“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 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 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.
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 piñon 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.