The Corpse with the Silver Tongue by Cathy Ace Page B

what they’d found.
    â€œWe will come,” replied the policeman, and we all retraced our steps back toward the display hall, then out through the fire exit to the parking area. Beni was clearly excited, and trotted ahead of the policeman, to where a little knot of uniformed officers were gathered around a large recycling bin. “In here, sir,” said one of the men to his superior, nodding toward the bin, then opening its lid with latex-gloved hands.
    We all arrived at much the same time and peered into the receptacle. Sure enough, inside was a large wooden box, bound with metal strips, with the lid levered off and discarded at its side. The box was empty.
    â€œThe scrolls . . . has anyone found the scrolls?” asked Beni sharply.
    â€œWe haven’t examined the other contents of the bin yet, sir,” the young officer replied.
    Beni’s voice was commanding. “When you do, please be very careful. If the scrolls are in there they are delicate and could break apart easily.”
    The young officer looked at his superior who nodded back, obviously signifying that the search should begin.
    â€œWe will let you know what we find, Doctor Brunetti,” said the superior officer. “But now, could I ask you to come back inside with me so I can get some more details from you about the items that are missing?”
    â€œYes, yes of course,” replied Beni, “but maybe we could sit in the sun and smoke while we do that?”
    The policeman smiled and nodded. Having moved to a low wall that surrounded the parking area, both sat and smoked as Beni spoke and the policemen took notes. When Beni had turned to leave, I’d gestured to him to show that I was going to make a phone call. I was of half a mind to call Captain Moreau to tell him about the theft of the archive, but, since it might be sitting in a big plastic bin just yards away from me, I thought that I should wait until we were sure. I decided to call Bud instead. It would be about seven in the morning in Vancouver, still early for a Saturday morning phone call. I knew for a fact that he and Jan were always up at six with Marty because dogs don’t know it’s a weekend. Besides, he called me at all hours when there was a case he needed my help with. I wandered off to another part of the little wall and turned my face to the afternoon sun. I pulled my phone and my cigarettes out of my purse, which I dumped on the floor at my feet, lit up, and punched in Bud’s number. To hell with the roaming charges—I needed to talk to someone about all this, and Bud Anderson was just the man.

Late Saturday Afternoon
    I IMAGINED THE PHONE RINGING in the Anderson household. Bud and Jan’s two-bedroom apartment on Quayside Drive in New Westminster wasn’t small, but it struggled to accommodate two busy adults and a very rambunctious Labrador. It always felt as though it was ready to burst at the seams. Funny, that. Bud was known as a stickler for neatness, accurate record keeping, and meticulous attention to detail in his work as a police officer. Jan, on the other hand, seemed to have lots of hobbies that required large quantities of “stuff.” She belonged to groups that did scrapbooking, weaving, quilting, candle-making, soap-making, knitting and photography, and probably a lot more. It made for a snug home.
    They had loved their place since the moment they’d first seen it, right on the riverfront, with great walks for the three of them on the doorstep, as well as a fantastic view of the “Mighty Fraser River,” as Monty Python once famously put it. And at night, you could see the lights of the city beyond. It provided Bud with a relatively short commute to Downtown Vancouver—where his new office was based. I knew that he’d accepted his new job as “Head Gangbuster” on the basis that it was likely to offer slightly more regular hours than his last position. When you head