Darrel Two Moons drove to his house in the South Capital district, took off his shoes at the door, and withstood an instant of chilled feet as he unlocked the door and stepped into his living room. Nice room; he always liked coming home to it. Seeing the kiva fireplace. The old twisting vigas lining the coved ceiling. Genuine old wood, the color of molasses. Not the faux-aged logs he’d noticed at Olafson’s mansion.
Who was he kidding? Olafson’s place was unreal.
He took off his coat, got a raspberry Snapple from the fridge, sat down at the kitchen table, and drank.
Looking through the arch at his living room. Pictures of Kristin and the girls and him taken at the Photo Inn at the DeVargas Center last Christmas.
Just about a year ago; the girls had done some growing since.
His castle.
Right.
He loved his house, but tonight, after hiking through Olafson’s spread, the place looked tiny, maybe even pathetic.
A hundred-and-eighty-grand purchase. And that had turned out to be a bargain, because South Capital was booming.
A working cop able to move into the north side courtesy of MetLife insurance and the last will and testament of Gunnery Sergeant Edward Two Moons né Montez, United States Army (ret.).
Thanks, Dad.
His eyes started to hurt, and he gulped the iced tea fast enough to bring on some brain freeze.
By now, the place had to be worth close to three hundred. An investment, for someone who could afford to sell and trade up.
A guy like Olafson could trade little houses like playing cards.
Could have.
Two Moons recalled Olafson’s crushed skull and berated himself.
Count your blessings, stupid.
He finished the Snapple, still felt parched and got some bottled water, went into the living room, and sat with his feet up, breathing deeply to see if he could catch a hint of the soap-and-water fragrance Kristin left in her wake.
She really loved the house, said it was all she needed, she never wanted to move.
Fifteen hundred square feet on an eight-thousand-square-foot lot, and that was enough to make her feel like a queen. Which said a lot about Kristin.
The lot was nice, Darrel admitted. Plenty of room out back for the girls to play and for Kristin to plant her vegetable garden and all that other good stuff.
He’d promised to lay down some gravel pathways, hadn’t followed through. Soon the ground would freeze over, and the job would have to wait until spring.
How many more d.b.“s would he encounter by then?
Soft footsteps made him look up.
“Hi, honey,” said Kristin, squinting and rubbing her eyes. Her strawberry-blonde hair was ponytailed, but strands had come loose. Her pink terry-cloth robe was cinched tightly around her taut waist. “What time is it?”
“Five.”
“Oh.” She came over, touched his hair. She was half Irish, one-quarter Scots, the rest Minnesota Chippewa. The Indian blood expressed itself in pronounced cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Eyes the color of sage. Darrel had met her during a visit to the Indian Museum. She’d been working there on a summer internship, doing clerical work to pay for a painting course. The eyes had snagged him, then the rest of her had held him fast.
“A case?” she said.
“Yup.” Darrel stood and hugged all five feet of her. Had to bend to do it. Dancing with Kristin sometimes nipped at his lower back. He didn’t care.
“What kind of case, honey?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Kristin’s green eyes focused. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
He sat her on his lap and told her.
She said, “Did you tell Steve?”
“Tell him what?”
“That you’d had an encounter with Olafson?”
“Totally irrelevant.”
Kristin was silent.
“What?” he said. “It happened a year ago.”
“Eight months,” she said.
“You remember?”
“I remember it was April because it was the week we were shopping for Easter.”
“Eight months, a year, what’s the diff?”
“I’m sure you’re right, Darrel.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
The moment she hit the mattress she popped right back to sleep, but Two Moons lay on his back and thought about the “encounter.”
He’d dropped over at the Indian Museum to see a show that included a couple of Kristin’s watercolors. Pictures she’d done the previous summer, sitting in the garden out back. Flowers and trees, a nice soft light. Two Moons thought it her best work, had pressed her to enter the juried show.
When she made it, his chest had swelled.
He made half a dozen visits to the show, using his lunchtime. Taking Steve twice. Steve said he loved Kristin’s work.
During the fifth visit, Larry Olafson bounded in with a middle-aged couple-an all-in-black couple wearing matching nerd eyeglasses. East Coast pretentious art types. The three of them walked through the show at breakneck speed, Olafson smiling-more like sneering- when he thought no one was looking.
Uttering snide comments, too, to his too cool friends.
Darrel had seen and heard when Olafson reached Kristin’s watercolors and said, “Here’s exactly what I mean. Insipid as dishwater.”
Two Moons felt his chest swell in another way.
He tried to cool himself down, but when Olafson and the couple headed for the exit, he found himself springing forward and blocking them. Thinking this was a bad idea, but unable to stop himself.
Like something had taken him over.
Olafson’s smile faded. “Excuse me.”
“Those pictures of the garden,” said Darrel. “I think they’re good.”
Olafson stroked his white beard. “Do you, now?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then I’m happy for you.”
Two Moons didn’t speak or move. The all-in-black-couple shrank back.
Larry Olafson said, “Now that we’ve had our erudite discussion, would you kindly get out of my way?”
“What’s wrong with them?” said Two Moons. “Why’d you put them down?”
“I didn’t put them down.”
“That’s what you did. I heard you.”
“I’ve got a cell phone,” said the woman. “I’m going to call the police.”
She reached into her purse.
Two Moons stepped aside.
Olafson passed him and muttered, “Barbarian.”
Darrel had felt like an idiot for weeks. Thinking about it now made him feel stupid.
Why had he even told Kristin?
Because he’d come home in a foul mood, ignored the girls. Ignored her.
Talk, she was always telling him. You need to learn how to talk.
So he’d talked. And she said, “Oh, Darrel.”
“I screwed up.”
She sighed. “Honey… forget it. It’s no big deal.” Then she frowned.
“What?”
“The pictures,” she said. “They really are insipid.”
He found that he’d been grinding his teeth at the memory and willed himself to relax. So he didn’t like the victim. He’d worked other cases where that happened, plenty of them. Sometimes people got hurt, or worse, because they were bad or stupid.
He hadn’t told Steve the story. No reason to then. No reason to now.
He’d work this one hard. For some reason, reaching that decision made him feel better.
Gunnery Sergeant Edward Montez had been all army, and Darrel, his only child, raised on bases from North Carolina to California, had been groomed to follow.
At seventeen, living in San Diego, when he found out his father was going to be sent to Germany, Darrel rebelled and went over to the nearest Marine Corps recruitment office and enlisted. Within days, he’d been assigned to basic training in Del Mar.
As his mother packed suitcases, she cried.
His father said, “It’s okay, Mabel.” Then he trained his black eyes on Darreclass="underline" “They’re kind of extreme, but at least it’s the military.”