Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [19]
“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