Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

“If it says two eighty, it means he’s three hundred,” Two Moons stated. “People always lie.”

The fax machine whirred. The reproduced photo was small, and they blew it up on the station’s photocopy machine.

Myron Weems had a full face, bushy gray hair, and a meaty, cleft shelf of a chin. Tiny eyeglasses perched absurdly on a potato nose. Weems’s neck was even wider than his face and ringed in front, like a twine-wrapped pot roast. The overall impression was a college football tackle gone to seed.

“Big boy,” said Two Moons.

“Very big boy,” Katz answered. “I wonder if he’s in town.”

When the detectives phoned Myron Weems at his house in Enid, Oklahoma, all they got was a machine. “This is the Reverend Dr. Myron Weems…” An oily voice that was surprisingly boyish. Weems’s message ended with his bestowing a blessing for “spiritual and personal growth” upon the caller.

No response at his church, either. There were no records of Weems flying in or out of Albuquerque within the past sixty days.

Katz and Two Moons spent the next three hours canvassing every hotel in Santa Fe, expanded their search, and finally came up with a winner at a cheesy motel on the south side, just two miles from the station.

They drove over and spoke to the clerk-a Navajo kid just out of his teens with poker-straight black hair and a wisp of a mustache. Three days ago, Myron Weems had registered under his own name. He’d arrived in a vehicle whose Oklahoma plates had been duly listed. A ‘94 Jeep Cherokee, which matched the data they’d received from Enid. Weems had paid for a week in advance. The clerk, whose name was Leonard Cole, had seen him yesterday.

“You’re sure?” Katz said.

“Positive,” Cole answered. “The guy is hard to miss. He’s huge.”

Two Moons said, “And you haven’t seen him since.”

“No, sir.”

Cole checked the clock. A television was blaring from the back room. He seemed eager to get back to his program. He took out a key and said, “Wanna check his room?”

“We can’t without a warrant. But you could get in there if you were worried about something.”

“Like what?” said Leonard Cole.

“Gas leak, water leak, something like that.”

“We got no gas, everything’s electric,” said Cole. “But sometimes the showers get leaky.”

They followed Cole to the ground-floor unit. Cole knocked, waited, knocked again, then used his master key. They let him go in first. He held the door wide open and stared into the room.

Everything was neat and clean. Four paintings were stacked against the wall, next to the made-up single bed.

Katz thought: A guy that big sleeping on that bed couldn’t have been fun. Easier to do if you were motivated.

And the evidence of motivation was clear: A box cutter sat atop a plastic-wood dresser. The outermost painting was a shredded mass of curling canvas ribbons, still set snugly in its frame. Leonard Cole looked behind the picture and said, “They’re all cut up. Pretty freaky.”

Two Moons told him to leave the room and lock up. “We’re sending some police officers by to keep a watch. Meanwhile, don’t let anyone in or out. If Weems shows up, call us immediately.”

“Is this guy dangerous?”

“Probably not to you.” Katz took out his cell phone. “But don’t get in his way.” He called for uniform backup and a BOLO on Myron Weems’s Jeep. Then he looked at his partner. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m sure I am,” Two Moons said. “Let’s hit it.”

Both detectives hurried toward the Crown Victoria.

All that anger.

The ex-wife.

The address matched a free-form, sculptural adobe on Artist off Bishop’s Lodge Road a couple of blocks to the east, just before Hyde Park. It was only fifteen miles from the ski basin, and the air already smelled thin and sweet.

The place was illuminated by low-wattage lighting that gave hints of eco-friendly landscaping-native grasses and shrubs, hewn rock, and a girdle of snow-covered piñons. The walkway was a path of Arizona flagstone, and the front door was fashioned from old gray teakwood, the hardware copper with a fine old patina. No one answered Two Moons’s knock. He tried the handle. Open.

Katz thought: Another one who didn’t lock her front door. Downright stupid, in this case. The woman had to suspect her lunatic ex in Olafson’s murder. He pulled out his gun from his hand-tooled holster.

Ditto for Two Moons. Holding his weapon with two hands, Darrel called out Michael Weems’s name.

Silence.

They walked through the entry hall to the living room. No people there, but all the lights were on. High ceilings with beautiful vigas and latillas. The requisite kiva fireplace. The place was done up in style-weathered heavy furniture that wore well in the dry climate, softened by a few Asian antiques. Nice leather couches. Worn but expensive-looking rugs.

Too damn quiet.

There were no paintings on the walls, just bare plaster-off-white tinged with pale blue. Odd, Two Moons thought. But what do they say? Shoemakers’ kids always go barefoot.

Speaking of which! Where were the kids?

Two Moons’s heartbeat quickened.

Maybe they were sleeping over at a friend’s house. Maybe that was very wishful thinking!

A pair of French doors at the rear led out to a shady portal. There was deck furniture and a barbecue on wheels, just like anyone’s house.

Back inside, the kitchen was cluttered, just like anyone’s house.

Photos of the kids on a stone mantel.

School photos. Merry and Max, smiling wholesomely.

Where the hell were the kids?

“Ms. Weems!” yelled Two Moons. His stomach started churning. He was thinking of his own children. He tried to push that thought away, but the harder he tried, the clearer their faces were. Like a goddamn Chinese puzzle.

Relax, Darrel.

His father’s voice talking to him.

Relax.

That helped a little. He eyed Katz, cocked his head to the left, toward an archway to a corridor.

There was no other way for them to go without turning around. Katz watched his partner’s back.

The first door to the right belonged to a little girl’s room. He dreaded going inside, but Two Moons had no choice. He pointed his gun to the floor, just in case the kid was sleeping in her bed and hadn’t heard them yelling. He didn’t want any accidents.

Empty.

Not as good as finding the girl asleep but far better than finding a body.

The room was pink and frilly and pretty, with the bed unmade. Plastic stick-on letters on the wall above the headboard: MERRY.

Max’s room was next door. Also empty. All boy, the place was a museum of Matchbox cars and action figures.

The last door was to an adult bedroom. Whitewashed walls, an iron bed, a single pine nightstand, and nothing else, including a body.

Where was she?

Where were the kids?

“Ms. Weems?” Katz yelled out. “Police.”

Nothing.

There was another set of French doors on the right that led to a second portal. Two Moons exhaled audibly. Katz followed his gaze through the glass.

Outside, a woman stood in the hot white beam of a spotlight, at a portable easel, painting. The handle of one brush in her mouth, another in a knit-gloved hand as she studied her canvas… appraising it, dissecting it. Behind her was a steep, snow-spotted hillside.

She let go with a series of dabs, then stopped for another quick assessment.

Katz and Two Moons faced the back of the easel. They were in full view of the artist, if she looked their way.

She didn’t.

Michael Weems looked to be in her late thirties-at least fifteen years younger than her ex. She had strong cheekbones and thin lips and a sharp, strong nose. Good posture and long, slender legs. She wore a quilted white ski jacket over leggings tucked into hiking boots. Yellow-gray hair was tied back and twisted into a long braid that hung over her left shoulder. A black, fringed scarf around her neck. No makeup on her face, but she did have spots of sunburn on cheeks and chin.