The Codex Read Free Page B

high and soft, with an undercurrent of menace. “State your names, please.”
    The one with the cowboy boots stepped forward. “I’m Tom Broadbent, and these are my brothers, Vernon and Philip.”
    “Look, officer,” the one named Philip said, “these artworks are obviously headed for some sheik’s bedroom. They could never hope to sell these paintings on the open market—they’re too well known. No offense, but I really don’t think the Santa Fe Police Department is equipped to handle this.”
    Barnaby flipped open his notebook and checked his watch. He still had almost thirty minutes before the crime-lab truck arrived from Albuquerque.
    “May I ask a few questions, Philip? Okay if I use first names here?”
    “Fine, fine, just get on with it.”
    “Ages?”
    “I’m thirty-three,” Tom said.
    “Thirty-five,” said Vernon.
    “Thirty-seven,” said Philip.
    “Tell me, how is it that all three of you just happened to be here at once?” He directed his gaze toward the New Age type, Vernon, the one who looked like the least competent liar.
    “Our father sent us a letter.”
    “What about?”
    “Well ...” Vernon glanced at his brothers nervously. “He didn’t say.”
    “Any guesses?”
    “Not really.”
    Barnaby switched his gaze. “Philip?”
    “I haven’t the slightest.”
    He swiveled his gaze to the other one, Tom. He found he liked Tom’s face. It was a no-bullshit face. “So Tom, you want to help me out here?”
    “I think it was to talk to us about our inheritance.”
    “Inheritance? How old was your father?”
    “Sixty ...”
    Fenton leaned forward to interrupt, his voice harsh. “Was he sick?”
    “Yes.”
    “How sick?”
    “He was dying of cancer,” said Tom coldly.
    “I’m sorry,” said Barnaby, putting a restraining arm on Fenton as if to stop him from asking more tactless questions. “Any of you got your copy of the letter?”
    All three produced the same letter, handwritten, on ivory laid paper. Interesting, Barnaby thought, that each one had his copy. Said something about the importance they attached to this meeting. Barnaby took one and read:
     
    Dear Tom,
    I want you to come to my house in Santa Fe, on April 15, at exactly 1:00 P.M., regarding a very important matter affecting your future. I’ve asked Philip and Vernon as well. I have enclosed funds to pay for your travel. Please be on time: one o’clock sharp. Do your old man this one last courtesy.
    Father
     
    “Any chance of a recovery from the cancer, or was he a goner?” Fenton asked.
    Philip stared at Fenton and then turned to Barnaby. “Who is this man?”
    Barnaby shot a warning glance at Fenton, who often got out of hand. “We’re all on the same side here, trying to solve this crime.”
    “As I understand it” Philip said grudgingly, “there was no chance of recovery. Our father had gone through radiation treatments and chemotherapy, but the cancer had metastasized and there was no getting rid of it. He declined further treatment.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Barnaby, trying unsuccessfully to summon up a modicum of sympathy. “Getting back to this letter, it says something here about funds. How much money came with it?”
    “Twelve hundred dollars in cash,” said Tom.
    “Cash? In what form?”
    “Twelve one-hundred-dollar bills. Sending cash like that was typical of Father.”
    Fenton interrupted again. “How long did he have to live?” He asked this question directly at Philip, thrusting his head forward. Fenton’s was an ugly head, very narrow and sharp, with thick eyebrow ridges, deep-set eyes, a huge nose with each nostril projecting a thicket of black nosehairs, crooked brown teeth, and a receding chin. He had olive skin; despite the Anglo name, Fenton was a Hispano from the town of Truchas, way back up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He was scary, if you didn’t know he was the kindliest man alive.
    “About six months.”
    “So he invited you here for what? To do a little eeny