“For what, exactly, are we searching?”
“I don’t know. That’s why we have to look for ourselves.”
His eyes turned to me. “You do not think the police have already done this?”
“I’m sure they asked some questions, but that’s probably all. It’s hard to deal with lawyers without a warrant.”
He looked back at the building. “Which is why we are breaking and entering?”
“Just entering; I’m not planning on breaking anything.” He nodded but didn’t look particularly convinced.
It was just then that the woman I assumed was Patti turned the corner and approached from the plaza on Broad. She was looking around as she crossed the street. “I’m sorry, I had trouble getting a babysitter…” She stopped talking and looked at Henry. The Indian had that kind of an effect on people east of the Mississippi River.
“Patti-with-an-i, I’m Walt and this is Henry Standing Bear.”
He inclined his head, extended a hand, and smiled while she melted into the cracks of the sidewalk. “Patti-with-an-i, I have heard a great deal about you.”
I rolled my eyes and converted it into a glance through the revolving doors of the lobby, where a couple of security guards sat at a centrally located desk between the banks of elevators. I wondered mildly if we might have been better off leaving the Cheyenne Nation out of the equation.
Once inside, Patti just waved at the men; I noticed one of them was reading the Philadelphia Inquirer, which had a more demure take on the Devon Conliffe saga. The other looked at us a little quizzically but made nothing more of it.
We watched as Patti punched the up button, and we got on the elevator as she slipped a security card into the panel and hit a red one marked thirty-two. We got off and followed her to a set of opaque glass doors where she inserted the card again. The doors buzzed. I pushed one only partly open. “This is as far as you go.”
She looked up at me. “I thought…”
I shook my head. “It’s bad enough that the guards have seen you with us. If we get caught, I don’t want you anywhere near.”
“You’re not going to know what to look for.”
I glanced over at Henry. “We’ll have to take that chance.”
She sighed. “Her office is straight down the hall past the library, then take a right and go to the corner; she’s the next to last door on the left.”
I saluted, and we waited till she was gone. I turned to look at Henry. “I like to ask myself, what would Gerry Spence do in a situation like this?”
“Gerry Spence would not be in a situation like this.”
The main hall was a straight shot to a conference room. The lights were all on, and I expected somebody to cross at any second and turn to look at us. I waited a moment, then stepped into the entryway and looked both left and right down the first intersecting hallway. There seemed to be three more before the end. We listened, but the only sound was the heating/cooling air handlers.
I watched as Henry took his rightful place at the front, always the scout. He advanced to the next intersection and motioned for me to follow, never taking his eyes off the area ahead. I moved out and up behind him as he crossed and continued.
We were at the doorway of the library when he stopped and angled his head in the direction of the opening. I expected to hear the shriek of lawyers, aware that they were being attacked by a war party, but it was silent. I waited as Henry held up a fist, then a single finger, and then the fist again.
Hold, one person, stay there.
I waited as he crossed and peered into the room from the opposite angle. I watched as the dark eyes flicked around. He froze for a second, then slowly turned away and placed himself flat against the far wall; I did the same. I listened more carefully as someone rustled some papers and walked through the room about twenty feet from the door.
After a moment and more than most white men would wait, the Bear inclined his head and looked into the library. He glanced back and gestured for me to come along. I crossed and followed him to the far corner, where he stopped, and once again looked both ways.
Every light in this part of the damn place was on as well, and I started wondering how much Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind could shave off their billing by turning them out. Paintings on the walls in the corridor that led to Cady’s office were abstracts of what I took to be Indians. When I turned to look at Henry, he was studying the nearest one, looked at me, and shrugged.
To my relief, most of the doorways leading to the right were either dark or closed. Seeing the lights from the other tall buildings glide past as we worked our way down the hall was making me dizzy, so I was glad when we got to the door that read CADY LONGMIRE on a little brass plaque. The door that was three before Cady’s was open with the light on. The plaque on it read JOANNE FITZPATRICK; the name sounded familiar. Henry turned the knob to Cady’s office and closed the door behind us after I followed him in.
It was a small room, and we stood there for a moment to let our eyes adjust to the darkness. I could feel some of Cady’s clothes hanging on the back of her door and steadied their swinging with my hand. Henry stood slightly to the left, looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass wall ahead of us. William Penn and City Hall were to our right, and the yellow glow of the clock below Penn told us it was a time when all good lawyers should be home and in bed. The bluish light of the building across Market reflected the streetlights below and the image of the building we were now in.
Henry reached across the shadow of a desk and clicked on a green tortoiseshell lamp. The illumination was ample but not so much that it reached the space under the doorway. I breathed the first deep breath since entering the offices. “Somebody was in the library?”
The Bear nodded. “Yes. Pretty girl, about Cady’s age with long, dark hair.”
I thought about it as I looked around. “I don’t know anybody she works with by sight.” He nodded.
There wasn’t much room to move; there were file boxes lined up against the wall, so I crossed behind the desk where there were more piles of folders and a computer. There were even more boxes at the foot of the windows, with another wall of file cabinets to the right.
I sat in her chair and looked around. There was a large map of Wyoming from the turn of the century in a heavy gilded frame. There were four ledger drawings that Henry had acquired for her flanking both sides, and an etching Joel Ostlind had done of Cloud Peak. I looked at the elegant simplicity of the etching and could feel the air and the cold wind of the west ridge.
On the desk, there was an old photograph of Cady with Martha after the chemotherapy had begun taking its toll. I studied the beautiful bone structure of the two women, mother and daughter, the brightness of their eyes, and the languid relaxation of their hands as they lay draped over each other’s shoulders. There was another of Henry standing with Dena Many Camps in traditional dress at the Little Bighorn reenactment. There was even one of Dog.
I suppose my disappointment was evident. “What is wrong?”
I waited a moment and then responded. “I know it’s stupid…but there aren’t any pictures of me.” I cleared my throat, hoping that maybe I wouldn’t sound so stupid and pathetic when I continued. “There aren’t any photographs of me at her house or here.” He was silent as he watched, watched the guilt of my misplaced emotions blunder forward like those of a wounded animal. “I just thought I was important enough in her life to support one or two photographs.”
He quietly reached across the desk and hit the space bar on the computer.
I raised my eyes, and the wave that hit me was like a wall of sentiment: wet, deep, and ancient. I sat there as the swell subsided, but the saltwater stayed in my eyes and blurred my vision.
It was a full-screen wallpaper of me with my head crushed against Cady’s, and it was obvious from the angle that she had taken the photo at arms length. We were both smiling, and her nose was stuck in my ear.
7
We had made it through o
nly one box. The one thing we were able to discern was that Cady was involved with an awful lot of cases and that we knew little actual law.
Henry rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
I glanced back over my shoulder at City Hall. “Coming up on ten.”
He closed his folder. “We are looking for some personal connection in one of her cases?”
“Yep.”
“Someone who thinks that killing Devon Conliffe would help Cady?”
“Yep.”
“May I see the note again?” I pulled it from my pocket and handed it to him.
I waited, but he didn’t speak. I gestured toward the card. “We can deduce through this that the killer knows Cady, that the killer knew of Devon, and that the killer knows us.”
He was looking at a photograph of Cady and a young woman with long, dark hair. They were on horseback, and there was a sign that read Gladwyne Stables in the background. “A warning?”
“A threat?”
His eyes came back to mine. “And you think it is someone connected to her through work?”
“It’s the only criminal element that she has any contact with.” I shrugged. “When I’m looking for candy, I go to a candy store.” We looked at the boxes. He stood, moved toward the door, and stretched his back. “What are you doing?”
“I am going to go get two cups of coffee…” He turned the knob, opened the door, and slipped into the hallway. “And a lawyer.” Like a fool, I figured he would come back with only the coffee.
I leaned back in Cady’s chair and looked at the city stretching out along the Delaware River, the only dark band in what seemed like an ocean of diamonds on a velvet pad. It was easy to make out the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, with its blue cables and yellow buttresses stretching over to New Jersey, where I doubted life was any easier.
Who could have gotten him up there? The signs on the walkway said that the gates were closed and locked at 7 P.M., so it wasn’t a casual meeting. Somebody had wanted Devon Conliffe on that bridge, somebody who had wanted him dead.
I thought about the people I’d talked to earlier. Jimmie Tomko obviously held no great love for Devon, but in our brief interview he didn’t strike me as the type to toss people off bridges. It would be interesting to go to the firing range the next night to broaden the suspect pool. Ian O’Neil was intriguing—a young man with a past—and I figured he had a thing for Cady, but that’s about as far as that went as well.
I closed my eyes and listened to the skyscraper, to the elevators rattling up and down their shafts, to the retreating surf of the air conditioning, and to the building itself, sighing and shifting with the breeze like some colossal ship at dock.
I leaned back and felt as if I too were coming unmoored. Out of my element, it was possible that the deductive process I had always relied on was now leading me astray, or maybe it was just that I couldn’t stop thinking about Cady. I thought about walking over to the other side of the building to look out one of the windows so that I could find her. It felt like up here, with our ships anchored in the sky, I might be able to catch a glimpse of her as she used to be.
I could hear more than one pair of footsteps padding along the carpet. The door opened, and Henry stood there holding a bassinette; beside him stood a young woman with long, dark hair. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a western-style rhinestone belt; her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but she was the same woman as the one who was in the photograph.
“I got us a lawyer.” I stood up as he handed me a cup of coffee. He looked at the baby. “This is Riley Elizabeth Fitzpatrick, and this is Joanne Fitzpatrick, an associate of Cady’s.”
I noticed the way he used the word associate, like it was a friendship rather than being at the bottom of the firm’s food chain. Cady would have noticed, too. I took off my baseball cap and held out my hand. “Walt Longmire. I’m Cady’s father and potential felon.”
She laughed, then put her hand to her mouth and looked out the partially open doorway. She glanced at her daughter, Henry, and then me. “I understand you need some help.”
The current case on Cady’s agenda was one that involved the SEC and didn’t seem personal enough to get anybody thrown off a bridge. The only criminal case we had stumbled across so far was a pro bono one that concerned an inmate of Graterford Prison, a maximum-security facility in eastern Pennsylvania. He had a religious grievance, and Cady had named the file WHITE EYES. Henry was the first to ask. “How many Indian cases does the firm handle?”
She shook her head and looked a little nervous, the way Easterners do when talking about Indians to an Indian. “Hardly any, but Cady’s the one who would get the pro bono stuff concerning Native Americans. The plaintiff is one of those cell block lawyers with about forty-seven grievances.”
Henry looked up from the file. “If this William White Eyes is Indian, why is his vita marked Caucasian?”
Joanne shrugged, still looking slightly anxious. “White Indians. It’s really big in the prison system.”
“You’re kidding.” I rubbed my nose, which had started itching. I peeked in the bassinette, but Riley Elizabeth continued to sleep peacefully.
“No, I guess their experiences with our society didn’t work out so they decided to go over to the other side.” She glanced at Henry. “No offense.”
He smiled. “None taken.”
“He’s even got a 1983 filed with the DOC for not having a sweat lodge available to him in pursuance of the right to freely practice his religion according to PRP Act 71 P. S. 2402.”
Whatever that meant. “What are the pendings on this William White Eyes?”
“It looks like he’s been released, but he’s just a cook; no violent crimes.”
“Cook?”
“Designer drugs. Looks like William is a pretty smart kid with chemicals, but I doubt he’d know which end of a gun to point.”
Everybody tossed the files into the open box on Cady’s desk. “Jo, do you ever go shooting with Cady and that bunch?”
She looked at me, then shook her head. “Thursday nights? No, that was more of a Devon thing.” She thought for a moment and then glanced away. “There’s a guy from the district attorney’s office who used to go with them. Vince Osgood.”
“Vince Osgood’s the assistant district attorney who was suspended in the Roosevelt Boulevard incident?” She nodded. “Can you think of anybody who might want to protect Cady, to the point of going after Devon?” She looked at the Bear and me a little too long. “Besides us.”
She thought about it. “Not really. I mean, everybody loves Cady, and nobody was really crazy about Devon, but strongly enough to push him off the BFB? I don’t know.”
“Can I ask you another thing?”
“Sure.”
I glanced over at Henry, looking for a little backup. “Why was she dating him?” He smiled and shook his head, but I thought it was a pretty good question.
She paused for a second. “He wasn’t that bad of a guy, and I think he was a reclamation project.” She looked at me. “I don’t have to tell you; she was like that.” I stayed silent. “I mean, she knew about his problems…”
“And what were those?”
“I’m not sure how much of this I should really be telling you.”
“Please?” Begging, I have found, can be a very persuasive tool in law enforcement, not to mention with women.
She looked from me to Henry and then went ahead. “There was a drug problem a while back…”
“Does that include the Roosevelt Boulevard incident?”
She nodded her head. “Yeah, it was about then that they booted him out of the firm.”
“This firm?”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms, and I thought she might stop talking, but she didn’t. “Booted is probably too strong of a term. He was a recreational cocaine user that let the stuff get the better of him. His work was suffering and, when his yearly review came around, it was considered best that he pursue his career as counsel elsewh
ere.”
“Where did he go?”
“Hunt and Driscoll.” We tried to look blank. “It’s a very good firm.” She went on. “That’s how they met. Devon still had a few acquaintances here, and he and Cady went out to lunch with a mutual friend.”
“Who was that?”
She sighed and looked at the filing cabinets. Her eyes came back to mine. “I introduced them, but I didn’t tell them to start dating.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling bad about the way that things turned out.”
I smiled, just to let her know that I didn’t consider her responsible. “I think everybody is.” I picked up my coffee from the desk and took a sip; I wasn’t drinking it because I was thirsty. “So, you knew him pretty well?”
She looked at me, Henry, and then back at me. “He was very kind to me in a period when I needed it.” Unconsciously, her hand went out and touched the bassinette. “I dated him a couple of times before Cady. Nothing serious.”
“What was he like?”
She bit her lip. “I think he wanted people to like him; he just didn’t know how to get them to. I think he was already chemically imbalanced, and once you added the cocaine…”
“Where did he get the stuff?”
Her eyes sharpened. “I really wouldn’t know.”
“Who would?” I was pushing, but it was part of the job.
She watched me for a moment and then sighed. “There was the guy I mentioned, Vince Osgood, Oz. There was a story on WCAU about him where he said he liked to go out with the boys and kick some butt. Word has it he was trying to get himself appointed by the new governor as assistant attorney general, but he’s still under suspension for being involved in the Roosevelt Boulevard thing.”
“Was anybody prosecuted in that case?”
“One of the guys in the other car.”
“Do you know any details, like their names, and whether they were convicted?”
“I’m really not sure.” I made a face. “You don’t believe me?”
I cleared my throat, trying to soften the tone of what I said next. “I find it odd that you were dating but that you don’t know any more.”
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