Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

“How do you know we’re working hard?” said Katz.

“The murder of Mr. Olafson. It’s all over the Santa Fe New Mexican. In the Albuquerque Journal , too.”

“I haven’t had a chance to read the paper,” Two Moons said.

“Probably just as well,” Levy said. “Also, Valerie told Sarah that you’re working the case.” Levy gestured to his right. Where the blazer sat. “Long as you’re here, care to join me?”

“Actually,” said Darrel, “we came to talk to you.”

Levy’s eyebrows arched. “Really. Well, then sit down and tell me why.”

The surgeon resumed eating as Katz told him. Levy made a point of cutting his trout into precise squares, impaling the fish on his fork, and studying each bite before moving it smoothly to his mouth. When Katz finished, he said, “Last year he tried to buy Sarah out, and when that failed, he threatened to destroy her business.”

“Any particular reason he’d have it in for her?” said Katz.

Levy thought about that. “I don’t believe so. Sarah felt it was schadenfreude.”

“What’s that?” said Darrel.

“A German word,” said Levy. “Joy at the suffering of others. Olafson was a power-hungry man, and, according to Sarah, he wanted to dominate the Santa Fe art scene. Sarah’s established, successful, and well liked. For a man like that, she’d be an appealing target.”

“Not pleasant, Doc,” Katz said. “Some guy gunning for your wife.”

“An interesting choice of words.” Levy smiled. “Not pleasant at all, but I wasn’t worried.”

“Why’s that?”

“Sarah can take care of herself.” The surgeon ate another forkful of trout, drank some soda, looked at a wristwatch as thin as a playing card, and put cash on the table. “Back to work.”

“Liposuction?” said Darrel.

“Facial reconstruction,” said Levy. “A five-year-old girl was injured in an accident on 25. It’s the kind of surgery I really enjoy doing.”

“The opposite of schaden-whatever,” said Two Moons.

Levy looked at him quizzically.

“Joy at the recovery of others.”

“Ah,” said Levy. “Never thought of it that way, but yes. I like that very much.”

Leaving the restaurant, Two Moons said, “What do you think?”

“He’s big enough,” said Katz. “See the size of those hands?”

“His prints should be on file, too. State medical board.”

They walked to the Crown Victoria, and Two Moons got behind the wheel. “Must be strange… putting together a kid’s face.”

“Impressive,” said Katz.

A mile later, Two Moons said, “Be a shame to put a guy like that out of commission.”

Back at the station, they called the medical board and put in a request for Dr. Oded Levy’s prints. Processing and retrieval would take days. There was no way to fax the data directly to the crime lab.

“Unless we get the chief on it,” said Two Moons.

“For that we’ll need more.”

“Levy’s probably not going anywhere.”

“You like him for it?” Katz said.

“Not really, rabbi. What about you?”

“At this point, I don’t know what I like.” Katz sighed. “This one’s getting that smell. The reek of failure.”

By day’s end, they had a pleasant surprise, though a minor one: The techs had set out for Embudo to print the Skaggses, and the job was completed. The computerized scan had begun, and initial data would be in by five p.m. Any ambiguous findings would trigger a hand check by the lab’s head print whiz, a civilian analyst named Karen Blevins.

Two Moons and Katz stuck around waiting for the results, taking time for a burger-and-fries dinner, clearing paperwork on other cases, straining to come up with a new avenue of investigation on Olafson.

At seven-thirty, they needed a new avenue more than ever: Neither Barton nor Emma Skaggs’s prints matched any of the latents at Olafson Southwest or at the victim’s house. Emma had visited the gallery, but she hadn’t left her mark.

By eight in the evening, tuckered out and weary, Katz and Two Moons prepared to leave. Before they reached the door, Katz’s extension chirped. It was uniformed officer Debbie Santana.

“I’ve been assigned to guard the gallery while Summer Riley paws through the inventory. It looks like she’s got something.”

Before Katz could speak, Summer came on the line. “Guess what? It is an art theft! Four paintings missing from the list.”

Katz felt elated. A motive! Now all they had to do was find the thief.

“It’s weird, though,” Summer added.

“In what way?” Katz asked.

“There were a lot more expensive works that weren’t taken. And all the missing ones were by the same artist.”

“Who?”

“Michael Weems. Looks like she had a big fan. She’s important-artistically speaking-but not high-end-yet. Larry was planning to take her to the next level.”

“What’s the value of the four paintings?”

“Around thirty-five thousand. That’s Larry’s retail price. He usually takes ten percent off the top automatically. That’s not small change, but right next to the four Weemses was a Wendt worth a hundred and fifty thousand and a small Guy Rose worth a lot more than that. Both are still here. Everything but the Weemses is still here.”

“Have you gone through the entire inventory?” “I’ve covered at least two-thirds. There’s an art-theft database. I could enter the information myself, but I figured I should call you first. Would you like the titles of the paintings?”

“Don’t bother right now, Summer. We’re coming over.”

Merry and Max in the Pool, 2003, 36 x 48,

oil on canvas, $7,000.00 Merry and Max Eating Cereal, 2002, 54 x 60,

oil on canvas, $15,000.00 Merry and Max with Rubber Ducks, 2003, 16 x 24,

oil on canvas, $5,000.00 Merry and Max Dreaming, 2003, 16 x 24,

oil on canvas, $7,500.00

Katz and Two Moons examined the snapshots of the paintings.

“What are these for?” Darrel asked Summer Riley.

“We send them out to clients who inquire about the artist. Or sometimes just to clients who Larry thinks would be a good match with the artist.”

Still talking about her dead boss in the present tense.

Katz had another look at the photos.

Four paintings, all of them revolving around the same subjects. Two naked, cherubic blond kids, a toddler girl and a slightly older boy.

Katz had seen them before. Dancing around the maypole, a larger canvas displayed in the great room of Larry Olafson’s house. That one had caught his untrained eye. The subject had been rescued from tackiness because Michael Weems could paint. That Olafson was hanging Weems’s work in his private space could’ve been a marketing ploy-taking her to the next level, as Summer had said.

Or could be he just liked her style.

So did someone else.

Two Moons squinted at one of the photos.

He frowned and Katz looked over his shoulder. Merry and Max with Rubber Ducks. The kids sitting on the rim of a bathtub examining the yellow toys. Full frontal nudity, a rumpled towel at the girl’s feet lying across a green-tiled bathroom floor.

Katz cleared his throat. Two Moons slipped the photos into an evidence bag, handed them to Debbie Santana. He told Summer Riley to wait in the gallery office and led Katz out to the front room. The taped outline of Olafson’s body remained affixed to the hardwood floor, and Katz found himself thinking still life . Imagining one of those little rust specks of dried blood to be the red-dot tag affixed to a painting, indicating that it had been sold.

Two Moons said, “What do you think of those paintings?”