“We’ve already had one continuance,” the lawyer said after hearing Johnny out.
“Get me another one.”
“Do you have any chronic medical conditions?” the lawyer asked after a pause.
“Head traumas from getting kicked and stepped on by horses when I rodeoed,” Johnny said.
“Any physical proof of it?” the lawyer asked.
“I’ve got a dent in my skull and medical records at home.”
“Go to the emergency room right now,” the lawyer said. “Tell them you feel dizzy, disoriented, and have blurred vision. I’ll call the court and reschedule your appearance.”
“Can you have it put off until November?”
“Easily. I’ll waive your right to the six-month rule. Sign a release at the ER so I can get a copy of your treatment record and forward it to the judge.”
Johnny laughed. “It’s that simple?”
“For now,” the lawyer said, “but you’ll still have to face your day in court.”
“Whatever.” Johnny disconnected, got directions to the hospital from a Hispanic cop on the Plaza, and drove to the hospital. He checked his watch. If Brenda was back at the hotel room when the docs were finished with him, maybe there would be time for a quickie before his meeting with the director of the film office.
He was about to rid himself of Brenda. Next week, while she was at work, he’d move out of her apartment into a sublet he’d rented. But until then he’d put her to good use.
In the ER Johnny faked a set of symptoms and gave the admitting clerk a history of his old rodeo injuries. After a thirty-minute wait he was screened by a nurse who took his vitals. Then a doctor examined his skull and took an X ray of the dent in the back of his head. After reviewing the X ray he shined a light in Johnny’s eyes and had him read the letters on a vision chart.
Johnny deliberately messed it up.
“I don’t see anything abnormal on the X ray,” the doctor said. “But your symptoms are worrisome. Have you been under stress recently?”
“I’ve got a lot on my plate, Doc.”
“I think we need more tests.”
“Can I get it done in Denver?” Johnny asked. “I go home tomorrow.”
“Will you make an appointment to see your physician right away?”
“I’ll call his office as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
“Are you driving?”
“My girlfriend is with me,” Johnny replied. “She can drive.”
“Okay. Make sure you see your physician.”
After paying the bill by credit card and signing a release to let his Santa Fe lawyer get a copy of his ER chart, Johnny went back to his hotel room to find Brenda trying on a new pair of red running shoes.
“I found this great designer-shoe store near the Plaza,” she said, bouncing up and down, pointing her toes so she could admire the new footwear, “and they had these in my size. How did it go in court?”
“I got another continuance.”
“Your lawyer called.”
“The guy here in Santa Fe?”
Brenda shook her head and pirouetted in front of the full mirror on the closet door, studying her shoes as she twirled. “Nope, Jim Blass in Denver. Call him back right away. He said it was important.”
Johnny flipped open the cell phone, speed-dialed the number, and got put through to Blass immediately.
“I couldn’t reach you on your cell,” Blass said. “The call kept getting dropped.”
“What’s up?” Johnny asked.
“Your wife has filed a claim against the proceeds from your sports-channel contract. That means the money will be tied up until the divorce settlement is finalized, unless we can work something out.”
“That bitch,” Johnny said. “Did you talk to her attorney?”
“Yeah, I did. Seems you borrowed money from her right before you got married.”
“Borrowed, hell. We used that money for our honeymoon trip to Europe. I paid her back.”
“That’s not what she says,” Blass said.
“Fuck her,” Johnny said. “What can you do?”
“Tell me the facts, Johnny. Did you pay her back the loan?”
Johnny’s squeezed the cell phone in frustration. Sometimes he hated telling the truth. “No.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand and change.”
“I’ll offer repayment to her from your contract proceeds,” Blass said. “But don’t expect a rapid response. Madeline is determined to make you suffer as long as she can.”
“Push it along,” Johnny said. “I need that money.” He hit the disconnect icon and threw the phone on the bed.
“Bad news, baby?” Brenda asked as she cuddled up to him.
Johnny filled her in with a sanitized version of Madeline’s latest legal maneuver.
She sighed sympathetically, shook her head, and threw her arms around his neck. “I’d never do something like that to you,” she said breathlessly. “Never, ever.”
“I know you wouldn’t, sweetie pie. But I was going to use some of that money to find us a bigger apartment. We need to get settled into our own place and see where our relationship is headed.”
Brenda smiled gleefully at the idea, wiggled her rump, and slid her hand down the front of Johnny’s trousers. “Could we get a condo downtown?”
“I don’t see why not,” Johnny said.
Looking over Brenda’s shoulder, Johnny grimaced slightly at the thought of keeping up the charade with her. His sour mood quickly evaporated when Brenda unzipped his pants and dropped to her knees.
Police headquarters sat on the outskirts of the city at the edge of a business park, in an area that had experienced explosive growth over the past decade. To the southwest residential subdivisions, strip malls, apartment complexes, town homes, fast-food franchises, and trailer parks had filled up vast tracts of once-vacant land along a four-mile stretch of road that led to the municipal airport.
For a city that touted its romantic charm, unique architecture, beautiful setting, and rich cultural and artistic traditions, the area had become Santa Fe’s version of tasteless urban sprawl, featuring ill-proportioned faux-adobe pueblo and territorial-style buildings with no character.
Fortunately, few tourists saw it, so the city’s reputation as a lovely four-hundred-year-old Spanish village at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains remained mostly intact.
In his second-floor office at headquarters Kerney read through the art-theft case files. The most recent rip-offs had occurred when two pieces, a small bronze and a miniature oil painting, had been found missing after exhibit openings. They carried a combined value of twenty thousand dollars.
Prior to that a ceramic sculpture and an unframed, signed photographic print had been taken from galleries with no security systems in place. Each item had retailed for over two thousand dollars.
But the rash of art thefts, as the morning headline reported, had all started with the theft of a woven Panamanian basket and a handblown glass vase, both valued in the thousand-dollar range. To date the total amount of the stolen loot exceeded twenty-six thousand dollars.
Kerney read the follow-up supplementals Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino and her team had prepared on the cases. Everyone in attendance at the gallery openings who could be identified on the video surveillance had been interviewed, but attempts to ID all the participants had failed. Statements taken from past and present employees, delivery persons, landlords, gallery owners, and customers who’d made purchases on the days of the thefts had yielded no creditable leads.
Pawnshops, flea markets, and art resale galleries had been visited, collectors of the various artists’ works had been contacted, art appraisers had been telephoned, and experts consulted, all to no avail. They had no suspects, no real motive, and no physical evidence.