Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (11 page)

Yellow eyes stared back at him. An old man was propped up in a wheelchair; a tube protruded from a hole in his throat.

Lucas inspected the wheelchair-bound man. "You're my ticket out of here, old man," he whispered. He heard raised voices.

Dr. Huffy's voice boomed out from the damaged lobby, "The cops are on their way!"

C.O. Salcido's voice exploded angrily, "Get down! Spread your legs!"

"You're fuckin' nobody! You're all fuckin' nobodies!" Even from a distance, Billy's voice was slurred and raw.

Lucas growled; they'd caught his brother.

He couldn't wait; he pushed the wheelchair. The ancient face rolled up at him, red eyes bulging. The tube in the old man's throat jerked like a straw as it sucked in and out of the fleshy hole.

Watson pushed the man past a nurse comforting a child, past a room where someone was crying, and through the door marked
EXIT
in hot red letters.

He moved briskly toward the west end of the ER parking lot. When he reached the last six car slots in the row nearest the hospital, he let the wheelchair go. It rolled forward—the old man straining like a landed fish—and bounced off a truck's fender.

At least three sirens wailed angrily. The sounds grew closer by the second.

The overhead street lamp was out; Watson's feet crunched broken glass. In the dark it was hard to see the colors of the vehicles. The blue Capri was parked second to last. Lucas found the key under the front bumper. He unlocked the door and slid behind the driver's seat. The map was on the seat next to him. Clothes, fast food, and a bottle of whiskey had been stashed on the floor. He was ravenous. He clamped a Big Mac between his teeth, turned the key, and felt the rumble of the engine in his bones.

CHAPTER SEVEN

R
OSIE SPUN OUT,
struck a pose, and then whirled back into Ray's arms. She had her shoes off, the heels too high for dancing, and her stockinged feet moved easily to the funky beat of Los Lobos. Ray, though short and round, was the perfect dancer; he always made his partner look good. For most of their married life, Rosie had been Ray's principal dance partner but he'd been known to kick up his heels with various cousins, nieces, and even Abuelita Sánchez. Ray let out a whoop as he dipped Rosie back and planted a kiss square on her mouth. Laughing, Rosie led her husband off Rodeo Nites' dance floor and back to the small table where Sylvia was sitting.

"I'm getting old," Rosie said. Sylvia shook her head and pointed to her ear. Rosie tried again, forcing her voice over the loud bass beat of the music, "I'm getting too old to stay up past midnight."

"In that case, I'm dancing with Sylvia," Ray said.

Sylvia protested as he pulled her from the chair.

Rosie waved. "Just let him lead!" She watched her husband gliding Sylvia across the floor. Her friend was at least five inches taller than Ray, but the two still made a cute pair. Rosie was glad to see Sylvia laughing, having fun.

She eased her feet into magenta heels and glanced toward the bar. Through the smoke and press of bodies—for a Thursday, it was packed—she glimpsed a familiar face. She lost him in the crowd. When he reappeared following a majestic blond female, Rosie recognized the twice-broken nose and dark head of Matt England. It was easy to spot him for a cop. The authority of his presence couldn't be left at home with the uniform.

The woman tugged him toward the bar.

"Yo, Matt!" Rosie tried to catch his attention. He and the blonde were speaking—arguing?—and then Matt turned away and left her at the bar.

Rosie saw him exit Rodeo Nites. She pushed her way past urban cowboys and followed her friend out the door. The cold assaulted her skin and cleared her head.

"Hey, England," Rosie called.

He was hunkered against the stucco wall, both hands stuffed into pockets. "Rosie?" He returned her grin with an embarrassed smile that melted away fifteen years. She almost expected to hear a
gee whiz
.

Instead, Matt spit out his chewing gum and said, "What are you doing here?"

"Dancing with Ray. What's your excuse?" Rosie arched an eyebrow toward the bar's entrance. Two men were entering just as Matt's date appeared; they both turned to appraise her butt.

"Angelique," Matt said. It came out more like an apology than an introduction. "Angelique Harvey, this is Rosie Sánchez."

As Rosie extended her hand to meet Angelique's limp handshake, she got a whiff of smoke laced with expensive perfume. Neither woman spoke. With ample opportunity to survey Ms. Harvey's lithe body in skintight jeans, off-the-shoulder bandeau, and leather jacket, Rosie placed herself a mental bet—the clothes, the muscles, and the mane were all the result of a very recent divorce. The blonde gave Rosie a cool once-over.

To fill the silence, Matt spoke loudly. "Angelique's brother works at the lab with Gausser."

"Really?" No doubt Hansi Gausser, who ran the state crime lab, had fixed Matt up with Angelique. Gausser was terrific at his job, but completely inept at anything else, especially matchmaking. Pull in your claws, she told herself.

Rosie took Matt by the arm and navigated him to the edge of the walkway. "Did you look at the file I sent over?"

Matt frowned. "Missing body parts . . . I think the whole thing smells like gang bullshit." He shook his head slowly. "I'll tell you who to talk to . . . one of the honchos during the riot belonged to the Aryan Brotherhood. That dude knows everything that's going on. Bubba Akins, a real sweetheart, remember him?"

Just as Rosie was about to answer, Ray stepped up and delivered a punch that connected with Matt's shoulder.

"Time to try a few hands among friends."

"My poker's rusty, Ray," Matt said.

"Hey, all the better," Ray laughed.

Sylvia stood several feet away, arms crossed over her chest. Angelique ignored Sylvia, but greeted Ray with a smile that was sixty degrees warmer than anything she'd flashed Rosie.

"Matt, have you met Sylvia Strange? She's an old friend—"

"I know who she is." Matt's voice sharpened with sarcasm, "She wrote the book on inmates who love too much." For the first time, he looked directly at Sylvia. "I see you got your acquittal on the Allmoy case. Remind me to get your phone number. I'll give you a call when he murders someone."

"Screw you," Sylvia said flatly.

Rosie grimaced and watched Sylvia stride toward her car. "Matthew, you little brat." She shook a finger at him. She heard Sylvia's car door slam.

"What?"

"You know what." Rosie waited while Sylvia's Volvo slowed on its way out of the lot

Sylvia leaned her head out of the window and called to Rosie. "I'll give you a ring tomorrow." She glanced back at England and mumbled, "Macho fuck."

Rosie found Matt waiting beside his pickup truck. She leaned against the fender of the Mazda parked in the next slot. "Why were you so rude? I'll never forgive you."

"Yeah, you will." He crooked a finger, motioned her close enough to hear his confidence. "Did you ever hear me talk about the jackal?"

Rosie's butt slipped off the Mazda and she caught herself. She stared at him, stunned. "The jackal?"

"Right after the riot, that's when I heard about him."

Rosie shook her head. "The jackal existed fifteen
years ago?" She sighed. "I only heard about him from Angel Tapia."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "After the riot a snitch told me,
'El chacal
was scavenging.'"

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Collecting miscellaneous body parts? Isn't that what jackals do—scavenge?" Matt grinned. "Interesting,
no?"

"Was your source reliable?" Rosie asked.

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But OD'd on Thorazine ain't exactly normal." Matt frowned, "If the jackal existed, the dude was invisible."

From inside the truck, Angelique leaned across the seat and rolled down the driver's side window. "Can we go? I'm tired." She sounded angry.

"In a minute." Matt kept his eyes on Rosie. "I'd like to help you track him down."

El chacal
. As far as Rosie knew, the name wasn't on file, but she'd run a thorough check tomorrow. She patted Matt on the arm and said, "Thank you, officer. And you try not to wear yourself out tonight, ya hear?"

Matt laughed as he climbed into the truck.

Ray was waiting in the Camaro when Rosie slid behind the steering wheel. She took a swipe at the tiny baby shoes suspended from the rearview mirror and said, "Thanks for waiting, handsome."

As she pulled her car into northbound traffic on Cerrillos Road, Ray remarked, "What was that between Matt and Sylvia?"

Rosie shook her head. "Professional animosity. I could wring his neck."

"Just stay out of it, Rosita."

Rosie clucked her tongue against her teeth. "What did you think of that babe?"

Ray belched. "I never knew Matt was such a lady-killer."

"He's the lamb, and she's the wolf," Rosie said. She drove cautiously, on the alert for drunk drivers. Ray gave a noncommittal snort.

"I could tell you liked her," Ray said.

"I could tell you did, too."

Ray sank down in his seat and his belly expanded. "She's not my type."

Rosie laughed. "You'd better say that." After a pause, she added, "She's totally wrong for Matt."

Now Ray pulled himself up in the seat and ran his hand over his head. "Whoa! Here we go."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rosie jerked the wheel, and the Camaro swerved to avoid a Range Rover. She swore softly in Spanish.

"Nada,"
Ray said.

Rosie shot him a look and said, "Don't nuthin' me. What are you trying to say?"

Ray rolled his eyeballs theatrically. "Why did I open my big mouth? One look at her body, and she's good for at least one thing Matt needs."

Much to his surprise, Rosie didn't respond. She kept her eyes on the road, a thoughtful expression on her face. At the intersection of St. Michael's Drive and Cerrillos Road, a high-rider with
HIGH ROLLER
painted on tinted windows ran the red light. Rosie jammed on the brakes and missed a collision by inches. Ray could smell burning rubber.

Suddenly, Rosie's beeper went off in shrill alarm. Ray read off the digitally displayed phone number.

"Colonel Gonzales," Rosie said.

"And I thought we might have one night without trouble."

D
UKE
W
ATSON ROSE
from the governor's dinner table, apologized to the state's first lady, and took the phone call in the immense walnut-paneled library. Fresh hothouse orchids, petals delicately brushed mauve and peach, graced the Louis Quatorze desk. Their stems were contained in a Steuben vase. Duke separated a single stem and held the flower to the light; he saw a network of almost invisible veins.

"Duke? It's Herb."

Duke waited. He was still able to breathe, talk, smile. He smiled, but his eyes were fish eyes, void, lifeless.

"It's not good," Herb said. "I just heard from the state police. Lucas escaped." When there was no response from Duke, Herb continued, "There's more."

The orchid stem snapped in Duke's hand. "Billy."

Herb Burnett swallowed. God, he hated to be the messenger of bad news. Especially to a man who'd already suffered so many tragedies. He said, "Apparently, Billy stole a truck and drove it through the lobby of the hospital. Lucas got away, but a security guard had a gun, and Billy's in custody."

"And you're on your way," Duke said quietly.

"That's right . . ." Herb never knew what to do when the Duke froze up. He always felt like he was swimming alone in a very dark, very dangerous ocean. Now, he simply confirmed Duke's directive.

Duke hung up the phone and walked to the stone fireplace where he lifted a framed photograph from the mantle. It was a portrait of the governor, his handsome wife, their braces-and-ponytail daughter. The perfect family.

He examined the picture for a long time and then repositioned it with care.

On the way out of the library, he tossed the damaged orchid in a hand-pounded copper basket and replaced his smile for the governor and his wife.

I
T WAS CLOSE
to midnight, but the streets were busy as Sylvia drove up Cerrillos Road. She slowed as she approached each intersection; her reactions were fuzzy after two drinks and no dinner.

At the corner of Cerrillos and Rodeo roads, the Volvo crawled to a stop behind a line of cars. Two state police cars were angled across the road, red lights pulsing. Sylvia's hands went cold; they must be looking for drunk drivers. She groaned—she'd had enough law enforcement for one evening—and rummaged in her glove compartment. Beneath a pile of papers and maps she found her proof of insurance, registration, and a stick of Dentyne. As soon as the gum was in her mouth she slapped her face with her fingers. She couldn't believe two drinks had made her tipsy.

The line of vehicles inched ahead. A uniformed officer leaned into the window of each car, another held a flashlight that he aimed through windshields, a third gripped a rifle. With a dry mouth, Sylvia eased the Volvo to the head of the line.

"Good evening, ma'am." The light scoured her car's interior. "This is a roadblock. Where are you headed?"

"Home. La Cieneguilla."

With a nod, the officer said, "We're searching for an escaped inmate, ma'am."

Sylvia shivered and instantly pictured Lucas Watson. "Do you know who it is?"

The officer leaned close to her window and shook his head. "Someone from the hospital."

Sylvia asked, "The state hospit—?"

But the officer had reached out one quieting hand; the other went to his left ear. Sylvia realized he wore an earphone and was listening to the radio clamped to his belt.

He moved several paces from her car and she took a breath. The state mental hospital was located sixty miles to the northeast in Las Vegas, New Mexico. There were some extreme cases in the hospital's violent ward. Not the kind of guys you wanted to run into late at night, when the lights went out.

The officer moved past her car again and she was about to repeat her question when he said, "Be careful, ma'am, and lock your doors."