Read Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) Online
Authors: Sarah Lovett
Sylvia's voice interrupted his train of thought. She was saying, "Jayne Gladstone came out of a psychiatric institution in 1989 or 1990 . . . with a new identity. Imagine she had an obsessive-compulsive overlay that made her outwardly functional."
"Maybe highly functional,'' Kove interjected.
Sylvia tapped the table. "But she was imploding internally."
"And Dupont White appears on her doorstep." Kove nodded.
Carlos blew air through his lips and said, "Like on
The X-Files
, when the alien monster jumps from one body to another." He took a drink of beer, and a foam mustache appeared on his upper lip. "Not a pretty sight."
Kove winked at Carlos and said, "I love you because you have a special mind."
Sylvia played with the remains of a pasilla pepper on her plate. Her hair was uncombed, her face free of makeup, and she looked like a teenager when she asked, "So why not Jayne Gladstone?"
Kove took a small bite of mushroom. "A woman's got the best cover in the world."
Sylvia stretched out her arms. She could feel the vodka relaxing her muscles; it was doing more than that—she was smashed. She stared at Matt as she said, "Any cop will tell you, women can be just as aggressive as men."
Matt took a sip of his beer. "But they're not running around burning sex offenders—unless that's a new trend I haven't heard about."
Kove clasped his hands and pointed both index fingers across the table in Sylvia's direction. "What do you typically expect from a male abused in childhood?"
"Adult abuser: he becomes like his tormentor." Sylvia nodded her head impatiently. "And a female who was abused as a child typically is reabused as an adult. She sets up her own children for abuse. She becomes self-destructive. I know, Albert. I've worked with so many victims—and they all have the same eyes—like a deer caught in someone's headlights."
"My point exactly. Victims, not perpetrators."
Sylvia popped a green olive in her mouth. "What about Aileen Wuornos? She killed six men."
Carlos said, "Equality at last."
Sylvia suddenly felt deflated. She took a drink of her martini just as Kove asked, "What about Kevin's guardian—Jackie Madden?"
Matt lowered his voice. "She could definitely be protecting Kevin." He thought briefly about the information he had gathered from and about Jackie Madden earlier that day. Because of Sylvia's personal involvement in this case, they had shared information. But he was glad he hadn't talked to her about the possibility that Kevin's guardian had been raped. Sylvia was drunk—talking too much—and this was not the appropriate time or place to discuss Jackie Madden.
A waiter set a third round of drinks on the table and began to remove plates. Although Sylvia still had vodka in her glass, she switched to the fresh martini. As the waiter left, she bit into a green olive.
Carlos spoke up: "Maybe your killer is a woman, Sylvia, but a
man
called you to the motel."
Sylvia slipped her fingers around the stem of her cocktail glass, and vodka sloshed onto the table. "It
sounded
like a man. But a voice can be disguised."
There was an embarrassed silence at the table. Then Matt said, "Sylvia, this Jayne Gladstone theory, it doesn't add up. Like Carlos said, it's like some bullshit from
The X-Files
—this woman
becomes
Dupont White?"
"She doesn't become Dupont White. She becomes an avenging
god
. But it's not working—and that's why she left those photographs at the motel, that's why she left Dupont's body for the Killers' Doctor." Sylvia waved her arm angrily, and her martini glass flew from the table and shattered against the plaster wall.
Abruptly, she stood up. "I need oxygen." She stumbled away from the table, her chair fell backward, and she moved quickly to the exit.
Outside she gulped air. Her face felt hot, flushed by three martinis. A nicotine hunger shivered through her body. She began to walk up Canyon Road surrounded by the sounds and scents of night. In chorus, the elms whispered like tall, thin women. The musty scent of river plants hovered on the breeze. The faint sounds of laughter and applause spilled from a small restaurant where a wooden sign advertised
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
.
Warm wind brushed Sylvia's hair from her face, and she was surprised to feel tears streaming down her cheeks. The images flashed through her brain—faces she saw when she could no longer find sleep. Faces of the dead and faces of killers. Victims and abusers. Flora Escudero. Anthony Randall. Jesse Montoya. Dupont White. They haunted her.
She whispered, "I can't do this anymore."
A shadow became two shadows, lovers standing arm in arm next to the road. She felt their eyes as she passed.
She moved quickly, almost frantically.
Jayne was the good child, Dupont was the bad. Black and white. Light and shadow. Total polarity. A splitting off, until Dupont died. His death created a psychic black hole that sucked Jayne inside. There must have been other stressors in her life—pushing her toward the edge. Law and order had already failed her. And she took over Dupont's mission
.
Sylvia cried out when she felt fingers close around her arm. She jerked around and stared into Matt's face.
He said, "What are you doing out here?"
"I had to get away."
"You're drunk."
"Arrest me." She pulled away from him, exhausted, sick. She knew she sounded ridiculous. Her head was throbbing with pain. She held out both wrists. "I'll help you control this situation. Do your job—cuff me."
He started to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat.
She rambled on, "The problem is, I need to figure things out. . . I always need to understand, to evaluate every-fucking-thing and get inside it until I'm crazy." He shook his head impatiently. "Fine—"
"I know who killed Anthony Randall and Jesse Montoya."
"Right. Jayne Gladstone. We've been through this."
"Erin Tulley."
Matt jerked back as if he'd been punched.
Sylvia reached out one arm. "Just listen to me. It fits. Jayne Gladstone is Erin Tulley. She's the right age. She's in law enforcement—she's been exposed to violence. State police gave her the structure she needed to contain her rage, until she turned against it—"
Sylvia knew she was talking too fast. She swayed on her feet, hazy from alcohol. And Matt just stared at her like she was crazy.
She drew back, stung by his reaction. "Why don't you say something?''
"I'm thinking.''
She squared her shoulders, ran a hand over her rumpled shirt. "What?"
Matt sighed. "I'm trying to decide how much to tell you."
Sylvia stiffened. Hurt. And Matt's eyes were sad. Even in moonlight, she could see them clearly.
He spoke slowly, in a very quiet voice. "You're wrong about Erin. She has real problems . . . but they're not what you think." He was silent for a moment while he waited for a man and his dog to pass out of earshot.
Finally, Matt continued. "I'll trust you to keep this confidential. Erin's been in treatment for almost a year. With a psychiatrist in Albuquerque."
Sylvia blurted it out: "Who does she see?"
"Burt Webster." Matt bit his lip. He was ashamed of Sylvia's desperation, of her need to indict Erin for murder.
"Shit . . ." Sylvia bent her head and groaned. She didn't like Burt Webster, but she knew he was damn good at his job. He deserved his reputation as one of the best in the business.
Quietly, Matt said, "Your killer may be a woman, but it's not Erin Tulley."
K
EVIN
FELT
HER
fingernails dig deep into his flesh as Killer rolled him over and straddled his belly. She had that smile on her face. He turned his head away.
She whispered. "If you don't help me, I'll have to get someone else."
Silence. He could keep his mouth shut and whatnot.
"Don't I take care of you, Kevin?" Her voice had darkened, and now it held menace, made him shiver. "Look at me!"
He looked. And whispered, "Yeah."
"You're a murderer. You killed two men."
"No, I didn't—"
"You'll get the death penalty." She slapped his cheek, and he cried out. She said, "That's because you didn't listen. From the beginning you haven't trusted me. You haven't really surrendered yourself."
Slowly—his eyes never leaving her face—he slid his thumb between his lips. After his fiasco on the monastery road, she had agreed to take him back on one condition—follow orders.
And he'd done that. He left the car and its silent passenger near the motel. But even that wasn't enough.
She moved her mouth close to his and whispered, "That's right, baby."
The muscles in her short arms rippled. She was a medium-boned woman, but her body was lean and muscular.
"Bad boy," she crooned, "you're my bad boy." She stroked his chest. "Why don't you do what Killer tells you to do, bad boy?" She raked her fingernails gently across his nipples. "Shouldn't Kevin be good?"
As he sucked on his thumb, Kevin's eyes began to close; the whites of his eyeballs were visible under half-closed lids.
His eyes shot open as she raised herself up on her haunches.
He cried out, "No, don't—"
"Don't what?"
"Don't hurt me."
"Don't hurt me what?"
"Don't hurt me, Killer."
"Don't hurt me, Killer, what?"
"Don't hurt me, Killer, please."
Her voice was sweet and slow, but poison. She crooned, "That's what you like, Kevin. You like it when I'm strict with you." With one hand, she grabbed the roll of duct tape that was on the table next to the sofa. She slapped the silver tape around his wrists, once, twice, three times.
"It's time to be a man."
CHAPTER TWENTY
M
ATT
ALMOST
COLLIDED
with Nathaniel Howzer as the judge stepped out of the offices of juvenile probation services at the Santa Fe Judicial Complex.
"Watch yourself—"
"Sorry, Judge."
"Agent England." The frown evaporated from Howzer's countenance. His big hand clasped Matt's firmly, then his face clouded. "I heard about Sylvia's run-in with Kevin Chase. Is she recovering?" He stepped back to let a tall woman enter the probation offices.
Matt nodded. Both men began walking down the long corridor toward Howzer's chambers and the main entrance to the courthouse. The building was just beginning to come to life, and bailiffs, lawyers, and clerks all had a sleepy look about them.
Howzer said, "Are you here to testify in Judge Tafoya's court?"
"Actually, I'm here to speak with you."
The judge studied Matt for a moment, then nodded. "I see. I'm not due in my courtroom until eight forty-five." He glanced at his watch. "I can give you fifteen minutes."
The two men entered the outer sanctum of Howzer's chambers. Ellie Gomez, the judge's secretary, greeted both men with a quizzical smile, then patted a stack of pink message slips.
She said, "I'll hold your calls, Your Honor."
"Thank you, Ellie." The judge continued past her desk to the door that led to his private chambers. Matt followed.
Though the room was not large, it had wall-to-wall shelves to accommodate the judge's law books, and a spacious walnut desk was free of clutter. Healthy bougainvillea and lobelia plants added life to the room. A globe, beautifully crafted and brightly colored, had been placed on a stand beside the desk.
For a moment Matt studied the judge. He had appeared in Nathaniel Howzer's courtroom countless times as a law enforcement witness in robbery, assault, and even capital murder cases.
He didn't like the yellow tinge to the judge's complexion . . . or the dark circles under his eyes. There was a desperate spark in his light irises.
The door opened and Ellie stepped into the office. She stood staring at Howzer. The judge sighed and nodded. "It's all right, Ellie. I'm going to deal with it."
Elbe withdrew and closed the door quietly.
Howzer said, "Ellie wants me to admit to you that I've received unpleasant communications."
Matt eyed the other man; he wasn't surprised by the news, he was surprised by the admission. He said, "Why did you deny these—"