“So she can hospitalize me? No way.”
“So you have someone to talk to face-to-face. Let me give you her name and number.”
“I suppose I could call her.”
“Good,” Cohen said.
While Cohen paused to look up the name and phone number of the local shrink, Crystal pushed a lever at the top of the pistol grip and the magazine popped out. The bullets in it looked small, not dangerous at all.
She reinserted the magazine as she pretended to write down the shrink’s phone number that Cohen gave her.
“I’ll consult with Dr. Robbins,” Cohen added, “and tell her to expect your call.”
“Okay.” Crystal disconnected, put the gun back in the handbag, and went into the bedroom to dress. Yesterday at the post office, when she’d picked up Daddy’s mail, she’d seen an invitation for a preview of an art-and-antiquities show this evening.
Crystal decided she would go. Perhaps something would catch her eye. She shivered with anticipation.
Five minutes after Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino returned to her office, Chief Kerney stepped through the open door and sat in the chair next to the desk.
“Anything new on the art-theft cases?” he asked. Pino’s desk was unusually tidy, and the framed snapshot of Ramona and her boyfriend, a vice cop with the Albuquerque PD, taken while they were on vacation together last year, was missing.
“Not that I know of, Chief. I’ve been working a commercial burglary case today. Somebody broke into a construction trailer at a building site last night and took a couple thousand dollars’ worth of power tools. We’ve got a suspect. All we’ve got to do is find him.”
Kerney stretched his legs, crossed his feet, and nodded. “I’m sure you will. I’ve noticed a pattern to the art thefts that I wanted to mention to you.”
“Are you talking about how more expensive items are being taken each time?”
Kerney smiled approvingly. Pino had a razor-sharp mind and great cop instincts. “Exactly. Do you think it’s one person?” he asked.
“If it is, based on what’s been boosted, I’d bet she’s female, and not your ordinary garden-variety shoplifter either. It’s all quality stuff, which shows a certain degree of sophistication and knowledge about art.”
Kerney examined the bulletin board on the far wall of Pino’s small office, where she’d thumbtacked photographs of the stolen art. “All the objects could have easily been hidden in a large tote or a handbag,” he observed. “But is she stealing on impulse or is it planned?”
Kerney paused to see if Ramona got his drift. Planning a crime was not what a kleptomaniac would normally do.
“I think it’s impulsive, Chief. But she seems to be putting herself at a greater risk of discovery each time out by stealing more expensive items.”
“Do you think she has just been lucky?” Kerney asked.
Ramona settled back in her chair. “Yeah, and maybe not even aware of it.”
“How so?” Kerney asked.
“Both galleries where the opening receptions were held have good surveillance systems. But when they arranged the exhibits, nobody thought to reposition the cameras. The bronze statue and the miniature oil painting were on display in blind spots within a few feet of the entrances. Easy in, easy out.”
Ramona pulled two videocassettes out of a desk drawer. “We’ve been over these tapes a dozen times, looking for people who attended both openings, looking for anybody who might have disguised themselves, looking for any sign of suspicious behavior. We’ve had the gallery owners identify as many people as they could who were in attendance, and then we followed up with interviews.”
“Did you check the mailing lists the galleries used to send out notices and invitations?”
Ramona nodded. “There was no overlap of names. But remember, these were public events, Chief. Besides the mailings that went out, there were ads in the newspaper and announcements on the radio. Plus, gallery hopping on a Friday or Saturday night is a Santa Fe tradition.”
The telephone rang. Ramona picked it up, listened, said, “Okay, I’ll be there in a few,” and disconnected.
“Let’s go with the theory it’s a woman who’s stealing for the thrill of it and unable to resist the impulse,” Kerney said. “If she’s true to form, she’ll place herself at risk again, and I’m betting it will be at another exhibit opening or show.”
“Why is that?” Ramona asked.
“Because she’s stealing for the pleasure, not profit, and has upped the excitement for herself by doing it in plain view, surrounded by other people. There are six gallery openings tonight, if we include the preview of the art-and-antiquities show at the convention center. Let’s put a detective at each gallery, and two at the convention center, which should have the biggest draw.”
“Consider it done, Chief.”
Kerney stood, pointed at Ramona, and tapped his chest with a finger. “We’ll cover the convention center together.”
“I’ll set it up.”
Kerney nodded and left. Ramona stared at the empty spot on her desk, where the photo of herself and the ex-boyfriend had once stood. The one consolation of finding out he would never get serious about their relationship was that she could once more work double shifts without feeling guilty about it.
She went looking for Detective Matt Chacon, who’d called while she’d been talking with the chief. He was in his cubicle at the far end of the bullpen, scribbling notes on a yellow pad.
Over the past several years Chacon’s thin frame had filled out and he now sported a bit of a potbelly. He looked up from the tablet, smiled good-naturedly, and pulled the ever-present toothpick out of the corner of his mouth.
“What have you got?” Ramona asked.
“Dispatch routed a call to me from Dr. Candace Robbins, a shrink. Apparently there’s a young woman named Crystal Hurley who might be suicidal.”
“Might be?”
Matt consulted his notes. “Yeah. What Robbins knows she got from Hurley’s primary psychiatrist, who called her from New York City. Seems Hurley has made several suicide attempts in the past and has been hospitalized twice for emotional problems. Hurley called her New York City shrink, a guy by the name of Benjamin Cohen, earlier in the day, and told him she had a gun and might-underline might-hurt herself with it. Robbins wanted to report that, based on what Cohen told her, Hurley might be a danger to herself.”
“Has Hurley contacted Dr. Robbins?”
“Negative, although she was supposed to. I just got off the phone with Dr. Cohen. He says Hurley could be high risk. She’s five six, one hundred fifteen pounds, brown and blue, age twenty-eight. She’s been staying at her father’s guesthouse in one of the those foothill mansions off Bishop’s Lodge Road. Father’s name is Robert. He’s out of the country. I’ve got an address, and the phone company gave me Robert Hurley’s unlisted numbers. The housekeeper answered and said she had no idea where her employer’s daughter was. It sounded like she didn’t care either. I sent a uniform out to do a welfare check, and he reported nobody at home.”
“Have you done a motor-vehicles records search?” Ramona asked.
“Robert Hurley owns a Lexus SUV and a BMW. There’s nothing registered under his daughter’s name. The cars could be garaged, as far as we know. There’s no way of telling, according to the uniform who tried to make contact. He did note two different sets of tire tracks on the parking area near the guesthouse.”
“What else did you learn about the woman?”
Matt shook his head. “Other than she’s rich, has been living in New York City until recently, and is about to move to Paris, not much. Cohen wouldn’t give an inch when I asked for more details about her psychiatric history.”
“Is Hurley a danger to others?”
“Cohen doesn’t think so.”
“Does she have any friends or other family members in Santa Fe?”
“No, she grew up in Silicon Valley before the dot-com bubble burst, went to college in New York City, and until recently divided her time between Manhattan and Paris. Her parents are divorced, and her father built the Santa Fe house three years ago. As far as Dr. Cohen knows, this is the first time she’s ever been here.”