Darkwalker by E. L. Tettensor Page A

was at his wits’ end. He had reminded the sergeant how many times—a dozen?—that a crime unsolved after the first two days was likely to remained unsolved forever. But still Kody was undaunted, riding out to Brackensvale or North Haven day after day in a fruitless attempt to turn over some useful clue in his hunt for the corpse thief.
    “The innkeeper denied seeing any Adali, but of course he would. Bad for business if word got out that he let such folk sleep in his beds.”
    “That is one explanation,” said Lenoir. “Another might be that he had not in fact seen your Adal.” The coin set forth again.
    Kody frowned as he watched its progress across the desk. “Yes, well . . . So that’s the latest from North Haven. The bit from Brackensvale is even more interesting: apparently, the gravedigger from the boy’s cemetery is missing. Nobody can be sure exactly how long he’s been gone—guess he wasn’t missed—but even the priest can’t recall seeing him since the boy’s body went missing.”
    He paused, seemingly waiting for his listener to comment. Lenoir merely slapped the wavering copper piece down. Kody flinched; Lenoir could see the muscles in the sergeant’s jaw twitch.
    “Am I keeping you from more important matters, Inspector?”
    Lenoir met his eye for the first time since the conversation began. “Yes, Sergeant, you are. And keeping yourself from them as well.”
    Kody nodded slowly, his jaw still taut. “Really. So nothing I’ve just told you has any value, then?”
    “The value of a piece of information lies in our ability to make sense of it, to determine its significance. Otherwise it is just a distraction.” Lenoir leaned over the desk, arms crossed. “So, tell me, Sergeant, what is the significance of what you have just told me? Your Adali stranger in North Haven, your missing gravedigger in Brackensvale—what do they mean? What has one to do with the other? We do not know the fate of either, so how will they help us find the corpses?”
    “I don’t . . . I haven’t . . .” He floundered. “I just need more time—”
    “Would you search the Five Villages for a man in a purple cloak, Kody? Would you abandon your search for the bodies to look instead for the missing gravedigger? Begin a new investigation that may or may not be related to the one you are supposedly pursuing?”
    Kody’s face flushed, and his hands balled into fists. Lenoir knew the sergeant wanted to hit him, was a heartbeat away from leaping across the desk. But as always, Kody’s discipline won out and he merely took a long, shaking breath.
    Lenoir rose from the desk and fetched his coat. “You have not got a constellation here, Sergeant Kody,” he said, heading for the door, “and it’s time for you to grow up and quit stargazing.” He did not wait for a reply, but left Kody sitting alone in his office.
    His step was brisk as he headed down the stairs to ground level, where the bulk of the Metropolitan Police went about its business. The second floor was reserved for men of rank such as Lenoir; the rest of the men shared a single open space on the ground floor, an area affectionately known as “the kennel.” Today, as always, it was a hive of activity, for a city as large as Kennian had more than enough crime to keep its six-hundred-odd hounds busy. Most of the sergeants, watchmen, scribes, and others who milled about the kennel were occupied with petty crimes, for more serious affairs were reserved for the inspectors. Even so, Lenoir occasionally envied the lower ranks the simplicity of their work. He remembered fondly his days on the streets of Serles, how the citizenry looked to him as a symbol of justice, a chivalric figure to whom they could run when they were in distress. Chasing down thieves, breaking up duels—so satisfying, so uncomplicated. The life of an inspector was not so. Not in Serles, and not in Kennian.
    “Inspector,” said a voice, breaking into Lenoir’s thoughts. A