Double Homicide

7

They hit a traffic snag just outside the city limits and made it back to the station at 1:45 p.m. The drive from Embudo back to Santa Fe had taken them past the turnoff for the Santa Clara Pueblo, but Two Moons didn’t seem to notice.

Not that he was likely to mention it. The one time Katz had tried to talk about his partner’s Indian roots, Darrel had changed the subject. The next day, though, he’d brought in a tiny ceramic bear. Kind of crude but the animal did have a cute look.

“What my father did during the last months of his life,” Two Moons explained. “He made about five hundred of ‘em, stored ’em in boxes. After he died, his pottery teacher gave them to me. She said he wasn’t proud of ‘em, that he had wanted to wait until he mastered the art to show all his work to me. That my approval had been important to him. She figured I should have them. You can keep it if you want.”

“It’s nice,” Katz had said. “You sure, Darrel?” “Yeah, it’s fine.” Two Moons had shrugged. “I gave a few to my girls, but how many do they need? If you know any other kids, I got plenty more.”

Since then, the bear had kept Katz company while he cooked, more like warmed stuff up. It sat next to his hot plate. What it symbolized, he really didn’t know, but he supposed it had something to do with strength.

The two detectives grabbed sandwiches from a station vending machine and plugged Barton Skaggs Jr. into the databases.

No criminal record but the accountant did merit a couple of Google hits. Junior was listed as a partner in a big Chicago firm, and last summer he had given a talk on tax shelters. After some fiddling with the reverse directories, they found his residence-an address on the North Shore of the Loop, not far from Michigan Avenue.

“That’s a nice neighborhood,” said Katz. “Right on the water, I think.”

“Crunching numbers beats ru

They reached Skaggs at his accounting firm. An articulate, educated-sounding man, any traces of his upbringing long gone. On the surface, he appeared to have nothing in common with his parents, but as he talked, he got increasingly assertive and the detectives heard nuances of his mother’s stridency.

“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 a

“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 ma

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.