Kindness Goes Unpunished

8

This time I got the ride downtown; as a matter of fact, I got a ride to another state.

The big Crown Vic took the Broad Street entrance ramp onto I-95 southbound. There were ducks on a lake off to the right; I felt like joining them.

By the time the PPD had gotten its investigative ducks in a row and been fully informed about what I’d been up to, it was late in the afternoon. Katz and Gowder had picked me up from Cady’s, where I had retreated for a shower, and hadn’t mentioned anything about missing our breakfast. Henry had taken the afternoon shift at the hospital and had called to warn me of the detectives’ impending arrival. I had taken Dog for a walk, and they had been waiting when I returned.

I studied the small red dots on the frames of Katz’s designer glasses and wondered where he had gotten them. “So, you guys are going to drive me back to Wyoming?”

He sighed deeply as Gowder changed lanes, took the unmarked car into the far lefthand one, and leveled off at an even ninety; evidently, wherever we were going, we were in a hurry.

Katz cleared his throat. “I’m trying to figure out if I have made a terrible mistake.”

I could feel my face redden a little. “No, you haven’t…”

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’m trying to figure out if you are going to be an asset or a detriment.”

Gowder was watching me in the rearview mirror as I answered. “An asset. Cross my heart.”

Katz blinked for the first time. “We have about 350 homicides per annum here in Philadelphia, and we try to keep the number of police officers on that list to a minimum.” He glanced at Gowder, who might have smiled. His eyes returned to me. “Do you have any idea how lucky you were last night?”

“Probably not.”

He nodded. “Personally, I don’t think you have any idea, but since the Chief Inspector’s son was injured…”

“He stepped on a nail.” It was the first time Gowder had spoken, and Katz looked at him like he was a potted plant with blight. He stared at the side of Gowder’s head until Gowder leaned an elbow on the window ledge and covered the smile with his index finger.

After a moment, Katz looked at me again. “So, do you mind telling me how your adventures last night are going to aid in our investigation?”

“They’re not.”

He compressed his lips. “You can’t do things like that anymore.”

We rode along in silence, Katz studying me a while longer before handing me a manila envelope with more than a few files inside. I looked back up at the two of them as we rocketed down I-95. “Devon Conliffe?”

Katz spoke over his shoulder. “You’ve got thirty minutes.”

I opened the envelope. “Do you guys mind if I ask where we’re going?”

“The opera.” Gowder smiled, and the mole under his eye kicked up in the rearview mirror.

The Grand Opera House in Wilmington, Delaware, incorporated the same wedding-cake characteristics as Philadelphia’s City Hall but with slightly less drama, inside or out. French Second Empire with a cast-iron facade, it was lit from below with floodlights that highlighted the detail.

A grumpy, elderly gentleman was sitting on a stool in the lobby and ushered us into the main auditorium, where Gowder and I sat just below the balcony. Katz continued on into the dark of the theater to a large soundboard that straddled two rows at house center and tapped the stage manager on the shoulder.

The young woman pulled her earphones aside and spoke with him. He waited as she returned to her headset, prefacing and ending her conversation into it with the word “Maestro.” The seats were comfortable; I watched as Gowder propped his feet over the back of the next row, and I noticed that his socks did, indeed, match today’s ensemble. He whispered, with his head inclined toward me. “Where in the world did you get the idea for the crack house?”

I also whispered. “OIT.”

“What’s that?”

“Old Indian Trick.”

He smiled the becoming smile, and we watched the rehearsal. It was the end of Act II, where Monterone confronts the hunchback, reaffirming the curse he had placed on Rigoletto and the Duke. The irony of the father/daughter opera was not lost on me, and I could only hope that Cady and I would have a happier ending.

The scenery and costumes were brilliant, with the Duke’s salon and adjoining apartments drifting to the sixteenth-century Mantuan skyline. It was night, and the jester was watching as the tortured father was dragged away. Inspector Victor Moretti cut a bold figure as Monterone, in a torn robe stripped aside to reveal his lashed back. He was tall and lean like a Doberman, and even from this distance I could feel his eyes. Lena was right about his voice; Victor could sing his baritone ass off.

I watched and thought about the manila folder the two detectives had shared with me. The chain holding the gate to the north-side entrance of the bridge closed had been cut with a substantial pair of bolt-cutters, and there had been a scuff mark on the sidewalk next to the railing of the bridge that indicated that the perpetrator had worn leather-soled shoes or boots. There were no fingerprints at either location, and it was surmised that the killer had also worn gloves.

The decedent had been propelled over the railing and across the PATCO rail lines before landing in the alley below. Somebody had thrown Devon in an arch close to twenty feet before he fell. I would have suspected me, too.

The topper was Devon’s blood sample, which indicated that he was loaded with ketamine hydrochloride, otherwise known as Special K, a club drug that he had snorted in powder form. A chemical cousin to the animal tranquilizer PCP, ketamine creates a dreamlike state by binding the serotonin transmitters in the brain, consequently destroying the user’s ability to regulate mood, appetite, sleep, and temperature, but it supposedly feels good.

That was probably how Devon had been coerced onto the BFB late that night, in search of another hit; he’d got it, all right, and then had been thrown off the bridge. I was working on a Rasputin-like scenario when I noticed Detective Katz standing in the aisle with Verdi’s Monterone.

They were talking sharply, but sotto voce, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t in English. I looked at Gowder. “Are they speaking Italian?”

He nodded. “Asa does it to piss Victor off. His Italian is better.” He chuckled to himself. “He does everything he can to piss Victor off, including fuck his wife.”

I sat there for a moment and then turned in my seat. “What?” He didn’t have time to answer because the next thing we both knew, Chief Inspector Moretti was standing with his arms folded in the aisle in front of us. It could have been the stage makeup, but he seemed like the most intense person I’d met in quite a while. His hair flourished in a sweeping mane with eyebrows to match, and he wore a silvered goatee. With the torn robe and lacerated back, it was like meeting the returning Jesus Christ; a pissed-off, returning-like-a-lion Jesus Christ.

I smiled, but he didn’t. “Sheriff Longmire?”

I stuck my hand out. “Walt.”

He looked at my hand, then back at me, his voice flat and emotionless. “Sheriff, I’m terribly sorry about what has happened to your daughter.”

I let the hand drop. “Thank you.”

“But you must realize that you have no jurisdiction here in the city of Philadelphia or the state of Pennsylvania.”

“I am aware of that.” I was also aware that we were in Wilmington, Delaware, but figured now was a bad time to argue geographic discrepancies.

He glanced at both Gowder and Katz. “We have a number of very fine detectives assigned to the incident that concerns your daughter and to the one concerning Mr. Conliffe.” He paused for a moment. “You need to listen to this next part very carefully.” He unfolded his arms and placed his hands on the seat in front of me. “If I find that you have involved yourself in this case, in any way, I will have you in the Roundhouse so fast your eyes won’t have time to water.” He leaned in with his exposed and stage-makeupped chest. “Do you understand me?”

I nodded. “Yep, but before you get yourself all worked up, you better take a look at this.” I pulled the card from my shirt pocket and handed it to him.

He took the envelope and, to my unseen amusement, Katz lent him the designer glasses. He looked back up at me as the detectives gave me worried looks. “Where did this come from?”

“It was left in my daughter’s room. None of the staff had any idea who could have left it or when.”

He lowered the glasses and handed them back. “Did you know about this?”

I interrupted. “I asked them to let me tell you.”

He held the card a little higher. “So, from this, we are to assume that you are already involved.”

“It kind of looks that way.”

“Let’s make sure it stays in an unofficial capacity.”

“You bet.” I waited a moment. “But can I give you a piece of advice?” He didn’t move. “Monterone wouldn’t wear the Rolex.”

“I think that went well, don’t you?”

They weren’t talking to me.

“Guys, I’m sorry…”

Katz didn’t turn this time when he spoke. “We have just given you access to some of the most sensitive evidence in this case, and you withhold something like this?” He held the note, now safely encased in a ziplock bag.

“I was going to tell you about it.”

“When?”

I looked out the window and into the velvety darkness of the Delaware River toward the New Jersey pine barrens. “After you showed me the reports.”

Katz finally turned and looked at me. “This is not a poker game where we call and see; this is a murder investigation, and if you don’t start coming clean with us, then all bets are off, and you can take the next flight back to cowtown.”

We sat there for a little longer. “I’ve got more.” They looked at each other. “I questioned the security guard at the Franklin Institute, Esteban Cordero, in a little more detail.” I had to be careful how I did this, so that none of the blame would fall back on the inexperienced Michael Moretti. “He remembered that a young man had banged on the door after Cady’s fall, but I don’t think it was Devon Conliffe.” I had the detectives’ full attention as I explained about the incongruities of the man’s appearance and the red tie. “After we looked at the picture on the cover of the Daily News, he positively stated that it wasn’t Devon who knocked on the door.”

Katz turned to look at me again. “So someone else was there.”

“Someone who identified himself as Devon Conliffe and was gone by the time the guard got outside.” As they absorbed that, I asked them a question. “What can you guys tell me about Devon’s Roosevelt Boulevard incident?”

It was Katz’s turn to sigh. “That was yours, Tony. You tell it.”

“It was before Thanksgiving.” Gowder made eye contact with me in the rearview. “Assistant district attorney with the Special Narcotics Prosecution Unit…”

“Vince Osgood.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

I paused a moment, not wanting to get anyone else in trouble. “He sounds important.”

He laughed. “Important enough to get charged by a federal grand jury for violating the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act; about a half-dozen counts for racketeering, possession with intent, conspiracy to extort money, conspiracy to manufacture drugs, witness tampering, and retaliation against a witness.”

“This guy’s on our side?”

“Wait, it gets better,” Katz interrupted. “Tell him about the retaliation.”

“Tim Gomez, writer for the Daily News, investigates and writes about Osgood’s activities with the Special Narcotics. Being a good reporter, he catches wonderboy Vince outside 13th and Samson, where he asks the assistant DA about property seized by the drug task force. Oz loses his mind, has to be forcibly restrained after kicking Gomez and screaming about how he’s going to bitch-slap him all the way to Camden if he doesn’t lay off.”

“Always good to have positive relations with the fourth estate.”

Gowder laughed. “Some of the extortion charges dealt with sums over $100,000.”

I shook my head and looked out the window. “What about the possession/distribution charges?”

Gowder shook his own head and concentrated on the road. “Oz was reported to have watched another man cook about 118 grams of designer stuff and then accepted half in June of last year for distribution. Local kingpin Toy Diaz is picked up on a traffic stop by Osgood’s buddies in the drug task force and relieved of about two million dollars worth.”

“Must’ve been a big car.” I thought about it. “Toy Diaz is the operator of the house we took out last night.”

“Could be. He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies.”

“In the aforementioned transaction, all the evidence disappeared from the holding unit, and that under Vince Osgood’s supervision.”

“What about Roosevelt Boulevard?”

I saw the mole kick up again, and I was sure he was smiling. “Easter Sunday, and Oz leaves the office with good friend and fellow attorney…”

“Devon Conliffe.”

“You got it.”

I glanced at Katz. “Easter morning?”

Gowder went on. “As they pull away, they notice that they are being followed by a Toyota station wagon occupied by two nonwhite males, approximately thirty years of age. Osgood pulls a sawed-off shotgun from the under the seat and rests it in his lap. Then he instructs Conliffe to take the 9 mm, which he keeps for insurance, from the glove box and be prepared for what happens next.” He took a deep breath, glanced at Katz, and continued. “Being a concerned citizen and aware that gunfire may result, Oz takes the exit at Fifth and pulls up at an abandoned lot in Fentonville…” His voice slowed for effect. “Three congested city miles from where they started. Oz’s initial statement was that they had decided to confront the individuals in a neutral area.”

I cleared my throat. “Going to a police station didn’t occur to them?”

“Evidently not.” Gowder eased his way around a slowpoke, and I noticed we were approaching ninety again. “Oz states that, after a brief but heated discussion punctuated by rapid small-arms fire, he saw the passenger’s head thrown back on impact and then the Toyota sped away.”

I had to ask. “What was Oz…?”

“A Hummer.”

I nodded. “I heard that Osgood also stated that they might have been KKK?”

“Yeah, his statements were a little confusing. Then Toy Diaz showed up at Temple University Hospital with numerous shotgun pellet wounds and a wounded Ramon Diaz, who had just done a three spot at Graterford.”

“Ramon any relation to Toy?”

He inclined his head to indicate I was a good student. “Brothers.”

“So it was revenge?”

Katz answered. “Well, that was the tack the U.S. District Court took, but Toy Diaz continued to state, with a great deal of emphasis, that it was an independent capitalistic venture that took a surprising turn.”

“Osgood didn’t want to pay for the drugs?”

“That was Diaz’s story, but since he is from El Salvador, and a four-time loser on assorted drug charges, his statements were taken with the proverbial grain of judicial salt.”

“Where is Toy Diaz?”

“Good question.”

“What’d Devon Conliffe say?”

Gowder laughed. “He said whatever Osgood said, and whenever Oz’s story changed, he said that, too.”

Katz studied me. I glanced up and watched the lights of Penn’s Landing reflect from his glasses. “So, Osgood was suspended?”

It was quiet in the Crown Vic as we took the off-ramp just past the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. “Yes, but he has a lot of friends in the city.” There was a moment’s pause as we stopped at a red light. “I assume we’re taking you to your daughter’s place, but if you need to go to the hospital we can drop you there.”

“Actually, as much as I’d rather go to the hospital, I need to go to a gun shop up on Spring Garden.”

They were both looking at me now.

When we got to Tactical Training Specialists, I had Gowder pull into the secured and packed parking lot and waited as he released the locks. There were no handles on the inside, so I waited for them to let me out. “Graterford.”

Gowder was looking at me, and it was a relief to see his entire face. “What?”

“It might be nothing, but there was a pro bono case that Cady was working on when we went through the papers at her office; something about Graterford. A white Indian.” I thought about it for a moment. “William White Eyes.”

They both looked at me blankly, Gowder cocking his head in disbelief. “A white Indian?”

“I’ve been told that it’s not that unusual.”

“By who?”

I folded my hands in my lap. “This guy White Eyes was trying to arrange for a sweat lodge in Graterford through the freedom of religious expression legislation. It was a pro bono case Cady had worked on, the only criminal case I could find.”

Katz shook his head. “There are four thousand guys up in Graterford…”

“It could be nothing, but I thought I should mention it.”

“William White Eyes?” I nodded. Katz wrote the name in a small note pad. “We’ll check it out.”

I stepped out, and Katz closed my door. “Thank you.”

“Hey, you’re doing us a favor.” He noticed the bright yellow Hummer parked alongside the building. “Want company?”

I looked back, thought about what Gowder had intimated about Lena Moretti, and looked at Katz with new eyes. “No, I think I’ll get better responses in my official unofficial capacity.”

Gowder’s voice caught me as I approached the wire-mesh, steel security door. “Hey, Sheriff?” I stopped and half-turned to look at the detective, still seated in the cruiser. “Is that a government-issue Colt. 45 I see in a pancake holster at the small of your back?”

I stood there for a moment. “Why? Does it make me look fat?”

The party was in full swing. I was in a side hallway with Jimmie Tomko, and I could hear music playing and the excited sound of young people’s voices, younger than me at least. I held up a finger, pulled out Cady’s cell phone, and called Lena. She said there was no change but that she wanted dinner at the end of her shift. I told her it was still her pick and that Henry had promised to be there in an hour. I told her I’d met Vic the Father, and she said she was sorry. I left out the part about who had introduced us.

I’ve spent a lot of time in gun ranges but never one like this. The entire shooters’ area was carpeted, and the walls were paneled with black walnut and decorated with green-matted Currier and Ives hunting scenes illuminated by turtleshell sconces. There was a bar, but all I saw were water bottles and nonalcoholic beer. The back wall was lined with tufted leather sectionals that gave spectators an unobstructed view of the seven firing ranges in front of them.

The place was crowded, and I stepped back as a diminutive blonde with a 9 mm Beretta approached. I looked at the congestion and then at Tomko. “Are they all lawyers?” He nodded, the glass eye drifting off. “Good time to spray for ’em.”

I tried to find a familiar face, finally recognizing a striking, dark-haired woman at the bar. As the blonde half-pointed the Beretta at our feet, I released Jimmie Tomko to his appointed rounds. “Greta, you need to not point the weapon toward…”

I turned sideways and made my way past the staging table, all the while trying to spot someone who could be Vince Osgood. They were an attractive crowd, well-dressed and coiffed, but they were lawyers, not paupers, so it was to be expected.

There was a tall man holding forth at the center firing range, his voice probably sounding normal to his muffed ears and in competition to the hip-hop music. There was a small man standing with him, and I was starting to think it odd that no one was firing when the blonde who had aimed at my feet let rip with a scattered salvo, only two rounds out of fourteen striking the paper silhouette. Jimmie Tomko raised an eyebrow at me; just in case, I kept my front toward the range to keep from being shot.

I watched as the short Latino peeled away from the tall guy so that he would intersect with me about halfway across the crowded floor. I tried to step to one side, but he countered, and we were nose to sternum. I nodded an apology and stepped to the right, just as he did. I was struck by the precision of his appearance, how defined his hair and clothes seemed. As he looked up, I noticed that his pupils were very large and that they gave his face a lifeless quality.

His voice was soft and cultured. “Pardon.”

“No, my fault.” He slipped to the side before I could continue the conversation and watched me as I made my way across the room.

Joanne Fitzpatrick’s eyes locked with mine as I lumbered up to her. “Hey, Jo.” I looked around for effect. “What’re you doing here?”

She smiled. “I thought you would be happy to see a friendly face.”

She didn’t have one of the cases that most of people in the room carried. “You don’t shoot?”

“No.”

“Me either.” She laughed, and the smile was an exact replica of the one that was in the horseback photo in Cady’s office. I took one of the bottled waters from the bar and glanced back over my shoulder, but the tiny man was gone. “Do you know that guy I was just dancing with?”

“Who?”

“The little guy?”

“No.”

I nodded my head at the tall man at center. “Is that Osgood?” She nodded slightly. “He doesn’t seem real broke up about his buddy Devon.”

She leaned in. “No, he doesn’t.”

About that time, Osgood unloaded his 9 mm into the paper target at the center of the firing range. The kid was pretty good. There was a smattering of applause as he turned and took a perfunctory bow, taking just an extra moment to glance at me.

I turned back to Jo. “C’mon, I’ll teach you how to shoot.”

Tomko handed me a tray with a box of. 45 ACPs and a questioning look until I patted the small of my back. By the time I made my way to the other side of the room, Osgood was openly watching me. I gave him a tight-lipped smile and a nod, but he didn’t respond.

I set Jo up at range 7 along the wall in hopes that numerology would be on our side. “I’ve never done this before.”

I unsnapped the thumb strap from the Colt at my back, pulled it, and placed it on the counter with the slide group locked in the open position and the magazine removed. “That’s what they all say.” I palmed the seven-shot clip in my hand, dropped it to my side, and told her to pick up the. 45.

“It looks old.”

“Older than you.” After getting her acquainted with the particularities of the weapon, she adopted a wide stance with her arms extended; we both now wore the hearing protectors that had been hanging in the stall.

She squeezed the trigger as instructed, and the big Colt jumped in her hands; it was pointed at the ceiling, but I caught her shoulder. She peered at the paper target but could see no effect, unaware that the gun hadn’t fired. I pulled one of her ear cups back. “You flinched.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I cocked the empty. 45. “Try it again, but make sure you keep your eyes open this time.” I put her ear cup back, and she imitated the exact same motion, but this time the automatic stayed steady.

She turned and looked at me. “It didn’t fire.”

“It didn’t last time, either.” I showed her the clip in my hand. “The involuntary response is pretty common. You think the gun’s going to jump, so you make it jump.” I took the Colt, popped the mag into place, cocked the slide, and placed her hands around the gun, aimed toward the target. “Don’t worry about blinking; a lot of people do it.”

She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Do you?”

I looked at the target. “No.”

She doubled her attentions on the silhouette and squeezed, all her efforts going into not blinking. The. 45 blew her back and, from her expression, there was no doubt in her mind that it had fired this time. We both peered at the target; there was a perforation at his left kidney on the line between the four and five score. “Much better.”

She smiled and pulled the ear cup back again. “Do they all kick like that?”

I smiled back. “No. This one’s just an antique, heavy, hard to aim, slow rate of fire…” Her smile faded quickly as she looked over my right shoulder, past the barrier, and I figured I had accomplished what I’d set out to do.

She handed me the automatic and pulled her ear protectors all the way off. “Hello, Oz.”

I didn’t turn but lowered the hammer on the Colt and pushed the safety. His voice wasn’t what I’d expected; it was higher-pitched and discordant.

“I thought I’d come over here and see who was shooting the howitzer.” It was silent, except for the music and a few conversations that were still going on a little ways away. “Who’s your friend?”

Her face remained still. “This is Walt Longmire, Cady’s father.”

“Oh, my God.” He was as tall as me, mid-thirties, with an athletic build, a receding hairline, and the ubiquitous goatee. “I am so sorry about your daughter.”

I placed the Colt on the counter. “Thank you.”

He switched the Glock to his other hand, and I noticed the clip was in and the safety was off. He extended his right. “Vince Osgood. They call me Oz.” I nodded, and he continued. “I was a friend of Cady’s.”

I noticed he used the past tense, which made me want to grab his throat. “You were also a friend of Devon Conliffe?”

His eyes were steady. “I was…Did you know Devon?”

I pointed at the Glock in his left hand. “Would you mind securing that weapon before we talk?”

He froze up for a second. “It’s got a safe-action feature…”

I did my best ol’ boy routine. “I’m just a little nervous around unsecured firearms.”

He reached down and pushed the button, the image of allocated grace. “Sure. I’m around these things so much that they just become second nature.”

“I was able to meet Devon just before the accident.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” He leaned against the stall, and I could smell his aftershave. “You and I should talk.”

I nodded and glanced at Joanne. “I agree. You might be in a position to give me a better insight as to what’s going on.”

He puckered his lips and looked down at his four-hundred-dollar shoes, the picture of the all-knowing assistant DA, if suspended, there to assist his rustic cousin. “I think I can do that.” His head came back up. “Where will you be later tonight?”

I thought about Lena. “I’ve got a dinner date this evening, but I could meet you after for a beer. You know a place called Paddy O’Neil’s on Race?”

He watched me for just a second too long. “Near the bridge?”

I pulled out my pocket watch. “Ten-thirty?” He nodded, and I gestured toward the Glock 34. “You’re pretty good with that thing.”

“Goes with the job.”

I wondered about lawyering in Philadelphia and picked up my Colt. “You gonna shoot again?”

“Oh, yeah, how about you?”

I let him watch as I reloaded and replaced the. 45 in the pancake holster at my back. “No, thanks.”

He smiled and bobbed his head. “I guess you’re pretty good, too, huh?”

Good enough to know I was cocked and locked with a full clip and one in the pipe; good enough to know he was empty.