Double Homicide Part 21

After yoga came a long walk and a half-hour bath, fry bread and black coffee for breakfast, though by then, it was closer to lunchtime.

By two p.m., the old man was ready for his drive out to the Santa Clara Pueblo, where the cheery, corpulent Sally Montez sat in her studio out back of her s.p.a.cious adobe house and fashioned gorgeous, jewel-inlaid, black-clay masterpieces. The front room of the house was a shop run by Sally's husband, Bob. He was Sally's second cousin; Sally hadn't needed to change her name.

As Sally made pots, Dad hunched at a nearby table, brow furrowed, chewing his cheek as he fashioned his bears.

Families of them, in various poses.

The first time he saw the tiny animals, Darrel thought of Goldilocks. Then he thought: No way. They didn't even look like bears. More like pigs. Or hedgehogs. Or nothing recognizable.

Dad was no sculptor and Sally Montez knew it. But she smiled and said, "Yes, Ed, you're coming along."

She wasn't doing it for the money; Dad wasn't paying her a dime. Just because she was nice. So was Bob. And their kids. And most of the people Darrel met on the pueblo.

He started to wonder.

Dad didn't mention the name-change thing again until six months after Darrel moved in. The two of them were sitting on a bench in the Plaza, eating ice cream on a gorgeous summer day. Darrel had enrolled in UNM as a business major, gotten a 3.6 his first semester, met some girls, had some fun.

"Proud of you, son," said Ed, handing the transcript back to Darrel. "Did I ever tell you the origin of my name?"

"Your new name?"

"My only name, son. The here and now is all that counts."

His hair had grown another four inches. The old man still smoked, and his skin looked like ancient leather. But the hair was thick and youthful and glossy, even with the gray streaks. Long enough for a serious braid. Today it was braided.

"The night I decided," he said, "there were two moons in the sky. Not really, it's just the way I perceived it. 'Cause of the monsoon. I was in the condo, cooking dinner, and there was one of those monsoons-you haven't seen one yet, but you will eventually. The sky just opens up and bam. bam. Sheets of rain. It can be a real dry day, bone-dry, then all of a sudden things change." He blinked, and for a second his mouth got weak. "You have arroyos turning into rushing streams. It's pretty impressive, son." Sheets of rain. It can be a real dry day, bone-dry, then all of a sudden things change." He blinked, and for a second his mouth got weak. "You have arroyos turning into rushing streams. It's pretty impressive, son."

Ed licked his b.u.t.ter pecan cone. "Anyway, there I was cooking and the rain started coming down. I finished up, sat there wondering where life was gonna take me." Another blink. "I started thinking about your mom. I never talked much about how I felt about her, but, trust me, I felt felt about her." about her."

He turned away, and Darrel watched some tourists file past the Indian jewelers and potters sitting in the alcove of the Palace of Governors. The Plaza across the street was filled with art kiosks and a bandstand with an open mike for amateur singers. Who said folksinging was a lost art? Or maybe that was good good folksinging. folksinging.

"Thinking about your mom made me low but also a little high. Not like in drunk. Encouraged. All of a sudden I knew I was doing the right thing by coming to this place. I'm looking out the window and the gla.s.s is all wet and all you can see of the sky is black and a big, blurry moon. Only this time, it was two moons-the wet gla.s.s bent the light in a way that created this image. Am I making myself clear?"

"Refraction," said Darrel. He'd taken Physical Science for Non-Science Majors, pulled a B.

Ed regarded his son with pride. "Exactly. Refraction. Not two totally separate moons, more like one on top of the other, maybe two-thirds overlapping. It was beautiful. And this strong feeling came over me. Your mom was communicating with me. 'Cause that's what we were like. Together all the time, but we were separate people, just enough overlap to make it work. We were fifteen when we met, had to wait until we were seventeen to get married 'cause her dad was an alcoholic hard case and he hated my guts."

"I thought Grandpa liked you."

"He came came to like me," said Ed. "By the time you knew him, he liked everyone." to like me," said Ed. "By the time you knew him, he liked everyone."

Darrel's memories of his grandfather were bland and pleasant. Alcoholic hard case? What other surprises did his father have in store?

"Anyway, the two moons were obviously your mom and me, and I decided then and there to honor her by taking the name. Consulted a lawyer here in town, went over to the courthouse, and did it. It's official and legal, son, in the eyes of the state of New Mexico. More important, it's sacred-holy in my my eyes." eyes."

A year after Darrel moved in with his father, Edward Two Moons was diagnosed with bilateral small-cell carcinoma of the lung. The cancer had spread to his liver, and the doctors said to go home and enjoy the time he had left.

The first few months were okay, just a dry, persistent cough and some shortness of breath. Dad read a lot about the old Indian religion and seemed at peace. Darrel faked being relaxed, but his eyes hurt all the time.

The last month was rough, all of it spent at the hospital. Darrel sat by his father's bed and listened to his father breathe. Watched the monitors idly and got friendly with some nurses. No tears came, just a deep ache in his belly. He lost fifteen pounds.

But he didn't feel weak. Just the opposite, as if drawing upon some kind of reserve.

The last day of his life, Edward Two Moons slept. Except for one time, middle of the night, when he sat up, gasping, looking scared.

Darrel rushed over and held him. Tried to ease him back down, but Dad wanted to remain upright and he fought it.

Darrel complied and his father finally relaxed. Lights from the monitors turned his face sickly green. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. Struggling to say something. Darrel looked him straight in the eye, but by now his father wasn't seeing anything.

Darrel held him tight and put his ear next to his father's lips.

Dry rasping came out. Then: "Change. Son. Is. Good."

Then he sank back to sleep. An hour later, he was gone.

The day after the funeral, Darrel went over to the courthouse and filed papers for a name change.

5.

Katz thought about Olafson's murder on the drive home.

Doc and Darrel had talked about anger, and maybe they were right. But if anger was the prime motivation, you'd have predicted multiple blows, not one ma.s.sive crusher.

A surprised burglar would fit with that. So did the open storage room.

Some sort of confrontation, Olafson announcing he was calling the police, turning his back on the bad guy.

Stupid move. Olafson's comments about suing Bart and Emma Skaggs reeked of arrogance. Maybe he'd gotten overconfident and had not taken the burglar seriously.

The oversize chrome hammer implied the bad guy hadn't come prepared to kill. Did the selection of weapon imply some sort of symbolic deal-killed by art, like Darrel had said-or just opportunism?

Katz had lived with symbols. That's what you got when you married an artist.

A would-be artist.

First the sculptures, then the s.h.i.tty paintings.

Be kind. Valerie had some talent. Just not enough.

He put her out of his mind and returned to the case. Came up with nothing new but was still thinking when he reached his s.p.a.ce and parked and entered. The room was just as he'd left it: pin-neat. He pulled down the Murphy bed, ate, and watched TV and thought some more.

He lived in a three-hundred-square-foot tin-roofed outbuilding behind the Rolling Stone Marble and Granite Yard on South Cerillos. It had a front room and a preformed fibergla.s.s lav. Warmth courtesy of a s.p.a.ce heater, air-conditioning courtesy of opening the windows. He cooked on a hot plate, kept his few belongings in a steel locker. The view was stone slabs stacked vertically and forklifts.

Temporary lodgings that had stretched to permanent. Semipermanent, since maybe one day he'd find a real house. There was no reason to right now, because the rent was minimal and he had no one to impress. Back in New York, the same dough wouldn't have gotten him a cot in a bas.e.m.e.nt.

He was the middle son of a dentist and a hygienist, the brother of two other tooth jockeys, raised in Great Neck, a onetime jock but no student, the black sheep of a resolutely middle-cla.s.s family. After dropping out of SUNY Binghamton, he'd worked as a bartender in Manhattan for five years before returning to John Jay and earning a degree in criminal justice.

During his five years with NYPD, he'd ridden a patrol car in Bed-Stuy, done some dope-undercover, some jail duty, finished up at the Two-Four in the city, working the western border of Central Park from 59th to 86th. Nice job, covering the park. Until it wasn't.

He continued to moonlight as a bartender, was socking away enough money to buy a Corvette, though he had no idea where he'd park it or when he'd use it. He was mixing ridiculous fruit martinis at a place in the Village the night he met Valerie. At first, he hadn't thought much of her. It was her girlfriend Mona who'd caught his eye; back then he'd been into b.r.e.a.s.t.s and blondes. Later, when he learned how crazy Mona was, he was thankful he hadn't gotten involved with her. Not that things had turned out so great with Valerie, but you couldn't put that down to her being nuts.

Just . . .

No sense lingering.

He read a paperback for a while-a police novel that bore no resemblance to any reality he knew, which was exactly what he needed. Drowsy within minutes, he placed the book on the floor, turned off the light, and stretched out.

The sun would be up soon, and by seven a.m., Al Kilcannon and the workers in the stone yard would be shouting and laughing and getting the machinery going. Sometimes Al brought his dogs and they barked like crazy. Katz had his earplugs ready on the nightstand.

But maybe he wouldn't use them. Maybe he should just get up, dress warm, and take a run, be ready to meet Darrel at Denny's.

Waking up in this dump could be depressing. He didn't miss Valerie, but he did miss greeting the morning with a warm body next to him.

Maybe he missed her a little.

Maybe he was too d.a.m.ned tired to know how he felt.

The night they met, Mona got picked up by some loser, and Valerie was stuck sitting there by herself. Now, out from Mona's shadow, she seemed more visible and Steve noticed her. Dark hair cut in a page, pale oval face, maybe ten extra pounds, but the distribution was pretty good. Big eyes, even from a distance. She looked forlorn and he felt sorry for her, sent her a complimentary cosmopolitan. She glanced over at the bar, raised her eyebrows, and came over.

Definitely good distribution.

They went home together to her apartment in the East Village, because she had an actual room as opposed to his curtain-part.i.tioned s.p.a.ce in the two-roomer on 33rd that he shared with three other guys.

The whole time, Valerie stayed forlorn, didn't talk much, but s.e.x switched her on like a light and she made love like a tigress. Afterward, she took a joint out of her purse and smoked it down. Told him she was a sculptor and a painter, a Detroit girl, NYU degree, no gallery representation yet but she'd sold a few pieces at street fairs. He told her what his day job was, and she looked at the ashes left by the doobie and said, "You busting me?"

He laughed and revealed his own stash. Shared.

They were married three months later in an impulsive civil ceremony that proved yet another disappointment to Katz's family. Valerie's, too, as it turned out. Her dad was an attorney. She'd grown up in a borderline social set, had given her parents nothing but problems.

At first, their rebelliousness seemed enough to cement the relationship. Soon it wasn't, and within a year they'd settled into mutual avoidance, polite asides, occasional s.e.x of diminishing ardor. Katz was enjoying police work well enough, but he never talked about work to Valerie because talking seemed wimpy and, besides, cruelty upset her vegan soul. Also, her career was going nowhere fast, and his being content with his own job didn't seem to help.

The night things changed, he was working the latter half of a double shift, partnered with a ten-year vet named Sal Petrello. Quiet night. They'd chased a few kids who were obviously planning mischief out of the park, helped a German tourist find his way back to Fifth Avenue, investigated an a.s.sault that turned out to be a middle-aged couple bickering loudly. Ten minutes before midnight a call came in: male mental case, running around naked near Central Park West and 81st.

When they got there, they found nothing. No maniac, naked or otherwise, none of the witnesses who'd called it in, no people at all. Just darkness and foliage in the park, the sounds of traffic from the street.

"Probably a fake-o," said Petrello. "Someone s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around."

"Probably," Katz agreed. But he wasn't sure. Something was tickling the back of his neck-so insistently that he actually reached back there to make sure no bug was exploring his skin.

No bug, just an itchy feeling.

They searched for another five minutes, came up empty, called it in as a fake-o, and started to leave.

As they made their way back to the car, Petrello said, "Better this way. Who needs lunatics?"

They'd almost made it when the guy jumped out and planted himself in front of them, blocking the pathway. Big muscular guy, square-faced and heavy-jawed, with a shaved head, pecs like sides of beef. Naked as a jaybird.

Excited, too. He howled and slashed at the air. Something shiny in his left hand. Petrello was closer to him and drew back, reached for his weapon, but not fast enough. The guy slashed again and Petrello screamed, grabbed his hand.

"Steve, he cut me!"

Katz's gun was out. The naked loony was grinning, moving toward him, stepping into filtered street light, and now Steve could see what was in his hand. Straight razor. Pearl handle. Rust-red with Petrello's blood.

Katz kept his eye on the weapon while sneaking a glance at his partner. Sal had one hand pressed tight over the wound. Blood was seeping out. Seeping, not spurting. Good, didn't look like an arterial cut.

Sal groaned. "Motherf.u.c.ker. Shoot him, Steve."

The maniac advanced on Katz, waved the razor in tiny concentric arches.

Katz aimed at his face. "Freezedon'tmove!" "Freezedon'tmove!"

The loony looked down at his own crotch. Real Real excited. excited.

Sal screamed, "Shoot him, Steve! I won't say nothing. Jesus, I need a Band-Aid. Would you shoot shoot him, for chrissake!" him, for chrissake!"

The maniac laughed. Eyes still on his erect member.

Katz said, "Put the razor down. Now."

The maniac lowered his arm, as if to comply.

Laughed in a way that curdled Katz's blood.

"Oh, G.o.d," said Sal.

He and Katz stared, unbelieving, as the crazy man made a quick downward chopping motion and left himself minus an organ.

The department sent Katz and Petrello to shrinks. Petrello didn't mind because he was getting paid anyway, planned on taking some serious leave. Katz hated it for all sorts of reasons.

Valerie knew what had happened because it was in the Post. Post. For once, she seemed to want Steve to talk, so finally he did. For once, she seemed to want Steve to talk, so finally he did.

She said, "Disgusting. I think we should move to New Mexico."

At first, he thought she was kidding. When he realized she wasn't, he said, "How can I do that?"

"Just do it, Steve. It's about time you were spontaneous."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She didn't answer. They were in their apartment on West 18th, Valerie chopping salad, Katz fixing a corned beef sandwich. Cold beef. Valerie was okay with his eating meat, but she couldn't stand the smell of it cooking.

Several frosty moments later, she stopped, came over, put her arm around his waist, touched her nose to his. Withdrew, as if the gesture hadn't worked for either of them.