Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Two

June brought hot, dry days, high winds, a rash of snatch-and-grab thefts from local art galleries, and, at the end of the month, Johnny Jordan’s return to Santa Fe. Kerney agreed to meet him for morning coffee at a downtown cafe, and not surprisingly Johnny was late again. He came into the crowded restaurant and spotted Kerney in one of the small booths along the back wall next to the kitchen. Smile flashing, he approached holding the local newspaper and pointed to the front-page headline:

RASH OF ART THEFTS STYMIES POLICE

“Seems you’ve got a crime wave on your hands,” he said.

“Apparently,” Kerney replied as he gestured to the waitress, who approached, filled Johnny’s coffee cup, and offered Kerney a refill of his hot tea, which he refused. Johnny dumped cream and sugar into his cup and stirred it vigorously.

“So are you stymied?” Johnny asked.

“We’re investigating all creditable leads.”

Johnny laughed, put the newspaper aside, and laid a manila envelope on the table. “That means you’ve got nothing. Here’s your technical-advisor contract for the movie.”

Kerney didn’t touch it. Two days ago, Johnny had called from Denver to say he was coming to town to hand-deliver the contract and talk to him about some unspecified business.

Interested in what that business might be, Kerney had contacted the municipal court. Johnny was scheduled to appear before a judge on his DWI bust later in the morning. He wondered if Johnny would ask him once again to get him off the hook.

“You don’t have to sign it now,” Johnny said between sips of coffee. “Look it over, show it to your lawyer, and mail it back to me.”

Kerney said nothing and put the envelope aside. Through the cafe window tourists milled around the sidewalk, waiting to be called for the next available table. Across the street, a middle-aged man in baggy shorts and an oversized T-shirt videoed his wife and two bored-looking children as they walked along the Plaza.

Johnny put the cup down and gave Kerney a sideways look. “You’re not bailing out of the deal, are you?”

“No, but I’d like to meet the principal parties involved before I make a commitment.”

Johnny made a thumbs-up gesture. “Hey, great minds think alike. We want you to come to the Bootheel for a couple of days in September before we start production.”

Kerney was surprised: he’d expected Johnny to ask him to help get his DWI arrest dropped. “That might be possible,” he said. “What would I be doing there?”

“We’ll take a tour of all the locations before the actual filming begins. It’s called a tech scout. The producer, director, cinematographer, and key members of the technical crew visit each site and do advance planning on what they’ll need to shoot a scene.”

“I thought you were the producer,” Kerney said.

Johnny tapped his chest with a finger. “I’m an executive producer. That means, aside from coming up with the story idea, writing some stuff for the rodeo scenes, scouting out the Bootheel locations, getting my clients cast in the movie, and arranging for some product placement, I don’t have much to do with the actual filming.”

“And this tech scout thing would be done in two days?”

“Your part of it would.”

“You do know that the town of Playas is now an antiterrorism facility,” Kerney said.

“Yeah, but the governor arranged for us to use it.”

“What days would you need me?”

“It can be on a weekend.” Johnny pointed to the manila envelope next to Kerney’s elbow. “I’ve added the tech-scout trip to your contract, along with a nice bump in your fee.”

Kerney shook his head in amusement. “Even as a kid you always assumed that you’d get whatever you wanted.”

“That’s because I practice the power of positive thinking, Kerney. What are you doing later this morning?”

“Why do you ask?”

Johnny smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got this DWI thing nipping at my heels and I could sure use a character witness.”

Many ordinary citizens weren’t shy about asking for special treatment from cops when they got in trouble with the law. But in this case Kerney wondered if Johnny had added money to the consulting contract as a way to buy a favor. Although it smacked of attempted bribery, it fell legally short of the mark.

“That’s not possible,” he said flatly.

Johnny’s lips tightened in annoyance. He hid it by dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I just thought I’d ask.”

“Let your lawyer handle it,” Kerney said.

Johnny gave Kerney an easy, casual grin that didn’t quite mask his irritation. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I can’t afford to be hobbled by legal stuff right now. There’s too much I’ve got to do. We’re less than three months away from filming. I need to be able to move fast, stay mobile.”

“If it’s your first DWI conviction, you’ll have your license back in ninety days.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. This is no time for me to be without wheels.”

The waitress came with the check. At the cashier’s station Kerney paid the bill and left a tip. “I can’t help you, Johnny,” he said. “I’ll be in touch about the contract.”

“Make it soon.”

Kerney left Johnny on the sidewalk looking completely disgruntled. But it didn’t bother him one bit. Doted on and spoiled by his parents, Johnny had never been forced to take responsibility for his actions. A shot of reality might help him grow up.

Pissed off, Johnny watched Kerney’s unmarked police cruiser turn the corner. All he’d asked Kerney to do was vouch for him with the judge. What was the big deal with that? He’d put money in the guy’s pocket and gotten nothing in return.

Staying angry at Kerney wouldn’t help him solve the immediate problem of losing his driver’s license. The sports-channel rodeo deal had been finalized, but it would be weeks before he’d see any cash. There were cross-country business trips and client meetings that couldn’t be put off, and he didn’t have the scratch to hire a car and driver. Johnny decided his only option was to get the local lawyer he’d retained to request a continuance so he could stay behind the wheel. He walked across the street to the Plaza, sat on a park bench, flipped open his cell phone, dialed the lawyer’s number, and told him what had to be done.

“We’ve already had one continuance,” the lawyer said after hearing Johnny out.

“Get me another one.”

“Do you have any chronic medical conditions?” the lawyer asked after a pause.

“Head traumas from getting kicked and stepped on by horses when I rodeoed,” Johnny said.

“Any physical proof of it?” the lawyer asked.

“I’ve got a dent in my skull and medical records at home.”

“Go to the emergency room right now,” the lawyer said. “Tell them you feel dizzy, disoriented, and have blurred vision. I’ll call the court and reschedule your appearance.”

“Can you have it put off until November?”

“Easily. I’ll waive your right to the six-month rule. Sign a release at the ER so I can get a copy of your treatment record and forward it to the judge.”

Johnny laughed. “It’s that simple?”

“For now,” the lawyer said, “but you’ll still have to face your day in court.”

“Whatever.” Johnny disconnected, got directions to the hospital from a Hispanic cop on the Plaza, and drove to the hospital. He checked his watch. If Brenda was back at the hotel room when the docs were finished with him, maybe there would be time for a quickie before his meeting with the director of the film office.

He was about to rid himself of Brenda. Next week, while she was at work, he’d move out of her apartment into a sublet he’d rented. But until then he’d put her to good use.

In the ER Johnny faked a set of symptoms and gave the admitting clerk a history of his old rodeo injuries. After a thirty-minute wait he was screened by a nurse who took his vitals. Then a doctor examined his skull and took an X ray of the dent in the back of his head. After reviewing the X ray he shined a light in Johnny’s eyes and had him read the letters on a vision chart.

Johnny deliberately messed it up.

“I don’t see anything abnormal on the X ray,” the doctor said. “But your symptoms are worrisome. Have you been under stress recently?”

“I’ve got a lot on my plate, Doc.”

“I think we need more tests.”

“Can I get it done in Denver?” Johnny asked. “I go home tomorrow.”

“Will you make an appointment to see your physician right away?”

“I’ll call his office as soon as I get back to the hotel.”

“Are you driving?”

“My girlfriend is with me,” Johnny replied. “She can drive.”

“Okay. Make sure you see your physician.”

After paying the bill by credit card and signing a release to let his Santa Fe lawyer get a copy of his ER chart, Johnny went back to his hotel room to find Brenda trying on a new pair of red running shoes.

“I found this great designer-shoe store near the Plaza,” she said, bouncing up and down, pointing her toes so she could admire the new footwear, “and they had these in my size. How did it go in court?”

“I got another continuance.”

“Your lawyer called.”

“The guy here in Santa Fe?”

Brenda shook her head and pirouetted in front of the full mirror on the closet door, studying her shoes as she twirled. “Nope, Jim Blass in Denver. Call him back right away. He said it was important.”

Johnny flipped open the cell phone, speed-dialed the number, and got put through to Blass immediately.

“I couldn’t reach you on your cell,” Blass said. “The call kept getting dropped.”

“What’s up?” Johnny asked.

“Your wife has filed a claim against the proceeds from your sports-channel contract. That means the money will be tied up until the divorce settlement is finalized, unless we can work something out.”

“That bitch,” Johnny said. “Did you talk to her attorney?”

“Yeah, I did. Seems you borrowed money from her right before you got married.”

“Borrowed, hell. We used that money for our honeymoon trip to Europe. I paid her back.”

“That’s not what she says,” Blass said.

“Fuck her,” Johnny said. “What can you do?”

“Tell me the facts, Johnny. Did you pay her back the loan?”

Johnny’s squeezed the cell phone in frustration. Sometimes he hated telling the truth. “No.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand and change.”

“I’ll offer repayment to her from your contract proceeds,” Blass said. “But don’t expect a rapid response. Madeline is determined to make you suffer as long as she can.”

“Push it along,” Johnny said. “I need that money.” He hit the disconnect icon and threw the phone on the bed.

“Bad news, baby?” Brenda asked as she cuddled up to him.

Johnny filled her in with a sanitized version of Madeline’s latest legal maneuver.

She sighed sympathetically, shook her head, and threw her arms around his neck. “I’d never do something like that to you,” she said breathlessly. “Never, ever.”

“I know you wouldn’t, sweetie pie. But I was going to use some of that money to find us a bigger apartment. We need to get settled into our own place and see where our relationship is headed.”

Brenda smiled gleefully at the idea, wiggled her rump, and slid her hand down the front of Johnny’s trousers. “Could we get a condo downtown?”

“I don’t see why not,” Johnny said.

Looking over Brenda’s shoulder, Johnny grimaced slightly at the thought of keeping up the charade with her. His sour mood quickly evaporated when Brenda unzipped his pants and dropped to her knees.

Police headquarters sat on the outskirts of the city at the edge of a business park, in an area that had experienced explosive growth over the past decade. To the southwest residential subdivisions, strip malls, apartment complexes, town homes, fast-food franchises, and trailer parks had filled up vast tracts of once-vacant land along a four-mile stretch of road that led to the municipal airport.

For a city that touted its romantic charm, unique architecture, beautiful setting, and rich cultural and artistic traditions, the area had become Santa Fe’s version of tasteless urban sprawl, featuring ill-proportioned faux-adobe pueblo and territorial-style buildings with no character.

Fortunately, few tourists saw it, so the city’s reputation as a lovely four-hundred-year-old Spanish village at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains remained mostly intact.

In his second-floor office at headquarters Kerney read through the art-theft case files. The most recent rip-offs had occurred when two pieces, a small bronze and a miniature oil painting, had been found missing after exhibit openings. They carried a combined value of twenty thousand dollars.

Prior to that a ceramic sculpture and an unframed, signed photographic print had been taken from galleries with no security systems in place. Each item had retailed for over two thousand dollars.

But the rash of art thefts, as the morning headline reported, had all started with the theft of a woven Panamanian basket and a handblown glass vase, both valued in the thousand-dollar range. To date the total amount of the stolen loot exceeded twenty-six thousand dollars.

Kerney read the follow-up supplementals Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino and her team had prepared on the cases. Everyone in attendance at the gallery openings who could be identified on the video surveillance had been interviewed, but attempts to ID all the participants had failed. Statements taken from past and present employees, delivery persons, landlords, gallery owners, and customers who’d made purchases on the days of the thefts had yielded no creditable leads.

Pawnshops, flea markets, and art resale galleries had been visited, collectors of the various artists’ works had been contacted, art appraisers had been telephoned, and experts consulted, all to no avail. They had no suspects, no real motive, and no physical evidence.

Using the new computer system Ramona and her team had analyzed the thefts, looking for a pattern. Other than the fact that they were clustered in the downtown area there wasn’t much to go on. There was no consistency to the times and dates of the crimes, and nothing had surfaced from the fieldwork that could tie the thefts together. The detectives had checked into the possibility of insurance fraud, but all the gallery owners ran legitimate, profitable businesses. They’d visited nearby shops to learn if any suspicious persons had been seen hanging around before the thefts had occurred. Nada.

Feeling as stymied as the headline in the morning newspaper alleged his department to be, Kerney left his office and went looking for Sergeant Pino. Her office was empty and she had signed out to the field until midafternoon.

He returned to his desk and went through the paperwork again, hoping for inspiration. Were the crimes isolated incidents or connected? If the motive wasn’t money, what was it? Had six kleptomaniacs with good taste in art suddenly descended on Santa Fe all in one month? He doubted it.

What were they missing?

Andy Talbot wasn’t in love with Crystal Hurley, but he sure was having fun with her, at least most of the time. It didn’t matter that she was slightly crazy and could get real bitchy, especially when she sank into one of her bouts of depression. When she was happy, no woman he’d ever known could match her, especially when it came to sex.

She had long legs, a tight ass, perfectly proportioned tits, and hips with just the slightest bit of padding that felt like soft pillows in his hands.

Andy waited for Crystal outside the guesthouse where she lived on her father’s Santa Fe hilltop estate, hoping today she’d come home from her noon workout at the gym feeling chirpy. If she was, it usually meant he could count on a quickie before heading off to work at the hotel where he tended bar from two to ten.

Eagerly, he watched her car come up the long driveway, only to be disappointed when she parked and walked past him without a glance or a word, her silky skin glistening with sweat from her workout, her moist brown hair tied up in a loose clump.

Andy followed her inside and watched silently as she ate a bowl of yogurt sprinkled with wheat germ, drank a bottle of water, and stared out the kitchen window as though he wasn’t even there. She finished her meal, left the bowl on the counter for the housekeeper who came down from the main house to clean up every afternoon, and went off in the direction of the bathroom. Feeling sulky at being ignored, he plopped down in a living-room easy chair and listened to the sound of the shower through the closed bathroom door. With Crystal he never knew what to expect. One day she’d want him, the next day he was nothing more than an annoyance. Worse than that, her mood could change from minute to minute. Still, Andy was a complete sucker for her, would do anything she wanted.

She took some sort of prescription medication to control her mood swings, talked twice a week by telephone to a shrink who lived out of state, practiced yoga, meditated, and exercised religiously. But as far as Andy could tell, none of it made a difference when Crystal decided to tune out the world.

The sound of the shower stopped and after a few minutes Crystal padded into the living room in her bare feet with a towel wrapped around her torso. She nodded in the direction of the bedroom and dropped the towel on the floor. “Come on,” she said without a flicker of emotion on her face.

Aroused and grinning with anticipation, Andy followed her down the hallway. In her bedroom she stripped him naked where he stood, put her arms around his neck, and curled one leg around his waist. He pulled her up by the buttocks and held her firmly while she rode him, staring into his eyes, breathing heavily into his face, her wet hair tangled against his cheek, until they climaxed in unison, both of them gasping in pleasure.

They stayed locked together for a moment, then slowly he lowered her to the floor. She patted his cheek, turned, and walked out of the bedroom.

As he dressed, the thought struck Andy that Crystal had never kissed him on the lips. Not once. He shrugged it off as a meaningless curiosity. He was a twenty-three-year-old bartender from Minnesota boffing a hot young heiress who made up her own rules as she went along, and he was having the time of his life.

After Andy left, Crystal slipped on a pair of thong panties, sat at the small desk in the corner of the living room, and called Benjamin Cohen, a semiretired New York City shrink who’d been her therapist for the past ten years.

“How are you feeling, Crystal?” Cohen asked after he’d picked up.

“Tense, and I just had sex and that didn’t help at all. I’ve been taking things again.”

“Tell me about it.”

Crystal sighed. “Why? You’ll just tell me to increase my medication, and I don’t want to. It stops me from feeling horny.”

“There is that,” Cohen replied. “But let’s talk about what you’re really feeling.”

Crystal giggled. “Guilty, but I’m not giving anything back.”

“Care to tell me why?” Cohen asked.

Crystal sighed. “Because I don’t want to.”

“Sometimes, in the past, you’ve returned the things you’ve taken, or given them away as gifts.”

She opened the locked desk drawer, looked at her new possessions, and caressed each of them. “These are too beautiful to give away. I’m going to display them in my Paris apartment. No one there will ever know I stole them.”

“What else are you feeling?”

“Alive, euphoric, irritable, sexy, depressed. The usual stuff.”

“Have you stopped taking your medication entirely?” Cohen asked.

“It turns me into a zombie.”

“It helps to stabilize your mood.”

“How boring.”

“I think it would be best if you came back to the city for a time so we can talk about this in person,” Cohen said.

“I can’t stand New York. I’ll never live there again.”

“You need to think about what you’re doing, Crystal.”

“I hate it when you judge me.”

“I’m judging you?”

“There’s always that undertone, at least that’s what I feel. Crystal doesn’t need to steal. Crystal is a rich girl who can buy anything she wants. Crystal is so uncooperative and difficult. You don’t say it, but it’s there.”

“Why have you decided to go back to Paris?” Cohen asked.

“Because Daddy’s returning to Santa Fe next week and I don’t want to see him. Besides, Paris is fun and sexy. The French are so accepting.”

“Do you think Paris will ease your guilt?”

“Why not? I got a gun last week. A pistol. It’s very small, so I can keep it in my purse.”

“Whatever for?”

“Protection,” Crystal replied. “Women get raped in Santa Fe all the time.”

“You sound pleased about having a gun.”

“In a strange way, I am. It gives me a feeling of control.” She opened the expensive, imported crocodile handbag she’d stolen last year from a Fifth Avenue department store and took out the pistol, a small nickel-plated. 22-caliber semiautomatic. It was Daddy’s gun that he kept in a nightstand next to his bed. The weight of it felt good in her hand.

“Tell me some more about feeling in control.”

“The world is a dangerous place.” Crystal had never fired a gun. She wondered what the sensation was like.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Crystal said defensively. There was a switch or something above the trigger. What was it? She flicked it back and forth a couple of times and decided it must be the safety catch.

“Are you thinking of hurting yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“But soon?” Cohen asked.

Crystal pointed the gun at her reflection in the mirror on the wall behind the desk. “Maybe.”

“I know a very good psychiatrist in Santa Fe, Dr. Candace Robbins. I think it would be wise for you to call and ask to see her immediately.”

“So she can hospitalize me? No way.”

“So you have someone to talk to face-to-face. Let me give you her name and number.”

“I suppose I could call her.”

“Good,” Cohen said.

While Cohen paused to look up the name and phone number of the local shrink, Crystal pushed a lever at the top of the pistol grip and the magazine popped out. The bullets in it looked small, not dangerous at all.

She reinserted the magazine as she pretended to write down the shrink’s phone number that Cohen gave her.

“I’ll consult with Dr. Robbins,” Cohen added, “and tell her to expect your call.”

“Okay.” Crystal disconnected, put the gun back in the handbag, and went into the bedroom to dress. Yesterday at the post office, when she’d picked up Daddy’s mail, she’d seen an invitation for a preview of an art-and-antiquities show this evening.

Crystal decided she would go. Perhaps something would catch her eye. She shivered with anticipation.

Five minutes after Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino returned to her office, Chief Kerney stepped through the open door and sat in the chair next to the desk.

“Anything new on the art-theft cases?” he asked. Pino’s desk was unusually tidy, and the framed snapshot of Ramona and her boyfriend, a vice cop with the Albuquerque PD, taken while they were on vacation together last year, was missing.

“Not that I know of, Chief. I’ve been working a commercial burglary case today. Somebody broke into a construction trailer at a building site last night and took a couple thousand dollars’ worth of power tools. We’ve got a suspect. All we’ve got to do is find him.”

Kerney stretched his legs, crossed his feet, and nodded. “I’m sure you will. I’ve noticed a pattern to the art thefts that I wanted to mention to you.”

“Are you talking about how more expensive items are being taken each time?”

Kerney smiled approvingly. Pino had a razor-sharp mind and great cop instincts. “Exactly. Do you think it’s one person?” he asked.

“If it is, based on what’s been boosted, I’d bet she’s female, and not your ordinary garden-variety shoplifter either. It’s all quality stuff, which shows a certain degree of sophistication and knowledge about art.”

Kerney examined the bulletin board on the far wall of Pino’s small office, where she’d thumbtacked photographs of the stolen art. “All the objects could have easily been hidden in a large tote or a handbag,” he observed. “But is she stealing on impulse or is it planned?”

Kerney paused to see if Ramona got his drift. Planning a crime was not what a kleptomaniac would normally do.

“I think it’s impulsive, Chief. But she seems to be putting herself at a greater risk of discovery each time out by stealing more expensive items.”

“Do you think she has just been lucky?” Kerney asked.

Ramona settled back in her chair. “Yeah, and maybe not even aware of it.”

“How so?” Kerney asked.

“Both galleries where the opening receptions were held have good surveillance systems. But when they arranged the exhibits, nobody thought to reposition the cameras. The bronze statue and the miniature oil painting were on display in blind spots within a few feet of the entrances. Easy in, easy out.”

Ramona pulled two videocassettes out of a desk drawer. “We’ve been over these tapes a dozen times, looking for people who attended both openings, looking for anybody who might have disguised themselves, looking for any sign of suspicious behavior. We’ve had the gallery owners identify as many people as they could who were in attendance, and then we followed up with interviews.”

“Did you check the mailing lists the galleries used to send out notices and invitations?”

Ramona nodded. “There was no overlap of names. But remember, these were public events, Chief. Besides the mailings that went out, there were ads in the newspaper and announcements on the radio. Plus, gallery hopping on a Friday or Saturday night is a Santa Fe tradition.”

The telephone rang. Ramona picked it up, listened, said, “Okay, I’ll be there in a few,” and disconnected.

“Let’s go with the theory it’s a woman who’s stealing for the thrill of it and unable to resist the impulse,” Kerney said. “If she’s true to form, she’ll place herself at risk again, and I’m betting it will be at another exhibit opening or show.”

“Why is that?” Ramona asked.

“Because she’s stealing for the pleasure, not profit, and has upped the excitement for herself by doing it in plain view, surrounded by other people. There are six gallery openings tonight, if we include the preview of the art-and-antiquities show at the convention center. Let’s put a detective at each gallery, and two at the convention center, which should have the biggest draw.”

“Consider it done, Chief.”

Kerney stood, pointed at Ramona, and tapped his chest with a finger. “We’ll cover the convention center together.”

“I’ll set it up.”

Kerney nodded and left. Ramona stared at the empty spot on her desk, where the photo of herself and the ex-boyfriend had once stood. The one consolation of finding out he would never get serious about their relationship was that she could once more work double shifts without feeling guilty about it.

She went looking for Detective Matt Chacon, who’d called while she’d been talking with the chief. He was in his cubicle at the far end of the bullpen, scribbling notes on a yellow pad.

Over the past several years Chacon’s thin frame had filled out and he now sported a bit of a potbelly. He looked up from the tablet, smiled good-naturedly, and pulled the ever-present toothpick out of the corner of his mouth.

“What have you got?” Ramona asked.

“Dispatch routed a call to me from Dr. Candace Robbins, a shrink. Apparently there’s a young woman named Crystal Hurley who might be suicidal.”

“Might be?”

Matt consulted his notes. “Yeah. What Robbins knows she got from Hurley’s primary psychiatrist, who called her from New York City. Seems Hurley has made several suicide attempts in the past and has been hospitalized twice for emotional problems. Hurley called her New York City shrink, a guy by the name of Benjamin Cohen, earlier in the day, and told him she had a gun and might-underline might-hurt herself with it. Robbins wanted to report that, based on what Cohen told her, Hurley might be a danger to herself.”

“Has Hurley contacted Dr. Robbins?”

“Negative, although she was supposed to. I just got off the phone with Dr. Cohen. He says Hurley could be high risk. She’s five six, one hundred fifteen pounds, brown and blue, age twenty-eight. She’s been staying at her father’s guesthouse in one of the those foothill mansions off Bishop’s Lodge Road. Father’s name is Robert. He’s out of the country. I’ve got an address, and the phone company gave me Robert Hurley’s unlisted numbers. The housekeeper answered and said she had no idea where her employer’s daughter was. It sounded like she didn’t care either. I sent a uniform out to do a welfare check, and he reported nobody at home.”

“Have you done a motor-vehicles records search?” Ramona asked.

“Robert Hurley owns a Lexus SUV and a BMW. There’s nothing registered under his daughter’s name. The cars could be garaged, as far as we know. There’s no way of telling, according to the uniform who tried to make contact. He did note two different sets of tire tracks on the parking area near the guesthouse.”

“What else did you learn about the woman?”

Matt shook his head. “Other than she’s rich, has been living in New York City until recently, and is about to move to Paris, not much. Cohen wouldn’t give an inch when I asked for more details about her psychiatric history.”

“Is Hurley a danger to others?”

“Cohen doesn’t think so.”

“Does she have any friends or other family members in Santa Fe?”

“No, she grew up in Silicon Valley before the dot-com bubble burst, went to college in New York City, and until recently divided her time between Manhattan and Paris. Her parents are divorced, and her father built the Santa Fe house three years ago. As far as Dr. Cohen knows, this is the first time she’s ever been here.”

“How long?” Ramona asked.

“A little over two months.”

“Get out an advisory with full specifics to all units, the county sheriff, and the district state police office. Make sure our shift commanders are apprised, and ask for close patrols at the Hurley residence through the rest of the day and night.”

“Will do.”

Ramona stepped away and Matt got busy writing the advisory.

After he had it finished, he contacted the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, gave them Hurley’s identifying information, and soon had a driver’s-license photo of the woman on his computer screen.

From the neck up Hurley was a beauty. Her wide, round eyes and small nose gave her an innocent, schoolgirl look. Her smile showed a row of perfect white teeth above a dimpled chin.

Chacon printed the photo, made copies, and put them in the shift commanders’ cubbies for distribution. Then he called dispatch and gave them the advisory.

After a body wrap and a facial at a downtown spa, Crystal Hurley wandered through the jewelry shops on San Francisco Street, looking at watches, earrings, necklaces, and pins. Her urge to steal grew as she tried on some lovely pieces, but the clerks were much too attentive for her to risk it.

Frustrated by the lack of opportunity, she bought a single strand of turquoise and draped it around her neck. It went well with the white blouse, black slacks, and floppy straw hat she’d chosen for her outing.

She left the store and walked up the street to the Plaza, where a country-and-western band was playing an early-evening concert on the gazebo across the street from the Palace of Governors Museum. Under the portal of the museum a number of Indian vendors had their wares spread out on blankets. A stream of tourists wandered slowly past them, examining the Native American jewelry and pottery for sale.

Crystal listened to the band for a time as she watched the dancers in front of the gazebo two-stepping, twirling, and circle-dancing. Everyone in the crowd around her seemed to be having a good time, but Crystal found it all rather boring.

A smiling man with a ponytail, dressed in flashy cowboy boots and tight jeans, tried to pull her onto the dance area. She yanked her hand away, shook her head, and left the Plaza. Although he was cute and sexy, Crystal had a rule: only one lover at a time, and right now that was Andy.

The boutique hotel where Andy bartended was just off the Plaza. Crystal went inside and settled on a stool. Without needing to ask, Andy brought her a vodka on the rocks.

He grinned, leaned toward her, and whispered, “Can we hook up later?”

Crystal sipped her drink and studied Andy’s face. He was the all-American boy, towheaded, blue eyed, square jawed, and forever eager to get laid. “We’ll see,” she said.

Andy squeezed her hand. “Come on.”

“You’re such a baby, Andy.”

“I’m crazy about you.”

Crystal finished the drink and stood. “Call me on my cell when you get off work.”

“Where are you going?”

Crystal opened her crocodile handbag and put a twenty on the bar without replying. The glint of the gun inside the purse gave her a rush of excitement, and Andy’s presence faded from her mind. The preview of the art-and-antiquities show at the convention center was about to begin and she didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

She left before Andy could question her further and headed quickly in the direction of the center.

Santa Fe’s convention center fell far short of the mark for a city that thrived on tourism. In fact, it was nothing more than a renovated public-school gymnasium located within a few steps of city hall. On the outside, the center had been fixed up to look like the real deal. But inside, the dimensions of the space gave away its architectural roots. Stairs from the lobby led to a partial mezzanine that looked down on the hall below and opened onto a few large meeting rooms off to one side. In the back, behind the stage, were kitchen facilities. Stark, small, and uninviting, the center failed to draw many conventions and was usually put to use for dances, regional trade shows, art fairs, and an occasional banquet.

Kerney stood on the mezzanine, watching Ramona Pino circulate among the booths that filled the hall. Petite, slender, and easy on the eyes, she blended in easily with all the well-groomed trophy wives and trust-funders.

There were sixty-five dealers set up on the convention-center floor, displaying a wide array of Western art, estate jewelry, rare books, collectible memorabilia, exquisite old Native American pottery, and antique Spanish colonial furniture.

After the doors had opened, people flooded in, some making a beeline to a particular booth, others wandering slowly down the aisles, pausing to examine a tray of jewelry, an oil painting, or a Navajo rug. Kerney left the mezzanine, wondering if he should have told Ramona to assign more detectives to the event. Given the size of the crowd, the two of them would have a hard time covering the floor by themselves.

He joined the throng, moving from booth to booth, stopping to glance at a pre-Colombian effigy pot, a nineteenth-century Apache woven basket, a Charles Russell pencil drawing, all the time watching the people around him.

It was a well-heeled crowd. Women in broomstick skirts wearing heavy turquoise-and-silver jewelry cruised by. Gray-headed men in designer jeans and expensive boots trailed along. Flashy matrons with big hair, dripping with diamonds, chatted up dealers with Texas twangs.

He strolled down an aisle and squeezed past a cluster of people who’d stopped to look at a glass case filled with vintage wristwatches. Some of the dealers appeared watchful, while others seemed distracted by the crowds. All in all there were easy pickings for any good shoplifter in attendance.

Kerney stopped briefly at a display of intricately carved nineteenth-century wood chests imported from Mexico to watch a young woman at an adjacent booth put her handbag on the counter next to a stack of rare books. Dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, the woman wore a hat that hid her face. She picked up a book, studied it for a moment, put it back, and moved on.

At the end of the aisle he saw Ramona Pino eyeballing the woman and wondered if he’d missed something. He stepped into the aisle, jockeying his way past a few people to get behind the woman as Ramona closed the gap from the opposite direction.

The woman paused in front of a booth filled with landscape paintings. Ramona sidled up to her, gave Kerney a slight nod, and said, “Crystal Hurley?”

The woman’s head snapped in Ramona’s direction. “What?”

“Are you Crystal Hurley?” Ramona asked.

“What if I am?”

Ramona flashed the shield she held in the palm of her hand and put it quickly in the pocket of her slacks. “I need to speak with you,” she said softly. “Please step away with me.”

“I will not.”

“You’re not in trouble, Ms. Hurley,” Ramona said reassuringly.

Hurley smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ramona held out her hand. Self-destructive or not, Hurley could be packing, and that upped the danger considerably. “Can I look inside your handbag?”

Hurley clutched it to her midriff, turned, and looked at Kerney, her blue eyes wide and frightened. Just then a woman stepped between Ramona and Hurley and a man jostled past Kerney, pushing him slightly off balance. Before he could react, Hurley bolted past him, knocked a woman to the floor, shoved a man into a display case, and ran down the aisle. People scattered as Ramona and Kerney forced their way through the spectators in hot pursuit. At the end of the aisle Hurley veered out of sight toward the lobby.

Kerney turned the corner in a crouch. Up ahead he spotted Hurley making for the exit. Ramona darted past him, caught Hurley at the door, and slammed her against it.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Hurley yelled as Ramona cuffed her.

Kerney covered the takedown with his weapon at the ready.

Ramona spun Hurley around. “Calm down,” she said softly. “Everything will be all right. We’re going to get you some help.”

Kerney holstered his weapon and picked up the handbag Hurley had dropped on the floor. It contained a wallet, a cosmetic case, a nickel-plated. 22 semiautomatic, and an old silver-and-turquoise Navajo bracelet with the dealer’s tag still attached.

Kerney held up the bracelet. “She may also need a lawyer.”

Hurley looked at the bracelet and then smiled seductively at Kerney. “I’ll give you a blow job if you’ll let me go.”

“Not today, thank you,” Kerney replied.

Ramona grinned at Kerney’s response as she pushed Hurley out the door.

Three hours later Crystal Hurley sat in an observation room at the hospital, sedated and under guard, while Ramona and Kerney cleared all of the recent art-theft cases.

Ramona loaded the last of the evidence from the guesthouse into her unit and looked down on the lights of Santa Fe that shimmered across the plateau. “Do you think she’s crazy?”

“Not crazy would be my guess,” Kerney said.

“Then what?” Ramona asked, glancing around at the hilltop estate. “The woman has been given everything.”

Kerney shrugged. “Not everything. Maybe she feels unloved. There’s nothing worse than that.”

Thinking about her ex-boyfriend and the emptiness she now felt about her personal life, Ramona stared off into the night sky and nodded solemnly.