Double Homicide Part 18

They told her as she grimaced. She said, "This could go in all sorts of directions. I'll deal with the papers. Keep me posted."

Within moments, the chief's deputy, Lon Maguire, showed up in his off-duty truck, and soon after that, Lieutenant Almodovar joined the huddle.

No ideas from the bosses. But no anxiety or criticism, either. During Katz's three years with the department, he'd been impressed by the lack of backbiting and barely suppressed anger. All that good stuff he'd dealt with in New York. Then again, NYPD dealt with more homicides weekly than he'd seen in three years here.

Chief Bacon gave them a simple wave, then turned to leave.

"Back to the party, boss?" asked Katz.

"Heck no, that was about as boring as it gets." She shouted as she walked away, "But next time give me a simpler way to excuse myself!"

At 2:53, nearly an hour past s.h.i.+ft's end, just as they were about to leave for Olafson's house, they spotted a good-looking young couple standing outside the cordon, at the far end, talking to Officer Randolph Loring.

They headed over and Loring said, "This is Ms. Riley. She lives out in back."

Summer Riley was raven-haired and ivory-skinned with a curvy shape even her bulky ski jacket couldn't conceal. Her big blue eyes were as scared as a cornered rabbit's. Katz put her at late twenties.

The denim-clad guy with her was tall, dark, handsome in that Latin-lover type of way. Brown wavy hair that fell past his shoulder blades and a pale, strong-boned face. Equally freaked-out.

Katz thought: This could be a Calvin Klein ad. Even the fear. Especially Especially the fear. the fear.

Summer Riley hadn't picked up Two Moons's message. She was just returning from a date. Darrel gave her the same straight-out story he'd told her machine, and she collapsed into the young guy's arms. He held her, looking awkward. Stroked her hair with all the vitality of a robot.

His name was Kyle Morales, and he was a UNM dance major who worked part-time at the flamenco show over at the Radisson. He was on hiatus until spring of next year.

Katz had seen the show, sitting alone at the back of the room with the single Tanqueray and tonic he allowed himself. Slightly apart from the rest of the audience, whose mean age had been about sixty-five.

He'd been pleasantly surprised by the show: good dancers, good guitar work. He said so to Kyle Morales.

Morales said, "Thanks," without any feeling.

When Katz said, "How about we talk to you guys separately?" Morales complied without fuss.

Darrel guided Summer Riley through the cordon, over to the guesthouse, while Katz stayed right there with Morales.

It was the second time Morales had gone out with Summer. He'd met her at a bar on San Francisco Street, thought she was "cool." He had no idea who Lawrence Olafson was and knew less than nothing about art.

"Second date," said Katz.

"The first was just drinks, kinda," said Morales.

"What about tonight?"

"Tonight we saw a comedy over at the DeVargas Center."

"Funny?" said Katz.

"Yeah," said Morales, not even trying to fake it. A dancer, not an actor.

"Then what?"

"Then we got a pizza. Then we were headed back here."

"First time at her place?"

"Supposed to be." Uttered with regret.

Tough luck, thought Katz. All chance of getting laid blown to bits by the nasty business of murder.

He questioned Morales awhile longer, deciding the guy wasn't very bright. Just another wrong place, wrong time situation.

"Okay, you're free to go."

Morales said, "I thought maybe once she was finished with you guys, we could still hang out."

"You can take your chances and wait," said Katz, thumbing the cordon tape, "but talking from experience, buddy, it's gonna get real cold."

In the end, Morales decided to pack it in. Katz joined Two Moons and Summer Riley in the single-room guesthouse. Added to the previous disarray was a layer of print powder. The girl was drying her tears. It was hard to say if that was because of the situation or Darrel's sensitive approach-or both.

Darrel said, "Ms. Riley doesn't know anyone who'd want to harm Mr. Olafson."

"He was wonderful," sniffled Summer. sniffled Summer.

Darrel didn't respond and the girl said, "Like I said, you really need to check if any of the art's missing."

"Robbery," said Darrel, using his flat voice.

"It's possible," said Summer. "Larry is is the top dealer in Santa Fe, and he's got some pretty expensive pictures in the gallery." the top dealer in Santa Fe, and he's got some pretty expensive pictures in the gallery."

"O'Keeffe?"

"No, not at this time," said Summer defensively. "But we've sold several of them in the past."

"What's pricey now?"

"There's a gorgeous Henry Sharp Indian and some Berninghauses and a Thomas Hill. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but they're valuable pictures."

"Sharp and Berninghaus were Taos masters," said Katz. "I didn't know Hill painted New Mexico."

Summer's head drew back as if his knowledge had a.s.saulted her. "He didn't. It's a California scene."

"Ah."

"They're pricey. Six figures each."

"And he kept them in the gallery?" asked Katz.

"Except for what he takes home," said Summer, staying in the present tense.

"For his personal use?"

"He circulates art in his house. He inherently loves the art and also to have around for visitors."

"A sample," said Katz.

The young woman looked at him as if he'd uttered a vulgarity.

Darrel said, "Where in the gallery are these masterpieces stored?"

"With all the other pictures," said Summer. "In the storage room. It's got a special lock and alarm, and only Larry has the combination."

"Do you mean the back room?" asked Two Moons. "The one with all those vertical racks?"

Summer nodded.

The detectives had walked right in. The door had been left open. Katz realized he hadn't even noticed the lock. "Where would we find an inventory list?"

"On Larry's home computer," said Summer. "Also, I keep a written log for backup. I'm real good at organizing. That's why Larry likes me."

The state of her room said otherwise, but who knew.

Then Katz thought: She hadn't even bothered to clean up before bringing Kyle Morales back. Maybe her plans had been different from Morales's.

He asked her about the dancer. Her story matched Morales's.

Katz said, "So you and Kyle were headed back here."

Summer said, "He was taking me home." She tossed her hair and blushed. "That was it. I wasn't going to see him again."

"Bad date?"

"Boring. He's not bright."

Metallic edge to her voice. This one could be tough.

"The artist who made the hammer-Miles D'Angelo," said Katz. "What can you tell us about him?"

"Miles? He's eighty-three and lives in Tuscany."

"Mr. Olafson have any conflict with him?"

"With Miles?" Summer smirked. "He's the gentlest man alive. He loved Larry."

Two Moons said, "We'll need a look at your log."

"Sure," said Summer. "It's back in the gallery. In Larry's desk."

The detectives hadn't seen anything like that.

They returned to Olafson Southwest, where the girl pointed to the drawer. Darrel gloved up and slid it open.

Papers but no log.

"It's not there," said Summer Riley. "It's supposed to be there."

3.

By 3:10, Katz was at the wheel of the Crown Victoria with Two Moons silent in the pa.s.senger seat. They were headed north up Bishop's Lodge Road toward Tesuque, a flat and tree-shrouded village, an odd mix of horse estates and mobile homes, some nice-view houses of all sizes studding the hills that rimmed the town. The population was movie stars and financial types playing absentee rancher, artists and sculptors and horse people, the blue-collar Hispanics and Indians who'd been Tesuque's original residents. And then there were a few truly weird loners who skulked into the Tesuque Market to buy organic veggies and beer, only to disappear for weeks.

The kind of mix Katz would've thought volatile, but like the rest of Santa Fe, Tesuque stayed pretty calm.

The sky was jammed with stars-awash in diamond light-and the air smelled of juniper and pinon and horse manure. Lawrence Olafson's place was on a narrow dirt road well beyond the town limits, at the far, high end of the Los Caminitos tract, a posh neighborhood of big, pretty adobe dream houses on five-to-fifteen-acre lots.

No streetlights since they'd left the Plaza, and out here the darkness was a thick, tangible fudge. Even with high beams, the address was easy to miss: discreet copper numerals on a single stone post. Katz overshot, backed up, continued up the sloping drive, slick with patches of frozen water. Five hundred feet of dirt road swooped through a snow-topped pinon corridor. There was no sign of the house until the third turn, but when you saw it, you saw it.

Three stories of rounded angles, free-form walls, and what looked to be a half dozen open patios along with an equal number of covered portales. portales. Pale and monumental against a mountain backdrop, lit subtly by the moon and the stars and low-wattage lighting, it was ringed by a sea of native gra.s.s and globules of cactus, dwarf spruce, and leafless aspen branches that s.h.i.+vered in the wind. Pale and monumental against a mountain backdrop, lit subtly by the moon and the stars and low-wattage lighting, it was ringed by a sea of native gra.s.s and globules of cactus, dwarf spruce, and leafless aspen branches that s.h.i.+vered in the wind.

For all its size, the place was a harmonious fit with the environment, rising out of sand and rock and scrub like a natural formation.

Officer Debbie Santana's cruiser sat in front of the quadruple garage that formed the house's lowest level. It was parked perpendicular, blocking two and a half garage doors. Katz left the unmarked several yards away, and he and Two Moons got out and stepped onto crunchy gravel.

A climb up twenty stone steps took them past a river of shrubs to ma.s.sive double doors hewn from wood that looked ancient. Nailhead borders, hardware of hand-hammered iron. Above the door a carved plank: HAVEN. HAVEN.

Darrel pushed at the door, and they stepped into an entry hall bigger than Katz's entire apartment. Flagstone floors, twenty-foot ceilings, some kind of free-form gla.s.s chandelier that he figured might be a Chihuly, peach-blush walls of diamond plaster, gorgeous art, gorgeous furniture.

Beyond the entry was a step-down great room with an even higher ceiling and walls that were mostly gla.s.s. Officer Santana sat on a tapestry sofa next to Sammy Reed. Reed had gone from weepy to numb.

Darrel said, "Nice place. Let's tear it apart."

They spent the next three hours going over six thousand square feet. Learning plenty about Olafson, but nothing that told them a thing about the murder.

A Jaguar sedan, green and sleek, resided in the garage, along with an old white Austin Healey and a red Alfa Romeo GTV. Olafson's Land Rover had been ID'd in the driveway of the gallery.

They pawed through closets full of expensive clothes, mostly with New York labels. Bankbooks and brokerage accounts said Olafson was more than solvent. Gay and straight p.o.r.no was stacked neatly in a locked drawer of the media room. Plenty of bookshelves in the leather-walled study, but very few books-mostly coffee-table numbers on art and decorating, and biographies of royals. The borzoi, huge and fleecy white, slept through it all.

Art was everywhere, too much to take in during a single visit, but one painting in the great room caught Katz's eye: two naked children dancing around a maypole. The pastel tints were of a mellow summer. The kids were around three and five, with fluffy yellow hair, dimpled b.u.t.tocks, and cherub faces. Given the sappy theme, it could've been poster art, but the painter was skillful enough to elevate the image. Katz decided he liked it and checked the signature. Some guy named Michael Weems.

Two Moons said, "Think we should look for kiddie p.o.r.n?"

That took Katz by surprise, shook him a bit. He checked his partner's face for irony.

"Eye of the beholder," said Two Moons, and he headed for Olafson's desktop computer.