The suit claimed damage wrought by the Skaggses’ herd was jeopardizing native rodents, reptiles, foxes, wolves, and elk. The judge agreed and ordered the couple to reduce the herd to 420. A subsequent refiling by the group cut that further to 280. Having to shift half their grazing to private land at ten times the cost plunged the Skaggses into red ink. They’d closed down and retired, were now living on a thousand dollars a month in Social Security payments.

“My family’s been ranching these lands since 1834,” said Bart Skaggs. “We withstood every natural disaster you can think of but we couldn’t stand up to crazy radical environmentalists.”

Emma Skaggs was described as “too distraught to comment.”

When asked for his reaction to the couple’s loss, ForestHaven’s board member and chief complainant was unrepentant: “The land is threatened and the land reigns supreme-above any individual’s selfish needs,” said Lawrence Olafson, a well-known art dealer with galleries in Santa Fe and New York City. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

Olafson had highlighted his own comments in yellow marker.

“Proud of himself,” said Darrel.

“The land reigns supreme,” said Katz.

They filed the book as evidence and took it with them.

“Breaking eggs,” said Two Moons as they left the house. “That bashed-in head of his.”

Katz raised his eyebrows. His partner had a way with words.

They loaded the computer and its paraphernalia in the trunk of the car, and Katz warmed up the engine.

“The guy,” said Two Moons. “His house has a lot of stuff, but something’s missing.”

“Pictures of his kids,” said Katz.

“Bingo. The ex-wife I can see, but the kids? Not a single picture? So maybe they didn’t like him. Doc said the scene showed lots of anger. That’s how I saw it, too. What’s angrier than a family thing?”

Katz nodded. “We definitely need to track down the kids. Talk to the ex, too. Want to do it before or after we find Bart and Emma Skaggs?”

“After,” said Darrel. “And tomorrow. Those two got shafted. I don’t feel like waking them up at”-he peered at his watch-“four-eighteen. We’re well into overtime, partner.”

4

Katz put on as much speed as the dark, winding roads would allow, and they made it back to the headquarters at Camino Entrada by 4:45.

After logging Olafson’s computer into evidence, they did some preliminary paperwork on the case, agreed to meet for breakfast at nine at the Denny’s down the block from the station, and headed home. Two Moons had the Crown Vic because this was his month for take-home, and Katz made do with his grubby little Toyota Camry. Given the state of his social life, he didn’t need better wheels.

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.”