The Codex

10

Charlie Hernandez felt drained. The funeral had been long, the interment longer. He could still feel the grit of the dirt on his right hand. It was always hell when one of their own had to be buried, let alone two. And he still had a court appearance and half a shift to get through. He glanced over at his partner, Willson, catching up on paperwork. Smart guy; too bad his handwriting looked like a kindergartner’s.

The buzzer rang, and Doreen said, “Two people to see, ah, Barnaby and Fenton.”

Christ, this was just what he needed. “What about?”

“They won’t say. Won’t talk to anyone but Barnaby and Fenton.”

He sighed heavily. “Send them in.”

Willson had stopped writing and was looking up. “You want me—?”

“You stay.”

They appeared in the doorway, a stunning blond and a tall guy in cowboy boots. Hernandez grunted, sat up, smoothed a hand over his hair. “Sit down.”

“We’re here to see Lieutenant Barnaby, not—”

“I know who you’re here to see. Please take a seat.”

They sat down, reluctantly.

“I’m Officer Hernandez,” he said, addressing the blond. “May I ask what your business with Officer Barnaby is?” He spoke with the practiced voice of officialdom, slow, stolid, and final.

“We’d prefer to deal directly with Officer Barnaby,” said the man.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” He flared up.

“Because he’s dead.”

They stared back at him. “How?”

God, Hernandez felt tired. Barnaby had been a good man. What a waste. “Automobile accident.” He sighed. “Perhaps if you told me who you were and how I could help you?”

They looked at each other. The man spoke. “I’m Tom Broadbent, and about ten days ago Lieutenant Barnaby investigated a possible break-in at our house off the Old Santa Fe Trail. Barnaby handled the call, and I wondered if he filed a report.”

Hernandez glanced over at Willson.

“He didn’t file a report,” Willson said.

“Did he say anything?”

“He said it had been some kind of misunderstanding, that Mr. Broadbent had moved some artworks and his sons mistakenly assumed they had been stolen. As I explained last week to your brother, a crime hadn’t been committed, so there was no reason to open a file.”

“My brother? Which one?”

“The name escapes me. Long hair, beard, hippie type—”

“Vernon.”

“Right.”

“Can we talk to his partner, Fenton?”

“He also passed away in the accident.”

“What happened?”

“Car went off the Ski Basin Road at Nun’s Corner.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So are we.”

“So there’s no paperwork, nothing on the investigation up at the Broadbent house?”

“Nothing.”

There was a silence, and then Hernandez said, “Is there anything else I can do for you folks?”