“You took art?” said Katz.

“Art history,” said Darrel. “In college. Because it was easy.”

“Learn anything?”

“That I liked seriously pretty stuff as much as anyone, but seriously studying it was ridiculous.”

“It’s like everything else,” said Katz. “God gives us good stuff and we make it complicated.”

Darrel glanced at him “You’re religious now?”

“I was talking… metaphorically.”

“Ah,” said Two Moons. “Well, the big metaphor tonight is ”dead as a doornail.“ Any ideas?”

“Check out his house,” said Katz. “Get hold of his phone records, find Summer Riley and see what she knows, talk to the ex-wife in New York, or wherever she is, learn more about Olafson’s business. That ForestHaven deal, too. Be interesting to see what the ranchers he sued have to say.”

“Sounds like a comprehensive plan, Steve.”

They headed for the car.

Darrel said, “Way I see it, we’ll be looking for enemies in all the right places. Something tells me we’re going to be real busy.”

Just as they were about to drive off, one of the uniforms said, “Look who’s here.”

Headlights flashed, then dimmed as a squad car drove up. Chief Shirley Bacon got out wearing a navy-blue knit pantsuit under a long black shearling coat, her dark hair piled and sprayed high, more makeup on her face than she ever wore at the station.

She was compact and open-faced, a forty-eight-year-old former teacher, daughter of a county sheriff and the sister of a state cop, another sheriff, and a probation officer. She’d started out playing the violin, ended up giving music lessons and working as a secretary at the opera while hoping for better. A broken hand at age thirty-five had sent her to the department as a secretary. One thing led to another and she joined SFPD.

She’d climbed fast by being smart and able, had made it to chief last year. She treated her officers with respect, got a sixty-mile vehicle take-home policy passed on their squad cars, and pushed through a salary raise in an era of budget-cutting. No one begrudged her a damn thing, no one thought about her gender.

She headed straight for them.

“Darrel, Steve.”

“Big night out, boss?” said Katz.

“Fund-raiser. The Indian Art Foundation, Dr. and Mrs. Haskell’s place, up on Circle Drive. What’s the story here?”

They told her as she grimaced. She said, “This could go in all sorts of directions. I’ll deal with the papers. Keep me posted.”

Within moments, the chief’s deputy, Lon Maguire, showed up in his off-duty truck, and soon after that, Lieutenant Almodovar joined the huddle.

No ideas from the bosses. But no anxiety or criticism, either. During Katz’s three years with the department, he’d been impressed by the lack of backbiting and barely suppressed anger. All that good stuff he’d dealt with in New York. Then again, NYPD dealt with more homicides weekly than he’d seen in three years here.

Chief Bacon gave them a simple wave, then turned to leave.

“Back to the party, boss?” asked Katz.

“Heck no, that was about as boring as it gets.” She shouted as she walked away, “But next time give me a simpler way to excuse myself!”

At 2:53, nearly an hour past shift’s end, just as they were about to leave for Olafson’s house, they spotted a good-looking young couple standing outside the cordon, at the far end, talking to Officer Randolph Loring.

They headed over and Loring said, “This is Ms. Riley. She lives out in back.”

Summer Riley was raven-haired and ivory-skinned with a curvy shape even her bulky ski jacket couldn’t conceal. Her big blue eyes were as scared as a cornered rabbit’s. Katz put her at late twenties.

The denim-clad guy with her was tall, dark, handsome in that Latin-lover type of way. Brown wavy hair that fell past his shoulder blades and a pale, strong-boned face. Equally freaked-out.

Katz thought: This could be a Calvin Klein ad. Even the fear. Especially the fear.

Summer Riley hadn’t picked up Two Moons’s message. She was just returning from a date. Darrel gave her the same straight-out story he’d told her machine, and she collapsed into the young guy’s arms. He held her, looking awkward. Stroked her hair with all the vitality of a robot.

His name was Kyle Morales, and he was a UNM dance major who worked part-time at the flamenco show over at the Radisson. He was on hiatus until spring of next year.

Katz had seen the show, sitting alone at the back of the room with the single Tanqueray and tonic he allowed himself. Slightly apart from the rest of the audience, whose mean age had been about sixty-five.

He’d been pleasantly surprised by the show: good dancers, good guitar work. He said so to Kyle Morales.

Morales said, “Thanks,” without any feeling.

When Katz said, “How about we talk to you guys separately?” Morales complied without fuss.

Darrel guided Summer Riley through the cordon, over to the guesthouse, while Katz stayed right there with Morales.

It was the second time Morales had gone out with Summer. He’d met her at a bar on San Francisco Street, thought she was “cool.” He had no idea who Lawrence Olafson was and knew less than nothing about art.

“Second date,” said Katz.

“The first was just drinks, kinda,” said Morales.

“What about tonight?”

“Tonight we saw a comedy over at the DeVargas Center.”

“Funny?” said Katz.

“Yeah,” said Morales, not even trying to fake it. A dancer, not an actor.

“Then what?”

“Then we got a pizza. Then we were headed back here.”

“First time at her place?”

“Supposed to be.” Uttered with regret.

Tough luck, thought Katz. All chance of getting laid blown to bits by the nasty business of murder.

He questioned Morales awhile longer, deciding the guy wasn’t very bright. Just another wrong place, wrong time situation.

“Okay, you’re free to go.”

Morales said, “I thought maybe once she was finished with you guys, we could still hang out.”

“You can take your chances and wait,” said Katz, thumbing the cordon tape, “but talking from experience, buddy, it’s gonna get real cold.”

In the end, Morales decided to pack it in. Katz joined Two Moons and Summer Riley in the single-room guesthouse. Added to the previous disarray was a layer of print powder. The girl was drying her tears. It was hard to say if that was because of the situation or Darrel’s sensitive approach-or both.

Darrel said, “Ms. Riley doesn’t know anyone who’d want to harm Mr. Olafson.”

“He was wonderful,” sniffled Summer.

Darrel didn’t respond and the girl said, “Like I said, you really need to check if any of the art’s missing.”

“Robbery,” said Darrel, using his flat voice.

“It’s possible,” said Summer. “Larry is the top dealer in Santa Fe, and he’s got some pretty expensive pictures in the gallery.”

“O’Keeffe?”

“No, not at this time,” said Summer defensively. “But we’ve sold several of them in the past.”

“What’s pricey now?”

“There’s a gorgeous Henry Sharp Indian and some Berninghauses and a Thomas Hill. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, but they’re valuable pictures.”

“Sharp and Berninghaus were Taos masters,” said Katz. “I didn’t know Hill painted New Mexico.”

Summer’s head drew back as if his knowledge had assaulted her. “He didn’t. It’s a California scene.”

“Ah.”

“They’re pricey. Six figures each.”

“And he kept them in the gallery?” asked Katz.

“Except for what he takes home,” said Summer, staying in the present tense.

“For his personal use?”

“He circulates art in his house. He inherently loves the art and also to have around for visitors.”

“A sample,” said Katz.

The young woman looked at him as if he’d uttered a vulgarity.

Darrel said, “Where in the gallery are these masterpieces stored?”

“With all the other pictures,” said Summer. “In the storage room. It’s got a special lock and alarm, and only Larry has the combination.”