“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.”
8
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 doorjamb. Sarah looked up over her glasses, smiled, came over, and unlocked the door.
“Steve.”
“Working late, Sarah?”
“Always.” Santa Fe’s premium dealer in Pueblo ceramics was fifty-five, rail-thin, and glamorous, with a sheet of blue-white hair hanging down to her shapely buttocks and a heart-shaped face that needed no makeup. Her husband was a plastic surgeon, and rumor had it she’d made use of his services. Katz knew it to be a lie. Sarah had naturally young skin.
“Val around?”
“Not here, but you know where.” She glanced up the block.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Sure, Steve.” She touched his sleeve. “When she left, she was in a good mood.”
Warning him he might be intruding.
“I’ll try not to ruin it.”
The Parrot Bar was a short walk away, on San Francisco Street, between a fossil shop and a place that sold only white clothing. A Doobie Brothers cover band was playing tonight, and bass thumps poured out to the sidewalk. Oh, oh, oh . . . listen to the music. Out on the curb to the right of the entry, three bikers were drinking beer. Illegal, and most everyone knew Katz was a cop. They also knew he couldn’t have cared less. The bikers greeted him by name, and he gave a small salute in return.
He made his way through a throng of drinkers and shimmying dancers, up to the overly lacquered bar where Val was sure to be.
And there she was on a center stool wearing a black halter and blue jeans and boots. Sandwiched between two ponytailed guys with hunched backs. The old shearling she wore during the winter had fallen from her lap and lay on the floor, getting trampled.
Ponytail on the left had gray hair and a skimpy beard. His hand rested on Val’s bare back, partially covering the gladiolus tattoo she’d gotten last summer. Right-Side Pony’s gut hung over his belt. His stubby fingers caressed Val’s butt, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Wide butt, Katz noted. The ten extra pounds had stretched to twenty. Still distributed in all the right places, but her back had gone a little soft, bulging a bit above the top seam of the halter.
She’d cut her hair, too. Real short, almost mannish. And when she turned, Katz saw the looseness around her jaw, the beginnings of a double chin. Pale, as always. Downright pallid in the sickly light of the bar, but none of that mattered. Men flocked to her: They always had and always would. And not because she was loose. She wasn’t. In some ways, she was the pickiest woman Katz had ever known.
Maybe it was her unpredictability.
Her body, full and curvy and, let’s face it, flabby, managed to convey an intoxicating sense of sexual promise, and whether or not that would lead to anything was the big mystery. She’d been like that even when she and Katz were married.
That was it, he decided. Val was mysterious.
Screwed up, sharp-tongued, distant, plagued by bouts of low self-esteem exacerbated by genuinely low talent, but smart and funny and kind when she felt like it. A tigress when the mood hit her.
The guy on the right slipped his hand under her butt. She threw back her head, laughed, and dislodged him. Touched his nose briefly with a sharp pink fingernail.
Katz walked over and retrieved the shearling. He tapped her shoulder very lightly. She turned, then mouthed “You” over a high-decibel rendition of “China Grove.”
There was no surprise in it. No irritation, either.
Just “You.”
Katz flattered himself that she seemed happy to see him.
He held out the coat. Pointed to the floor.
She smiled, nodded, took the shearling. She slipped off her stool and laced her fingers between Katz’s and stared into his eyes.
The fools at the bar looked stunned as she and Katz left.
Val didn’t put the shearling on until they were outside and a half block from the Parrot. Her white shoulders were prickled with gooseflesh. Same for her cleavage. White breasts bouncing loosely. Katz fought the urge to put his arm around her, protect her from the cold and everything else.
As they walked, she said, “You’re fantasizing, Steve.”
He raised his eyebrows.
She stopped and stretched her arms wide. “Give me a hug. A big one.”
He complied and they embraced and she bit his ear, whispered into it, “You look good, ex-husband.”
“You, too, ex-wife.”
“I’m a sow.”
“Nothing like that at all. You women with your distorted body image—”
She silenced him with a finger on his lips. “Don’t be nice, Steve. I might go home with you.”
He drew back and looked into her deep brown eyes. A couple of zits occupied the space between her plucked brows. New wrinkles creased the corners of the eyes. His eyes took in all of it, but his brain registered none of it. All he saw was mystery.
They resumed walking. “Would that be a tragedy?” he said.
“What?”
“Coming home with me.”
“Probably,” she said. “Let’s not find out.”
She walked faster, breathing through her mouth and blowing out steam. He caught up. They reached the park in the center of the Plaza. On warm nights, kids, sometimes drunk and often rowdy, hung out here. Occasionally, the homeless occupied the benches until the uniforms cleared everyone away. Tonight it was devoid of human occupation other than the two of them. The Plaza sparkled with Christmas lights, silver-blue snowdrifts, hundreds of white diamond stars, and pure magic. Too much cheer for a man who lived in a granite yard. Katz felt suddenly depressed.
Valerie said, “Is this about Olafson?”
“How’d you know?”
“Because Olafson’s dead, and I know what your job is. What is it, Steve? Did my name show up somewhere?”
“In his Palm Pilot.”
“There you go.” She rubbed her hands together. “I could be a detective, too.”
She sat down on a bench and jammed her stiff fingers into the pockets of her coat. “Here I was, sitting in a nice warm bar, getting nice warm male attention.”
“Let’s go inside somewhere,” said Katz. “We could sit in my car, and I’ll turn the heater on.”
She smiled. “And neck?”
“Cut it
out,” he said, surprised at the anger in his voice.
“Sorry for offending you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Tight-lipped and colder than the air.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been working twenty-four hours with almost no sleep.”
“All that’s your decision, Steve.”
“I’m sorry, Val. Okay? Let’s start from scratch.”
“Sure,” she said. “And while we’re at it, let’s have world peace.” She turned, studied him, and gave him a look that made him wonder if she was going to cry. What now?
“Val—”
“Been out to Bandelier recently, Steve?”
“Not recently,” he said. Sometimes on days off, he drove out to the national park and got waved in free by the ranger: courtesy from one uniform to another. When tourists were there, he hiked. On slow days, he climbed a ladder up to one of the ancient Anasazi caves and just sat, staring at the ruins of the old pueblo marketplace below. Two Moons would have laughed, but Katz truly felt at one with the spirits of the land. He’d discovered the park right after the divorce, driving aimlessly, exploring the wilderness. Unlike the Big Apple, New Mexico was replete with open space.
He hadn’t recalled telling Valerie of his trips to Bandelier. But then again, he didn’t remember too clearly what they had actually talked about.
They sat there on the bench for what seemed like a long time. Then, suddenly, she took his face in her frigid hands and kissed him hard. Cool lips but a warm tongue.
When she pulled away, she said, “Let’s go to my place.”
Val got her VW van from behind the gallery, and he followed her erratic driving to her studio apartment on an unmarked alley off Paseo de Peralta, not too far from the site of the murder. She lived in the guesthouse of a large adobe estate owned by a California couple who rarely made it to Santa Fe. Val was expected to take care of minor repairs. For the most part, she had the coyote-fenced two-acre property to herself. Once, she’d brought Katz into the main house and they made love on the owners’ big pine four-poster, surrounded by pictures of the owners’ kids. Afterward, he’d started to clean up, but she told him to stop, said she’d take care of it later.
They parked next to each other on the gravel pad. Val had left her front door unlocked and she shoved it open. Katz quelled the reflex to lecture her and followed her inside, accepting the cold Sam Adams she offered. She sat down on her bed, and Katz tried to ignore the terrible abstractions that filled the space like blemishes.
She stood inches from him, got out of her clothes quickly, said, “What are you waiting for?”
A good question. It was hard and fast and great, and Katz had to clench his jaws so as not to scream.
Later, lying naked in bed, she said, “I was in his Palm Pilot because he wanted me.”
“Oh,” said Katz.
“Not sexually,” she said. “I mean, that was there, too. Even though he was mostly gay. But not totally. There was a hetero vibe, too—a woman can tell. What he wanted was for me to leave Sarah and come work for him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a genius.” She laughed. “He was planning to branch out to Pueblo pottery. He told me Indian art was getting big on the East Coast. With his New York connections, he could triple the business Sarah does. He was also planning to go online. He’d use the auction services for the cheaper stuff and get on the art sites for the higher-end, as well as do some advertising on his own site. He had plans to really build up the market. He said within a year, Sarah would be hurting and that six months after that, she’d be finished.”
“Nice guy.”
“Terrible guy.” Val traced a circle around Katz’s left nipple. “I think that was the primary appeal for him. Not just succeeding but causing Sarah to fail.”
“What was your incentive to leave?”
“Fifty percent raise and eventual partnership. The raise I figured he’d come through with, at least in the beginning. The partnership was bullshit. He’d use me to get established, then get rid of me and bring in some lackey.”
“You turned him down.”
“I told him I’d think about it. Then I proceeded to ignore him.” She played with Katz’s mustache. “A week later, he called me. I didn’t return the call. A few days after that, he called again. I told him I was still thinking about it. He got a little huffy, obviously used to having his way. The third call didn’t come until two weeks later. I told him I was busy with a customer, would get back to him. When I did, he started off all indignant. Didn’t I know who he was? Didn’t I know what he had the power to do to me?”
She lay back, her heavy breasts flattened and spread. “I didn’t play his game. I stayed really sweet and said I’d considered his very generous offer and would continue to consider it but for the time being, I couldn’t commit. He was so shocked he just hung up without saying a word. Soon after, I saw him walking in the Plaza right toward me. He saw me, too, and crossed the street.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him no?”
She smiled. “You know me, Steve. You know how I am with men.”
She cooked up some spaghetti and tofu sausage, and the two of them ate silently. As Katz washed the dishes, he saw her yawn conspicuously.
He got out of the robe she’d brought him—one of his old ones, but the smell of other men permeated the terry cloth. It didn’t bother him. He was just another man now.
He got dressed, then kissed her good night. Sweet and chaste with no promise about the future. He drove to the granite yard, figuring that tonight he might sleep okay.
9
Both detectives slept late and arrived at the station by ten. On their desks were identical messages—a meeting with Chief Bacon in an hour.
The session lasted two minutes: the chief asking what was up, Two Moons and Katz saying nothing so far. The victim had too many potential enemies.
“Does it look like we’ll close it?”
“Maybe,” Two Moons said. “Maybe not.”
She thought a moment. “That wouldn’t be great, but I don’t think it’ll have any ramifications. Either touristwise or citizen-confidence-wise. Because he had so many enemies, it could be seen as an aberration.”
Neither detective spoke.
Chief Bacon said, “Not that I’m being pessimistic, guys. Okay, go out there and do your thing.”
What was their thing? Two Moons was the one to ask.
Katz said, “Let’s make sure the Skaggses’ prints get checked out.”
“Scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Why not today?”
“You know those guys—there’s always a reason.” Two Moons got on the phone to the state crime lab and asked for a rush. He hung up, shaking his head.
“Rape case in Bernalillo’s taking their time.”
“Rape trumps murder?” said Katz.
“The victim was twelve, living in a double-wide with her drunk mother. The asshole crawled into her bedroom. Probably some former boyfriend of the mother’s—lots of candidates in that department.”
Katz told him Valerie’s story about Olafson gunning for Sarah Levy’s business.
Two Moons said, “Maybe Sarah bashed him.” He picked up a pencil, let his wrist go limp, made a feeble chopping motion.
“Her husband could’ve,” said Katz.
“Who’s that?”
“Dr. Oded Levy. He’s a plastic surgeon. He’s also Israeli and served in the army over there. Plus, he’s a big boy.”
“Bad temper?” said Darrel.
“The times I’ve met him, no. But that’s always been on pleasant occasions. You know . . . social situations.”
“You socialize with surgeons?”
“Once,” said Katz. “After Val started working for Sarah, Sarah invited her to a dinner party at their house. Val needed a date, so she asked me.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Far from it. Val had flirted with an orthopedist the entire evening. Soon after, she hooked up with the bo
ne-jockey.
Katz said, “After that, I ran into him a couple of times. You know, like once you meet someone, you notice him. He always seemed like a mellow guy. He’s younger than Sarah, by the way.”
“And that means . . .”
Katz held up the palms of his hands and shrugged. “Nothing. That time at their house, he seemed pretty in love with her.”
“She’s a beautiful woman,” said Two Moons. “I know how pissed I was after Olafson criticized my wife. No telling what an army-trained Israeli might have done, finding out that Olafson had planned to stomp out his wife’s business.”
Dr. Oded Levy’s office suite occupied the entire ground floor of a medical building on St. Michael’s east of Hospital Drive, due south of St. Vincent Hospital. The waiting room was empty and discreet, with butter-colored leather sofas and Indian rugs over wide-plank oak floors, copies of Architectural Digest and Santa Fe Style fanned out carefully on granite-topped tables.
Katz categorized the rock automatically. Spotty ribbon gneiss. Slabs of the stuff stood feet from his window at home.
A pretty receptionist greeted them. When they asked to see Dr. Levy, she stayed pretty and friendly.
“He just left for lunch.”
“Any idea where?” said Darrel.
“The Palace,” she said.
They drove to the Plaza, found curbside parking, then walked to the Palace Hotel. Dr. Oded Levy was sitting in the old Victorian dining room by himself, tucked away in a red leather corner booth, eating fried trout and drinking Diet Coke.
“Steve,” he said. Even seated, his size was evident. Katz knew him to be six-four or -five, trim and broad-shouldered. He had tan skin and black curly hair cut short.
“Dr. Levy.” Katz introduced Two Moons.
“You two must be working hard,” said Levy. “You deserve a nice lunch.” The doctor had the faintest of accents. His hands were the size of baseball mitts, with long tapered fingers manicured perfectly. His crimson silk tie was knotted loosely under a spread-collared sky-blue shirt. A navy cashmere blazer was folded neatly over the top of the booth.
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