The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 (95 page)

I copied the address and number onto the note pad on which Lena had written all my messages and looked at the phone. It was too early to call anybody in Wyoming except Ruby, who was always on duty early.

“Absaroka County Sheriff’s Office.”

“It’s me.”

It was quiet on the line. “How is she?”

“Oh, as good as can be expected, responding to external stimuli but still no eye movement.”

The silence again. “Oh, Walter…”

“Yep.”

I could hear the choking in her throat. “What are you going to do?”

“Wait.” The silence again, and I thought I could hear sniffing on the other end, so I changed the subject. “How are things back home?”

She tried to laugh. “You want your Post-its?”

“Sure.”

Her voice strengthened, and she cleared her throat. “Chuck Frymyer came in and got his uniform.”

“Who?”

“The young man you hired for Powder Junction.” There was a pause. “Somebody stole all the pool balls at the Euskadi Bar.”

“Look under the table where they keep the rack; folks think it’s funny to hide them there.”

“Bessie Peterson reported that somebody dumped garbage over her back fence.”

“Talk to Larry Stricker. He’s the one that’s got the barking dog that she complained about last week.” Dog, thinking he heard his name, came over and put his head on my knee.

“A woman reported that an elderly man was walking down the middle of Route 16 wearing coveralls and a hunting cap. He sticks his thumb out and, when you drive by, he raises both arms.”

“That’s Catherine Bishop’s brother; he gets confused and goes out for unscheduled walks.”

“A caller requested an officer’s assistance, then hung up. Officers were dispatched and found a couple in a verbal argument. The telephone was found ripped out of the wall. An open bottle of whiskey was found on the kitchen counter.”

“What brand?”

“The report doesn’t mention.”

I petted Dog’s head, and it was silent on the line. “You know all this stuff.”

“Yes.”

“So this was all for my benefit?”

“Yes.”

The heat in my face was returning. “Thank you.”

She breathed on the phone for a while. “People are asking, so the prognosis is guarded but hopeful?”

The heat was on high. “Yep.”

“Vic was threatening to jump a flight to Philadelphia or call Omar and commandeer the Lear.

“Tell her I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“I better go.”

“Walt?”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up the phone and stared at the glass surface of the coffee table that reflected the clouds passing over the skylight. It seemed like everything in the world was moving.

I petted Dog again, then went over to the work area and looked at Cady’s desk. There wasn’t a piece of paper on it, but there was an expensive-looking laptop. I could call Ruby back and ask her to help me with the computer, or I could wait and let Henry have a shot at it. There were some framed photographs on the desk: one that I had taken of her at the Absaroka County Rodeo when she was about eight; another of Cady with a young woman I didn’t know on some sort of cruise ship; and one of Henry looking at the camera with an eyebrow pulled like a bowstring.

There were no pictures of me.

I opened the desk drawers and found supplies but no work. I looked up at the metal-framed atrium and the walkways above. I knew there were two bedrooms up there, but so far I hadn’t made it to either one.

At the top of the spiral staircase, the master bedroom wasn’t very large, but it had a balcony overlooking the terrace in the back. It must have been the offices of the tannery when it had been a commercial venture, but now it contained a large four-poster bed and a French country bureau that her mother had bequeathed to her. I stood at the end of the bed and was flooded with Cady’s scent. I hung there like an impending avalanche, thinking about her, about Jo Malone grapefruit shampoo, about a partially shaved head and a U-shaped scar.

I sat down and stared at myself in the simple cherry mirror. It reflected me and a small, metal case that sat on the surface of the dresser. I went over and tried to open it, but it was locked. I put in Cady’s birth year and the small clasps popped open; I shook my head at her predictability.

Sig Sauer P226, 9 mm. It was a pricey version with plated controls and 24-kt-gold engraving; leave it to my daughter to get a designer handgun. There were two fully loaded clips in the case, and I made a mental note to discuss gun safety with her, if I ever got to talk to her again.

I pulled the ammo, placing it in the bottom drawer, closed the case, turned, and walked out of the room to the small landing above the kitchen. Dog watched me from the sofa below and then lowered his head to continue his nap.

I stood there for a while, holding onto the railing, and tried to think of what Cady would want me to do. Like me, she couldn’t abide mystery. Even as a young child, she asked questions—questions as statements, questions as answers, and questions as endless inquiry. She wanted to know everything and, if you told her to go look it up, she would and then come back with even more questions. Even then, she could interview a stump.

I turned and walked into the other bedroom. There was an old Pronghorn skull we had found on the backside of the ranch when she was six. It had probably been shot in the dirty thirties, dehorned, and left to bleach in the high plains sun. Cady had asked me what had happened to the antelope, and I told her the truth, like I always tried to do. She had taken it to Henry and, with his help, had decorated it with beads and feathers. It had hung in her room at the house in town; had hung at her assorted apartments in Berkeley, San Francisco, and Seattle; and now it hung over the guest bed in Philadelphia. There was also an elaborately framed but rusted sign that read “Department of the Interior—Indian Affairs, Boundary Indian Reservation” that Lucian had given her, and more photographs, but still none of me.

I glanced down at the bed at what had caught my eye from the landing. It was an ivory vellum envelope that read DADDY. I picked it up and saw an After Eight mint on the pillow beneath it. I opened the tiny envelope and read the three words, then carefully closed it and placed it in my breast pocket over my heart.

I had called Lena Moretti to tell her that there had been a change of plans and that we’d be having lunch at the Franklin Institute. She said that she’d never eaten there and probably for good reason, so we opted for Philadelphia-style pretzels. It was my first and was slathered with brownish spicy mustard. I had spoken with the head of security, and he said he’d send Esteban Cordero, who had been the security manager on duty at the time of Cady’s fall, down to speak with me as soon as he got in.

Lena was wearing jeans and a white snap-button blouse I was sure Vic had sent her. I figured she was trying to make me feel more at home. We sat munching and drinking cherry cream soda as children raced up and down the steps from the buses to the entryway of the museum. “What was she like as a child?”

I readjusted my Phillies hat. “We had the two-cheek rule. Cady always sat about halfway on a chair whenever we were trying to have dinner, so we instituted the two-cheek rule.” I sipped my soda. “What was the Terror like?”

Lena shrugged. “Disapproving.” She watched the children, who were making noises like birds—indiscriminate, bright sounds that made you happy to hear them. “She was a thirty-year-old trapped in a child’s body. She and her grandmother Nona always got along in their mutual dissatisfaction with me.”

“You? What’s not to like?” It was an innocent question, but it hit something along the way, glancing off and taking a lot with it.

She licked a spot of mustard from the corner of her mouth. “I had a rough period a while back.” She took a sip of her pop and looked at me. “I had an affair eight years ago. I’m surprised you didn’t notice the red
A
on my blouse.”

I was about to reply when a shadow crossed over me from the other side. I looked up and an elderly Latino in a blue blazer was looking at me with concern.

“Are you the man whose daughter was hurt?”

I stood and introduced Lena. We followed him up the steps and to the right as he told us about the police interview. “They asked a lot of questions the night it happened, and then another patrolman came and asked again.”

I finished my pretzel and pop on the way up the stairs, where a handicapped-access ramp ran along the side of the building, then changed direction and returned to the sidewalk below. He pointed to the flat area. “She landed there.”

I looked at the cement sidewalk. I tried to see the evening as Devon had described it; he had grabbed her arm, she had jerked it back and had fallen. It made sense as I looked at it. He was upset, she had gone to meet him, and there had been an argument.

I looked back at the entrance to the museum, but I couldn’t see the doorway from where we stood. “You saw her fall?”

“No.”

I turned and looked at him. “Then how did you know this had happened?”

“The kid banged on the door.”

“He came to the door?” He nodded, and I thought about what Devon had said at the ballpark, how he had said that he had run away. “Devon Conliffe came to the door of the museum?”

He nodded some more. “Yeah, I was in the main lobby when this kid ran up to the door and started pounding and screaming.”

“What’d he look like?”

He thought. “Tall, suit, blue tie, raincoat…” He watched me. “He said his name, pointed to what had happened, and yelled for me call 911.”

“He told you his name?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I called the police, got another one of the guys to come up to the lobby, and came out here.”

“How long did that take?”

He took a breath. “A minute, maybe two.”

“Then what?”

“When I got out here, he was gone.”

“When did the police arrive?”

“A couple of minutes later.” I stared at the concrete, and I looked back up at him. “What’d he look like?”

“The cop?”

“No, Devon Conliffe. You said he was tall and how he was dressed, but what did his face look like?”

“I don’t know. White kid, dark hair parted on the side…”

“Do you have this morning’s
Daily News
?”

He looked at me for a second and then nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got it up at the front counter, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

“Would you mind if we take a look?”

We passed the statue of Benjamin Franklin, who was seated contentedly in the warm glow of the science museum.

My attention was drawn back to the security desk. Cordero had slapped the newspaper onto the counter. I looked at it for a second and then spun it around so that it faced him. “Look carefully. Is that the kid who pounded on the door?”

He stared at the front page for a minute and then looked back up at me. “You know…I don’t think it is.”

“Three things. Devon said that he had run away as soon as another person had arrived. I assumed it was the guard he was talking about but, when I noticed that you couldn’t see the museum entrance from where Cady had been hurt, I started wondering.” I took a bite of my ice-cream bar and watched as Lena did the same. What would lunch have been without dessert?

“Second, Cordero said that Devon had dark hair, but it was blond.”

“And third?”

“The blue tie. When I spoke with Devon, he said that he hadn’t been home and that he was still wearing the same clothes. At the ballpark, his tie was red.” We were sitting on a bench in Logan Circle watching the fish and swans blow water twenty feet in the air, as if the humidity needed any help. “Individually, it’s not much, but all together…Of course, now that Devon’s picture is plastered across every newspaper in town, it’ll probably be harder to find the mystery man. Whoever he is, if he’s smart, he’ll fold up the tents and head home.”

“What if he was just some passerby? I mean, it is a big city.”

“I don’t think so. There weren’t any functions at the Institute that night, so why would anyone be hanging around the museum steps? How would he know Devon’s name, and why did he identify himself as Devon Conliffe?” I leaned back on the bench and took another bite of my ice cream. I thought about it as I looked at the nearest Indian in the Fountain of Three Rivers; he was representative of the Delaware River and had more than a passing resemblance to Henry. “Maybe, after Devon ran, the other fellow decided to pin him to the incident.”

“Then disappeared himself?”

“Evidently he had something to hide, too.” I finished my ice cream and was chewing on the stick. “We are looking for a Caucasian male, approximately thirty years of age, dark hair, and at least six feet tall.”

“You think the mystery man had something to do with Devon’s death?”

I could feel the wood beginning to splinter between my teeth. “It makes sense. Somebody cares enough about Cady to follow her, cares enough to chance revealing himself after she’s hurt, and cares enough to possibly toss Devon off the bridge.”

She finished hers. “That’s a lot of caring.”

“Yep.”

“Are you still hungry?”

“Hmm?”

She smiled. “You’re chewing the stick, and I thought you might want something else to eat.”

I dropped it in the nearest trash can. Henry was with Cady this morning, and I wanted to get back to the hospital before he had to leave for the museum, but Lena was doing so much. I took a deep breath. “You want to tell me about this affair?”

She laughed and then looked at me through the corner of an almond-shaped eye. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered that part of the conversation.”

“I’m pretty good with details, especially those involving domestic disturbances.”

She looked at the Indian maiden leaning modestly on her side against an excited swan. I had read the plaque after we had crossed the street and knew that the young girl represented Wissahickon Creek, but in Lena Moretti’s mind she was possibly emblematic of something more. “It was eight years ago. Victor had made inspector and just started working with the Mayor’s Task Force on Organized Crime. He wasn’t home a lot, and I guess I got bored.”

I waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “It sounds like there’s more to this story.”

She continued to watch the fountain. “There is, but that’s probably all you need to know.”

I waited a respectful moment before replying. “Okay.” I watched the people around the fountain, and it was only after a moment that I realized I was looking for a thirty-year-old male with dark hair and a darker reflection.

When I looked back, she had turned toward me and was smiling. “Who’s got the afternoon shift?”

“I do, but if you could check on Dog and cover for me for a little while this evening I’d really appreciate it.”

The smile held. “Buy me dinner?”

I looked back at the Indians. “Sure.”

She tossed her stick into the trash can as well and stood; she looked exactly like Vic. “My pick.”

I put Lena in a cab and grabbed one going in the opposite direction for myself. It didn’t take long to get to Spring Garden, and I felt a release doing something to track down some answers.

Tactical Training Specialists was the only going concern on the block, with gratings over the windows and a door that would have been more appropriate back home at Fort Fetter-man; it didn’t look like the best part of town. The sign on the glass read “Retail Handgun Sales—New and Used, Home Defense Classes, Indoor Shooting Range, and Basic through Advanced Training.” There was an adjacent parking lot with a side entrance that probably led to the range. I tried to remember what Cady had said about the instructor but could only come up with him being ex-army and a pretty good shot. I wondered casually how he handled throwing bodies over bridges.

I pushed the door open and an entry bell sounded. There was every gun I’d ever seen lined against the walls all the way to the back of the place. Glass-topped counters held the handguns, while the rifles and shotguns stood at attention, chained to the racks behind the counters. There were displays of body armor and home security sensors with locks and alarms at the center of the shop along with three-dimensional targets and gun safes.

“Can I help you?”

Jimmie Tomko was a little younger than I was, of average height and build with a light complexion and pattern balding that did nothing to hide the fact that he was missing his left ear; it also looked like he had a glass eye. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter and to my right, where he could see whoever walked in before they could see him. I noticed he was wearing a shoulder holster with a Kimber .45 and was reading the
Daily News,
which was folded back to the second page and the continuation of the Devon Conliffe saga.

I extended my hand. “Walt Longmire. My daughter is Cady Longmire.”

He smiled without parting his lips. “Hello, Sheriff.”

We went to his office, which overlooked the firing range, and he told me about his experiences in Quang Tri Province, which ended with a pressure-detonated mine made from one of our duds, a 105-millimeter round that had been booby-trapped. “Roughly two platoons had walked right by the damn thing, and I was next to last when the guy beside me stepped on something, and I turned.” He gestured toward his left eye. “Poached my eye just like an egg. They say the sand was probably the only thing that saved me and the guy in front of us.” I didn’t ask about the fellow who had stepped on it.

Not for the first time, I was anxious to get out of Vietnam, so I changed the subject. “Jimmie, how long have you had this place?”

“Since ’77.” He gestured toward the shooting gallery. “Put the firing range in about ten years ago, and it’s been the only thing that saved my butt.”

“That many people want to learn how to shoot?”

“There’s that, but it’s also the permits.” I looked at him questioningly. “A lot of these yuppies want concealed permits, but the chances of getting one in the city, even with training, are about as likely as Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command.”

I vaguely remembered an instance in the city involving the ex-mayor, a helicopter, a bomb, and a housing project, and deduced that getting a concealed weapon permit in Philadelphia was nigh on impossible. “So, can they get limited permits through you?”

“Yeah, that way they get to transport the weapon to and from the premises within a locked case in the trunk of their car, ammo separate.”

“I gather that some of them have been abusing the privilege?”

He sighed. “I had been making good money until we had a prominent assistant district attorney who unloaded on a Toyota station wagon on Roosevelt Boulevard. He said a couple of guys had chased him at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.”

I thought about it. “I wasn’t aware that Toyota station wagons could go a hundred miles an hour.”

“He said it was drug dealers.”

I thought about it some more. “Is the Toyota station wagon the vehicle of choice for Philadelphia drug dealers?”

“No. So then he said it could have been the KKK, except that in the earlier statement he said the two occupants were not white.” Tomko watched me with the one eye. “Now, there could be two nonwhite members of the KKK cruising around Philly in a Japanese station wagon, but…”

“There’s just as much a chance of Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command?”

“Exactly.” I was getting the hang of it. “Now, you are probably wondering why it is that I have told you this story.” He angled the front page of the paper toward me.

I stared at him. “Devon Conliffe?”

He nodded. “He was in the car with ADA Vince Osgood, a buddy of his.”

“What were they doing being chased by drug dealers?”

“There were a lot of questions along those lines.” He dropped the corner of the paper back on his desk. “Surprise, surprise, the charges were dropped. I think it might have been because Devon’s father, the judge, had pull with the court.”

“His father?” Tomko nodded. “And Devon still came here?”

“Lawyer League. They all come in on Thursdays.” He sat back in his chair and leaned a scarred chin on his fist. “They didn’t cancel his permit and, like I said, all the charges were dropped.”

I thought about the judge’s son. “So he might have been involved in some things he shouldn’t have been.”

“It’s likely.”

“Can you think of anybody who might’ve wanted to kill him?” The one eye stared at me for a while. “Besides me.”

“About half of Philadelphia.” He looked away for a second. “Look, I know your daughter was dating the guy, but he was a piece of shit. Did you ever see the two of ’em together?”

“No.”

“Not for nothin’, but it was like she was his personal servant.” His eye came back to me. “Why don’t you ask your daughter?”

I studied him but could tell nothing. “I’m saving that as a last resort.”

He nodded. “I’m not so sure why it is you’re concerned; best thing that could’ve happened to her.” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Sheriff, in case you hadn’t noticed, your daughter is quite a looker, intelligent, and possibly one of the best shots I’ve ever had the pleasure of not teaching.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s none of my business, but I think she’s a lot better off.”

I withheld comment. “You mind if I come in tomorrow night?”

“Nah, but there’s a guest fee, thirty bucks plus ammo. What d’ya shoot?”

“A .45 ACP.”

He nodded; the caliber probably reminded him of Quang Tri, land mines, and poached eggs.

It was close to one o’clock when I got back to the hospital. “When do I get to meet the mother?”

I ignored Henry and watched Cady. “Anything?”

“No, but I sang to her all morning.”

I sat down. “Thank you.”

His eyes stayed on Cady. “She hears us.”

I had thought about it a great deal, but I wasn’t sure. “You think?”

“Yes.” He exhaled a short laugh. “This may be your only chance to get the first, middle, and last word.” He looked at me now, his eyes steady. “She must hear our voices so that she can return to us.”

I thought what a wonder it was that this individual should be with me, here, now. Even as a child, he had always known something the rest of us didn’t. I thought about the book I’d brought from Wyoming, the love-worn collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Maybe I could read her that. “Well, I don’t sing. Any suggestions on what I should say?”

He smiled. “Tell her how much you love her; everything after that is small talk.”

I talked to Cady for the next four hours, and then the nurses ran me off so that they could bathe her. I took my chair and sat in the hallway. The
Daily News
was at the nurse’s desk, so I appropriated it.

JUDGE’S SON DIES IN BRIDGE FALL. I studied the photo of Devon Conliffe; it was most likely a publicity shot from his firm. There was no denying that he was a handsome kid, but there was a wayward quality to the eyes, something that said the young man was looking for a way out. I guess he found it, or it found him.

I looked at the picture of the bridge that had a superimposed dotted line of his fall and an arrow showing where he had landed. I thought about the alley where I had spoken to the cop with the donut and made a mental note to return there in the morning when the police and the crime lab people had cleared out.

“…10
P.M.
as the traffic grew sparse on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, Devon Conliffe, son of judge Robert Conliffe, fell to his death.” The article was pretty straightforward, concentrating on Devon’s career in the law and on the assorted community services he was involved with, only mentioning the episode that Jimmie Tomko had described as “the incident on Roosevelt Boulevard.” Robert Conliffe was quoted as saying that his son was a good man and an excellent lawyer who would be sadly missed in society.

There was no mention of Cady. I figured the Conliffes and I were off for dinner. The Roosevelt Boulevard thing bothered me; I needed to find out more about Devon’s background. I knew two detectives who might help me out. I dug Cady’s cell phone from my jacket, but the battery was dead. I put it back in my pocket and settled on brooding, something at which I was pretty good.