“For that we’ll need more.”

“Levy’s probably not going anywhere.”

“You like him for it?” Katz said.

“Not really, rabbi. What about you?”

“At this point, I don’t know what I like.” Katz sighed. “This one’s getting that smell. The reek of failure.”

By day’s end, they had a pleasant surprise, though a minor one: The techs had set out for Embudo to print the Skaggses, and the job was completed. The computerized scan had begun, and initial data would be in by five p.m. Any ambiguous findings would trigger a hand check by the lab’s head print whiz, a civilian analyst named Karen Blevins.

Two Moons and Katz stuck around waiting for the results, taking time for a burger-and-fries dinner, clearing paperwork on other cases, straining to come up with a new avenue of investigation on Olafson.

At seven-thirty, they needed a new avenue more than ever: Neither Barton nor Emma Skaggs’s prints matched any of the latents at Olafson Southwest or at the victim’s house. Emma had visited the gallery, but she hadn’t left her mark.

By eight in the evening, tuckered out and weary, Katz and Two Moons prepared to leave. Before they reached the door, Katz’s extension chirped. It was uniformed officer Debbie Santana.

“I’ve been assigned to guard the gallery while Summer Riley paws through the inventory. It looks like she’s got something.”

Before Katz could speak, Summer came on the line. “Guess what? It is an art theft! Four paintings missing from the list.”

Katz felt elated. A motive! Now all they had to do was find the thief.

“It’s weird, though,” Summer added.

“In what way?” Katz asked.

“There were a lot more expensive works that weren’t taken. And all the missing ones were by the same artist.”

“Who?”

“Michael Weems. Looks like she had a big fan. She’s important-artistically speaking-but not high-end-yet. Larry was planning to take her to the next level.”

“What’s the value of the four paintings?”

“Around thirty-five thousand. That’s Larry’s retail price. He usually takes ten percent off the top automatically. That’s not small change, but right next to the four Weemses was a Wendt worth a hundred and fifty thousand and a small Guy Rose worth a lot more than that. Both are still here. Everything but the Weemses is still here.”

“Have you gone through the entire inventory?” “I’ve covered at least two-thirds. There’s an art-theft database. I could enter the information myself, but I figured I should call you first. Would you like the titles of the paintings?”

“Don’t bother right now, Summer. We’re coming over.”

10

Merry and Max in the Pool, 2003, 36 x 48,

oil on canvas, $7,000.00 Merry and Max Eating Cereal, 2002, 54 x 60,

oil on canvas, $15,000.00 Merry and Max with Rubber Ducks, 2003, 16 x 24,

oil on canvas, $5,000.00 Merry and Max Dreaming, 2003, 16 x 24,

oil on canvas, $7,500.00

Katz and Two Moons examined the snapshots of the paintings.

“What are these for?” Darrel asked Summer Riley.

“We send them out to clients who inquire about the artist. Or sometimes just to clients who Larry thinks would be a good match with the artist.”

Still talking about her dead boss in the present tense.

Katz had another look at the photos.

Four paintings, all of them revolving around the same subjects. Two naked, cherubic blond kids, a toddler girl and a slightly older boy.

Katz had seen them before. Dancing around the maypole, a larger canvas displayed in the great room of Larry Olafson’s house. That one had caught his untrained eye. The subject had been rescued from tackiness because Michael Weems could paint. That Olafson was hanging Weems’s work in his private space could’ve been a marketing ploy-taking her to the next level, as Summer had said.

Or could be he just liked her style.

So did someone else.

Two Moons squinted at one of the photos.

He frowned and Katz looked over his shoulder. Merry and Max with Rubber Ducks. The kids sitting on the rim of a bathtub examining the yellow toys. Full frontal nudity, a rumpled towel at the girl’s feet lying across a green-tiled bathroom floor.

Katz cleared his throat. Two Moons slipped the photos into an evidence bag, handed them to Debbie Santana. He told Summer Riley to wait in the gallery office and led Katz out to the front room. The taped outline of Olafson’s body remained affixed to the hardwood floor, and Katz found himself thinking still life. Imagining one of those little rust specks of dried blood to be the red-dot tag affixed to a painting, indicating that it had been sold.

Two Moons said, “What do you think of those paintings?”

“Never mind what I’m thinking,” Katz answered. “You’re thinking they’re kiddie porn.”

Darrel scratched the side of his nose. “Maybe you think they’re kiddie porn and you’re doing what the shrinks say… projecting it on me.”

“Thanks, Dr. Freud,” said Katz.

“Dr. Schadenfreude.”

Katz laughed. “Tell the truth, I don’t know how I feel about them. I saw the one hanging in Olafson’s house and I thought it was good-from an artistic point of view. You see four together, especially that one you were looking at…”

“The way the little girl’s sitting,” said Darrel. “Legs spread, that towel at her feet-we’ve seen it before.”

“Yeah,” said Katz. “Still, these are obviously kids Michael Weems knows. Maybe even her own kids. Artists have… muses. People they paint over and over.”

“Would you hang that stuff in your house?”

“No.”

“Olafson did,” said Darrel. “Meaning maybe he had more than a professional interest in Weems. Maybe he dug the subject matter.”

“Gay and straight and mean and twisted,” said Katz. “Anything’s possible.”

“Especially with this guy, Steve. He’s an onion. We keep peeling, he keeps smelling worse.”

“Whatever he did or didn’t do, someone wanted those paintings badly enough to kill for them. Which also fits with a nonpremeditated scenario. Our bad guy came for the pictures, not for Olafson. Either he tried a sneak-burgle, got caught in the act by Olafson, and there was a confrontation. Or he showed up and demanded them, and there was a confrontation.”

“Makes sense,” said Two Moons. “Either way, the two of them have words, Olafson’s his usual snotty, arrogant self. He turns his back on the guy and boom.”

“Big-time boom,” said Katz. “Summer said Olafson sent out photos to anyone who expresses interest in an artist. Let’s see who was interested in Weems.”

Fifteen clients had received Weems mailings: four in Europe, two in Japan, seven on the East Coast, and two locals. They were Mrs. Alma Maarten and Dr. and Mrs. Nelson Evans Aldren, both with high-end addresses in Las Campanas-a gated golf-course and equestrian development that featured estates with spectacular views.

Katz asked Summer Riley if she knew Maarten and the Aldrens.

“Sure,” she said. “Alma Maarten’s a doll. She’s around eighty and wheelchair-bound. Apparently, in her younger days, she was quite the party giver. Larry kept her on the mailing list to make her feel like she was still part of the scene. The Aldrens are a bit younger but not much. Maybe early seventies. Joyce-Mrs. A.-she’s the one who’s into art.”

“What kind of doctor is the husband?”

“I think he was a cardiologist. He’s retired now. I’ve only seen him once.”

“Big fellow?”

Summer laughed. “Maybe five-four. Why are you asking all this? None of Larry’s clients killed him. I’m sure of that.”

“Why?” asked Two Moons.

“Because they all loved him. That’s part of being a great art dealer.”

“What is?”

“Relating personally. Knowing which artist fits with which client-it’s like matchmaking.”