Free The Antiquarian by Julián Sánchez Page B

bodies. In the midst of the languor, the station no longer hummed with activity as it had in times past. Still, all of the detectives worked at desks piled with cases enough for several months of hard work. Enrique asked the first one he came across where Fornells’s office was. In response, the detective pointed to a room at the inner end of a corridor. Just before Enrique rapped on the door, a baritone voice made him stop.
    â€œDon’t bother, he’s not back yet.” The voice came from a young, athletic-looking man in his midtwenties who, in comparison with his fellow officers, was impeccably dressed.
    â€œYou’re Alonso, the writer, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes, I am,”
    â€œLet me introduce myself, I’m Detective Juan Rodríguez. I’m working with Fornells on your father’s case.”
    â€œPleasure.” Enrique mechanically held out his hand, and gave the detective’s a halfhearted squeeze.
    â€œFornells will be back any minute now. He had a coordination meeting with the district chief of the Catalan regional police, you know, the
Mossos d’Esquadra
, but he called five minutes ago and said he was on his way. Let’s step into his office,” he said, opening the door.
    Enrique went in with the detective and took the opportunity to confirm his first impression: Rodríguez had to belong to one of the latest graduating classes of
mossos
. His appearance and poise made him look more like a fashion model than a policeman. His balanced, harmonious features conveyed a style and attitude that radiated positivity and self-confidence. If Fornells trusted him enough to bring him onto a case like Artur’s murder, he must have been competent—a pro—despite his obvious youth. Rodríguez sat down next to him in the other chair in front of the desk.
    â€œI am authorized to answer any questions you may have, but first I wanted to tell you what a big fan I am of your work.”
    â€œThanks, I appreciate that.” Enrique answered with his automatic good manners and the respect he felt for those who bought his books, a respect in this case tinged by the shattering of his police officer stereotype, and the definitive corroboration of his hypothesis about Rodríguez.
    â€œI really liked
Chronicle of a Nonexistent Love
, but I prefer the fantasy stuff; I loved
Dream World
. I’d like …”
    â€œSure, I’ll be happy to sign them for you,”
    â€œI don’t want to bother you. I know this isn’t the best time.”
    â€œDon’t worry, it’s not a problem.”
    â€œThat’s kind of you. I’ll bring them, then. But excuse the literary digression; I’m here to help. If you’d like I could bring you up to speed on your father’s case.”
    â€œWell, the truth is I don’t know anything at all. My ex-wife happened to find me this morning, and she told me that Artur had been murdered, but not much else.”
    â€œI myself tried to reach you several times, but I never could get you, even though I called at different times.”
    â€œI was at sea, on my sailboat.”
    â€œNow I understand. Well, if it’s okay with you, I could give you a rundown of what happened and what we know as of now.”
    â€œPlease do,” Enrique entreated.
    Rodríguez took a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. After leafing through a few pages, he narrated the events with the steeliness of a veteran cop, in contrast with his rookie image.
    â€œThe autopsy confirmed time of death as Sunday night, about half past midnight. Your godfather was in his shop for reasons unknown, but it’s likely, according to what we’ve gathered from some of his colleagues … let’s see,” he said, looking at his notes, “Samuel Horowitz, Guillem Cardús, and Enric Torner, with whom he had coffee Friday afternoon, that he was sorting out what they referred to as a