The Death Of Blue Mountain Cat Part 11

"The doc.u.ments are probably as authentic as any you'll find for artifacts in private hands." She sounded defiant. "Though that's not saying much."

"Think someone he sold one of these artificial antiques to went away mad?"

"No one knew about that-except whoever he was working with."

"Who?"

"I don't know. When I asked, he told me the less I knew the safer I'd be. I thought in case...I thought it was a tax thing or something." She sobbed, nearly choking. "Maybe Todd can tell you. He handled all David's business."

While they went over the story with her again, Caleb compared her to the a.s.sured individual he'd observed at the museum. He knew it was relatively easy for women to fake depression-they just had to leave off their makeup and let their hair go wild. But she hadn't faked the shock that night. And he didn't believe she was feigning now.

He thought about names. David meant beloved. And there were ancient peoples who believed that knowing someone's name gave you power over him. Even today, if you had a name, even an alias, you were a long way toward having the individual. Blue Mountain Cat. David had been catlike in some ways: Withdrawn, self-centered, and cruel, in an impersonal way.

"What was the significance of the name Blue Mountain Cat?" he asked her.

"I think Blue Mountain refers to Mount Taylor, one of the Navajos' four sacred mountains. David told me but I'm not sure- It wasn't important to me, so I didn't pay attention. I think blue-turquoise, actually-is the color of the south, one of the four sacred directions. And everything is either male or female. Turquoise is male. The cat part refers to a mountain lion-David liked to play with words that way. I have no idea why he chose a lion."

They didn't talk until they were in the car and Thinnes pulled it out in traffic.

"Well, Doc," Oster said. "What d'ya think?"

"It may be my Freudian training, but I find it curious that she never said she didn't know who killed her husband, just that she couldn't tell us."

"So, you think this grieving-widow act is phony?"

"No. And that makes it more curious. Her grief seems genuine." Caleb shook himself. "So I may be reading something into what's simply an awkward choice of words."

"Maybe," Thinnes said. "But cops tend to believe in Freudian slips, too."

Twenty-Eight.

As long as we've got you out of your office, Doctor," Thinnes said, "what say we make another stop? I'd like your opinion of the victim's mother." He glanced at Caleb in the rear-view and couldn't tell from his face what Caleb thought about it.

"Fine, as long as we're back to my office by twelve-thirty. I have an appointment at one."

Oster said, "What do we know about her?"

"I talked to three of her coworkers," Thinnes said. "She's a critical-care nurse at Weiss. According to everyone I talked to, an excellent employee, reserved, efficient, competent, and intelligent. Never talks about her personal life, though she sometimes mentions her son, the successful artist. Doesn't talk about her ex, either. Doesn't gossip, though she seems up to speed on what's going on around the hospital. She's good in a crisis. And her credit's in good shape. I checked."

"You know anything about her, Doc?" Oster asked.

"David told me his mother is Anglo-Irish," Caleb said, "with a stronger sense of her family's history than most third-generation immigrants. She was an army nurse when she met David's father, Harlan Bisti. He was a full-blooded Navajo. David said she was smitten with Bisti senior, in part, because of his strong tribal affiliation. But since her people simply took their tribes with them when they emigrated, she never understood how her husband's ident.i.ty was so tied to his people's real estate. She finally wrote him off as a drunk and divorced him."

"Did Bisti hold that against her?"

"Not that he'd admit."

Oster twisted around in his seat to look at Caleb as he asked, "So he got on well with his mother?"

"That's what he said."

"You believed him?"

"I didn't have any reason not to."

Anne Bisti had herself under control when she opened the door for them. She wasn't wearing makeup. She looked strung out. She looked her age. She stepped aside to let them into a pristine white apartment, with polished wood floors and few but expensive furnis.h.i.+ngs. One of David Bisti's naturalistic paintings-one Thinnes wouldn't have minded having in his own living room-hung over the couch that she invited them to sit on. Thinnes didn't correct her a.s.sumption that Caleb was also a cop.

"Tell us about Lauren," Thinnes said.

"They wouldn't let me see her. I heard on the news that she'd been hospitalized and-I'm her only family."

"How do you feel about your daughter-in-law?"

"She's a very sweet girl, very fond of David."

"They ever have any trouble?"

"Not that I know of. But let me be frank with you, Detective. My son wouldn't have told me, even if he was planning a divorce. He just wasn't the sort to discuss his personal life with anyone-not even his mother."

"What about his business affairs?"

"I was led to believe he was doing well. And, in any case, Lauren has enough money-" She swallowed hard-the first sign she'd showed of any emotion. "Had enough for both of them."

"Have you had any thoughts, since yesterday, about who might have wanted to kill your son?"

"No."

"Do you know a woman named Irene?" Oster asked.

"Irene what?"

"We were hoping you could tell us-an acquaintance of your son's."

"He was once involved with a Navajo girl by that name. Irene Yellow."

"Was? What happened?"

"He met Lauren."

"You know if Irene Yellow might be upset enough about that to harm your son?"

She thought about it, going inside her head to work it out. Finally she said, "She struck me as a realist. I imagine she'd have been furious at the time, but my impression was that she's some sort of neo-traditionalist. And the Navajos don't believe in killing. I think she'd have gotten over it by now."

Twenty-Nine.

After they dropped Caleb at his office, Oster and Thinnes stopped at McDonald's. Neither particularly liked eating there, so they brought their Big Macs back to the office. Thinnes signaled right for the Police Business Only parking lot east of headquarters for District Nineteen and Detective Area Three, which also housed the First Munic.i.p.al District Circuit Court. As he slowed to make the turn, a black Infiniti zoomed past on the left and cut back right to beat the Caprice into the lot.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" Oster said.

Thinnes said, "Find out who that son of a b.i.t.c.h is. I'm giving him a ticket."

"Right," Oster said-it had been years since he'd written a citation-but he did reach for the radio.

The Infiniti pulled along the curb dividing the drive from the plaza fronting the building, stopping across from the ugliest abstract sculpture north of the Pica.s.so.

"Cancel that," Thinnes said, as the driver got out and he recognized Todd Kent. "I'll just hit him up with murder one." He tapped the horn to get Kent's attention and held up a finger to indicate Kent should wait.

He did. While he waited, he lovingly inspected his car. When they got close enough for conversation, he asked, "Like it?"

Thinnes had long since noticed the high correlation between expensive cars and incompetent drivers. And, since the war on drugs had turned drug dealers from every walk of life into millionaires, pretentious displays of money didn't impress him. "Must be a b.i.t.c.h to park legally," he said.

Just for a second, Kent's face fell. Gotcha! Then he pasted his public-offering smile back in place.

Thinnes walked around the car, and Oster sidled up to the lawyer. "Don't mind my partner," he said, too fast and too loud. He lowered his voice to add, "He must'a got up on the wrong side of the wife this morning."

Thinnes wasn't supposed to have heard that.

"I think it's a beautiful car." Oster patted it with all the appreciation of a luxury-car salesman.

That was how it was done, how the game was played. Mutt and Jeff. Good cop, bad cop. Even big-shot lawyers who were expecting it didn't recognize all the variations.

Kent waited to get even until they were inside the building, crammed into one of District Nineteen's tiny interview rooms. When they'd taken off their coats, Thinnes studied the lawyer while Oster went to get coffee. Kent wore contacts. His coat, suit, and smile were as expensive as his car. And given his age and the absence of wrinkles, he must've had a face-lift. Thinnes wasn't impressed.

When Oster came back, Kent said, "I ought to file a complaint."

Oster made it a point to look hurt, though Thinnes figured he didn't have a clue, either, about what Kent was talking about. Thinnes crossed his hands over his chest, tucking his fingers into his armpits. He hitched one hip up on the edge of the table, so he was half sitting, half leaning over Kent. "Is that so? What for?"

"My wife told me you dragged her in here and interrogated her."

Yesterday. "And you rushed right over here to defend her honor." Before Kent could blow his stack over that crack, Thinnes went on. "No, Mr. Kent. We didn't interrogate your wife. We asked her to come here and answer some questions to help us find out who killed your partner. And we interviewed her. We only interrogate people we're reasonably sure did something wrong."

"She said you accused her of having an affair with David."

"I asked her if she'd had an affair." Close enough to what he'd actually asked.

"How dare you?"

"Come off it. You may not be the world's greatest mouthpiece, Counselor, but you know how the game's played."

"And you know I've got the connections to make your life miserable."

"Okay. Now that we've gotten the strutting and posing out of the way, let's get to the point."

"Which is?"

"You didn't share Bisti's feelings about Harrison Wingate, did you?"

Kent seemed surprised. "What are you trying to say?"

It was a bit sudden change of direction. "You were seen yucking it up with him at the museum that night. It doesn't quite jive with the little scene Wingate played with Bisti just before he died."

"Well, some of that was just hype. You know-David's shtick. It's every artist's fervent hope he'll be banned in Boston. Or denounced by anyone with a following, any place with an active media."

"You saying he staged the fight with Wingate?"

"No. Of course not. But I wouldn't have put it past him to have done the installation, then invited Wingate just for the free publicity Wingate's reaction would generate."

"You tell that to Wingate?"

"Why would I? He's old enough to look out for himself."

"So, what were you talking about?"

"I don't recall."

It was a challenge. Prove it. With Bisti dead and Wingate as uncooperative as Kent, there wasn't a thing Thinnes could do.

"I think I'd like to leave, now," Kent added. He turned to Oster. "Would you be good enough to fetch my coat?"

"Nothin' I'd like better," Oster said. He made it sound like someone had just offered to take out the garbage.

Kent turned back to Thinnes. "By the way, I did an inventory, yesterday, of the pieces we had at the museum. We're missing an Anasazi bowl. Black and white. Indian designs. Andrews said your people took it. It's worth a lot of money."

"How much?"

"I don't know, exactly. Probably something close to what a cop makes in a year."

Thirty.