“Mrs. Groobman?”

“This is Alicia Small, her personal assistant.”

Katz introduced himself, attempting to make some New York small talk. It was the wrong move. Alicia Small was in no mood for chumminess and she turned frosty. “Mrs. Groobman is indisposed.”

“Any idea when she’ll be unindisposed?”

“None. I’ll forward your message.”

“Forward?” said Katz. “Does that mean she’s out of the city?”

Pause. “She’s in the city. Leave your number and I’ll inform her-”

“Are you aware that her ex-husband has been murdered?”

“I’m quite aware,” said Alicia Small.

“How long have you been working for ”Madame‘?“

“Three years. If that’s all, Mr. Katz-”

“It’s Detective Katz.”

“Excuse. Detective Katz. Now, if we’re through-”

“Actually we’re not. I need the names of Mr. Olafson’s children.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss family.”

“It’s public knowledge.” Katz didn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Why make my life difficult?”

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Here’s my number at the Santa Fe Police Department. Call and check me out, but don’t take too long.”

It was an offer most people refused. Alicia Small said, “Recite those numbers again, please.”

The second time around, she was just as cool but resigned. “What would you like to know?”

“The names of my victim’s children.”

“Tristan and Sebastian Olafson.”

“How old are they?”

“Tristan’s twenty and Sebastian’s twenty-three.”

“And where might they be found?”

“Mr. Katz, I’m just not comfortable-”

“Detective-”

“Yes, yes, Detective Katz.”

She was peeved, but so was he. “Ms. Small, your comfort isn’t high priority. I need to talk to the boys.”

A sigh floated through the receiver. “Tristan’s at Brown University and Sebastian’s traveling in Europe.”

“Where in Europe?”

“Italy.”

“Where in Italy?”

“Venice.”

“Where in Venice?”

“The last time I heard he was staying at the Danieli Hotel.”

“Vacation?”

“He’s studying at the Peggy Guggenheim.”

“Art historian?”

“He paints,” said Alicia Small. “Good evening, Mister Katz.”

They split up the Olafson boys. Katz located Tristan in his dorm room at Brown. The boy had the deep voice of a man and had learned about his father’s death from his mother.

“Do you have any clues?” he asked Katz. “About who did it?”

“Not yet. Do you?”

“Could be anyone. He wasn’t well liked.”

“Why’s that?”

“He wasn’t a nice person.” A cynical laugh. “If you did an ounce of investigating, you’d know that.”

Katz ignored the barb and tried to get more out of him, but the boy had nothing more to say. He seemed unmoved by losing his parent. When Katz hung up, he realized Tristan had never referred to Olafson as anything other than “he.”

Two Moons told Katz that he had located Sebastian Olafson. He’d been sleeping in his room at the Danieli.

“Kid was pissed. Not just because I woke him up. More like I was bugging him, asking questions about Olafson. He said his dad was a nasty man.”

“Same from the other son.”

“Close-knit family.”

“Popular victim,” said Katz. “This is going to be a barrel of laughs.”

At seven p.m., they were ready to pack it in. As they were putting on their jackets, Katz’s desk phone rang. Chantal Groobman was returning his call and leaving a message. Astonished, Katz raced back to his desk. He and Darrel picked up their extensions simultaneously.

“This is Detective Steve Katz. Thank you, ma’am, for getting back so promptly.”

“How can I help you, Detective Katz?”

She was a pleasant-sounding woman, with a light, friendly voice. After being snobbed out by her personal assistant, he’d expected to be stonewalled.

“Whatever you can tell us about your ex-husband would be helpful, ma’am.”

“Poor Larry,” she said. “He could be well intentioned, but he had a knack for making people angry. I do believe part of that was attention-seeking behavior. The rest was strategy. Back when Larry began his business, he learned that art makes people, even wealthy people, insecure. He became adept at subtle intimidation. He found that a certain degree of calculated obnoxiousness could help propel his career.”

“Art buyers like to be mistreated?” said Katz.

“Some do, some don’t. The key is knowing who to abuse and who to pander to. Larry was good at it. But sometimes even the finest dancer missteps. Do you have any suspects?”

“Not yet.”

“Poor Larry,” she repeated. “He really thought he was immortal.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, was Mr. Olafson’s abrasive behavior the reason you divorced him?”

“I’m sure that was part of it,” said Chantal Groobman. “But the main reason was Larry and I both discovered that he was confused.”

“About?”

“Take a wild guess, Detective Katz.”

A throaty laugh. Like Valerie in her tigress mode. Katz said, “His sexuality.”

“Correct. You have a New York accent. Are you from here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We New Yorkers are so astute.”

“So,” said Katz, “Mr. Olafson came out of the closet?”

“When I knew him, he was groping to find his inner self. You’d be in a better position to tell me the final disposition of his love life. I haven’t seen Larry in years. Neither have my sons. I know you contacted them and I suppose that was necessary. But I do wish you’d leave them alone. They’re very upset by Larry’s death.”

“Ma’am,” said Katz, “with all due respect, they didn’t sound very upset.”

“You don’t know them, Detective Katz. I’m their mother.”

“How’d they get along with their dad?”

“They despised him. When they were small, Larry ignored them. When they entered adolescence, he gave them a bit more attention in the form of acid criticism. Larry could be quite cutting. In any event, the lack of a paternal bond had nothing to do with Larry’s death. Yesterday, Tristan was taking finals at Brown, and I’m prepared to supply any number of written affidavits to that effect. Similarly, Sebastian was working at the Guggenheim, just as he has been for four months, in full view of the staff there.”

“You’ve done your homework, Mrs. Groobman.”

“A parent-a real parent-does that.”

“When did Mr. Olafson’s sexual confusion emerge?”

“He was always confused, Detective. I was too foolish to notice it. The problem began when Larry noticed it.”

“Is that when the drinking started?”

“Ah,” she said. “So you know about that. Did Larry lapse?”

“The autopsy revealed old scarring on his liver.”

“Oh,” said Chantal Groobman. “How… sad.” Her voice actually broke between the two words.

“Mr. Olafson told friends he’d received help from a spiritual counselor.”

“Is that what he called it?” she said. “I never saw Dr. Weems as particularly spiritual. More of a religious… athletic coach.”

The name was familiar to Katz, but he couldn’t remember why. “What kind of a doctor was he?”

“I don’t think I ever knew. Larry didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

Then it came to Katz: the painting in Olafson’s house. Little kids dancing around the maypole. The signature: Michael Weems. He said, “Could it be that Dr. Weems was seeking another connection with your ex?”

“What do you mean? Sexual?” She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“More like representation. He being the artist and your husband being the art dealer.”

“Weems an artist?” Again the laugh. “You’re kidding! That, I find impossible to believe.”

“Why, ma’am?”

“Myron Weems was the last person I’d predict would go artsy.”

“I meant Michael Weems,” said Katz.

“Ah… but of course. Now I understand your confusion. Yes, Michael Weems is a painter of serious repute. She’s also a woman, Detective. Myron was her husband.”