by Sarah Lovett
She slit the paper with her little finger. A single hand-written page slipped out. The top was dated December 9, the day before the riot—the day she had talked to Lucas in North Facility.
Sylvia, what I have is time. Time to sleep, time to dream. The more I dream of you the more my hate turns to love. You are my power. In another time we knew each other. Remember this when the future happens. My only crime is loving too much. We must be together or others will die.
When Matt saw her face, he took the note from her hand and skimmed the page. "Lucas?"
She nodded slowly. "This is why I needed to see him buried. I'm tired, Agent England. Can we call it a night?"
He nodded a bit reluctantly.
She walked him to his car. The moon had climbed up behind the Sangres; it was milky and subtle, a woman behind a veil. Clouds covered all but a thin strip of sky, and a smattering of stars shone like winter fireflies.
England leaned against the door of the Caprice and gazed at the tall, dark-haired woman. He sensed her personal power, and he felt an odd affinity. He also felt the frustration she always seemed to elicit from him.
"What?"
He shrugged. "I've been meaning to apologize for the way I acted at Rodeo Nites." They were standing so close, she could smell aftershave and the scent of his worn leather jacket.
She studied his face. His eyes, unreadable in the darkness, searched hers. He shook his head and reached for her shoulders tentatively. His grip was strong.
"You'd better go," she said.
He stepped back and dug his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a bottle, tossed it in the air and caught it. "Somebody's been drinking Wild Turkey in your driveway."
The empty bottle threw her for a few seconds, but she said, "I get strays out here. Lovers looking for a place to park, guys who want to drink a six-pack. They end up turning around in my driveway."
It was impossible to read his expression in the darkness as he climbed into the Caprice and closed the door. She said, "I know how to take care of myself."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
INMATE ANDRE MILLER from CB-1 had been found stabbed in the prep area of Main's kitchen. Rosie had already secured the crime scene, then she'd called in the state cops. One of her best boys was assisting with evidence collection, so Rosie was free to continue the investigation in other quarters.
She traversed the slick, soapy penitentiary corridor and approached the metal barrier that separated Main's hospital from the cell blocks. She waited while the C.O. buzzed her through from the control booth. Andre Miller was a quiet, unassuming man who kept a low profile as far as Rosie knew. She'd seen him at chow, but only because he worked as a regular in the kitchen.
She would review penitentiary log-books this afternoon to see if she could get a bead on Miller's attacker. Daily logs tracked traffic to and from recreation areas, sally ports, towers, each control center, and the hospital. They recorded who attended self-help groups, who went to art classes, who used the law library. Basements and closets were filled with illegible entries written on now-moldy paper stored in military-surplus trunks and files. The excessive paperwork was an incredible bureaucratic headache, but it was part of prison security. Rosie had already reviewed logs pertinent to the Angel Tapia missing-finger incident. She knew exactly who was where, and when. Or, more accurately, she knew what had been entered in the logs. In real life, Rosie understood things were overlooked, left out, intentionally or not.
Recently, she'd begun to doubt some of her own theories; namely, Angel's missing pinkie and the existence of the jackal. No one could remain invisible for decades. The most obvious theory—gang retribution—was looking more and more plausible. Her only confirmation of the jackal had come from Bubba, and he had his own reasons to obscure an investigation that might be centered around racism and gang rivalry.
She had other reasons to be concerned. At their last meeting, Warden Cozy had accused her of fanning prison fires by her pursuit of a phantom monster. What if Cozy was right?
Rosie reached the hospital door and opened it to find three inmates in the waiting area; they looked perfectly healthy. Of course, a third of the pen's inmates were chronic malingerers. Anything to get out of a cell. Who could blame them? A vinyl couch occupied most of the space, and Rosie recognized Chuey "Shotgun" Martinez sprawled on one end. In the past few years, she'd questioned him several times after his halfhearted suicide attempts.
She said, "Hello, Chuey, where's the nurse?"
Chuey smiled at Rosie. The wide gap where his front teeth should have been gave him an obtuse charm. "She's gone to the sally port to send Miller to St. Vincent's,'' Chuey Shotgun said.
Rosie frowned. If the shank damage was bad enough to necessitate a transfer to the hospital, the assault was more serious than she'd first thought. There had been one really odd thing about the kitchen crime scene: the shiny stainless steel counter—all of it!—had been smeared with Miller's blood. She thought about that fact as she walked back toward CB-1.
The trip took her downstairs to the ground-floor level, past the deputy warden's office and the inmates' visiting room, and through three sets of locked gates.
Two C.O.s were in the cage between CB-1 and the central corridor. Rosie said, "Keep an eye on me." They opened both gates and let her through.
Without turning her head, she scoped out the stairway to the second tier, the empty shower cubicle, and the location of visible inmates. She acknowledged the six men who were seated around a common television set. They were watching The Price Is Right. One of them—she thought she recognized "Stinky" Gray—kept jumping out of his seat to coach the game-show players.
He stabbed two fingers in the air, "Hey, asshole, two bills! Two and a half bills, ducksbreath! Lookatthatfatcow! He doesn't have a clue—"
While Stinky continued his running tirade, Rosie mentally I.D.'d the others: Roybal, Theo T. Bones, Robot Rodriguez, Elmer Rivak, and Del "Loco" Montoya.
She took the keys from her belt clip and approached Miller's locked cell. She felt eyes crawl along her back and her skin twitched like a dog shedding bothersome fleas. She unlocked the cell door and used her weight to pull open the door. The first thing she noticed was the small cloth bundle in the sink. When she shook it open gingerly, a small brown finger rolled out. Abruptly, the hair on her arms stood up and she backed out of the cell and firmly closed the door. Madre de Dios, she murmured silently. She'd found Angel Tapia's finger. It had to be. It certainly didn't belong to Andre Miller, whose skin was white as Wonder bread. Could Miller be el chacal?
Rosie shook her head as she turned her key in the lock. For a moment, she'd forgotten where she was. Now, she turned slowly to face the five men in front of the television. Five heads turned, five faces stared.
Without speed, Robot and Loco Montoya stood at the same time and moved toward her.
Roybal crossed his arms over his muscled chest and smiled.
Rosie gauged the distance between her position and the entrance to the cell block: forty, forty-five feet. She could hear the C.O.s talking, something about the dinner menu.
Chinga. She was getting too cocky, too stupid, letting her guard down. She could feel the tension emanating from the inmates—could see it in their bodies. Loco Montoya now stood two feet in front of her.
"What's up?" Montoya asked in a flat voice.
"Can we help?" A muscle in T. Bones's jaw twitched.
Rosie swallowed; her mouth was dry as dust.
"What'd you find in Miller's cell?" The voice sounded normal, almost friendly. Rosie's eyes shifted; the voice belonged to Elmer Rivak.
Loco Montoya said, "Maybe Miller had a recipe for quiche."
The men snickered. Loco Montoya stepped back and slid a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket.
"Yeah," Loco Montoya said. "Somebody shanked Miller 'cause his chow stunk so bad."
Stinky Gray had intensified his television tirade. "Hey, penis head, why don't you teach her to hula? Why don't you jus
t yank that flatulent tack? Yakkety-yak! Don't talk back, sweetheart."
Rosie heard footsteps approaching from behind. She stiffened and turned her head slightly. She saw the brown uniform of a correctional officer. Two more steps and the guard came into full view: C.O. Anderson.
Rosie breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Anderson said, "How's the game going?"
Since Rosie's entrance into CB-1, Stinky Gray's eyes hadn't left the television screen once. Now he turned and nodded to Anderson. "Going fine, but the price ain't never right."
JASPAR HELD ONE end of Rocko's leash, Rocko strained at the other end, and Sylvia grasped the middle. They merged with the procession that circled the baseball diamond in Train Park. Bundled up against the cold in parka, cap, mittens, and wool scarf, Jaspar resembled a short Santa Claus.
Maggie Hunt, director of A Dog's Life obedience school, circulated among her clients offering words of encouragement or clucking her displeasure. "Don't let him get away with that. Snap the leash. Release! Now say, good boy, and give treats, treats, treats!"
Sylvia leaned down to unwrap two layers of leash that had twined around Rocko's neck; she found herself looking into Jaspar's serious eyes. The child seemed more withdrawn than he had been at the petroglyphs. This morning, when Sylvia stopped to pick him up, Monica had quietly reported no changes in the frequency of bedwetting and bad dreams. Again, his mother had refused to accept a referral.
Sylvia directed child and dog across the grass. For now, she would go along with the supposition that Jaspar needed a friend more than he needed a therapist. Even so, she wasn't the best choice. Since last night, her thoughts had been on her encounter with Matt and the letter from Lucas.
While Sylvia's mind wandered, Rocko took advantage of the slack and lunged for a dalmatian. Maggie Hunt appeared, grabbed the leash, and snapped, "Uh!" In response, Rocko lifted his leg and peed very close to Maggie's loafer.
A man in his late twenties matched stride with Sylvia; she thought he was Maggie Hunt's assistant until he asked his first question. "Dr. Strange, how would you characterize your relationship with Lucas Watson?"
Sylvia came to a complete stop.
"Keep moving," Maggie Hunt commanded from center field.
Sylvia tapped Jaspar on the shoulder. "Can you handle Rocko?" He nodded. She gave him the baggie filled with sliced hot dogs, then stepped away from the circle. The man followed her.
"My name's Tony Vitino. I'm a reporter from the New Mexican."
"I know who you are."
"I hoped you'd return my phone calls."
Sylvia had been ignoring calls from journalists for weeks—queries about Watson's escape from St. Vincent's and the riot. She'd been relieved that media interest and coverage had finally died down. Or so she'd thought.
Vitino said, "Could we grab a cup of coffee? We should discuss why Lucas Watson went to your house after he escaped from St. Vincent's Hospital."
"There's nothing to discuss," Sylvia said, turning away.
"Did you and Lucas Watson have a sexual relationship?" Vitino pitched the question, and it hit Sylvia like a fastball from left field.
She turned and jabbed a finger toward his chest. "What?"
Vitino shook his head and kept talking as he stepped backward. "You gave Lucas Watson pictures of yourself. Would you describe them as intimate?"
Sylvia opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.
"I'm talking about the complaint lodged against you with the Board of Psychologist Examiners." He cocked his head and eyed her with a mix of surprise and pity. "You don't know about this?"
She made a mental grab for bearings and then forced herself into motion. "I have nothing to say." She caught up with Jaspar and took hold of Rocko's leash. Heading toward the car, both boy and dog had to trot to keep up with her. Jaspar kept his eye on Sylvia. "Are you mad at me?"
"Of course not, kiddo." She tried to keep her voice light. "I just remembered I have to do something urgent." She unlocked the car. "Buckle your seat belt, and let's find your mom."
Tony Vitino rapped on the window as she pulled out of the parking lot. His mouth was moving, but Sylvia couldn't hear him over the noise of the heater. How the hell could Lucas get photos of her? And why was a reporter telling her she had a complaint with the board of ethics? Albert Kove was the head of the state's Board of Psychologist Examiners, the very same board that investigated grievances, ethical and otherwise. She'd talked to him this morning, but he hadn't mentioned a word about a complaint. She didn't dwell on the fact that she was very close to a contract with Kove and Casias.
After she dropped Jaspar with Monica, Sylvia drove directly to Kove's office. He was scraping ice off the windshield of his Subaru when Sylvia slid the Volvo to a stop.
"Albert!" She stepped out of the car.
Kove turned and wiped his glasses with gloved fingers. "Sylvia?" He frowned. "What a madhouse today. Who says there's more domestic violence in hot weather?"
"We need to talk," Sylvia said.
"Tonight. I've got to be across town in ten minutes."
She could barely see his eyes behind fogged glasses. "Albert, is there a complaint against me?"
"This isn't the place to discuss it."
"Who filed it?" Sylvia asked. "I've got a right to know."
Albert Kove steadied himself on the hood of the Subaru and said, "It was filed this morning by Duke Watson."
"On what grounds?"
Kove opened his car door and spoke reluctantly. "Sexual misconduct."
"That's absurd. What possible evidence—"
"Photographs." Kove climbed into his car. He removed his glasses and gazed up at her bleary-eyed. "Watson claims you sent them to his son as part of an ongoing sexual relationship."
"You're taking this seriously? You think I'd seduce an inmate?" Her pulse was racing. "Does Duke Watson think I had sex with Lucas in his cell?"
"I'll see that you get copies." Kove started the Subaru's engine.
"Albert, this is crazy!" Sylvia watched the Subaru's rear tires spin on a patch of ice as Kove drove off. Rocko barked fiercely at the retreating vehicle.
She wasn't surprised when she didn't find Herb at the courthouse complex. At the modest stucco offices of Cox and Burnett, she parked behind his red-and-black Bronco that sported an ego plate: SF LAW. She ignored the receptionist's questioning look and strode down the short hallway to his office. She entered without knocking.
"Sylvia," Herb shifted his cowboy boots off the desk, leaned forward in his chair. He clicked off the dictaphone and ran a hand through curly hair. "Did I miss something? Did we have an appointment?"
"We do now." She ignored his gestured invitation to sit. "I want you to tell me exactly what Duke Watson gave to the Board of Psychologist Examiners."
Herb coughed "You know that's inappropriate. My client—"
"Show me the goddamn photos!"
Herb stared at her, opened his mouth, closed it, and shrugged. He pulled a manila envelope from a top drawer and slid it across the desktop. "These don't leave my office."
Sylvia forced herself not to turn away from him. She opened the envelope and pulled out four black and white eight-by-tens. They were all of her; in each, she was wearing her bathrobe, standing in her own kitchen brushing her hair, apparently smiling and talking to the camera. In the last photograph, she had her head forward, eyes cast down, and the robe was open exposing her breasts. Sylvia felt sick.
She put the pictures carefully back in the envelope and fastened the clasp. She set them on Herb's desk. In a hard voice, she demanded, "Who took these?"
Herb met her eyes and glanced away. "I think you can answer that question," he said.
She wanted to slap him. "Where did you get them?"
"They were with Lucas Watson's possessions."
"And how did they come into your possession, Herb?"
Herb stood. "Sylvia, I let you see the photos because I consider you a friend—"
"Those picture
s were taken by Duke Watson without my knowledge, without my permission. I'm not a lawyer, but it sounds like I can get him for invasion of privacy, harassment—I'll have a warrant sworn out. I'll hit him with a lawsuit. You tell him that!" She slammed glass doors behind her as she left the building.
By the time she reached her car, she had made up her mind to do some homework on Duke Watson. She glanced at her watch: 12:40. She could make it to Albuquerque in fifty minutes.
THE HOURS SYLVIA spent at the Albuquerque Journal's morgue were tedious but productive. She started with several stories on Watson's early political career. Jotting down notes, she scanned articles on his campaigns, his pledge to balance the state's economic and environmental demands, his efforts to modernize New Mexico's public schools. He was a champion of children's rights. A reformer. Unusual for a small-time politico. But Duke was different; for three decades he'd kept his eye on the big time.
A 1962 graduate of the University of New Mexico, Duke practiced business law in Albuquerque for several years. His political climb began after his marriage in 1970 to Lily Nash, daughter of a wealthy New Mexican land and cattle man. Sylvia found a nuptial announcement, but no photograph of the couple. Lily gave birth to two sons—Lucas Sharp Watson and William Nash Watson—within two years of the wedding.
Sylvia pushed away from the table and stretched. She wanted a cigarette and a long vacation. Even more, she wanted to know what had gone on in the Watson family for the next few years until Lily's death. Her imagination had always been potent, but it paled compared with what she'd seen in the course of her work. She could think of too many possible—and nasty—reasons why a young mother would leave two children behind in the wake of violent, self-inflicted death.
Lily Watson's suicide predated 1980 when all papers were catalogued and recorded on microfiche. But Sylvia eventually unearthed two articles among the stacks of old newspapers.
The suicide was covered in the Journal's morning edition on July 7, 1977, page four. The headline read: YOUNG MOTHER DIES. The short article reported that Lily Watson, wife and mother, had died two nights before between 6:30 P.M. and midnight. Her body was discovered the next morning by a caretaker. The medical examiner's office had not yet released the cause of death.