“He’s a tall guy,” said Katz. “Was it an upward or a downward blow?”
“More like straight across.”
“So we’re talking about another big man.”
“That seems logical,” said Ruiz, “but I can tell you more after I cut him open.”
“Any guesses about the weapon?” said Katz.
Ruiz thought a moment. “What I can say at this point is it was something big and heavy with rounded edges.” He got down next to Katz and pointed at the pulpy wound site. “Look over here. One furrow but it went extremely deep. The impact shattered bone. There are no small fragments on visual, like you’d get with a sharp-edged instrument. No cut marks, period. Whatever was used inflicted damage over a comparatively wide surface and pushed the fragments down into the brain. Serious heft.”
“Like a crowbar?”
“Larger. We’re talking tremendous force.”
“Lots of anger,” said Darrel.
Ruiz got up and stretched. Touched his knee and winced.
“Sore, Doc?”
“Middle age sucks.”
Katz smiled and cocked his head at the empty pedestal.
“I saw that,” said Ruiz. “Could be. If it’s like the others weightwise.”
Darrel said, “Carrying away something that heavy would be tough. And there’s no blood trail.”
“If it’s chrome,” said Ruiz, “the blood might not have adhered in any degree-might’ve dripped off soon after impact. Or your murderer wiped it and took it with him.”
“Souvenir?” said Darrel.
Ruiz smiled. “Maybe he’s an art lover.”
Katz smiled back. “Or he was hyped up, adrenalized, took it with him, and dropped it somewhere nearby.”
Darrel checked his watch. “Time to search.”
Katz said, “It’s pretty dark out there, and I didn’t see any outdoor lights near the guesthouse.”
“No problem,” Two Moons countered. “Let’s cordon the entire property, get some night spots, block off upper Canyon.”
Ruiz grinned. “You block off upper Canyon, you’d best finish early.”
Wiseass smile, Katz noticed, which could be Ruiz’s way when dealing with a body. A small, round, highly intelligent man, the Hispaniola-born son of a plasterer, David Ruiz had gone to UNM on scholarship, earned an MD from Johns Hopkins, served a forensic-path residency at New York Hospital. He’d spent a couple of years with Dr. Michael Baden in the New York ME ’s office. He and Katz had traded lots of New York war stories. The Santa Fe job had brought Ruiz back to his home state. He lived outside the city limits, on a ranchero near Galisteo, with horses and cows, dogs and cats, a couple of llamas. He had a wife who liked animals and a whole bunch of kids.
“Nine by the latest,” Ruiz continued. “That’s when the tourists start coming. Blocking off Canyon will turn you into civic impediments.”
Two Moons spoke in his laconic voice. “And here I was thinking I was a civil servant.”
“Consider this,” said Ruiz. “A few hours ago, Olafson was an important man. Now he’s an impediment.”
The detectives had the techs dust for prints all over the gallery and in Olafson’s rear office. Tons of latents showed up immediately, which was almost as bad as a blank screen. When everything had been photographed, they gloved up and checked out the art dealer’s desk. In a top drawer, Katz found Olafson’s Palm Pilot. Lots of names, a few he recognized. Including Valerie’s. That surprised him. As far as he knew, she’d given up her art dreams, had reached a medium level of contentment working at the Sarah Levy Gallery over in the Plaza, selling high-end Pueblo pottery.
“These are people with real talent, Steve,” she’d told him when he’d dropped by. “At least I’m smart enough to know the difference.”
Katz had thought he spied moisture in the corners of her eyes. But maybe he was wrong. When it came to Valerie, he’d been wrong a lot.
Checking his gloves for pinholes and wrinkles, he scrolled through more names on the Pilot.
Two Moons said, “Too much stuff. This is going to be one of those. Let’s tag and bag and we’ll go through it later. Meanwhile, how about the houseboy?”
Sammy Reed was twenty-four, delicate, black, and still weeping.
“I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it.”
He asked to get out and stretch, and the detectives said sure. Reed wore a too big herringbone tweed overcoat with a black velvet collar that looked vintage. Black jeans, black Doc Martens, diamond chip in his right ear-lobe. As he flexed his arms and legs, they checked out his size.
Five-six in his Docs, maybe one twenty.
In the car once more, Two Moons and Katz flanked him in the backseat. The heater hummed intermittently, and the temperature hovered between chilly and passable. Reed sniffled and denied knowing whom “Larry” was staying late to meet. Olafson didn’t discuss business details with him. His houseboy duties consisted of keeping the mansion neat and clean, doing some light cooking, taking care of the pond and the pool and Larry’s borzoi.
“She’s going to be heartbroken,” he said. “Shattered.” As if to illustrate, Reed cried some more.
Darrel handed him a tissue. “The dog.”
“Anastasia. She’s six. Borzois don’t live that long. Now that Larry’s gone… I can’t believe I just said that. Gone. Ohmigod.”
“Can you think of anyone who’d do this?”
“No,” said Reed. “Absolutely not. Larry was beloved.”
“Popular, huh?”
“More than popular. Beloved.”
“Still,” said Katz, “sometimes you run into difficult people.”
“If Larry did, I don’t know about it.”
“He didn’t talk business with you?”
“No,” said Reed. “That wasn’t my role.”
“Who works at the gallery?”
“Just Larry and one assistant. Larry was trying to streamline.”
“Financial problems?”
“No, of course not.” Reed gulped. “At least none that I knew of, and Larry didn’t seem to be worried or anything like that. Just the opposite. He was talking about buying more land. So he must’ve been doing okay.”
“Land where?”
Reed shook his head.
Darrel said, “What’s the assistant’s name?”
“Summer Riley.”
Katz remembered the name from the Palm Pilot. “Where does she live?”
“In the guesthouse out back.”
The detectives said nothing, both of them wondering what lay behind the guesthouse door.
Darrel said, “Did Larry receive any threats you’re aware of?”
Reed shook his head.
“Hang-up calls, weird mail, anything like that?”
Three more headshakes.
“Nothing out of the ordinary?” said Katz. “Especially within the last few weeks?”
“Nothing,” Reed insisted. “Larry’s life was tranquil.”
“Tranquil,” said Two Moons.
“I’m talking compared to his New York days,” said Reed. “He adored Santa Fe. Once he told me his original plan had been to spend just a few months here, but he came to love it so much that he decided to make it his primary residence. He was even talking about closing up one of the New York galleries.”
“Which one?” said Katz.
“Pardon?”
“He had two, right?”
“Yes,” said Reed. “The one in Chelsea.”
“West 21st-contemporary art,” said Katz.
Reed’s eyes were wide with surprise. “You’ve been there?”
“I used to live in New York. So Mr. Olafson was thinking of downsizing.”
“I don’t know for sure, but he mentioned it.”
“When?”
“Hmm… a month ago maybe.”
“What was the context?” said Katz.
“The context?”
“He didn’t usually talk business with you.”
“Oh,” said Reed. “Well, this wasn’t business. It was more… Larry was in a good mood, kind of… talkative… reflective about life. We were out on the portal- nighttime. Back when we had that warm spell?”