Chapter One
Darrel Two Moons and Steve Katz were having a late dinner at CafiKarma when the call came in. The restaurant was Katz's choice.Again. Two Moons watched his partner put aside his Eden-YieldOrganic Lamb Plus Eclectic Veggie Burrito with great reluctance andfiddle in his pocket for his chirping pager.
It was just after ten-thirty p.m. Probably another south sidedomestic violence. For five weeks running, Darrel and Katz hadworked the four p.m. to two a.m. Special Investigations shift. Theircalls had consisted of feuding spouses, gang assaults, various andsundry alcohol-related issues, all taking place below St.Michael's-the Mason-Dixon Line that split Santa Fe and was more thanan arbitrary map squiggle.
It was three weeks before Christmas, and the first few days ofDecember had signaled an easy winter, with daytime temperatures inthe forties. But four days ago, the weather had taken a drop:fifteen degrees Fahrenheit at night. The snow that had fallen duringthis serious drought year remained white and fluffy. The air wascold and biting. Their shift was one big freezer burn.
At least the weirdos who ran Cafi Karma kept the dive warm.Downright hot. A big and tall kind of guy to begin with, Darrel wasdrowning in clothing, sweating in his black wool shirt and blacktie, black corduroy sports coat, and heavy black gabardine slackstailored in Germany and inherited from his father. His quilted blackski jacket was draped over a horribly hand-painted chair, but hekept the sports coat on to conceal the department-issue .45 in itsX-harnessed cowhide shoulder holster. No problem hiding hisunauthorized boot gun, a nickel-plated .22. It nuzzled his calf,snug in his left custom-stitched elephant-hide Tony Lama.
Katz had on what he'd worn every night since the weather had turned:a fuzzy brown and white plaid Pendleton shirt over a white cottonturtleneck, faded blue jeans, black and white high-top sneakers.Over his chair was that ratty gray wool overcoat-pure New Yawk. Howcould he keep his feet warm in those Keds?
Two Moons sipped coffee and ate his dinner as Katz finally freed thenow-silent pager. Over by the pastry case, the multipierced Gothwaitress who'd served them-or tried to-stood gazing into space.She'd taken their order with vacant eyes, then had proceeded to thecoffee machines, where the detectives watched her spend six straightminutes foaming Katz's Green Tea Chai Latte. Six and a half, to beprecise: The detectives had timed her.
Staring into the foam, like it held some kind of big cosmic secret.
Darrel and Katz had exchanged knowing glances, then Two Moons hadmuttered under his breath about what was really cooking in the backroom. Katz had cracked up, his big red mustache rising and falling.This month, another team was handling narcotics.
Katz studied the number on the pager and said, "Dispatch." A bitmore fumbling in another pocket and he produced his little blue cellphone.
Another meal cut short. Two Moons ate fast as Katz called in. He'dordered as close to normal as possible at this loony bin: a mushroomburger with chipotle-spiced home fries and sliced tomatoes.Specifying no sprouts, but they'd stuck a tumbleweed of the stuff onhis plate anyway. Darrel hated it; it reminded him of cattle fodder.Or something picked out of a comb. Just looking at it made him wantto spit. He removed it and wrapped it in a napkin, whereupon Katzimmediately grabbed it and snarfed it down.
If it were up to Katz, they'd be here every night. Darrel concededthat the food was consistently good, but atmosphere was anotherissue. With its snaky walkway embedded with pebbles and shards ofmirror glass, antiwar petitions tacked to the Technicolor walls ofthe tiny entry, and cell-like rooms full of mismatched thrift shopfurniture and incense fumes, Karma was what his gunnery sergeantfather used to call "hippie-dippie left-wing lunacy crap."
Somewhere along the way, his father had changed, but Darrel'sarmy-brat upbringing stuck with him. Give him a burger and plain oldfries in politically neutral surroundings.
Katz reached dispatch. The office had been moved out of Santa Fe PDto the county building on Highway 14-police, fire, city, county,everything integrated-and most of the dispatchers were no longerfamiliar voices. But this time was different: Katz smiled and said,"Hey, Loretta, what's up?"
Then his face grew serious, and the big copper-wire mustachedrooped. "Oh ... Yeah, sure ... Where? ... You're kidding."
He hung up. "Guess what, Big D?"
Darrel chomped on his burger, swallowed. "Serial killer."
"Half correct," said Katz. "Just a killer. Blunt-force homicide onCanyon."
Canyon Road was very high-rent, just east of the Plaza in theHistoric District, a narrow, leafy, quiet, pretty place lined withgated compounds and galleries and expensive cafis. The hub of SantaFe's art scene.
Darrel's pulse rate quickened from forty to fifty. "Privateresidence, right? Not a gallery at this hour."
"Oh, a gallery, amigo," said Katz, standing and sliding into theratty gray coat. "Very much a gallery. The d.b.'s Larry Olafson."
Continues...
Excerpted from Double Homicideby Faye Kellerman Copyright © 2004 by Faye Kellerman. Excerpted by permission.
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