"I'll get right on it. Chief." for his role as a detective, Fletcher Hartley had dressed carefully. He wore a blue oxford shirt over a white turtleneck, a black wool sport coat, and gray slacks. As a concession to the unpredictable November weather, he carried an umbrella.
In the window of the two-hundred-year-old building on Canyon Road that housed the Prank Bailey Gallery, Fletcher inspected his reflection. All in all, it was an ensemble that would have made Noel Coward proud.
To complete the picture he needed a cigarette to hold carelessly in his hand. For a moment, Fletcher regretted that he'd stopped smoking.
He made his entrance, breezed past the gallery manager and the nicely hung, perfectly lit art, and walked to the office at the rear of the building.
Bailey's office had a wall of windows that looked out on a remnant of vacant land that two hundred years ago had been part of a sheep pasture.
Frank Bailey stood behind a tall antique clerk's desk that had been salvaged from the basement of a nineteenth-century New England textile factory Stacked against the walls were shipping crates, framed paintings, and piles of art books.
Bailey nodded at Fletcher and kept talking on the telephone as he scribbled notes to himself on the slanted desktop. Bailey sold high-end Western artists, specializing in Charles Russell, Frederic Remington, Joseph Henry Sharp, and Maynard Dixon. Most of his business came from wealthy out-of-state collectors.
There simply wasn't any other way to run a successful gallery in Santa Pc.
Content to wait for Bailey, Pletcher settled into one of the two overstufied chairs positioned to give the most pleasing view of the pasture. He unbuttoned his jacket and adjusted his cufis. So far, Fletcher's efforts had yielded nothing, but gossiping with old friends had been entertaining nonetheless.
Bailey hung up the receiver and joined Fletcher. He had long, prematurely gray hair that he wore in a ponytail, green eyes, high cheekbones, and an angular face. In his early forties, he was considered very attractive by the ladies from Dallas and Houston who shopped Santa Pc. His appeal had cost him two marriages.
"It's been a wasted day, Pletcher," he said.
"The rich just don't seem to be practicing trickle-down economics right now. What brings you out to see me?"
"I'm assisting the police with their inquiries," Fletcher replied.
"Really?"
"Yes. The art rip-off at the governor's suite." Quite pleased with his use of the correct slang word, Hetcher decided he had to learn more cop jargon from Kerney.
"Wasn't that something?" Prank said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Have you had any recent inquiries to buy or sell a Sharp or a Dixon?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Has anybody asked for a market appraisal of either artist's work?"
"Not recently" "Have you had any walk-in browsers who seemed a little peculiar or out of place?"
"This is Santa Fe, Hetcher. Everybody's peculiar."
"Have you heard any gossip?"
"I've heard a rumor that you have a cop living with you. Have you snagged a hunk to comfort you in your old age?"
"If only that were true." Fletcher sighed.
"He's a friend, not a lover, and he's staying with me, not living with me. He's very straight and not at all homophobic.
"Now," Pletcher continued, "no matter how interesting I might be, I am not the subject of this conversation.
Have you heard any chitchat about the robbery?"
"No."
"It's not the response I was hoping for," Fletcher said as he started to rise from the chair.
"But I can't wait to tell Amanda Talley that she was right," Bailey added.
Fletcher settled back.
"Isn't she that leggy young woman who works at the fine arts museum?"
"That's her. She predicted the robbery would happen," Prank replied.
"She went on and on about how easy it would be to walk off with the collection."
"When was this?"
"During the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum fund-raiser last month at the Rancho Caballo clubhouse. I fully expected to see you there."
"I was hanging a show in Seattle. Mostly my smaller pieces. It did very well. What exactly did Amanda Talley say?"
"Just that she had misgivings about the lack of security.
She didn't think the works were properly protected."
"Did she share her concerns with others besides you?" Fletcher asked.
"The subject came up while a small group of us were having a drink in the bar."
"Who was there?"
"Bucky Watson, Henry and Carol Jergerson, Roger Springer, and a couple of Rancho Caballo homeowners.
I don't recall their names. Bucky knew this one guy who hung out with us. A Spanish or Mexican fellow who seemed interested in Amanda."
"Anyone else?" Fletcher asked.
"Not that I recall. We had one drink together and then everybody went their separate ways."
"How well do you know Amanda?"
"We dated briefly when she first came to town. She's a knockout. She has brains, a great body, and likes to party. I mink she's looking for a rich husband so she can quit her day job and be a trophy wife. She'll do it with style, too."
"Would you say she has a criminal mind?"
Frank laughed.
"Amanda? I don't think she weighs herself down with scruples, but I don't think she'd go that far, either."
"Is she your garden-variety gold digger?"
"Not at all. Amanda's hard to pigeonhole. She's tough-minded, very dear about who she is, and doesn't play any dumb games. Whoever corrals her gets a prize."
"You sound smitten."
"I'm just one of many strewn in her path."
"Would you mind writing down the people you just mentioned?" Fletcher asked, holding out pen and paper.
"I'm terrible with names."
"You're such a damn princess, Fletcher," Bailey said, taking the proffered items.
Pletcher smiled broadly.
"Someone has to set the standards for the common folk to emulate." caklos Ruiz was glad to be back in Mexico. Santa Pc's wintry November weather didn't suit him, and the late-afternoon Juarez sun warmed his bones. Little more than three hundred miles separated the two cities, but they were worlds apart in climate.
There was no answer when he knocked at the door of the Juarez apartment Nick Palazzi shared with his Mexican girlfriend. That suited Carlos just fine. Inside the apartment he could hear the two chattering monkeys Palazzi's whore kept as pets. He hated those fucking monkeys; they were always climbing all over him and sitting in his lap whenever he had to stop by on business for De Leon Before he turned away, he thought about breaking in to shoot the ugly little fuckers just for the hell of it.
At the Little Turtle, De Leon nightclub and gaming establishment, Carlos scanned the room looking for Palazzi. The crystal chandeliers above the gambling tables were dimmed low and a full house of players spilled over to the long antique bar and the nearby dining tables under the mezzanine. Carlos looked up at the mezzanine. Palazzi and his whore sat at a table near the railing, engrossed in conversation.
Before Carlos could move to the staircase, he was stopped by three of De Leon friends, who wanted to know if Enrique was back in town. He answered politely, keeping an eye on Nick, who caught sight of him, waved, and came down the mezzanine stairs to meet him.
"What's up, Carlos?" Palazzi asked, studying Ruiz carefully. Even with De Leon reassurance on the phone that everything was all right, Ruiz's unexpected appearance made him uneasy.
"The patron wants the body moved to Mexico and the van recovered, if possible."
"No problem," Nick said.
"I can take you to both."
"Don Enrique wants you to stay put," Carlos said.
"It would be too much of a risk for you to go back right now. Tell me where they are and I will do it."
"Is De Leon pissed?"