch is." In the silence that followed his words, Matt heard the low hum of the swamp cooler.

     
Erin made up her mind. "Kiki Moore, at the Cock 'n' Bull."

     
Matt didn't hide his surprise. Kiki. The bartender he'd questioned last week about Anthony Randall's kidnapping and murder. The bartender who lived in Pojoaque. Just thirty minutes ago, Jackie Madden had mentioned that Kevin might be involved with a woman in Pojoaque.

     
Matt nodded brusquely to Erin and turned to leave. But she stopped him. She said, "That's it? You're just going to walk out?"

     
He glanced at his watch: ten-forty. "I'm going to the Cock 'n' Bull."

     
"You think I lied to you?"

     
"I don't know." For the first time since Matt had arrived at the house, he really looked at Erin. Her light brown hair was pulled back from her face and fastened with a turquoise clip. Her skin was still pale, but she had brushed a light coating of blush on her cheeks. Her lips were tinted with lipstick. She smelled of honeysuckle. Her Levi's looked freshly washed, and her cotton shirt had been pressed. He thought then how little he knew her, even though they'd been lovers.

     
She read his mind. She said, "It's impossible for you to trust me, isn't it?"

     
He didn't answer. And her voice was so soft, he barely heard her speak again. She said, "You're wrong about this."

     
Suddenly he doubted himself. Why did he have to blame Erin? Maybe Kevin Chase had set them all up. Or maybe the snitch was bad.

     
Matt felt something slipping away. But he couldn't quite let go of his anger—or his blame.

     
Erin walked past him into the foyer and held open the front door. As he stepped out, she was silent.

     
Sunlight hit him square in the eye; for a moment he was blinded. He heard Erin's voice clearly. "Please don't come back again."

     
And with that, she closed the door gently.

S
YLVIA
WALKED
THROUGH
her office door at a few minutes before eleven, and she knew instantly that she'd made a mistake. She should have driven straight from the monastery to her home.

     
Marjorie was frantically waving her bangled arm in the air. The receptionist had the phone handset pressed to her ear—she clamped one palm over the mouthpiece and whispered, "I think it's one of your clients, but I didn't get his name. He sounds bad. Line one."

     
Inside her office, she picked up the phone. "This is Sylvia Strange."

     
"Dr. Strange, I'm really sorry. . . ."

     
"Who is this?" Before she finished speaking she was at the door, signaling Marjorie to join her in the office. Then she moved back to her desk, found pencil and pad, and sank down into the chair.

     
He said, "I took some pills."

     
"What kind of pills?" Sylvia tried to keep her voice slow and steady while she scribbled words on the notepad. Marjorie stared down at the message: "Call Matt, tell him I've got Dupont White on the phone!"

     
"Are you there, Doctor? You care about me, don't you? You're still the Killers' Doctor. . . ."

     
Sylvia said, "I'm here." She watched Marjorie dart from the room. "How many pills did you take?"

     
"You know who this is, don't you?"

     
"Dupont."

     
"Call me Killer." His voice died to a whisper. "I don't think we'll have to go through this again, Dr. Strange."

     
"Where are you?" She didn't know what Dupont was up to, but she was damn sure he hadn't overdosed on pills.

     
He said, "Cerrillos. . . motel. . . the bird."

     
Sylvia tried to remember the names of the motels on Cerrillos Road. She grabbed the phone book from under her desk and flipped to motels. "Are you at the Thunderbird?"

     
"No. . ."

     
Marjorie was back, waving the handset, motioning a thumbs-up. Sylvia nodded to the receptionist and spoke into her own phone. "The Roadrunner?"

     
"The Roadrunner. . ." Killer was fading out.

     
"What's your room number?"

     
"Seven."

     
Outside Sylvia's office, Marjorie was whispering the information to Matt at D.P.S.

     
Sylvia said, "I'll be there. I'm going to send a paramedic team—"

     
Click
. Killer was gone.

M
ATT'S
C
APRICE
AND
a state police unit were parked a hundred yards south of the Roadrunner Motel on Cerrillos Road. Sylvia saw the two empty vehicles, cut across traffic, and guided the Volvo into the adjacent used-car lot. She slammed the door and strode toward the motel. She wasn't sure what to expect—a
SWAT
team, another murdered sex offender, a police barricade—but no one stopped her progress.