Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

“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.”

“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.