The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 (92 page)

I took a sip and swallowed most of the enamel from my teeth. “I figured one of your troopers would have reported in by now.”

“He did, but that was almost half an hour ago.”

I nodded. “No change.”

We sat and drank our coffee in silence. “The Indian up there now?”

“Henry. He ran me out.”

She smiled. “Here, I brought you something to eat.” She dug into the other bag and handed me a collection of biscuits and a tiny paper napkin. “Biscotti. I didn’t think you would be very hungry.”

“You’re right.”

She chewed on one herself, and I watched as she unconsciously began swinging her intertwined legs. “Almond, Michael’s favorite.” The biscuits were good, and the only sound for a while was the munching of our communal breakfast. I noticed she was looking up at the brim of my hat that was still barely above her eyes. “Does the Terror wear a hat like this?”

“No, she says they’re goofy.”

She munched some more. “How disappointing.” She glanced down at my feet. “She wear boots?”

“She has one pair she wears on special occasions.”

She watched me for a long while. I took another breath and looked above the buildings to the clear blue sky. I could feel the thumping in my chest as the temptation to turn and count the floors up to five tugged at my jaw. A few fat pigeons ambled over from across the quad and positioned themselves in front of us. I broke off a little biscotti and tossed it their way. They grabbed the pieces and looked at me some more, giving up on Lena as a native.

“Dr. Rissman said the damage was blunt trauma from a fall?”

I nodded. “Concrete steps.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. “She’s going to be okay.”

I looked at her, still wearing my hat like a child. “How do you know?”

She ignored my ridiculous question, smiled, and looked back into the bag. “I’ve got a coffee for Henry, too.”

I had been about to apologize, but took another deep breath instead; the darkness was there as we made small talk. “You got cream and sugar?”

“Yes.”

I tossed the pigeons more biscotti. “He’s particular.”

She smiled. “I’ve heard that.” She sipped her coffee and watched as I continued to feed the birds. “We may have to toughen you both up a little while you’re here.”

The pigeons stood next to the blunt toes of my boots. The darkness was with me again, and a plan was unfolding like a crisp linen tablecloth, snapping across the expanse of a long table and floating down to cover everything. “Lena, I may need a favor later today.”

She turned at my tone of voice. “Anything.”

The pigeons were now standing on the wide part of my boots, happily taking the crumbs from my fingers. “I may need you to take a shift with Cady.”

“Any time. I’m a woman of leisure.” She sipped, and her ginger eyes stayed steady. There were too many cops in her life to fool her for long. “You got plans for the afternoon?”

I handed the remainder of the biscotti to Mutt and Jeff and looked across the street toward the river. “I thought I’d take in a baseball game.”

“This is a really bad idea.”

I looked around at the thousands of Philadelphia Phillies fans walking along Pattison Avenue toward Citizens Bank Park. “Seventy degrees and sunny. It’s a beautiful day for a ball game.”

“And a lousy one for aggravated assault.” He looked at me and shook his head. “Where do you want to hide the body?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

The Bear pursed his lips. “How about behind third; the Phillies have not shown any signs of life there in years.”

I bought some upper-tier tickets from a guy standing behind an abandoned magazine stand on the corner of 11th and Pattison. I handed Henry a ticket and stuffed the rest of my money back in my wallet.

We were undercover. The Cheyenne Nation was resplendent in jeans, his weathered chambray shirt, and a pair of running shoes. He had bought a Phillies hat as we’d gotten off the subway at Broad and had tucked his substantial ponytail over the adjustable strap in the back. He could have been from Philadelphia; he could have been a very large Indian from Philadelphia, but he could have been from Philadelphia. I was blending in even better. I had left my hat at the hospital on Lena Moretti’s head, had purchased a natty fitted cap and a vast red-satin jacket from the Broad Street vendor, and now approached the major league ballpark looking like a British phone booth.

“What if he is not here?”

“Then we watch a ball game.” The tiny terror was creeping in on me again, even though we had checked with Lena no more than ten minutes earlier. She said that eleven lawyers from Cady’s firm had stopped in, that even David Calder—the Calder of Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind—had been to visit. Lena said she had recognized him from
Philadelphia Inquirer
society page photographs, that he was ancient but that he liked my cowboy hat. She also said that Cady was resting comfortably but had shown no signs of change.

We gave our tickets to the lady at the turnstile and walked into the broad interior thoroughfare of the ballpark. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the environs, with the Kentucky bluegrass below-street-level playing field, giant scoreboard, and a capacity approximately one-tenth that of Wyoming’s entire population, but I had other things on my mind.

I bought a scorecard and a stubby pencil from a vendor and stepped onto the metal treads of the escalator for the ride up. Henry lingered behind me. “Do we know which luxury suite?”

I shrugged. “How many can there be?”

There were seventy-three, to be exact. This we discovered from a kindly octogenarian in a red straw hat and vest. The Bear also asked what we should do if we were invited to stop by one of the luxury boxes but had no tickets? He said we should call our friends and have them meet us at the back of the secured area at the rear of that level.

We went up. Henry paused at a railing and looked across center field toward the skyline of the city. “Do all the larger law firms have sky boxes?”

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Do Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind have a box?”

It’s thinking like this that kicked Custer’s ass.

I held out my hand for his cell phone, a device at which I had become a past master. I only slightly felt the twinge at seeing CADY/WORK just before I pushed the button. “Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind, Cady Longmire’s office, can I help you?”

“Patti, it’s Walt.”

There was no pause, and her voice lowered. “The police were here, asking questions.”

“Was the name Moretti?”

“No, a detective by the name of Katz. He left his card.”

“Patti…?”

“There was a black guy with him. He didn’t leave a card, but I think he was a detective, too.”

“Patti?”

“They asked a lot of questions about her and Devon…”

I let her wind down. “Patti, I need some help.”

It was quiet. “What do you need?”

I explained that we were on a little investigative junket of our own and was wondering if the firm had a luxury suite at the ballpark. She assured me that they did and, after a brief consultation, reported that it was being used by a couple of city council people today but that there were seats still available. I asked her how we could get in, and she said to check the Phillies community relations office in five minutes.

The older lady at the double glass doors smiled as she tore our tickets and handed us the stubs. “Enjoy the game.”

The gallery that provided entrance to the luxury suites was a carpeted hallway that arched around the balcony from foul pole to foul pole. We were in suite 38, and as luck would have none of it, we were right there. When I glanced into the box, I could see two brassy-looking older women drinking beer out of plastic cups that would have looked more at home strapped to a horse’s nose.

One turned and looked at me, nudging her friend with the frizzy orange hair. “Franny, look, boys!”

I stood with my head in the doorway, not sure of what to say, finally settling on a western favorite: “Howdy.” In retrospect, it probably sounded a little odd coming from someone who looked like the assistant carbohydrate coach of the Phils.

I left Henry to entertain as I excused myself to get something to drink. Bernice said that they had waitresses, but I told her I didn’t want to wait that long.

There were small nameplates beside the doors of each suite, so it was just a question of finding the right firm. I was relying on a distant phone conversation I had had with Cady months earlier when she mentioned where Devon was employed. I remembered it was Somebody and Somebody, as opposed to the Somebody, Somebody, Somebody, and Somebody of Cady’s firm. I remembered that they were not particularly memorable names and, about a third of the way around, I read “HUNT AND DRISCOLL.”

I slipped my scorecard from my back pocket and pulled the pencil from behind my ear when I heard the announcer roar through the starting lineups. I was, after all, undercover. I leaned against the far railing, which gave me a decent view of suite 51. A few people passed by, but I feigned concentration and raised my head only after they had all passed.

I could make out the backs of three young men sitting on the arm rails of their luxury box chairs. They were talking, but I couldn’t hear the conversation clearly. Having never met Devon was putting me at a disadvantage, but fortune took a hand in the form of a young woman in short pants and an abbreviated, torso-baring Phillies T-shirt. “Miss?”

She was another south Philly gem, with mall-chick hair, blue eye shadow, and rounded vowels. “Yeah?”

“Could I get you to do me a favor?”

“Prolly.”

I took this for probably, tucked the scorecard under my arm along with the pencil, and pulled a crisp twenty from my wallet by way of the Durant State Bank ATM. “Could I get you to take the largest beer you’ve got in to a young man in that suite by the name of Devon Conliffe?” She took the twenty, which was a lot even by ballpark standards. “It’s important that he not know who it’s from.”

“Wa’s goin’ on?”

I duly translated and responded. “It’s a surprise.”

She looked at me for a moment more and then looked at the twenty in her hand. “Awright.”

“When you get done, I’ll be over there, and there’s another twenty in it if you tell me his response.” She practically left skid marks.

Henry met me in the stairwell. “I am not going back in there.”

“Okay.”

He looked around, and I noticed that his eyes were dark searchlights scanning the distance and calculating all the odds. “Is he here?”

“I’m about to find out.” We waited as the young woman entered the suite; there was a loud cry of drunken insouciance, and she rapidly reappeared without the beer. I pulled another twenty and handed it to her as she tucked her serving tray under her arm. “Success?”

“Friends a youse?”

“Not exactly.”

She glanced at Henry and then glanced again; I was used to it. “I did like you said an’ tole him it was a secret admirer.”

“Tall kid, brown hair?”

She looked at me. “More blond.”

“Right.” I nodded my head. “Wearing the blue shirt?”

She continued to look at me. “White.”

I nodded some more. “And the red tie?” It was a chance, but he seemed like the red-tie type.

“Yeah.”

I handed her another twenty. “Wait about ten minutes and give him another one, okay?”

She shrugged and was off. I watched Henry watch the hot pants. “Restroom?”

I took a deep breath. “Looks like the best shot we have at getting him alone.”

“Before or after?”

I stared at the doorway to suite 51. “Before. Nobody’s tough when they have to pee.”

The Phils blew a double play at first, allowing the Small Red Machine two runs, and it was a brand new ball game. Personally, I was beginning to think that Devon Conliffe had a bladder like a sea lion’s. I had paid sixty dollars for the three most expensive beers in Philly and, so far,
nada.

Henry had walked to the area that overlooked an atrium to the concourse below. He was watching the game or appeared to be watching the game. He looked back at me, and I shrugged. I was about to order the two of us a couple of beers when Devon came out of the suite. He was pretty easy to spot; it was the smirk. Tall and thin, white dress shirt and a patterned red tie. He had blondish hair parted at the side, classic Waspish good looks, and all I could think of was the phone call I had listened to very early that morning. I said “yo,” and he actually nodded to me as he passed.

“Yo.”

It was the same voice as the one on the cell phone, and I signaled the Bear and disappeared into the restroom.

I had cased the place; there was one row of sinks and mirrors along one side and urinals and toilet stalls along the other. He was just getting ready to unzip his pants and get down to business when I came around the corner. “Devon Conliffe?”

He turned and looked at me, the smirk still firmly in place. “Yeah?” He said it like I should know. “Do I know you?” I kept coming toward him. He was looking a little closer now, but it was only when he saw the cowboy boots that he started to turn. I caught him with a hand to the closest shoulder, which propelled him to the far wall. “What the fuck! Who the hell are you?”

I kept coming, and he tried to go to the right, so I caught him and pushed him back into the corner against the toilet-stall partition and the tiled wall. “My name is Walter Longmire.” He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked around the contained space. I stopped about two feet away. “You know who I am.”

Maybe he was buying time, but I was fresh out. His face stiffened, and he tried to look around me again, thinking that somebody should be coming to his rescue by now, but I knew that when the Cheyenne Nation shut a door, it stayed shut.

I inclined my head a little, wanting to see him up close; I saw the muscles tense in his upper body. I supposed he thought I was going to hit him, but I was wrong; he rabbit-punched a quick jab and popped my nose.

I’m sure I looked surprised. I’ve been punched in the face numerous times, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. Henry had had the best shot when he popped me one in grade school but, other than that, a blow to my face has never been anything more than an irritation and a nuisance. Whatever it was that he had been expecting, it wasn’t me leaning in closer and whispering. “You do that again, and I’m going to pinch your head off.”

Physical force having failed, he went back to negotiation. “Your daughter’s crazy.”

“Bad conversation.” I could feel wetness on my face, and I guessed my nose was bleeding. “I haven’t really touched you, yet. You and I are going to have a chat, and we’re going to keep it civil so I won’t have to. Clear?”

Some of the smirk came back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I took a breath to clear the urge to grab him by the throat. “Tell me about last night.”

“I don’t have to…” He was probably used to having his way, of simply changing his tone to obtain the upper hand, but he was in a different league now. He lurched from the wall in an attempt to get clear. I stuck my left arm out to stop him and watched his left retract for another shot at my face. I grabbed his wrist with my right and brought my left up and around his throat, effectively blocking his right arm against the wall with my side. He was almost as tall as me, but the extra seventy pounds I had on him flattened him against the tile. He tried to kick me, but I had prepared for that by turning my body a little away.

“Don’t move.” He struggled some more and started to yell, but I closed my grip on his windpipe and the only thing that came out was a wheezy yelp. His eyes bulged, and I thought about how the thumb fits so well over the larynx, and with one good squeeze…I could feel the nausea in the back of my throat, rising up to tell me that what I was doing was wrong. I stood there swallowing the bile that kept reminding me who I was and of what I could forgive myself. It took a few seconds, but I lessened my grip and allowed him a little more air. His eyes stayed wide, but they didn’t bug quite as much as before. “Tell me about last night.”

“Look, I didn’t do anything!”