Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

Darrel said, “Meanwhile, it would be good if you folks don’t take any long road trips or the like.”

“Sure,” said Emma. “We were just about to fly off to El Morocco, or wherever it is.” She turned to her husband. “That place where they gamble and wear monkey suits, like from the James Bond movies?”

“Monaco,” said Bart. “Sean Connery plays baccarat there.”

“There you go,” she said. To the detectives: “He was always one for the movies.”

On the drive back, Katz said, “Pour some whiskey down my gullet, Maw, and stitch away.”

“You like ‘em for the murder?”

“They hated him enough and they know how to deliver a good head smack, but if Ruiz is right about the angle of impact, they’re too short.”

“Maybe they brought a ladder.” Even Darrel smiled at the thought.

“And funny little clown shoes and a flower that spurts water,” said Katz. “If they were going to be that prepared, they’d have brought a weapon. The use of a pickup weapon says maybe it wasn’t premeditated. I guess art galleries do keep ladders around, for hanging pictures high, so theoretically there could’ve been one already out. Except the walls of Olafson’s place aren’t that high, and the idea of either of them scrambling up on a ladder to bop Olafson sounds pretty ridiculous.”

“You’re right,” said Darrel. “If those two wanted him dead, they’d have come ready to do it. What about the son?”

“The accountant in Chicago? Why him?”

“He didn’t like getting his own hands dirty, but he could’ve felt real bad about Mom and Pop losing the ranch. Maybe he figured as a white-collar guy he could have a one-on-one with Olafson. What if he flew out to meet with Olafson and Olafson treated him the way he’d treated Mom? One thing led to another, Olafson blew him off, walked away from him in that arrogant way of his, and Bart Junior lost it.”

That arrogant way of his. Like Darrel knew something Katz didn’t. Katz said, “Insult someone’s mother and you never know. Let’s check the son out.”

They hit a traffic snag just outside the city limits and made it back to the station at 1:45 p.m. The drive from Embudo back to Santa Fe had taken them past the turnoff for the Santa Clara Pueblo, but Two Moons didn’t seem to notice.

Not that he was likely to mention it. The one time Katz had tried to talk about his partner’s Indian roots, Darrel had changed the subject. The next day, though, he’d brought in a tiny ceramic bear. Kind of crude but the animal did have a cute look.

“What my father did during the last months of his life,” Two Moons explained. “He made about five hundred of ‘em, stored ’em in boxes. After he died, his pottery teacher gave them to me. She said he wasn’t proud of ‘em, that he had wanted to wait until he mastered the art to show all his work to me. That my approval had been important to him. She figured I should have them. You can keep it if you want.”

“It’s nice,” Katz had said. “You sure, Darrel?” “Yeah, it’s fine.” Two Moons had shrugged. “I gave a few to my girls, but how many do they need? If you know any other kids, I got plenty more.”

Since then, the bear had kept Katz company while he cooked, more like warmed stuff up. It sat next to his hot plate. What it symbolized, he really didn’t know, but he supposed it had something to do with strength.

The two detectives grabbed sandwiches from a station vending machine and plugged Barton Skaggs Jr. into the databases.

No criminal record but the accountant did merit a couple of Google hits. Junior was listed as a partner in a big Chicago firm, and last summer he had given a talk on tax shelters. After some fiddling with the reverse directories, they found his residence-an address on the North Shore of the Loop, not far from Michigan Avenue.

“That’s a nice neighborhood,” said Katz. “Right on the water, I think.”

“Crunching numbers beats running cattle,” said Two Moons. “Let’s give him a call.”

They reached Skaggs at his accounting firm. An articulate, educated-sounding man, any traces of his upbringing long gone. On the surface, he appeared to have nothing in common with his parents, but as he talked, he got increasingly assertive and the detectives heard nuances of his mother’s stridency.

“I’m astonished that you’d even consider Mom and Dad in that context.”

“We don’t, sir,” said Katz. “We’re just making inquiries.”

“Isn’t one persecution enough? They were destroyed financially and emotionally, and now you suspect them of something that horrible? Unbelievable. You’d be well advised to focus your efforts elsewhere.”

“When’s the last time you’ve been out to Santa Fe, Mr. Skaggs?”

“Me? Last Christmas. Why?”

“So you haven’t been in regular contact with your parents.”

“I certainly am in regular contact. We talk regularly.”

“But no visits out here?”

“I just told you, last Christmas. We spent a week-I brought my family. Now, why is that-”

“I’m just wondering,” said Katz, “if you ever met Lawrence Olafson.”

Several beats passed before Barton Skaggs Jr. said, “Never. Why would I?” He laughed harshly. “This has to be the most inane conversation I’ve had in a long time. And I do believe I’m going to terminate it right now.”

“Sir,” said Darrel, “I’m kind of curious about one thing. Your folks were destroyed financially. From what I saw, they’re living pretty down-and-out. Now, you, on the other hand-”

“Make a lot of money,” Junior snapped. “Live on the North Shore. Drive a Mercedes. Send my kids to private school. You think I haven’t tried to help them? I even offered to bring them out here, set them up in a nice condo, all expenses paid, though Lord only knows how they’d handle the city. I would’ve bought them a new place anywhere in New Mexico, somewhere they could keep some animals and left-wing lunatics wouldn’t harass them. They refused.”

“Why?”

“ Why? ” Junior sounded incredulous. “You’ve met them. Surely you can’t be that… that imperceptive. Why do you think? They’ve got pride. They’re stubborn. Or maybe it’s just plain old stick-in-the-mud inertia. They’re the parents, I’m the kid, they raised me, ergo, I take from them. It can’t be the other way around. Now, for God’s sake, leave them alone. Let them be. ”

The detectives spent the next couple of hours trying to learn if Barton Skaggs Jr. had made any recent trips to Santa Fe. The task was a lot harder post-September 11; airlines were skittish, so their inquiries got mired down in gobs of red tape. Being transferred from department to department, getting hot ear from the phone’s receiver. In the end, Katz and Two Moons came away pretty well convinced Skaggs hadn’t flown from Chicago to Albuquerque or from any other Midwest city to any other New Mexico city. Nor had he taken any private flights directly to the Santa Fe airport. None of the major hotels had his name on their ledgers.

“I believe him,” Two Moons announced.

“Hey,” said Katz, “maybe he drove out West in the Mercedes. Living in his car. All that leather would make for cushy digs.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Katz asked.

“Just don’t think so.”

“Some spirit talking to you, Darrel?”

“More like I don’t see him leaving his job and family to barrel down to Santa Fe to whack Olafson. And why now? None of that makes any sense. There’s gotta be a better explanation.”

“So you tell me,” Katz said.

“I would if I knew.” Two Moons scratched his head. “Now what?”