Double Homicide

“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 gotten 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.”

“Fu

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.”

“She’s an artist,” said Darrel. “I guess there’d be a logical reason.”

“She thinks she’s an artist, Darrel. You’ve seen her stuff.”

“True.”

“In fact,” Katz went on, “lately, from the way she’s been talking, I don’t even think she believes it anymore. Olafson was high-end. There’s no way he would have considered representing her.”

“So there’s another reason for her being in his directory,” said Darrel.

“Exactly.” Katz sighed. “I thought I’d go over and talk to her about it. I was go

“Makes sense.”

“I don’t want you to think I was holding back or anything like that.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Good,” said Katz. “I was go

Two Moons said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get home.”

“No problem, Darrel. I can do it alone.”

“Yeah, it would be better that way.”

8

Sitting in his Toyota, with the engine idling and the heat blowing, Katz tried Valerie’s home number. Her machine switched on, and nobody interrupted when he left his name. He then drove to the Plaza, parked on the lower level of the municipal lot near the La Fonda hotel, and walked over to the Sarah Levy Gallery. The sign on the door said Closed, but the place was all windows, and with the lights on, he could see Sarah sitting behind her desk, surrounded by gorgeous black-on-black pottery from San Ildefonso and a grouping of gaping-mouth storytellers from the Cochiti Pueblo. Reading spectacles were perched on her nose. Katz rapped lightly on the door-jamb. Sarah looked up over her glasses, smiled, came over, and unlocked the door.

“Steve.”

“Working late, Sarah?”

“Always.” Santa Fe’s premium dealer in Pueblo ceramics was fifty-five, rail-thin, and glamorous, with a sheet of blue-white hair hanging down to her shapely buttocks and a heart-shaped face that needed no makeup. Her husband was a plastic surgeon, and rumor had it she’d made use of his services. Katz knew it to be a lie. Sarah had naturally young skin.

“Val around?”

“Not here, but you know where.” She glanced up the block.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Sure, Steve.” She touched his sleeve. “When she left, she was in a good mood.”

Warning him he might be intruding.

“I’ll try not to ruin it.”

The Parrot Bar was a short walk away, on San Francisco Street, between a fossil shop and a place that sold only white clothing. A Doobie Brothers cover band was playing tonight, and bass thumps poured out to the sidewalk. Oh, oh, oh… listen to the music. Out on the curb to the right of the entry, three bikers were drinking beer. Illegal, and most everyone knew Katz was a cop. They also knew he couldn’t have cared less. The bikers greeted him by name, and he gave a small salute in return.

He made his way through a throng of drinkers and shimmying dancers, up to the overly lacquered bar where Val was sure to be.

And there she was on a center stool wearing a black halter and blue jeans and boots. Sandwiched between two ponytailed guys with hunched backs. The old shearling she wore during the winter had fallen from her lap and lay on the floor, getting trampled.

Ponytail on the left had gray hair and a skimpy beard. His hand rested on Val’s bare back, partially covering the gladiolus tattoo she’d gotten last summer. Right-Side Pony’s gut hung over his belt. His stubby fingers caressed Val’s butt, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Wide butt, Katz noted. The ten extra pounds had stretched to twenty. Still distributed in all the right places, but her back had gone a little soft, bulging a bit above the top seam of the halter.

She’d cut her hair, too. Real short, almost ma

Maybe it was her unpredictability.

Her body, full and curvy and, let’s face it, flabby, managed to convey an intoxicating sense of sexual promise, and whether or not that would lead to anything was the big mystery. She’d been like that even when she and Katz were married.

That was it, he decided. Val was mysterious.

Screwed up, sharp-tongued, distant, plagued by bouts of low self-esteem exacerbated by genuinely low talent, but smart and fu