Read Online Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) by Sarah Lovett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Lovett
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the office door and took the stairs of the Forensic Evaluation Unit two at a time. The courtyard of the Diego Building was filled with apricot trees, thick green cornstalks, cosmos in rainbow colors, and petunias. Water gurgled from a stone Spanish-style fountain in the courtyard's center, then flowed through narrow acequias , water channels, that fed the garden. The soft sound was refreshing. A quick breeze stirred the residual tang of smoke, which mingled with the Russian olive tree's scent like that of fresh-cut lemons.
In the office parking lot, Sylvia ran her index finger along the Volvo's trunk. When she examined her hand, the tip of the dusty finger showed a perfectly defined print, an accidental whorl pattern. Ash from the Jemez fire had coated the city, and everything glowed with a faint orange hue. Sylvia rubbed thumb against finger just as a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder. She spun around. It took her a moment to recognize the F.B.I. agent's familiar features.
M ATT SENT THE Cock 'n' Bull's lady bartender a sleepy—and he hoped halfway sexy—smile. The Pojoaque watering hole was a down and dirty party spot for drug dealers, bikers, and your everyday working stiffs. The bartender looked like she could hoist her Harley overhead, one-handed. In contrast to her strapping body, she had a delicate, heart-shaped face.
She reminded Matt of a bartender he'd known in Enid, Oklahoma, when he was a sheriff. More than twenty years ago. He kept his voice soft. "So Kiki . . . that's a pretty name. Kiki. What about yesterday?"
Kiki lit a hand-rolled cigarette and inhaled so deep that the smoke went all the way to her toes. She washed down the nicotine with a shot of Black Jack. "I wasn't here. Got a day off for once." Her sweet mouth pulled into a smile. She set down the almost empty shot—but not the cigarette—and picked up a damp rag with her free hand. She began to wipe down the rough pine bar with a steady stroke.
Matt thought about the stark contrast—this bar and the home of Flora Escudero and her family. He'd visited the Escudero residence on his way to the bar. Criminal Agent Terry Osuna had been there, too. They'd both had a long talk with Flora's mother and older brother. Their home was small, meticulously and lovingly kept, and filled with objects that symbolized their faith in God: paintings and statues of the Madonna, Jesus on the cross, and various saints; an ornate, leather-bound Bible.
But it wasn't the religious effects that convinced the investigators that Flora's immediate family was not involved in Randall's murder. It was the fact that they had spent the night in a hospital waiting room while Flora Escudero had aspirin and Valium pumped from her stomach after a suicide attempt. Matt's heart went out to the girl and her family.
Still, there were probably a hundred Escuderos who were more or less related to Flora's family, and they did not all have alibis to cover the hours of Randall's kidnapping and murder. Terry Osuna and Matt were both convinced the crime was one of revenge that could be traced back to la familia .
Now Matt leaned closer, nosing the bar with his cowboy boots. "You ever take your bike out by Little Peaks?" He kept his breath shallow. The sour stink of rubber bar mats and margarita mix was close to lethal.
"Yeah." This time Kiki's smile was shy. "You?"
He nodded. "My buddy's got a three-fifty trail bike and I put her through her paces."
Kiki gave up on wiping the bar. She raised a soda gun in her right hand. "You want something? Pepsi? Seven-Up? A beer?"
"I'll take one of your smokes." He'd been able to lay off cigarettes a few years ago, but the inevitable replacement was a tin of Copenhagen. He was trying to break the habit. In a pinch, he still smoked the odd cigarette. Like now.
Kiki shrugged, secretly pleased, and went to work with
In the office parking lot, Sylvia ran her index finger along the Volvo's trunk. When she examined her hand, the tip of the dusty finger showed a perfectly defined print, an accidental whorl pattern. Ash from the Jemez fire had coated the city, and everything glowed with a faint orange hue. Sylvia rubbed thumb against finger just as a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder. She spun around. It took her a moment to recognize the F.B.I. agent's familiar features.
M ATT SENT THE Cock 'n' Bull's lady bartender a sleepy—and he hoped halfway sexy—smile. The Pojoaque watering hole was a down and dirty party spot for drug dealers, bikers, and your everyday working stiffs. The bartender looked like she could hoist her Harley overhead, one-handed. In contrast to her strapping body, she had a delicate, heart-shaped face.
She reminded Matt of a bartender he'd known in Enid, Oklahoma, when he was a sheriff. More than twenty years ago. He kept his voice soft. "So Kiki . . . that's a pretty name. Kiki. What about yesterday?"
Kiki lit a hand-rolled cigarette and inhaled so deep that the smoke went all the way to her toes. She washed down the nicotine with a shot of Black Jack. "I wasn't here. Got a day off for once." Her sweet mouth pulled into a smile. She set down the almost empty shot—but not the cigarette—and picked up a damp rag with her free hand. She began to wipe down the rough pine bar with a steady stroke.
Matt thought about the stark contrast—this bar and the home of Flora Escudero and her family. He'd visited the Escudero residence on his way to the bar. Criminal Agent Terry Osuna had been there, too. They'd both had a long talk with Flora's mother and older brother. Their home was small, meticulously and lovingly kept, and filled with objects that symbolized their faith in God: paintings and statues of the Madonna, Jesus on the cross, and various saints; an ornate, leather-bound Bible.
But it wasn't the religious effects that convinced the investigators that Flora's immediate family was not involved in Randall's murder. It was the fact that they had spent the night in a hospital waiting room while Flora Escudero had aspirin and Valium pumped from her stomach after a suicide attempt. Matt's heart went out to the girl and her family.
Still, there were probably a hundred Escuderos who were more or less related to Flora's family, and they did not all have alibis to cover the hours of Randall's kidnapping and murder. Terry Osuna and Matt were both convinced the crime was one of revenge that could be traced back to la familia .
Now Matt leaned closer, nosing the bar with his cowboy boots. "You ever take your bike out by Little Peaks?" He kept his breath shallow. The sour stink of rubber bar mats and margarita mix was close to lethal.
"Yeah." This time Kiki's smile was shy. "You?"
He nodded. "My buddy's got a three-fifty trail bike and I put her through her paces."
Kiki gave up on wiping the bar. She raised a soda gun in her right hand. "You want something? Pepsi? Seven-Up? A beer?"
"I'll take one of your smokes." He'd been able to lay off cigarettes a few years ago, but the inevitable replacement was a tin of Copenhagen. He was trying to break the habit. In a pinch, he still smoked the odd cigarette. Like now.
Kiki shrugged, secretly pleased, and went to work with
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