Brandenburg Read Online Free PDF

fist.
    Hernandez swore again, switched off the ignition, and looked up at the entrance. A blue-and-white cop car was parked on the graveldriveway. The big front door of the house opened and the familiar bulk of Vellares Sanchez moved out into the sunlight, the hint of a smile on his face.
    Hernandez climbed out of the car. Sanchez waved. Hernandez waved back and walked up toward the house.
    •   •   •
    Vellares Sanchez was forty, a large man with dark, hooded eyelids who always looked like he needed a good night’s sleep. His thinning black hair was combed across his head in wisps. The white linen suit he wore was crumpled and ill-fitting. Everything about him looked in disarray. But Hernandez knew that was all part of the detective’s act. Behind his hooded, sleepy eyes was a sharp, probing intelligence. Rudi Hernandez learned early on not to underestimate Vellares Sanchez.
    He was a man of few words but of great warmth. And as Hernandez approached, he held out his hand. His grip was firm, but before he got to what was obviously on his mind, he nodded to Hernandez’s car.
    “What’s wrong with that heap of junk?” he asked, smiling.
    “The choke’s been acting up. Floods the engine. It’ll be okay once the sun dries it out.”
    Sanchez examined the young man standing before him. Hernandez was tall, brown-haired, pale-skinned, and handsome. He wore his clothes loosely, like a lecturer from the universidad . He could have passed for a college teacher were it not for the jagged scar that ran across his right cheek.
    They had known each other for ten years. Rudi was a fine reporter. He had a dogged energy and broke more than one case before the policía did. He was also a good man, and kind. There was a girl he kept in the barrio, not for sex—she wasn’t his mistress—but because she didn’t have everything in the head like other people did, and because she needed help. He gave it without asking for medals.
    Hernandez was looking at him now with twinkling eyes, a smile on his face, but something else, too. Excitement? Fear? Sanchez tooka pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Hernandez. He lit them both and looked at the young man.
    “A few days ago you told me to keep an eye on this old man, Rudi. And now he’s dead. Any thoughts?”
    Hernandez looked around at the lush gardens, then back at the house. The smile grew broader. “Two come to mind. You can’t take it with you, and money can’t buy happiness.”
    “It sure can’t buy good health, my friend.” Sanchez drew on his cigarette, coughing.
    “Was that why the old guy killed himself, because he was sick?”
    “He was sick for sure. But whether or not he killed himself because of that . . . well, we’ll have to wait and see.” He poked a thick finger in Hernandez’s direction. “I’m still waiting to know what exactly made you curious about Señor Tsarkin. You said he was connected with your friend Rodriguez, the smuggler. But what’s the connection? Apart from the fact that they’re both now dead.”
    Hernandez rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Vellares. I’m still working on it. I’ll need more time.”
    “But you’ll let me know when you’ve got something?”
    “As always,” Hernandez answered.
    The two men had long ago worked out a modus operandi. Some cases they worked closely together, sharing information; others they kept a professional distance. Sanchez understood that he’d be the first to know when Hernandez had found whatever it was that sent him sniffing around this very rich and now very dead old German.
    Hernandez reached into the back pocket of his corduroy pants and pulled out a wire-bound notepad, searched in his pockets for something to write with. “You mind if I take some notes?”
    Sanchez shook his head. “Of course not. Only, my men from the forensic department haven’t finished yet.”
    Hernandez nodded. “How long will they be?”
    “They’re almost done.”
    “You got a pen