Read Online Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) by Sarah Lovett - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Lovett
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curled in a ball. "Look at this."
When Sylvia was standing by Rosie's side, she saw what her friend had noticed: a long, deep scrape ran the length of Benji's right forearm. She said, "That wasn't on the medical report."
Rosie murmured, "It's almost like Benji's haunted."
Sylvia said, "He is."
CHAPTER SIX
B RIGHTLY COLORED FOOD booths lined Santa Fe's downtown streets, and Sylvia had to dodge tourists and locals who lined up for burritos and Indian fry-bread on their lunch hour. A summer craft show overflowed the plaza. Costumed mariachi musicians filled a makeshift plywood stage, and traditional marriage songs blared from loudspeakers. On the brick street, two clown-faced jugglers on Rollerblades tossed water balloons. When a balloon splatted on the ground, wide-eyed children in the audience shrieked with pleasure. Sylvia found herself laughing out loud, and one of the painted jugglers winked a pie-eye as she passed by. Just forty-five minutes earlier, she had left the fire staging area, Benji Muñoz y Concha, and Rosie Sanchez.
But the city felt like a completely different world.
Sylvia stepped up to a red-and-white-flagged booth that advertised lamb stew and Navajo tacos. A woman with skin the color of chestnuts and eyes as soft as brown velvet took her order. Sylvia paid two dollars for a huge taco. It was hot and spicy, and she finished it as she walked the short blocks to the office.
It was noon; time for Kevin the Terrible.
"S HEE-IT ." K EVIN C HASE mouthed the profanity, and then tried to hide it behind a smile. "People don't like it when a guy like Anthony Randall gets away with rape and sodomy and whatnot." He glanced around Sylvia's office, knees jiggling. His eyes never settled: not on the white walls decorated simply with prints by local artists, not on the Taos-style couch, not on the heavy oak desk, and not —God forbid—on another human being.
Sylvia took a deep breath and tried to focus. The respite she'd gained on the plaza was gone. She was completely unsettled; her thoughts were all over the place. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm her senses. Her injured ribs ached.
She tried to ignore the fact that Matt had promised to call. She missed him. Anxiety accompanied her feelings of vulnerability. She wanted to drive straight home, fall into bed, and pull the covers over her head.
Instead, she faced her client, and reminded herself that she had ordered him to be here today or else .
A nineteen-year-old probationee. A petty thief about to graduate to hard-time. Cocksure and kid-stupid. Pissed off . Not scared enough. Not a clue. In her court-centered practice, Sylvia saw ten "Kevins" each month. Maybe one out of a hundred ended up with a real life.
Chase adjusted the 49ers cap on his head, tugged it down over his eyes. "See, that's why the dude was burned up and whatnot."
Sylvia groaned inwardly. The New Mexican wouldn't carry the story on Randall's murder until tomorrow's morning edition. But local radio and television stations had already run sound bites and footage. Kevin's feedback was just the beginning. Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sharp knock.
Sylvia stood, opened the door a crack, and found herself gazing at Kevin's legal guardian, Jackie Madden. The woman spoke softly. "I just wanted to make sure Kevin got here, so I drove him myself. Can I speak with you?"
Sylvia turned to Kevin and said, "Would you give us a minute?" When he nodded, she joined the other woman in the hall.
Jackie Madden had been appointed Kevin's guardian by California courts after his parents were killed in a commuter plane crash four years earlier. She had been the Chase family's neighbor and Kevin's church counselor. Madden was young—in her mid-twenties—but she was responsible.
Jackie kept her voice low and urgent. "Please,
When Sylvia was standing by Rosie's side, she saw what her friend had noticed: a long, deep scrape ran the length of Benji's right forearm. She said, "That wasn't on the medical report."
Rosie murmured, "It's almost like Benji's haunted."
Sylvia said, "He is."
CHAPTER SIX
B RIGHTLY COLORED FOOD booths lined Santa Fe's downtown streets, and Sylvia had to dodge tourists and locals who lined up for burritos and Indian fry-bread on their lunch hour. A summer craft show overflowed the plaza. Costumed mariachi musicians filled a makeshift plywood stage, and traditional marriage songs blared from loudspeakers. On the brick street, two clown-faced jugglers on Rollerblades tossed water balloons. When a balloon splatted on the ground, wide-eyed children in the audience shrieked with pleasure. Sylvia found herself laughing out loud, and one of the painted jugglers winked a pie-eye as she passed by. Just forty-five minutes earlier, she had left the fire staging area, Benji Muñoz y Concha, and Rosie Sanchez.
But the city felt like a completely different world.
Sylvia stepped up to a red-and-white-flagged booth that advertised lamb stew and Navajo tacos. A woman with skin the color of chestnuts and eyes as soft as brown velvet took her order. Sylvia paid two dollars for a huge taco. It was hot and spicy, and she finished it as she walked the short blocks to the office.
It was noon; time for Kevin the Terrible.
"S HEE-IT ." K EVIN C HASE mouthed the profanity, and then tried to hide it behind a smile. "People don't like it when a guy like Anthony Randall gets away with rape and sodomy and whatnot." He glanced around Sylvia's office, knees jiggling. His eyes never settled: not on the white walls decorated simply with prints by local artists, not on the Taos-style couch, not on the heavy oak desk, and not —God forbid—on another human being.
Sylvia took a deep breath and tried to focus. The respite she'd gained on the plaza was gone. She was completely unsettled; her thoughts were all over the place. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm her senses. Her injured ribs ached.
She tried to ignore the fact that Matt had promised to call. She missed him. Anxiety accompanied her feelings of vulnerability. She wanted to drive straight home, fall into bed, and pull the covers over her head.
Instead, she faced her client, and reminded herself that she had ordered him to be here today or else .
A nineteen-year-old probationee. A petty thief about to graduate to hard-time. Cocksure and kid-stupid. Pissed off . Not scared enough. Not a clue. In her court-centered practice, Sylvia saw ten "Kevins" each month. Maybe one out of a hundred ended up with a real life.
Chase adjusted the 49ers cap on his head, tugged it down over his eyes. "See, that's why the dude was burned up and whatnot."
Sylvia groaned inwardly. The New Mexican wouldn't carry the story on Randall's murder until tomorrow's morning edition. But local radio and television stations had already run sound bites and footage. Kevin's feedback was just the beginning. Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sharp knock.
Sylvia stood, opened the door a crack, and found herself gazing at Kevin's legal guardian, Jackie Madden. The woman spoke softly. "I just wanted to make sure Kevin got here, so I drove him myself. Can I speak with you?"
Sylvia turned to Kevin and said, "Would you give us a minute?" When he nodded, she joined the other woman in the hall.
Jackie Madden had been appointed Kevin's guardian by California courts after his parents were killed in a commuter plane crash four years earlier. She had been the Chase family's neighbor and Kevin's church counselor. Madden was young—in her mid-twenties—but she was responsible.
Jackie kept her voice low and urgent. "Please,
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