“How long?” Ramona asked.
“A little over two months.”
“Get out an advisory with full specifics to all units, the county sheriff, and the district state police office. Make sure our shift commanders are apprised, and ask for close patrols at the Hurley residence through the rest of the day and night.”
“Will do.”
Ramona stepped away and Matt got busy writing the advisory.
After he had it finished, he contacted the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, gave them Hurley’s identifying information, and soon had a driver’s-license photo of the woman on his computer screen.
From the neck up Hurley was a beauty. Her wide, round eyes and small nose gave her an innocent, schoolgirl look. Her smile showed a row of perfect white teeth above a dimpled chin.
Chacon printed the photo, made copies, and put them in the shift commanders’ cubbies for distribution. Then he called dispatch and gave them the advisory.
After a body wrap and a facial at a downtown spa, Crystal Hurley wandered through the jewelry shops on San Francisco Street, looking at watches, earrings, necklaces, and pins. Her urge to steal grew as she tried on some lovely pieces, but the clerks were much too attentive for her to risk it.
Frustrated by the lack of opportunity, she bought a single strand of turquoise and draped it around her neck. It went well with the white blouse, black slacks, and floppy straw hat she’d chosen for her outing.
She left the store and walked up the street to the Plaza, where a country-and-western band was playing an early-evening concert on the gazebo across the street from the Palace of Governors Museum. Under the portal of the museum a number of Indian vendors had their wares spread out on blankets. A stream of tourists wandered slowly past them, examining the Native American jewelry and pottery for sale.
Crystal listened to the band for a time as she watched the dancers in front of the gazebo two-stepping, twirling, and circle-dancing. Everyone in the crowd around her seemed to be having a good time, but Crystal found it all rather boring.
A smiling man with a ponytail, dressed in flashy cowboy boots and tight jeans, tried to pull her onto the dance area. She yanked her hand away, shook her head, and left the Plaza. Although he was cute and sexy, Crystal had a rule: only one lover at a time, and right now that was Andy.
The boutique hotel where Andy bartended was just off the Plaza. Crystal went inside and settled on a stool. Without needing to ask, Andy brought her a vodka on the rocks.
He grinned, leaned toward her, and whispered, “Can we hook up later?”
Crystal sipped her drink and studied Andy’s face. He was the all-American boy, towheaded, blue eyed, square jawed, and forever eager to get laid. “We’ll see,” she said.
Andy squeezed her hand. “Come on.”
“You’re such a baby, Andy.”
“I’m crazy about you.”
Crystal finished the drink and stood. “Call me on my cell when you get off work.”
“Where are you going?”
Crystal opened her crocodile handbag and put a twenty on the bar without replying. The glint of the gun inside the purse gave her a rush of excitement, and Andy’s presence faded from her mind. The preview of the art-and-antiquities show at the convention center was about to begin and she didn’t want to miss a minute of it.
She left before Andy could question her further and headed quickly in the direction of the center.
Santa Fe’s convention center fell far short of the mark for a city that thrived on tourism. In fact, it was nothing more than a renovated public-school gymnasium located within a few steps of city hall. On the outside, the center had been fixed up to look like the real deal. But inside, the dimensions of the space gave away its architectural roots. Stairs from the lobby led to a partial mezzanine that looked down on the hall below and opened onto a few large meeting rooms off to one side. In the back, behind the stage, were kitchen facilities. Stark, small, and uninviting, the center failed to draw many conventions and was usually put to use for dances, regional trade shows, art fairs, and an occasional banquet.
Kerney stood on the mezzanine, watching Ramona Pino circulate among the booths that filled the hall. Petite, slender, and easy on the eyes, she blended in easily with all the well-groomed trophy wives and trust-funders.
There were sixty-five dealers set up on the convention-center floor, displaying a wide array of Western art, estate jewelry, rare books, collectible memorabilia, exquisite old Native American pottery, and antique Spanish colonial furniture.
After the doors had opened, people flooded in, some making a beeline to a particular booth, others wandering slowly down the aisles, pausing to examine a tray of jewelry, an oil painting, or a Navajo rug. Kerney left the mezzanine, wondering if he should have told Ramona to assign more detectives to the event. Given the size of the crowd, the two of them would have a hard time covering the floor by themselves.
He joined the throng, moving from booth to booth, stopping to glance at a pre-Colombian effigy pot, a nineteenth-century Apache woven basket, a Charles Russell pencil drawing, all the time watching the people around him.
It was a well-heeled crowd. Women in broomstick skirts wearing heavy turquoise-and-silver jewelry cruised by. Gray-headed men in designer jeans and expensive boots trailed along. Flashy matrons with big hair, dripping with diamonds, chatted up dealers with Texas twangs.
He strolled down an aisle and squeezed past a cluster of people who’d stopped to look at a glass case filled with vintage wristwatches. Some of the dealers appeared watchful, while others seemed distracted by the crowds. All in all there were easy pickings for any good shoplifter in attendance.
Kerney stopped briefly at a display of intricately carved nineteenth-century wood chests imported from Mexico to watch a young woman at an adjacent booth put her handbag on the counter next to a stack of rare books. Dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, the woman wore a hat that hid her face. She picked up a book, studied it for a moment, put it back, and moved on.
At the end of the aisle he saw Ramona Pino eyeballing the woman and wondered if he’d missed something. He stepped into the aisle, jockeying his way past a few people to get behind the woman as Ramona closed the gap from the opposite direction.
The woman paused in front of a booth filled with landscape paintings. Ramona sidled up to her, gave Kerney a slight nod, and said, “Crystal Hurley?”
The woman’s head snapped in Ramona’s direction. “What?”
“Are you Crystal Hurley?” Ramona asked.
“What if I am?”
Ramona flashed the shield she held in the palm of her hand and put it quickly in the pocket of her slacks. “I need to speak with you,” she said softly. “Please step away with me.”
“I will not.”
“You’re not in trouble, Ms. Hurley,” Ramona said reassuringly.
Hurley smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ramona held out her hand. Self-destructive or not, Hurley could be packing, and that upped the danger considerably. “Can I look inside your handbag?”
Hurley clutched it to her midriff, turned, and looked at Kerney, her blue eyes wide and frightened. Just then a woman stepped between Ramona and Hurley and a man jostled past Kerney, pushing him slightly off balance. Before he could react, Hurley bolted past him, knocked a woman to the floor, shoved a man into a display case, and ran down the aisle. People scattered as Ramona and Kerney forced their way through the spectators in hot pursuit. At the end of the aisle Hurley veered out of sight toward the lobby.
Kerney turned the corner in a crouch. Up ahead he spotted Hurley making for the exit. Ramona darted past him, caught Hurley at the door, and slammed her against it.