The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 (116 page)

Read The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 Online

Authors: Craig Johnson

I tossed the pigeons more crumbs. “By the letter of the law, she didn’t do anything wrong.” I reached over and picked up the cup of coffee she’d brought for me; it was finally cool enough to drink. “Maybe it just seems like enough people have been punished for this mess. Every mistake she made was because she cared about people or because she cared about her child.” Lena nodded, but I don’t think her old-world sense of justice was satisfied. I sipped my coffee as she and Mutt and Jeff watched. “I don’t know.” I slapped my hand on the backpack, containing all my homework from Detectives North. “If Katz and Gowder want to pursue it…” I let it trail off, just as I had the investigation.

“I hear William turned state’s evidence?”

“Yep, it was as I’d suspected. Vince Osgood and Toy Diaz headed up the operation and, when Billy Carlisle became a bit of a problem, Osgood decided to streamline the operation by retiring him to Graterford. The wildcard was the unscheduled release of William White Eyes. That set a power play into motion between Osgood and Diaz, which meant that one of them had to die.” She looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup, the ginger of her eyes in full bloom. “Diaz needed a soldier, and Shankar DuVall fit the bill. The official Academy of the Fine Arts plan was to kill Osgood; DuVall just didn’t count on Gowder or Vic.”

“Or you.” She finished her coffee and decided to give law enforcement a rest. “The Indian abducted my daughter today?”

Vic had been recuperating at Cady’s, while I had been spending most of my time at the hospital with my daughter. “Henry said something about Pine Street. Since they’re driving back, I think they were taking Dog and going antiquing.”

She nodded but couldn’t resist more questions. “So the lawyer connection was through Devon Conliffe, and he was responsible for the money laundering?”

I tossed some more bagel to the pigeons. “The tripping point was Cady; she wouldn’t play.”

“And so Diaz had DuVall throw Devon off the Ben Franklin Bridge?”

“Yep. As Alphonse said, Devon was preparing to turn state’s evidence. When Osgood and Diaz found out their boy had all the fortitude of a cheap lawn chair, they decided to start doing a little housecleaning. At least that’s what William White Eyes said.”

She stretched her legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “How does he know?”

“He was there.”

She turned to look at me. “William was on the bridge?”

“Yep. He was tailing Devon to make sure he didn’t go back to hurt Cady any more.” I thought about it. “I don’t think he knew Diaz was going to have Shankar DuVall kill Devon but, when he did, I think it might have sealed the deal on his wavering allegiances.”

She watched me, and I watched Mutt and Jeff. “So, was there anybody in this case that didn’t deserve to die?”

“Yep.” I didn’t say anything more but just sat there thinking of a large brown eye with a painted circle around it.

* * *

Lena let go of my arm when we got to the hospital valet parking kiosk and swung around to look at me. The dark luster of her hair shone blue in the morning sun, and I noticed that her smile had the same lupine slant as Vic’s. The Moretti women smiled like they were going to eat you, and you’d like it. “Dinner? I know a place for pizza.”

“I bet you do.”

“Bring Henry and the Terror. Michael says he’ll stay with Cady.”

“I think that might be turning into a situation.”

She nodded. “I think you’re right.”

She examined my finger brace and gently stroked a valentine-red nail across the bruised flesh. I waited a while before I spoke again. “It was you who opened the door at Cady’s when…Before the reception, I mean.” Her head slipped to one side and she looked up at me through her lashes, her eyes sharp for only a moment.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

She saw the Thunderbird pull up before I did, and that most likely explained what happened next. She stepped in close, rose up on tiptoes, and placed a very gentle kiss on my lips. I might’ve leaned in a little after her, but she gave me my hand back and turned to walk past the powder blue convertible like a panther in floral print.

Vic was studying her mother very closely as she passed, the summer dress swaying provocatively in time with the slap of sandals against her naked heels. “Mother…”

Lena paused at the back seat for only a moment to scratch under Dog’s chin. “Victoria…”

I walked over and leaned against the chrome frame of the windshield as all the males in the vicinity watched Lena disappear down the sidewalk and into the crowd.

Vic poked me in my still-sore ribs. “What? Are we fucking interrupting something here?”

It took me a while to think of anything safe to say. “I thought you guys were antiquing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you were, too.”

Henry interrupted, before it could get any uglier. “It is our last day, and I have not seen the Liberty Bell.”

I nodded and looked down at Vic’s arm, which was still in the sling. “It’s cracked, but like most broken things, it’s worth keeping.” She looked up at me and smiled. I glanced at Henry. “Headed back early tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.” He looked back at the beast. “Are you sure you do not want me to take Dog?”

“No, I might need him, and he’s good company.” I studied the streamlined flanks of the Thunderbird, admiring the work of the South Philly body shop. “You gonna be all right driving back by yourself?”

He smiled. “Yes. I am meeting my brother in Chicago.”

I stood there, more than a little surprised. “Lee?”

“Yes.”

I knew that the two had spoken only once in the last fifteen years, and only a handful of sentences at that. “I thought you guys didn’t talk?”

He nodded. “I thought it was time we started.” A moment passed. “Dena is in Rapid, so I may stop and see her, too.”

I continued to watch him, but he didn’t say anything else, and I could feel those slender strings thread their way down the Rocky Mountains, across the plains, over the Appalachians, finally coming to rest in attachments, here, in Philadelphia. I pulled the backpack further up on my shoulder and looked down at Vic. “What about you?”

“I’ve got a flight to Billings this afternoon. Chuck Frymyer’s picking me up.”

“Who?”

“Frymyer, the deputy you hired for Powder Junction?” I nodded some more, and they both watched me very carefully. “What do you want me to tell the county and Kyle Straub?”

There was everything to say, but no way to say it. “Tell them that I’ll be coming home, eventually.”

She exhaled a quick laugh. “They won’t like the sound of that.”

I cleared my throat and got off Henry’s fender, allowing two fingers, including the one in the finger guard, to rest on the side mirror. “Well…Tell them I’m slow, but eventual.”

She continued to smile and gently enclosed my fingers with hers. “That, I know.”

* * *

Cady was no longer in the ICU but had been downgraded to a regular room on Vic’s old floor. Dr. Rissman was standing at the nurse’s station when the elevator doors opened. “Those cops were here, looking for you again.” He adjusted his glasses. “But I think it was a social call.”

I stopped and put my hands in my pockets. “They know where to find me.” He looked at the floor, the wall, and finally at my left shoulder. I thought about how irritating I had found the trademark behavior when I’d met the man and how it endeared him to me now. Lightning rods didn’t look you in the eye. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”

“I didn’t do that much.”

“Excuse me, but that’s crap. Besides all the manual labor, you gave me hope and that gave her hope.” Finally, he looked directly in my eyes and smiled.

Michael was sitting by the bed reading the sports page of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
out loud. He was back on regular duty and was wearing his uniform.” How ya doin’, Sheriff?”

“They still punishing you with third watch?” His eyes were tired, and he really didn’t have to answer. “So, you got out of having dinner with us tonight.”

He nodded and folded up the newspaper. “I told Mom I’d stay here, but you get everybody else.”

“Who’s ‘everybody’?”

“Mom, Al, Tony, Vic the Father, Vic the Son, and Vic the Holy Terror.”

A tiny terror of its own ran through me. “I just saw her downstairs, and she said she was flying out this afternoon.”

He nodded and stretched his back. “I guess she found a way out of it, too.” He stood, squared his shoulders, and placed his cap back on his head. “I guess it’s just you and the family.”

“Sounds interesting.”

He laughed. “It’s always that.” He tucked the paper under his arm and covered a yawn with his hand. “I’m going home to take a nap; see you here around seven?”

He turned back to Cady, squeezed her hand, and left.

I sat in his chair, pulling it a little closer to the bed, I covered my face with my hands and again listened to the screaming that now resonated like the strings in a piano. I listened to their vibrations, to the chords and the melody that connected all of us. I thought about Henry’s brother, Lee, about Dena. I thought about Vic, about her family. I thought about Cady.

I pulled her book from the backpack, from its spot between the printed dossiers and depositions Gowder and Katz said I had to read through before my meeting with the district attorney’s office and the fifth district court. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and her book in my hands. Like a lot of things in my life, I’d just about worn it out, but it was worn out with love, and that’s the best kind of worn-out there is. Maybe we’re like all those used cars, broken hand tools, articles of old clothing, scratched record albums, and dog-eared books. Maybe there really isn’t any such thing as mortality; that life simply wears us out with love.

It took a while for my eyes to focus, but when they did, the words were familiar. “‘Long, long ago, there was a king and queen…’” I felt a squeeze on my hand but tried to keep my attention on the page. “‘…who didn’t have any children.’”

“Da-ddy…?”

I continued reading. “‘One day the queen was visited by a wise fairy…’” My eyes blurred like they always did, and I watched as the drops hit the wrinkled page where they had struck so many times before.

“Da-ddy…”

Her voice was not strong, and Rissman said the pronunciation will continue to get better. We had a legion of hours in rehabilitation ahead of us, but if she continued to improve at the rate she had so far, the neurosurgeon said I might be able to take her back to Wyoming next month. I continued reading. “‘…who told her, you will have a lovely baby girl.’”

“Da-ddy…ish okay.”

I look up at the clear and beautiful gray eyes, at the winning smile of youthful invincibility, at someone far more courageous and determined than I, and sometimes I make it through the entire story.

But most of the time, I don’t.

CRAIG

JOHNSON

ANOTHER MAN’S MOCCASINS