Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

“I’m not, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t,” Holliday said firmly, then grinned. “Might have come in handy, though, all things considered. We’re flying blind here.”

“Okay, let’s go with your story. What else?”

“You want to tell me about his car?”

“ ’Forty-two Buick. Probably in great condition-he loved the car, apparently. Liked to go for drives. I’ll get you all the numbers. Any point in sending the info across the border, in case you’re right about that?”

“To the policia? We’d just be spinning our wheels. Well, hell.”

But Connolly was smiling. “Okay, so we stay home. Then we need to get the Albuquerque police to lean on that bartender. They listen to you, or do you want me to pull in big guns? I’d rather they didn’t know we’re involved in any way.”

“I’ve been saving up a favor or two.”

“Let’s use them, then. I’ll bet the bartender can be persuaded, upstanding citizen that he is.”

“Any idea what else your man may have had on him?”

“Other than the wallet? No. Probably kept all his keys on one ring. He was that kind of guy.”

“What kind is that?”

“Neat.” Connolly paused. “Obsessively neat, in fact.”

“You mean the kind who wouldn’t want to get his knees dirty on the grass?” Holliday said.

“My mind is that easy, huh?”

“No. Just one track. But I’ll tell you something, I wondered about that too. Why take all his stuff? It doesn’t fit that kind of crime. I thought maybe somebody didn’t want us to know who he was.”

“And you didn’t.”

“Not for a while, anyway. Now we know everything,” Holliday said wryly. “By the way, who wants the body? Any family?”

“The army, I guess.” Connolly got up. “You’ll let me know about Albuquerque. And the bars?”

“Everything. No secrets here.”

“Doc, so far we’ve got nothing to be secret about. How did the papers cover this?”

Holliday took a clipping from his desk. “One-day sensation. Your people tried to pull the plug, but it was too late. Tourist killing, unknown assailant. Police following up leads. This kind of thing we could spin out for weeks around here, but they got closed down after the first day. If you want to do me a favor, you could square it with the paper so they’ll talk to me again.”

“I can’t. Not yet. Any connection made to the Albuquerque case?”

“Not directly. Just the rise in crime. Things going to hell all over. You know. They got a good week’s run out of Albuquerque, so you can’t really blame them. They even had pictures of the bar. No wonder business fell off. But people here didn’t have time to get nervous. We put a patrol car on the Alameda for a few nights and that was it. The smart money’s on it being a drifter who passed through town.”

“And right out again.”

“Headed north when the smart money last spotted him.”

“Doc, it’s nice doing business with you,” Connolly said, shaking hands and turning to go.

“Any time. Store’s always open.”

“That reminds me,” Connolly said, turning back. “Do you know anyone who sells Indian jewelry around here?”

“Are you crazy? Everyone sells Indian jewelry around here. What kind do you have in mind?”

Connolly took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully unfolded it to display the turquoise pieces. “I don’t want to buy any. I want to get these appraised. You know anything about turquoise?”

“Only that most of it looks like crap. You’re not supposed to say that here, so don’t quote me, but it always seems a little clunky and cheap to me. What do you want to know?”

“What it’s worth.”

“Better take it over to Sonny Chalmers on San Francisco Street. Most of the new places have gone out to Canyon Road, but Sonny can’t be bothered to move. Anyway, he’s your man. Chalmers of Santa Fe. Around the corner and two blocks down. How’d you happen to come by the pieces? Belong to anyone we know?”

“Doc.”

Holliday dismissed him with a wave.

Sonny Chalmers had been a boy in the last century and even now he had the slight, boyish look of the perennially young, something Connolly guessed he had managed by conserving energy. San Francisco Street was quiet, only a few people passing in the morning light, but the inside of his shop was utterly still, and he scarcely looked up when the soft ping of the entrance bell broke the silence. He stood behind one of the glass jewelry cases, leafing through the morning paper. Half the store was given over to conventional jewelry, the usual display of engagement rings and charm necklaces, the other half to local turquoise, several cases of elaborate belt buckles and bolla ties for tourists.

“Can I help you?” he said, still not looking up.

“I hope so. I wondered if you could tell me about these pieces,” Connolly said, unwrapping the handkerchief and laying them out.

Chalmers moved the paper aside. “You wish to sell them?”

“No. Just have them appraised.”

Chalmers’s glasses hung from a chain around his neck. He raised them now and peered at the turquoise. “Oh, yes. Very nice, aren’t they? Navajo. You see how fine the settings are-only the Navajos work silver like this. The stones are good, but of course it’s the silver that gives them value. The dine use sandstone molds. You can always tell.”

“Can you tell me how much they’re worth?”

“Oh, exactly. I sold them, you see.”

Connolly looked at him, surprised at his luck. “These pieces? You sold these pieces?”

“Oh, yes. I’m not likely to forget them. Might I ask you how you came by them? I’d be curious to know what you paid.”

“They’re not mine. Chief Holliday said you might be able to help me appraise them.”

“Are you a policeman?”

“Not exactly. I’m helping them.”

“Well, that sounds mysterious. May I ask how?” Chalmers said, looking directly at him over his glasses.

“It’s about the man who bought them. Do you remember him?”

“I don’t know his name, if that’s what you mean.”

Connolly took out Bruner’s photograph. “Is this him?”

Chalmers nodded at the photograph. “Yes. What has he done?”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah.”

Connolly paused, waiting for Chalmers to offer more. “Do you remember how much he paid?”

“Two hundred dollars. Each time.”

“They’re worth two hundred dollars?” Connolly said, surprised.

“Well, that’s what he paid for them,” Chalmers said. “The original price was higher, but he was a man who liked to bargain. Yes, he liked that. He took great pleasure in that.”

“But they’re worth more?”

“I didn’t say that. I said that’s what he paid for them. It was the same each time. He’d pick a piece-always one of the better ones-and in the end he’d say, ‘I’ll give you two hundred for it.’ ”

“And you took it?”

“Well, you don’t turn down two hundred dollars lightly. Not since the war. The tourist trade-well, you see,” he said, indicating the quiet shop. “One has to make a living.”

“But you didn’t sell at a loss?”

“Oh, I’d never do that. No indeed. But they’re fine pieces. He got a good price.”

“Did he know anything about jewelry?”

“Not a thing. He bought strictly by the price tag. I don’t think he cared about the pieces at all. Of course, the most expensive pieces are the best, so he did very well. He wasn’t cheated. He did come back, you know.”

“But if he didn’t care about them, why was he buying them?”

Chalmers looked at him quizzically. “I assumed they were gifts for a lady.”

“They’re women’s pieces?”