Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

A throaty laugh. Like Valerie in her tigress mode. Katz said, “His sexuality.”

“Correct. You have a New York accent. Are you from here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We New Yorkers are so astute.”

“So,” said Katz, “Mr. Olafson came out of the closet?”

“When I knew him, he was groping to find his inner self. You’d be in a better position to tell me the final disposition of his love life. I haven’t seen Larry in years. Neither have my sons. I know you contacted them and I suppose that was necessary. But I do wish you’d leave them alone. They’re very upset by Larry’s death.”

“Ma’am,” said Katz, “with all due respect, they didn’t sound very upset.”

“You don’t know them, Detective Katz. I’m their mother.”

“How’d they get along with their dad?”

“They despised him. When they were small, Larry ignored them. When they entered adolescence, he gave them a bit more attention in the form of acid criticism. Larry could be quite cutting. In any event, the lack of a paternal bond had nothing to do with Larry’s death. Yesterday, Tristan was taking finals at Brown, and I’m prepared to supply any number of written affidavits to that effect. Similarly, Sebastian was working at the Guggenheim, just as he has been for four months, in full view of the staff there.”

“You’ve done your homework, Mrs. Groobman.”

“A parent-a real parent-does that.”

“When did Mr. Olafson’s sexual confusion emerge?”

“He was always confused, Detective. I was too foolish to notice it. The problem began when Larry noticed it.”

“Is that when the drinking started?”

“Ah,” she said. “So you know about that. Did Larry lapse?”

“The autopsy revealed old scarring on his liver.”

“Oh,” said Chantal Groobman. “How… sad.” Her voice actually broke between the two words.

“Mr. Olafson told friends he’d received help from a spiritual counselor.”

“Is that what he called it?” she said. “I never saw Dr. Weems as particularly spiritual. More of a religious… athletic coach.”

The name was familiar to Katz, but he couldn’t remember why. “What kind of a doctor was he?”

“I don’t think I ever knew. Larry didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

Then it came to Katz: the painting in Olafson’s house. Little kids dancing around the maypole. The signature: Michael Weems. He said, “Could it be that Dr. Weems was seeking another connection with your ex?”

“What do you mean? Sexual?” She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“More like representation. He being the artist and your husband being the art dealer.”

“Weems an artist?” Again the laugh. “You’re kidding! That, I find impossible to believe.”

“Why, ma’am?”

“Myron Weems was the last person I’d predict would go artsy.”

“I meant Michael Weems,” said Katz.

“Ah… but of course. Now I understand your confusion. Yes, Michael Weems is a painter of serious repute. She’s also a woman, Detective. Myron was her husband.”

“Was?”

“Yet another marital bond rent asunder. Despite Myron’s alleged spirituality.”

“An artist and a minister. Kind of an interesting match.”

“They’re from Nebraska,” she said. “Or some other flat place. Corn-fed, salt-of-the-earth people. Both went to Bible school. Michael had talent and came to New York because where else does talent gravitate? Her rise was pretty rapid-she is a first-rate artist. Myron tagged along and attempted to climb socially.”

“Spiritual adviser to the art world?” said Katz.

“Something like that. Then he decided he didn’t like that world, they divorced, and he returned to Nebraska. Or wherever it was.”

“Not before helping Mr. Olafson.”

“If that’s what Larry told people, then I’m sure that’s what happened. Now, I really do have to go, Detective. I’m already late for a function.”

Click.

Katz had a few more questions, but when he called her back, the phone rang and no message machine switched on.

Katz and Two Moons made a second attempt to leave, got as far as the stairs down to the ground floor when Bobby Boatwright called out, “Hey!” from down the hall.

He’d gotten into Olafson’s computer and he gave them a rundown.

“No big security measures or attempt to conceal. The guy used ”Olafsonart‘ as his password. Nothing much to hide, either. He bookmarked several art-pricing sites and the major auction houses, some porno, most of it gay, some of it straight, and a bunch of restaurant guides locally as well as in New York. He’s got a brokerage account at Merrill Lynch, stocks and bonds, a little over two million bucks. From what I can tell, the account has dropped from where it was during the tech boom, but it’s up from the low.“

“What about all his business finances?” asked Two Moons.

“Not in the computer,” said Bobby. “Try his accountant.”

It was eight p.m., too late to call anyone. They’d really learned nothing. Soon the brass all the way up to the chief would be asking questions. Two Moons knew it would generate lots of column space in the Santa Fe New Mexican -the local daily that had as big a sports section as it did a front section. (When his father told him that the local team was called the Isotopes, Darrel was sure the old man was putting him on.) This kind of high-profile case would even be star material for the Albuquerque Journal. He hoped the girls wouldn’t be bothered by it. All of their friends knew what Dad did for a living.

They stepped out into the cold night air and walked to their vehicles.

Darrel said, “Something you should know. I had… I don’t know what you’d call it. An altercation, I guess. With Olafson.”

“That so?” said Katz.

“Yeah.” Two Moons told him the story.

Katz said, “I would’ve been pissed off, too.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you should know.”

Katz smiled. “Doesn’t seem relevant, chief. Unless you killed him.”

“If I killed him, there’d be no body to find.”

“Funny, partner.” A pause. “Actually, I was thinking the same thing.”

Two Moons allowed himself a tiny smile.

They walked a few more steps before Katz said, “As long as we’re confessing, here’s mine: Valerie’s name showed up in Olafson’s Palm Pilot.”

“She’s an artist,” said Darrel. “I guess there’d be a logical reason.”

“She thinks she’s an artist, Darrel. You’ve seen her stuff.”

“True.”

“In fact,” Katz went on, “lately, from the way she’s been talking, I don’t even think she believes it anymore. Olafson was high-end. There’s no way he would have considered representing her.”

“So there’s another reason for her being in his directory,” said Darrel.

“Exactly.” Katz sighed. “I thought I’d go over and talk to her about it. I was gonna do it first, then tell you. Because I can’t see it turning out to be anything important.”

“Makes sense.”

“I don’t want you to think I was holding back or anything like that.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Good,” said Katz. “I was gonna let it sit until tomorrow, but I think I’ll go over and see her now. We could both go.”

Two Moons said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get home.”

“No problem, Darrel. I can do it alone.”

“Yeah, it would be better that way.”

Sitting in his Toyota, with the engine idling and the heat blowing, Katz tried Valerie’s home number. Her machine switched on, and nobody interrupted when he left his name. He then drove to the Plaza, parked on the lower level of the municipal lot near the La Fonda hotel, and walked over to the Sarah Levy Gallery. The sign on the door said Closed, but the place was all windows, and with the lights on, he could see Sarah sitting behind her desk, surrounded by gorgeous black-on-black pottery from San Ildefonso and a grouping of gaping-mouth storytellers from the Cochiti Pueblo. Reading spectacles were perched on her nose. Katz rapped lightly on the door-jamb. Sarah looked up over her glasses, smiled, came over, and unlocked the door.