sheriff’s offices. Going into Investigations, he checked Lymon’s cube. Empty. He ignored the sullen nongreetings from the other cops, continued down the row of cubicles. “Narcotics,” he sang out.
“We got a hell of a going-out-of-business-sale on Ecstasy right now,” a young voice replied.
“Where are you?”
“Other side of the cubes.”
A young investigator stood in the aisle. He was dressed in filthy blue work trousers, a soiled T-shirt, steel- toed shoes. A pair of bulbous ear protectors was slung around his neck.
“What are you supposed to be besides bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” Broker said.
The young cop shrugged. “Working a UC gig; right now I’m a tree trimmer. Got a chain saw and everything.”
“You are. .?” Broker said.
“Pete Cody. Narcotics.” Cody did not offer to shake hands. “But I heard about you. You’re the loneliest guy in the world, right?”
Broker was not amused. “How’d a shrimp like you manage to grow up instead of being beaten to death on the playground?”
Cody smiled. “Musta been all that mediation counseling, I guess.”
Broker said, “You know anything about a guy named Ray Tardee?”
Cody shrugged. “Sure, one of our perennials.”
“Who’s prosecuting?”
“Russell.”
“Thanks.”
Broker went to an empty cube, sat down at the desk, got out the county phone directory, called the county attorney’s office, and asked for Gloria Russell.
“Miz Russell took the rest of the day off,” the receptionist said.
“Tell her Phil Broker, Special Projects on Moros, called. We need to talk ASAP about one of her cases, Ray Tardee.” Broker gave his cell phone number.
Broker raised his voice. “Anyone,” he sang out loud enough to carry over the cubicle walls, “is Gloria Russell married?”
“Happily?” someone asked back. That caused a few titters.
“Is she married?” Broker repeated.
“She
“BH, Before Harry,” someone added.
“Her life is currently complicated by a dietary situation. She developed this craving for chocolate. That’s why she works out so hard.”
Then a more serious voice overrode the guffaws. “Her marriage went in the toilet. She separated. She’s getting divorced.”
Broker mulled it over, drew it out: Miz. . Russell. That tingle on his neck hairs brought him around. A blond, balding, horse-faced guy stood behind him. One of the white-shirt potbellies.
“Who are you?” Broker asked.
“Benish. Fraud.”
“What do you want?”
Benish glanced around the barren cubicle. “We were wondering if you’re going to set up in a cube, you know, hang family pictures? Or maybe you won’t be here that long?”
“Benish, in your professional opinion, do I need a coffee taster?”
“Not my department. You need General Investigations for poisoning cases.”
“Thank you, Benish.”
“Have a good day, Broker.”
A secretary in her early sixties manned the gatekeeper desk at the entrance to Investigations. She had a smoke-cured bingo parlor face, frosted hair, and the trim body of a ballroom dancer.
“Marcy, right?” Broker said.
“You got it,” Marcy said.
“So where’s Lymon?”
“Lymon’s doing Goths.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You don’t have kids in high school?”
“No kids in high school.”
“Goths are to the left of slackers and grunge,” Marcy explained. “Goths wear black all the time, dye their hair green, and insert cuff links in their pierced tongues.”
A voice sounded in back of Broker. “Lymon thinks they also worship the devil. And, in their spare time tip over tombstones, deface and burglarize churches-stuff like that.”
Broker swung around. Benish continued, “So Lymon’s asking the little Satanists if they’ve, you know, whacked any priests lately.”
“So Lymon has a theory about the case,” Broker said.
“Two theories. His first all-purpose theory is Harry did it. If that doesn’t work, then his second theory is the devil did it,” Benish said.
Broker turned back to Marcy. “Has anything come in from the BCA crime lab yet?”
“Not yet,” Marcy said.
“Okay, I’ll be in touch,” Broker said, walking down the length of the room. As he keyed open the locked door, he heard Benish snicker, “
Abruptly Broker turned away from the corridor leading to the garage, went up a flight, and walked into the patrol division. He cut through the deserted muster room past rows of folding chairs and a lectern. A yellowed pistol target taped to the bulletin board featured Osama Bin Laden’s bullet-punched face.
He went into an alcove off the muster room where a statuesque brunette patrol sergeant named Patti Palen sat at an administrative desk. She had a full-service belt strapped over her regulation beige-on-tan county uniform. An HT 1000 portable radio sat on the desk and hiccuped static.
“Surprise, surprise,” she said in a grudging voice. “I heard you were in the area.”
“Hey, Patti, how you doing? Yeah, I’m around for a few days,” Broker said. “Thought I’d drop down here belowdecks and see how the galley slaves are doing.”
“You never were any good at small talk, Broker. So what do you want?”
“Hey, how’s your kid doing? It’s Alex, right? He must be, what-twenty-three, twenty-four now?” Broker said casually, avoiding the sight of Patti’s face tightening as his eyes roved the small room.
Seven years ago Broker bumped into Alex Palen, then seventeen, in an entry-level position fencing stolen televisions and VCRs in the electronics division of a biker gang Broker had a relationship with. He’d given the kid a break, steered him clear of a felony bust, and hounded him into the Coast Guard.
Patti drew in a sharp breath, composed herself, exhaled, looked up into Broker’s eyes, and said, “Alex is doing just fine.” Her gaze then moved off and became seriously involved with the linoleum pattern on the floor. “Why don’t you cut me some slack and talk to somebody else.”
“Nah, you owe me. So what’s making the rounds, Patti?”
Patti exhaled again. “Harry Cantrell got suspended for coming in drunk. And we aren’t supposed to know, but a priest got shot in St. Martin’s and they found a St. Nicholas medal in his mouth. The sheriff worked it out with the union so Harry has to go to treatment or he loses his job.” Patti took a breath. “So Investigations is down one body, and we got a Saint’s panic coming on like a storm surge.”
“Anything you left out?”
“Yeah, last I heard, you, of all people, were gonna take Harry to the hospital. So, is he in the hospital?”
