The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 (88 page)

“What’s the story?”

He rolled his eyes and pushed his 50X silver-belly hat back from his forehead, the long curls of gold reaching to the collar of his white dress shirt. “She started drinking this morning, after we had a little talk.” He took another bite of his sandwich—I have to admit, it was looking pretty good. “She said she had traded me in on two twenty-year-olds, and I told her she wasn’t wired for 220. The conversation kind of deteriorated from there.” He finished off the beer and threw the bottle so that it shattered against the hand-patterned drywall. He put his hand to the side of his mouth to direct the volume: “Bitch!”

Two more .308s slammed through the door above. Vic and I simultaneously ducked as the rounds sped harmlessly down the empty hallway above us.

Omar took both of the beers from Vic, opened them on his belt buckle, handed her one back, and took a swig from the other as the cap fell to the carpeted landing and rolled down the stairs. “You didn’t, by chance, happen to count how many holes were in the door?” He continued to look after the bottle cap. “There’s only one box of shells for that thing, sixteen in a box…”

I knew that there was an abundance of weapons in the Rhoades household. “What about all the other guns in the safe?”

“No ammunition. I moved it all downstairs.”

They both took sips and looked at me. “Twelve.” I nodded back to the landing. “And two more makes fourteen.”

Omar nodded. “She’s got two left.” We all nodded, as he casually drew the big .44 from his holster, aimed it straight up, and fired two shots; the long-barreled Smith and Wesson bucked in his hand. A few pieces of the entryway, elk horn chandelier, and plaster ceiling fell down on us. “Cunt!” The .308 thundered in response, but this time only once. Omar took another swallow. “Wisin’ up, conserving ammo.”

I looked at Vic, who looked at Omar. “Any chance of talking to her?”

Omar laughed, and I looked at him. “Is there a phone in the bedroom?”

“Yeah.” We traipsed down to the entryway table where an old-fashioned Belgian dial phone sat. Omar picked up the receiver, dialed the number for the bedroom, and handed the phone to me. “She’s not going to talk to me.”

The phone rang three times before Myra answered. “Bastard!”

“Myra, it’s Walter…” She slammed the receiver down with an ear-shattering crack. I asked Omar to dial the number again. She didn’t answer this time, but the thunderous report of the .308 and the brief squall and whine of the line informed us that Myra had shot the bedroom phone.

I hung up and looked at the two of them. Vic looked back at the landing. “She’s out?”

Omar agreed. “Yeah.”

I wasn’t convinced. “How drunk is she?”

“Pretty damn, but she hasn’t missed the door yet.”

I crossed the landing, staying to the right, where I knew I could dive into the guest bedroom if she had ammunition left after all. The problem was that the closed door seemed a very dangerous twenty feet away. Credit the carpenters that built the Rhoades mansion—the floor didn’t creak as I carefully made my way around the barricade.

I had holstered my .45; I had no intention of shooting Myra.

With the volume of the music, it was impossible to hear any movement in the bedroom. As Edith Piaf continued singing, I looked at what the 150-grain softpoints had done to three inches of solid wood and felt that familiar weightlessness in the trunk of my body.

I counted the holes in the door again, but the damage caused by the large-caliber rifle made it difficult to be sure how many shots had really been fired. I wasn’t betting the farm. It did look as if the shot closest to the knob had taken most of the mechanism with it, and the door itself stood ajar about a quarter of an inch, so I opted for nudging the base of it with my boot; it opened four inches. I waited, but nothing happened. I nudged further, gently sweeping it back about halfway before my leverage gave out.

I took a deep breath to clear my head and stepped through the doorway into the outstretched barrel of the big .308. She had been waiting, but my left arm was still to my right so, with a sweeping gesture, I carried the barrel down and away from me in a backhanded pull that exploded a round into the floor. The sound in the room was just short of deafening.

I was going to kill Omar.

I made a grab for the front stock but missed as she stepped back, and the seemingly endless length of the bolt action swung up.

I had forgotten how good-looking Myra was, and the yearlong sabbatical in France with close to forty-eight million dollars had done her no harm. She had long, blond hair, the kind you see on the covers of magazines, and perfectly tanned skin that I’m sure had been kissed by the French Riviera. She was wearing a pink mohair cowl-neck sweater that barely reached the top of her thighs, and that was all. She was tall and lean, with strong, capable hands. The honking diamond that Omar had married her with was still on the left hand that pointed the rifle at my face. Above the scope was the palest blue eye, and as my lungs froze, the barrel dipped a little, and the sweater-matching pink lips smiled as slowly as glacial encroachment. I listened to Piaf singing “Le Chevalier de Paris” or “Mon Legionnaire,” I wasn’t sure which, and thought about how this wasn’t the worst way to go.

The powder blue blinked, and I settled on “Le Chevalier de Paris” as the little bird trilled and softly breathed out her lovingly aching words.

Myra sagged a little, almost as if someone had punched her, and tossed the rifle aside. She stepped forward, her arms outstretched around my neck as the sharp fragrance of raspberry vodka scoured the inside of my nose and her sweater bottom rose higher. “Walter…”

“Good thing she likes ya.” He brought his queen out. It was the second game, and my plans for an early evening had gone the way of my three pawns, two rooks, and a knight. I went with the other knight and felt a shadow of impending doom as his bishop slithered along diagonally. The stem of his pipe swung around and pointed at me like the barrel of a gun, the second of the evening. “You get ’er outta the house?” The pipe returned to his mouth.

I leaned back in the horsehide wingback chair and placed my hat on my knee. The old sheriff wasn’t ready to end the evening and skimmed the other bishop across the board for a completely different attack on my king. “She’s at the End of the Trail Motel over in Sheridan; flies out tomorrow.”

It was quiet in the room as the old sheriff looked at me. Lucian’s mahogany eyes flickered in the half-light of the kitchenette behind us. He shook his head. “Well, ya know how my marriage experience ended.”

I did, and we sat there in silence for a while before I admitted a prejudice. “I hate the domestic stuff.”

He nodded and watched me. “Like the third man in a hockey fight, ya get the blame and get the shit kicked out of you for yer troubles.” He waited as I made another inane move. “I hear Kyle Straub’s got signs up all over town.”

I took a sip and crunched one of the cubes. “I heard that too.”

“You gonna stand?”

“I don’t think I’ve got any choice if I want to get Vic in.”

He shrugged. “I’d vote for her, but I’ve got the weakness.” Lucian was referring to his habit of addressing Vic’s chest as if it had an identity of its own. “The rest of Absaroka County is another question. Now, you can make sure she’s the next sheriff, but it’s gonna cost you a year or two of your life.” I made a face. “But then, I didn’t know yer life in office was so damn bad.” His gaze dropped back to the board. “Check.”

I looked at the assembly of courtly pieces and placed a finger on my king, casually toppling him over to premature death. “Yep, well…no act of kindness goes unpunished.”

It took five days to get the three of us to Philadelphia. He didn’t let me drive. He drove only during daylight hours, and he went fifty-five the whole way. I read the AAA books as we drove across the country, even though I had an inkling that the Cheyenne Nation had not appreciated my oratory since Iowa, and I decided that the majority of the United States consists of gently rolling hills with light industry. I was still reading as we loped across the Schuylkill Expressway with the top down, eased off the 15th Street exit, took a left on Race and a stately right on Broad. “‘It was a gentleman’s agreement in 1894 that no skyscraper built would be taller than Penn’s hat, but in 1986 all bets had been called off, and now the majority of the fifth largest city in the country looks down on Billy Penn and City Hall.’”

Henry carefully parked the big convertible in front of a high-Victorian gothic building and cut the engine. “You can stop reading now. We have arrived.”

“I’ve still got the Philadelphia section to…” He gave me a dirty look. We figured we had best check in at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, since they were expecting the Bear a day earlier. I unclipped my seat belt, tossed the guide into the cavernous backseat, and scratched behind Dog’s ear. “I hope you’re not in trouble.”

His expression didn’t change as he pulled the handle and swung the four-foot door onto greater Broad Street, causing a taxi to swerve and blare its horn. He stepped out of Lola and stood, stretching his back and flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. He pulled a half-beaded, fully fringed leather jacket from behind the seat and slipped it on, instantly going native. “I am never in trouble.”

I watched as the cars continued to swerve around him. “Thinking you’re not in trouble and not being in trouble are two different things.”

His face remained immobile as he shut the door and walked back against the traffic. “No, they are not.”

Dog immediately jumped into the driver’s seat, another gentleman’s agreement broken, and we both watched as the big Indian casually crossed the sidewalk past the federal-style lampposts, mounted the steps, and disappeared behind the dark oak doors. People who were walking by stared at Henry, then at Lola, Dog, and me. I waved, but they didn’t wave back; so much for the City of Brotherly Love.

I looked south, then west to Market, and then up thirty-two imaginary floors to where the next-in-from-the-corner window of a particularly dark, glass-clad building would be if not for the building in front of it. I had asked Cady why she hadn’t gotten the corner office, to which she had replied, “I will.”

I glanced back to the courthouse clock: 6:20. She’d still be at work; she never got home until at least eight. I looked around for Henry’s cell phone, finally locating it at the end of the power cord under Dog’s appropriated seat. I wasn’t very good with the things, but I pushed one of the little buttons that had a tiny phone image on it, was rewarded with a chirp and an illuminated display of the Bighorn Mountains, and was immediately homesick. I got over it, and selected CONTACTS, working my way through about twenty women’s names just to get to the Cs. I scrolled down to CADY/WORK and pushed the phone button again. It rang only once. “Hello, Bear, are you finally here?”

Evidently, I was in trouble. “If you could look out your window, up Broad Street, you would see a powder blue convertible with a seasoned, yet ruggedly handsome, sheriff and his trusty companion, Dog.”

There was a pause. “You brought the dog?”

Evidently, I was in a lot of trouble. “Is that a problem?”

Another pause, this one no shorter than the last. “Devon’s allergic to dogs.”

I looked over at my buddy, who looked back at me with his big, brown eyes. “You have hurt Dog’s feelings.”

“Daddy…”

I reached over and scratched under his chin, which was his favorite spot. “Well, I can see if Henry can take him.” There was even another pause, and I started getting a little miffed. “We wouldn’t want to inconvenience Devon…”

“Dad.”

It was a short word, but it had a lot behind it.

I watched as an elegant woman of about thirty rushed across the sidewalk and quickly made her way up the stairs, her charcoal trench coat billowing after her. She wore heels and had very nice legs. A set of keys hung from a lanyard in her hand along with a collection of IDs. Probably something to do with Henry.

I was still looking after her when a black, basket-weave Sam Browne belt with a Glock 19 blocked my view. I looked up at a young, blonde policewoman with a name tag that read OFFICER SHARPE, and spoke into the phone. “Let me call you back.”

“Dad? Wait a…”

I pushed the red button, and the tiny phone chirped again. Dog growled, and I hushed him with a quick glance. I tipped my head back to look at myself in the cop’s sunglasses; she gestured with her pen, which was already out.

“He didn’t drive the whole way, did he?”

I tossed the cell phone onto the center console and smiled. “No, we switched off in Cleveland.”

She didn’t smile back. “Ya need’a move the vehicle.”

I looked over the steering column at the empty switch. I had never seen Henry Standing Bear take the keys out of anything in thirty years. I glanced back up. “I don’t have the keys.”

“That’s okay, I’ll get it moved for ya.” She snapped the button on her two-way and held it toward her mouth. “Unit 43, 10-92 at the corner of Cherry and Broad.” She paused. “Roger that, 10-51. I need a hook.”

I thought of my luggage, of Henry’s, and of the Northern Cheyenne photographic find of the century that was in three hatboxes in the trunk. “Patrolman Sharpe, I think my friend just ran inside to find out where we could unload some things.”

She smiled for the first time, maybe because I noticed her name and rank, or not. “That’s okay, we let’ya get ya stuff out, before we take the car. I’ll even let’ya keep the dog.” She was talking into the mic again. “Long as ya got a leash for him.”

I thought about all the things Dog didn’t have, including a leash, as the cell phone began ringing. “Can’t you just write a ticket?”

She pulled out her docket and flipped it open. “I’m gonna do that, too.”

I picked up the phone and read Cady’s work number. “Make it an expensive one, will you?”

I pushed the talk button again. “Hello?”

“Did you just hang up on me?!”

I was distracted by a movement to the officer’s side; the woman I had seen disappear up the stairs was back. “Hi, Kathy.”

Officer Sharpe lowered her pen as she half-turned. “Michelle?”

I looked up at the window on Market, and I swear I could feel Cady looking down on me. “I didn’t hang up on you…”

The woman indicated the car in which I was sitting. “This is one of ours.”

The officer sighed. “Is it movin’ soon?”

The voice on the cell phone was insistent. “Are you still there?”

I tried to speak quietly. “I’ve got a little situation here.”

Michelle nodded and stepped back to trail an arm toward Henry, who was now standing at her side. “This is Henry Standing Bear. He’s here in conjunction with the Museum of the American Indian and the Smithsonian to…”

“Look, Dad, I’ve got to work late tonight so you’re on your own. I probably won’t make it home till after ten. All right.”

It wasn’t a question. “All right.”

“You remember where I told you I hide the key?”

“Yep.”

“You and the Bear can find the place?”

I nodded at the phone, like I always do when I’m trying to get it to like me. “I think so.”

“See if Henry can take the dog, please? Devon is deathly allergic.” I stared at the receiver for a while. “Dad?” It was quiet on the phone. “It’s been a long day, and it looks like it’s going to get longer.”

I nodded some more. “Anything I can do, like bring you dinner?”

“No, Patti went out already. Dad…” The irritation was returning to her voice. “That Moretti woman called twice to set up lunch with us. I spoke with her earlier today, when I thought you were going to be here, and she wanted to stop by tonight.” The irritation was now back in full. “Do you know why this has suddenly become so important to this woman? I mean…I’ve been here for a while.”

I remembered the conversation on the jail steps. “Vic said something about how her mother was feeling guilty about not getting in touch with you.”

“Well…If you would, her number is on the notepad by the phone at my place. Can you call and set something up with her for some other time? Tonight just isn’t good.”

“I’m getting that.” The longest silence since I hadn’t hung up on her.

By the time I’d closed the phone and rejoined the outside world, Dog had jumped into the back, Henry was fastening his seat belt, and the women were gone. He watched my face. “Trouble?”

“Always.” I studied the windshield. “Where we headed?”

He watched me for a moment longer and then slipped the big bird into gear. “I can drop you off, then come back here and unload the stuff.”

“You wanna get something to eat?”

He cleared his throat very quietly. “I think I have a date.”

I had to smile and shake my head. “Already?”

His turn to look out the windshield. “The corner of Quarry and Bread, over in Old City?”

I thought about how there were more than nine times as many people in Philadelphia than there were in the entire state of Wyoming and how it seemed that none of them wanted to have dinner with me. We circled around City Hall and headed east on Market. I wanted to reconnoiter a little before being left on foot; I had never been to Philadelphia before and was planning on spending the next day as a tourist, so we took a brief detour around Independence Square, taking in Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell Center and Pavilion. There were more trees on this side of town, and I was comforted by the park rangers in their dark green uniforms and Smokey-the-Bear lids. At least I wouldn’t be the only one in town wearing a cowboy hat. “Where have they got you staying?”

He shrugged, checked the rearview mirror, and took a right on Race, between the National Constitution Center and the Mint. I could see why Cady had chosen this part of town, with its narrow, tree-lined streets, its access to the Delaware River, and the overarching view of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. It felt like a neighborhood. I guess it had always been one; the AAA book said that Old Ben was buried here, at Christ Church.

A year ago, when Cady had bought her building with the trust money bequeathed to her by her maternal grandmother, Old City had again been an up and coming area. As I looked around at the boutiques, coffee shops, and trendy bars, it looked like Old City had arrived. Henry slowed the convertible and waited for traffic to move so that we could turn at Bread Street and Paddy O’Neil’s Tavern, a little Irish bar on the corner that Cady had told me about. She went almost every Saturday night to hear the live music and stayed until the musicians were subdued by the local Yuengling beer. Cady always brought me a six-pack of the longnecks in her carry-on.

I looked at the blue and gold lights of Ben’s bridge shooting into the darkness, the suspension cables only half-lit in the fading umber of twilight. The stacked stone buttresses looked like castled pavilions along the Delaware River, with the arch lights illuminating the stone with a yellowish-green tint. I could hear the clatter of the light rail banging along on the tracks below the bridge’s walking paths. Cady didn’t have a car and generally walked the thirty-two blocks back and forth to work. I wondered if she ever had the time to see this picture-postcard view of her neighborhood. I worried about her walking home at night, but I worried about her brushing her teeth and breathing. Like most parents, I just worried.

“You can drink your dinner.”

It sounded appealing; they probably had food, and it was within easy crawling distance of home. I glanced in the windows of the bar as we passed. It was a Thursday night, which meant I wouldn’t be assaulted by live music or a crowd; I’d just pay for the privilege of my own company.

I had seen pictures of the little tannery building she had bought, and there it was, a strangely squat, one-and-a-half-story commercial-looking structure with a forged-iron atrium. The large carriage opening was still there along the street, but there was also a side entrance with a covered entryway. The Bear eased the car to a stop along the curb. The only light was on the corner about fifty feet and another building down. We sat there for a moment, and I broached the subject of Dog. “If it’s going to be too big of a pain in the ass, just say so.”

“It is going to be too big of a pain in the ass.”

I nodded, and we got out and retrieved my bags from the trunk. I wheeled everything across the cobblestones to the door. “Breakfast?”

“How about lunch?” I nodded and shook my head as he climbed in and started the T-bird. Leave it to Henry to have already arranged a tryst.

“Dog.” The big brute had been waiting for the word and lithely slipped over the side of the car. He joined me on the sidewalk as we watched the twin-turbine’s brake lights disappear down the cobblestone street.

I scratched his bulky head, and he looked up at me. “Piss on the bunch of ’em, huh?” He wagged in response: two orphans in a town without pity.