Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) by Sarah Lovett Read Free Book Online Page B

cologne. Gausser swore it was the best way to mask the stench of the dead. The criminalist's theory was that somehow the cologne's fragrance chemically bonded with one of the world's most loathsome odors; the result was at least tolerable for inhalation.
          Matt offered the bottle to Sylvia. She shook her head and kept one arm crossed beneath her breasts. Matt wasn't sure she should be here, but she hadn't asked for his opinion. The call had come in somewhere after four-thirty A.M .: a body discovered by a firefighter in the Jemez Mountains. It didn't take a genius to figure out the dead man might be Anthony Randall.
          Inside the scene perimeter, Matt took a breath, stepped close to Gausser, and pointed a gloved hand toward what remained of Randall's right arm.
          "Bindings," Gausser said.
          To Matt's surprise, Sylvia slipped under the perimeter tape and squatted next to Gausser. She lowered the bandanna from her nose. Her eyes were invisible behind dark glasses. She was thinking of the image on the Polaroid. She said, "I'm guessing the castration was premortem."
          Gausser said, "Again, I won't be able to tell you until we get the autopsy report."
          "No. But it looks like this killer—or killers—wanted to inflict pain."
          "Payback for rape." Matt stared down at the swollen torso, the burned thighs.
          "Flora Escudero's family?" Gausser wiped his upper arm across his forehead and gazed down at Randall's corpse. "If he'd raped my daughter, I'd think about doing something like this."
          Silently, Matt agreed. When you made a career of law enforcement, you faced the fact early on that the bad guys got away with murder . . . and rape. If someone you loved was a victim, it could be easy to take the next step, make your own justice.
          Criminal Agent Terry Osuna was the D.P.S. investigating officer on this one—she'd been out at the scene earlier, working with the special agent from the U.S. Forest Service. When Osuna questioned Flora Escudero's family later today, Matt would make it a point to be there.
          Gausser said, "How are your tomatoes doing, Matt?"
          "My first Cherokee Purple is about ready to pick."
          "You promised me a basketful."
          "They'll produce until October first. You'll get your fill of tomatoes."
          "You ought to get Sylvia to put them up for you." Gausser winked.
          "Right." Matt looked down at Sylvia, who wasn't taking her eyes from Randall's body. He tried to picture her in an apron slaving over 180-degree water and a canning kettle.
          Matt let his gaze slide slowly over the damaged corpse. His detachment and curiosity never managed to block out quite enough. People who died of unnatural causes often wore the same disappointed expression, as if they had known their last moment was imminent, felt the injustice, but were too weary to protest. But Randall's corpse had the face of a macabre jester: his lips had burned back to reveal a grotesque smile, his skin was pulp, his eye sockets blackened and empty.
          Matt turned away from the body and listened to the distant throb of helicopter rotors above the noise of the wind. The fire crew was dumping water and retardants on the last of the burn just a mile west of the scene.
          Sylvia stood and closed her eyes. Matt reached out a protective arm. She stiffened, then moved out of reach. It took him a moment to realize that he'd grazed the wound on her rib cage. He felt clumsy and inept.
          His frustration transformed into desire for action. He wanted to nail her attacker, tear him apart, make him hurt. At this instant, Matt didn't pretend to be broken up by Randall's death—he could almost believe that somebody had done law enforcement a favor—but he hated the idea that Sylvia was involved in this mess, that she'd been hurt. And, ultimately, it sickened him that another killer