A few feet away was a piece of sculpture: a huge chrome screw on a black wooden base. Katz inspected the label: Perseverance. An artist named Miles D’Angelo. Two other works by the same guy: a massive screwdriver and a bolt the size of a truck tire. Behind those, an empty pedestal: Force.

Katz’s ex-wife had figured herself for a sculptor, but it had been a while since he’d talked to Valerie or any of her new friends, and he’d never heard of D’Angelo.

He and Darrel got close to the body, and they both inspected what had once been the back of Larry Olafson’s head.

Tan, hairless skin had been turned to mush. Blood and brain tissue crusted the white fringe and the ponytail. Stiffening the hair, turning it deep red, a blood henna job. A few specks of blood, a light spray, had made it to a nearby wall, to Olafson’s right. Serious impact. The air was coppery.

All of Olafson’s untouched jewelry said robbery was doubtful.

Then Katz berated himself for limited thinking. Olafson trucked in high-end art. There were all kinds of robbery.

That empty pedestal…

The coroner, Dr. Ruiz, had stuck a thermometer in the liver. He looked at the detectives, then sheathed his instrument and inspected the wound. “Two, three hours tops.”

Two Moons turned to the uniform who’d greeted them at the scene. She was a rookie named Debbie San-tana, a former Los Alamos clerk on the job less than a year. This was her first d.b. and she looked okay. Maybe working with nuclear stuff was scarier. Darrel asked her who had called it in.

“Olafson’s houseboy,” Debbie replied. “He came by half an hour ago to pick up the boss. Apparently, Olafson was working late, meeting a client. He and the houseboy- Sammy Reed-were supposed to have dinner at ten, over at Osteria.”

“Client have a name?”

Debbie shook her head. “Reed says he doesn’t know. He’s pretty hysterical, can’t stop crying. He says he found the door locked, used his key, called out Olafson’s name. When no one answered, he walked in and found it. No signs of forced entry. I guess that fits his story.”

“Where’s Reed now?”

“In the cruiser. Randolph Loring’s watching him.”

Katz said, “So it went down between eight and ten.”

“Approximately,” said Dr. Ruiz. “Stretch it on the front end to seven-thirty.”

Two Moons left the room and returned a moment later. “The door says the gallery’s open till six. Olafson must’ve thought the client was serious to stay two hours late.”

“Or he got conned,” said Katz.

“Either way, if he thought there was serious money involved, he’d stay as late as it took.” Darrel bit hard on his lower lip. “That guy loved his money.”

The hostility in the remark was out of place. Santana and Ruiz stared at Two Moons. He ignored the scrutiny and began checking out the paintings on the wall. A series of blue-gray abstractions. “What do you think of these, Steve?”

“They’re okay,” said Katz. He was still kneeling by the body. A little surprised by the hostility but not shocked. For the last few days, Darrel had been grumpy. It would pass. It always did.

He asked Dr. Ruiz about the bloodstains.

Ruiz said, “I’m no spatter expert, but there’s no blood in any of the other rooms, so it’s pretty obvious he got hit right here. Cracked right across the occiput-back of his head-over to the right. Looks like one blow. I don’t see any signs of struggle. He got whacked and he crumpled.”

“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.