“Can you think of anyone who’d do this?”
“No,” said Reed. “Absolutely not. Larry was beloved.”
“Popular, huh?”
“More than popular. Beloved.”
“Still,” said Katz, “sometimes you run into difficult people.”
“If Larry did, I don’t know about it.”
“He didn’t talk business with you?”
“No,” said Reed. “That wasn’t my role.”
“Who works at the gallery?”
“Just Larry and one assistant. Larry was trying to streamline.”
“Financial problems?”
“No, of course not.” Reed gulped. “At least none that I knew of, and Larry didn’t seem to be worried or anything like that. Just the opposite. He was talking about buying more land. So he must’ve been doing okay.”
“Land where?”
Reed shook his head.
Darrel said, “What’s the assistant’s name?”
“Summer Riley.”
Katz remembered the name from the Palm Pilot. “Where does she live?”
“In the guesthouse out back.”
The detectives said nothing, both of them wondering what lay behind the guesthouse door.
Darrel said, “Did Larry receive any threats you’re aware of?”
Reed shook his head.
“Hang-up calls, weird mail, anything like that?”
Three more headshakes.
“Nothing out of the ordinary?” said Katz. “Especially within the last few weeks?”
“Nothing,” Reed insisted. “Larry’s life was tranquil.”
“Tranquil,” said Two Moons.
“I’m talking compared to his New York days,” said Reed. “He adored Santa Fe. Once he told me his original plan had been to spend just a few months here, but he came to love it so much that he decided to make it his primary residence. He was even talking about closing up one of the New York galleries.”
“Which one?” said Katz.
“Pardon?”
“He had two, right?”
“Yes,” said Reed. “The one in Chelsea.”
“West 21st—contemporary art,” said Katz.
Reed’s eyes were wide with surprise. “You’ve been there?”
“I used to live in New York. So Mr. Olafson was thinking of downsizing.”
“I don’t know for sure, but he mentioned it.”
“When?”
“Hmm . . . a month ago maybe.”
“What was the context?” said Katz.
“The context?”
“He didn’t usually talk business with you.”
“Oh,” said Reed. “Well, this wasn’t business. It was more . . . Larry was in a good mood, kind of . . . talkative . . . reflective about life. We were out on the portal—nighttime. Back when we had that warm spell?”
“Yeah, a month ago,” Two Moons said. More like a century ago in winter hours.
“Where was I?” Reed asked.
“The portal,” Katz clued him in.
“Yes, right,” said Reed. “The portal. Larry was waiting for his dinner. Drinking wine. I’d cooked halibut in an olive sauce and penne with pistachios. After I brought the food to the table, Larry asked me to sit down and share with him. It had been a long day. Anastasia had some stomach problems. Larry said I deserved a break. So I sat and he poured me some wine and we chatted.” Reed sighed. “It was a really clear night, all those stars. Larry said he felt spiritual in a way he’d never experienced back East.” The young man’s lip quivered. “Now this. I can’t believe—”
“Closing up a gallery,” said Katz. “What would that have meant for the artists he represented?”
Reed tried to shrug. Being the filling in a detective sandwich checked his movement. “I guess they’d find new representation.”
“Except for the ones who couldn’t,” said Katz. “It’s like that in the art world, right? C students versus A students. Some would have found themselves with no representation.”
Reed stared at him. “I guess.”
“You an artist?”
“No, no way, can’t draw a straight line. I’m a cook. I trained to be a chef at the CIA—the Culinary Institute, up in the Hudson Valley—but mostly, I ended up being a cook. Actually, I ended up doing kitchen grunt work for minimum wage at Le Bernardin and places like that. So when Larry offered me a job in Santa Fe, I leaped at the opportunity.”
“How’d Mr. Olafson find you?”
“I was daylighting for a very high-end caterer, but I could tell you stories . . . Anyway, Larry threw a Sunday brunch at the gallery. I suppose I passed muster with the guests. The smoked pineapple and habanero-spiced prawns didn’t hurt, either.” Small smile. “He said he liked the way I handled myself.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Three months.”
“Enjoy it?”
“It’s been heaven.” Reed broke down and caught his breath long enough to plead for another tissue.
Another half hour of questioning proved unproductive. Reed denied a personal relationship with his boss, but he wasn’t convincing. Katz caught Two Moons’s knowing glance over the top of the houseboy’s head.
Run him through the system before we let him go.
But neither of them felt it would amount to much. When the houseboy’s preliminary arrest search came back clean, except for a speeding ticket two months ago on Highway 25 just outside of Albuquerque, no one was surprised. Reed was boy-sized, and the only way he could’ve smacked Olafson level across the head was if he’d stood on a ladder.
Not to mention wielding a heavy rounded instrument.
It was time to join the search for that.
Probably another dead end.
Katz and Two Moons stuck around for another hour and a half, supervising the boundaries of the cordon and the setting up of the night spots, working with three additional uniforms and two techs in the search of the property. A good chunk of Santa Fe PD’s force was here. It was the first homicide for all the uniforms, and no one wanted to screw up.
They forced open the lock on the guesthouse door. No body inside, just a messy one-room studio. Summer Riley’s personal effects, some weed and a bong in a nightstand drawer, an easel and a paint box in the kitchen, a bunch of really bad oils—crooked, ugly women rendered muddily—propped against the walls. On her bed was a pile of dirty clothes.
Two Moons found Summer Riley’s cell phone number in Olafson’s Palm Pilot, called her up, and got her voice mail. Sensitive guy that he was, he left a message for her to come home because the boss was dead.
It was Katz who found the murder weapon, lying under a creeping juniper, just off the pathway that led to the guesthouse.
No attempt to conceal. The thing had rolled to a low spot in the garden.
Big chrome ball-peen hammer, the size of a motorcycle engine, streaked lightly with pink stains—the faint adherence that Dr. Ruiz had predicted. Couple of brain fragments on the peen. Precisely the wide, round surface that Ruiz had described.
Three techs struggled to bag and tag the hammer. Huge and cumbersome, it had to weigh sixty, seventy pounds. Meaning a very strong bad guy, even factoring in the adrenaline rush.
“Killed by art,” said Darrel. “Wasn’t there some guy, some painter, who once said his goal was to create a painting where you’d look at it and drop dead?”
“Never heard of that,” said Katz.
“I learned it in class. The guy had a weird name—Man something.”
“Man Ray?”
“That’s the one.”
“You took art?” said Katz.
“Art history,” said Darrel. “In college. Because it was easy.”
“Learn anything?”
“That I liked seriously pretty stuff as much as anyone, but seriously studying it was ridiculous.”
“It’s like everything else,” said Katz. “God gives us good stuff and we make it complicated.”
&nb
sp; Darrel glanced at him “You’re religious now?”
“I was talking . . . metaphorically.”
“Ah,” said Two Moons. “Well, the big metaphor tonight is ‘dead as a doornail.’ Any ideas?”
“Check out his house,” said Katz. “Get hold of his phone records, find Summer Riley and see what she knows, talk to the ex-wife in New York, or wherever she is, learn more about Olafson’s business. That ForestHaven deal, too. Be interesting to see what the ranchers he sued have to say.”
“Sounds like a comprehensive plan, Steve.”
They headed for the car.
Darrel said, “Way I see it, we’ll be looking for enemies in all the right places. Something tells me we’re going to be real busy.”
Just as they were about to drive off, one of the uniforms said, “Look who’s here.”
Headlights flashed, then dimmed as a squad car drove up. Chief Shirley Bacon got out wearing a navy-blue knit pantsuit under a long black shearling coat, her dark hair piled and sprayed high, more makeup on her face than she ever wore at the station.
She was compact and open-faced, a forty-eight-year-old former teacher, daughter of a county sheriff and the sister of a state cop, another sheriff, and a probation officer. She’d started out playing the violin, ended up giving music lessons and working as a secretary at the opera while hoping for better. A broken hand at age thirty-five had sent her to the department as a secretary. One thing led to another and she joined SFPD.
She’d climbed fast by being smart and able, had made it to chief last year. She treated her officers with respect, got a sixty-mile vehicle take-home policy passed on their squad cars, and pushed through a salary raise in an era of budget-cutting. No one begrudged her a damn thing, no one thought about her gender.
She headed straight for them.
“Darrel, Steve.”
“Big night out, boss?” said Katz.
“Fund-raiser. The Indian Art Foundation, Dr. and Mrs. Haskell’s place, up on Circle Drive. What’s the story here?”
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 shift’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 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.
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 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 assaulted 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 L
arry 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 passenger 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.
Double Homicide Page 13