A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) (19 page)

     
Rosie's fingernails tapped out a complex flamenco rhythm. "That's right . . . have him use my office extension." She shifted in her chair, still speaking into the phone. "
Bueno
, Sally. Bye." She hung up the phone and raised both hands, palms exposed. The gesture was naturally dramatic.

     
Sylvia was halfway out of the chair when Rosie barked out a command: "Sit down,
jita
. You can't go barging over there, interrupting an investigation. What do you think this is, the movies?"

     
Sylvia dropped back into her seat, protesting. "I need answers to questions, and Matt's not going to get them."

     
"Neither are you. Not today." Rosie raised a placating hand. "At least not from Cash Wheeler." Her eyes narrowed. "What makes you think you'd do better than Matt?"

     
"I can tell Wheeler about Serena. I can make her real for him."

     
"You can't just waltz over to Max and play knock-knock on Wheeler's cell door." She settled back in her seat, clearly signaling a change of subject. "How is Serena?"

     
"Obviously, she's upset." Sylvia ran her hand through her unruly hair as if to calm herself. "But C.P.S. agreed to admit her into Mesa Verde Hospital. When I stopped by an hour ago, she was just waking up. I made sure she had her breakfast, and I sat with her for a while."

     
"Do they have good security at that hospital?"

     
"She's in a locked ward. The cops have been alerted to patrol the area regularly." Sylvia was quiet for a moment. When she voiced the next question, her delivery was slow. "Do you think Cash Wheeler murdered Elena Cruz?"

     
"I don't have my crystal ball with me today."

     
"Rosie, speak to me. Do you think he's a murderer?"

     
"
Tal vez
. Maybe." If Rosie was startled by the ferocity in her friend's face, she only shrugged. "A Hobbs jury heard the evidence and convicted."

     
"You know what sentiments are like in that part of the state. Steal a loaf of bread, you get ten to fifteen."

     
Rosie shrugged. "I also know that most of us are capable of terrible acts of violence at some point during our lifetime."

     
"What if he's innocent?"

     
"Then his execution will be a horrible sin." Rosie sighed. "I'm sure the governor would commute Wheeler's sentence to life in prison if the political climate were different—if people weren't so fed up with violence—"

     
"If . . ." Sylvia's voice faded and she shuddered.

     
Rosie set the palms of her hands firmly on the desktop. "One of my C.O.'s told me a story. He said he overheard Cash Wheeler bragging about being a stone-cold killer. He said Wheeler went into graphic detail." Rosie saw the look on Sylvia's face, and she shook her head. "Don't act so surprised,
jita
. Ninety-nine percent of these guys are guilty."

     
Sylvia didn't respond for several seconds. Then she spoke slowly. "You and I both know there are reasons these guys boast about violent crimes—sometimes they do it to act tough, to try and protect themselves from harassment."

     
"I think you don't want the child to be related to a killer."

     
To Rosie's surprise, her friend stood and pivoted abruptly toward the office door.

     
Sylvia blurted out, "I'm going to drive over to North Facility to see if I can find Matt." As she opened the door, she heard Rosie's sigh of surrender.

     
"Wait up. At least let me walk you out."

S
YLVIA FOLLOWED THE
penitentiary investigator down the dank prison hallway, stepping past a metal grill as it slid slowly home. It clanged shut behind her, locked—the mirror action of her trip inside just thirty minutes earlier. Welcome to the penitentiary—an archaic facility destined for the wrecking ball by federal decree. She tried to forget this was her first trip to Main in several months, just managing to quell an internal whisper of claustrophobia.

     
Rosie Sanchez didn't slow her stride as they passed a series of administrative offices in the north wing of the old facility. Sunday visitors—two priests and two plainly dressed men—were huddled in conversation outside the doorway of the deputy warden's office. An inmate porter pushed a dust mop over the worn tile floor. His route went wide around the clergymen, then wider still around the women, but he gave Sylvia a small wave.

     
She recognized him and said, "Hey, Spider, how's it going?"

     
A minute later, when Rosie and Sylvia reached the stairwell that eventually gave access to Main's front entrance, a whale of a man stepped out to block their path. Both women came to a standstill.

     
Rosie was the first to respond. "Sylvia, do you remember Jim Teague, Cash Wheeler's attorney?"

     
Teague was a hard man to forget. The Texan weighed in at more than three hundred pounds, he was six-feet-five, and his taste in clothes ran to fringed and beaded leather jackets and hand-tooled Stallion boots. Sylvia's eyes were still traveling upward from Teague's ample belly to his face when she heard his Irish-tenor voice sharpened by ire.

     
"A little bird told me a state police officer is questioning my client," the attorney said.

     
Sylvia watched Rosie weigh her dislike of pushy lawyers against their very real ability to bankrupt the Department of Corrections with lawsuits filed on behalf of criminal-procedure abuses.

     
"Cash
agreed
to meet with a criminal agent," Rosie said. "But I believe that meeting is finished."

     
"If not, I'm about to interrupt it." The lawyer glanced at his watch and then refocused on Sylvia. "You made the
Albuquerque Journal
, Dr. Strange." He lifted one eyebrow and cocked his head; he was huge, but his movements were contained, almost dainty.

     
Sylvia faced Teague and set her hands on her hips. "I read the same article. It didn't mention me by name."

     
"No." He gave a brusque shrug. "Your identity cost me one thirty-second phone call. It was more difficult to obtain valid information about the child. And about a certain photograph."

     
Sylvia studied the death-row lawyer's naturally impassive features and his improbably green eyes tucked between layers of flesh. She could easily believe he had a source who had revealed her name and her involvement with the child—but only a handful of people knew about the child's tenuous connection to Cash Wheeler. So where the hell had he gotten
that
part of the story? Who told him about the photograph of Cash and Elena? Did he have a source at state police? At the A.G.'s office? Information about the photograph had been kept from the press—

     
Teague chuckled, wagging his head as if he could read her mind—
and he probably could
. He said, "And now I've got confirmation from you, Ms. Strange. What an expressive face you have!"

     
"So I've been told." She grimaced.

     
Sylvia had seen Teague at work in the courtroom, and she knew he was good. He was also stringently anti-death penalty. His actions supported his beliefs—he was "death qualified," an expert at the appeals process. His services did not come cheap. Local and national press had made no secret of the fact that Cash Wheeler's sister had spent a small fortune on her brother's case—most of it for legal fees. At this moment, beneath the smooth veneer, Jim Teague looked as if he'd blown a fuse.

     
She smiled sweetly. Since the lawyer had dealt the first hand, she decided to play a quick round of poker. "The A.G.'s keeping you well informed, counselor."

     
"It's my job to be informed. My client is a dead man, barring a governor's pardon or an appellate miracle."

     
"This
is
a miracle." With effort, Sylvia kept her expression flat. "These new events change things—"

     
"Are you practicing law these days, Doctor?" Jim Teague snorted, and a look of sharp impatience flashed in his eyes. "This situation has not produced new and material evidence—not in any way, shape, or form."

     
Anger tightened Sylvia's throat. "We're not talking about abstract material evidence—" It was stupid to play poker with a lawyer.

     
"No,
you're
talking about a child who is probably in this country illegally, and who is most likely a Mexican national." He raised a palm to ward off Sylvia's protest. "I've already spoken to federal investigators. An old photograph of a man who vaguely resembles Cash Wheeler doesn't prove a relationship. Frankly, I tend toward another theory. This is some cruel scam to take advantage of a condemned man and his family."

     
"I can't believe you'll ignore this child." She stared at the lawyer, baffled and curious. "I
know
you won't. That would be absurd."

     
Teague shook his head; there was an air of weariness about him. He said, "If you think you know more after one day's involvement in this case than I do after four years, then by all means, tell me my job." He shifted his briefcase from left hand to right—the leather case looked tiny in contrast to his massive body. "Cash was convicted of Elena Cruz's murder and the murder of a motel clerk, period. Evidence of the child's death was not admitted at the trial because there was no corpus delecti."

     
"But Serena's appearance raises new questions—it might even provide new answers." Sylvia respected Jim Teague, and she wanted him as an ally. Her voice softened when she said, "The child's in a private hospital without parents or family. And there is evidence that connects her to Wheeler. I'm only thinking about her best interests."

     
"And I'm only thinking about the best interests of my client. It's my job to remain impartial in a potentially charged situation." Teague held up a finger and shook his head. Suddenly, he looked almost human.

     
His voice warmed up ten degrees. "Sylvia, we won't ignore this child. This morning I spoke with the attorney general—I got that insomniac out of bed—and tomorrow morning I'll file a petition with the courts for a blood test to determine paternity. We'll be in touch."

     
As the lawyer walked briskly down the hallway, Rosie spoke under her breath: "He's slick as floor wax, isn't he?" She caught Sylvia's eye. The dozen keys on her belt jingled. Her face was alive with curiosity.

     
A woman's voice rang out sharply. "Dr. Strange?"

     
Sylvia and Rosie both turned. Someone had stepped from the deputy warden's office into the hallway. She looked vaguely familiar, a medium-tall woman with shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair and classically European features. As the blonde brushed past Jim Teague, Sylvia made the connection: Cash Wheeler's sister.

     
"I'm Noelle Harding."

     
"Noelle." Jim Teague's commanding voice rolled through the hallway. "Let's do this the way we discussed—" His mouth twisted into a frown when Noelle Harding waved him off.

     
The woman approached Sylvia, fixing her with an intensely direct gaze. Agitated, she asked, "Do you have a picture of this child?"

     
Sylvia reached into her briefcase and pulled out a C.P.S. Polaroid. Harding took the photograph and studied the image—the child's face, dark, wide-set eyes expressing vigilance, mouth compressed with tension. In the photo, Serena's skin was still bruised and slightly puffy above one eye.

     
Noelle Harding didn't speak for almost thirty seconds. She seemed to be absorbing the chemical image. Her body remained motionless, her posture turned brittle with suppressed emotion.

     
Finally, she reached out to clasp Sylvia's wrist between ringed fingers: "Let's talk."

S
YLVIA GAZED WARILY
at Noelle Harding. The women were seated on plush leather in the back of Harding's black limo-van. Harding reached for a phone and said, "Stan, we'll be a few minutes. Why don't you enjoy a smoke?" After a second, the driver's door opened, then closed quietly.

     
A single pale pink rose was tucked into a brass vase. The scent of the flower was unpleasantly intense in the small space. On the other side of tinted windows, forty feet up the road, a prison utility truck was idling, and three inmates were pulling weeds along an asphalt edge; every few seconds, one of the inmates glanced furtively at the limo-van. Beyond the men, the building that housed the prison's sewage-treatment plant blocked the brilliant blue sky with gray. For several moments, Harding appeared to be completely engrossed by the scene.

     
Sylvia bit back her impatience and tried to gain a sense of Noelle Harding in this incongruous setting. In person, Harding was smaller and her features more delicate than the television news clips suggested. The Minicams had been interested in catching the nouveau riche social activist who raised massive funds for charities, the one-woman crusade who had dedicated ten years of her life to saving her brother from execution.

     
But the cameras had failed to capture the vulnerable woman who finally turned her full attention to Sylvia. Noelle Harding spoke in a soft voice. "I want you to understand our lawyer's position. This is a horrible time for my brother and myself. And for Jim Teague, too; don't imagine for a moment he's not emotionally involved with my family. With the execution date so close—" She raised her palms as if to ward off time. She fumbled in her jacket pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. She was already flicking one out as she asked, "Do you mind if I smoke?"