Double Homicide

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I’m astonished that you’d even consider Mom and Dad in that context.”

  “We don’t, sir,” said Katz. “We’re just making inquiries.”

  “Isn’t one persecution enough? They were destroyed financially and emotionally, and now you suspect them of something that horrible? Unbelievable. You’d be well advised to focus your efforts elsewhere.”

  “When’s the last time you’ve been out to Santa Fe, Mr. Skaggs?”

  “Me? Last Christmas. Why?”

  “So you haven’t been in regular contact with your parents.”

  “I certainly am in regular contact. We talk regularly.”

  “But no visits out here?”

  “I just told you, last Christmas. We spent a week—I brought my family. Now, why is that—”

  “I’m just wondering,” said Katz, “if you ever met Lawrence Olafson.”

  Several beats passed before Barton Skaggs Jr. said, “Never. Why would I?” He laughed harshly. “This has to be the most inane conversation I’ve had in a long time. And I do believe I’m going to terminate it right now.”

  “Sir,” said Darrel, “I’m kind of curious about one thing. Your folks were destroyed financially. From what I saw, they’re living pretty down-and-out. Now, you, on the other hand—”

  “Make a lot of money,” Junior snapped. “Live on the North Shore. Drive a Mercedes. Send my kids to private school. You think I haven’t tried to help them? I even offered to bring them out here, set them up in a nice condo, all expenses paid, though Lord only knows how they’d handle the city. I would’ve bought them a new place anywhere in New Mexico, somewhere they could keep some animals and left-wing lunatics wouldn’t harass them. They refused.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Junior sounded incredulous. “You’ve met them. Surely you can’t be that . . . that imperceptive. Why do you think? They’ve got pride. They’re stubborn. Or maybe it’s just plain old stick-in-the-mud inertia. They’re the parents, I’m the kid, they raised me, ergo, I take from them. It can’t be the other way around. Now, for God’s sake, leave them alone. Let them be.”

  The detectives spent the next couple of hours trying to learn if Barton Skaggs Jr. had made any recent trips to Santa Fe. The task was a lot harder post-September 11; airlines were skittish, so their inquiries got mired down in gobs of red tape. Being transferred from department to department, getting hot ear from the phone’s receiver. In the end, Katz and Two Moons came away pretty well convinced Skaggs hadn’t flown from Chicago to Albuquerque or from any other Midwest city to any other New Mexico city. Nor had he taken any private flights directly to the Santa Fe airport. None of the major hotels had his name on their ledgers.

  “I believe him,” Two Moons announced.

  “Hey,” said Katz, “maybe he drove out West in the Mercedes. Living in his car. All that leather would make for cushy digs.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” Katz asked.

  “Just don’t think so.”

  “Some spirit talking to you, Darrel?”

  “More like I don’t see him leaving his job and family to barrel down to Santa Fe to whack Olafson. And why now? None of that makes any sense. There’s gotta be a better explanation.”

  “So you tell me,” Katz said.

  “I would if I knew.” Two Moons scratched his head. “Now what?”

  Katz scratched his head, too. The mannerism was catching. He said, “Let’s call Doc and see if he’s done the autopsy.”

  Ruiz had finished the postmortem, but he had nothing new to tell them.

  “Everything fits with my initial hypothesis. One massive, crushing blow to the skull—you can see where the bone got driven right into the brain—did all sorts of damage.”

  “You’re still thinking about the perp being a tall bad guy?” said Two Moons.

  “Or a short bad guy on stilts.”

  “What about the tox screen?”

  “The fancy stuff hasn’t come in yet, but I can tell you there was no dope or alcohol in Olafson’s system.”

  “Clean living,” said Katz.

  “At least recently,” said Dr. Ruiz. “There was some old cirrhotic scarring of the liver, indicating serious alcohol usage in the past.”

  “Reformed drunk.”

  “Or just a guy who’d decided to moderate.”

  “So much for good intentions,” said Two Moons.

  Darrel called his wife. Katz phoned the gallery. Summer Riley answered.

  “Have you learned anything?” she said.

  “Not yet, Ms. Riley. Any art missing?”

  “I just started going through the inventory. Nothing so far, but there’s tons of unframed canvases back here.”

  “Did Mr. Olafson ever talk about having a drinking problem in the past?”

  “Sure,” said Summer. “He was open about it. Like he was about everything.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “We would go out to lunch and I’d order a glass of wine. Larry would look at it kind of . . . longingly, know what I mean? But he ordered club soda. He told me he had done some serious drinking when he was younger, that it was one of the reasons his marriage broke up. He said he’d been lucky to get help.”

  “Where?”

  “Some sort of spiritual counselor.”

  “Back in New York?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “A long time ago.”

  “Do you know the name of Mr. Olafson’s ex-wife?”

  “Chantal. She’s Chantal Groobman now. As in Robert Groobman.” Silence over the line. “Groobman and Associates? Investment banking? He’s huge!”

  Such enthusiasm, proving what Katz always suspected. That size really does matter.

  A woman with an English accent answered at the Groobman apartment on Park Avenue. From the address, Katz knew exactly where it was: between 73rd and 74th. He visualized ten rooms with high ceilings, a snooty uniformed maid inside and a snooty uniformed doorman out front. For a moment, he experienced a pang of longing.

  “Mrs. Groobman?”

  “This is Alicia Small, her personal assistant.”

  Katz introduced himself, attempting to make some New York small talk. It was the wrong move. Alicia Small was in no mood for chumminess and she turned frosty. “Mrs. Groobman is indisposed.”

  “Any idea when she’ll be unindisposed?”

  “None. I’ll forward your message.”

  “Forward?” said Katz. “Does that mean she’s out of the city?”

  Pause. “She’s in the city. Leave your number and I’ll inform her—”

  “Are you aware that her ex-husband has been murdered?”

  “I’m quite aware,” said Alicia Small.

  “How long have you been working for ‘Madame’?”

  “Three years. If that’s all, Mr. Katz—”

  “It’s Detective Katz.”

  “Excuse. Detective Katz. Now, if we’re through—”

  “Actually we’re not. I need the names of Mr. Olafson’s children.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss family.”

  “It’s public knowledge.” Katz didn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Why make my life difficult?”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “Here’s my number at the Santa Fe Police Department. Call and check me out, but don’t take too long.”

  It was an offer most people refused. Alicia Small said, “Recite those numbers again, please.”

  The second time around, she was just as cool but resigned. “What would you like to know?”

  “The names of my victim’s children.”

  “Tristan and Sebastian Olafson.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Tristan’s twenty and Sebastian’s twenty-three.”

  “And where might they be found?”

  “Mr. Katz, I’m just not comfortable—”

  “Detective—”

  “Yes, yes, Detect
ive Katz.”

  She was peeved, but so was he. “Ms. Small, your comfort isn’t high priority. I need to talk to the boys.”

  A sigh floated through the receiver. “Tristan’s at Brown University and Sebastian’s traveling in Europe.”

  “Where in Europe?”

  “Italy.”

  “Where in Italy?”

  “Venice.”

  “Where in Venice?”

  “The last time I heard he was staying at the Danieli Hotel.”

  “Vacation?”

  “He’s studying at the Peggy Guggenheim.”

  “Art historian?”

  “He paints,” said Alicia Small. “Good evening, Mister Katz.”

  They split up the Olafson boys. Katz located Tristan in his dorm room at Brown. The boy had the deep voice of a man and had learned about his father’s death from his mother.

  “Do you have any clues?” he asked Katz. “About who did it?”

  “Not yet. Do you?”

  “Could be anyone. He wasn’t well liked.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He wasn’t a nice person.” A cynical laugh. “If you did an ounce of investigating, you’d know that.”

  Katz ignored the barb and tried to get more out of him, but the boy had nothing more to say. He seemed unmoved by losing his parent. When Katz hung up, he realized Tristan had never referred to Olafson as anything other than “he.”

  Two Moons told Katz that he had located Sebastian Olafson. He’d been sleeping in his room at the Danieli.

  “Kid was pissed. Not just because I woke him up. More like I was bugging him, asking questions about Olafson. He said his dad was a nasty man.”

  “Same from the other son.”

  “Close-knit family.”

  “Popular victim,” said Katz. “This is going to be a barrel of laughs.”

  At seven p.m., they were ready to pack it in. As they were putting on their jackets, Katz’s desk phone rang. Chantal Groobman was returning his call and leaving a message. Astonished, Katz raced back to his desk. He and Darrel picked up their extensions simultaneously.

  “This is Detective Steve Katz. Thank you, ma’am, for getting back so promptly.”

  “How can I help you, Detective Katz?”

  She was a pleasant-sounding woman, with a light, friendly voice. After being snobbed out by her personal assistant, he’d expected to be stonewalled.

  “Whatever you can tell us about your ex-husband would be helpful, ma’am.”

  “Poor Larry,” she said. “He could be well intentioned, but he had a knack for making people angry. I do believe part of that was attention-seeking behavior. The rest was strategy. Back when Larry began his business, he learned that art makes people, even wealthy people, insecure. He became adept at subtle intimidation. He found that a certain degree of calculated obnoxiousness could help propel his career.”

  “Art buyers like to be mistreated?” said Katz.

  “Some do, some don’t. The key is knowing who to abuse and who to pander to. Larry was good at it. But sometimes even the finest dancer missteps. Do you have any suspects?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Poor Larry,” she repeated. “He really thought he was immortal.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, was Mr. Olafson’s abrasive behavior the reason you divorced him?”

  “I’m sure that was part of it,” said Chantal Groobman. “But the main reason was Larry and I both discovered that he was confused.”

  “About?”

  “Take a wild guess, Detective Katz.”

  A throaty laugh. Like Valerie in her tigress mode. Katz said, “His sexuality.”

  “Correct. You have a New York accent. Are you from here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We New Yorkers are so astute.”

  “So,” said Katz, “Mr. Olafson came out of the closet?”

  “When I knew him, he was groping to find his inner self. You’d be in a better position to tell me the final disposition of his love life. I haven’t seen Larry in years. Neither have my sons. I know you contacted them and I suppose that was necessary. But I do wish you’d leave them alone. They’re very upset by Larry’s death.”

  “Ma’am,” said Katz, “with all due respect, they didn’t sound very upset.”

  “You don’t know them, Detective Katz. I’m their mother.”

  “How’d they get along with their dad?”

  “They despised him. When they were small, Larry ignored them. When they entered adolescence, he gave them a bit more attention in the form of acid criticism. Larry could be quite cutting. In any event, the lack of a paternal bond had nothing to do with Larry’s death. Yesterday, Tristan was taking finals at Brown, and I’m prepared to supply any number of written affidavits to that effect. Similarly, Sebastian was working at the Guggenheim, just as he has been for four months, in full view of the staff there.”

  “You’ve done your homework, Mrs. Groobman.”

  “A parent—a real parent—does that.”

  “When did Mr. Olafson’s sexual confusion emerge?”

  “He was always confused, Detective. I was too foolish to notice it. The problem began when Larry noticed it.”

  “Is that when the drinking started?”

  “Ah,” she said. “So you know about that. Did Larry lapse?”

  “The autopsy revealed old scarring on his liver.”

  “Oh,” said Chantal Groobman. “How . . . sad.” Her voice actually broke between the two words.

  “Mr. Olafson told friends he’d received help from a spiritual counselor.”

  “Is that what he called it?” she said. “I never saw Dr. Weems as particularly spiritual. More of a religious . . . athletic coach.”

  The name was familiar to Katz, but he couldn’t remember why. “What kind of a doctor was he?”

  “I don’t think I ever knew. Larry didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

  Then it came to Katz: the painting in Olafson’s house. Little kids dancing around the maypole. The signature: Michael Weems. He said, “Could it be that Dr. Weems was seeking another connection with your ex?”

  “What do you mean? Sexual?” She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “More like representation. He being the artist and your husband being the art dealer.”

  “Weems an artist?” Again the laugh. “You’re kidding! That, I find impossible to believe.”

  “Why, ma’am?”

  “Myron Weems was the last person I’d predict would go artsy.”

  “I meant Michael Weems,” said Katz.

  “Ah . . . but of course. Now I understand your confusion. Yes, Michael Weems is a painter of serious repute. She’s also a woman, Detective. Myron was her husband.”

  “Was?”

  “Yet another marital bond rent asunder. Despite Myron’s alleged spirituality.”

  “An artist and a minister. Kind of an interesting match.”

  “They’re from Nebraska,” she said. “Or some other flat place. Corn-fed, salt-of-the-earth people. Both went to Bible school. Michael had talent and came to New York because where else does talent gravitate? Her rise was pretty rapid—she is a first-rate artist. Myron tagged along and attempted to climb socially.”

  “Spiritual adviser to the art world?” said Katz.

  “Something like that. Then he decided he didn’t like that world, they divorced, and he returned to Nebraska. Or wherever it was.”

  “Not before helping Mr. Olafson.”

  “If that’s what Larry told people, then I’m sure that’s what happened. Now, I really do have to go, Detective. I’m already late for a function.”

  Click.

  Katz had a few more questions, but when he called her back, the phone rang and no message machine switched on.

  Katz and Two Moons made a second attempt to leave, got as far as the stairs down to the ground floor when Bobby Boatwright called out, “Hey!” from down the hall.

  He’d got
ten into Olafson’s computer and he gave them a rundown.

  “No big security measures or attempt to conceal. The guy used ‘Olafsonart’ as his password. Nothing much to hide, either. He bookmarked several art-pricing sites and the major auction houses, some porno, most of it gay, some of it straight, and a bunch of restaurant guides locally as well as in New York. He’s got a brokerage account at Merrill Lynch, stocks and bonds, a little over two million bucks. From what I can tell, the account has dropped from where it was during the tech boom, but it’s up from the low.”

  “What about all his business finances?” asked Two Moons.

  “Not in the computer,” said Bobby. “Try his accountant.”

  It was eight p.m., too late to call anyone. They’d really learned nothing. Soon the brass all the way up to the chief would be asking questions. Two Moons knew it would generate lots of column space in the Santa Fe New Mexican—the local daily that had as big a sports section as it did a front section. (When his father told him that the local team was called the Isotopes, Darrel was sure the old man was putting him on.) This kind of high-profile case would even be star material for the Albuquerque Journal. He hoped the girls wouldn’t be bothered by it. All of their friends knew what Dad did for a living.

  They stepped out into the cold night air and walked to their vehicles.

  Darrel said, “Something you should know. I had . . . I don’t know what you’d call it. An altercation, I guess. With Olafson.”

  “That so?” said Katz.

  “Yeah.” Two Moons told him the story.

  Katz said, “I would’ve been pissed off, too.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought you should know.”

  Katz smiled. “Doesn’t seem relevant, chief. Unless you killed him.”

  “If I killed him, there’d be no body to find.”

  “Funny, partner.” A pause. “Actually, I was thinking the same thing.”

  Two Moons allowed himself a tiny smile.

  They walked a few more steps before Katz said, “As long as we’re confessing, here’s mine: Valerie’s name showed up in Olafson’s Palm Pilot.”