Kindness Goes Unpunished

by Craig Johnson

  Everyone, including Meifert, looked surprised. “I take it this is new?”

  Nobody said anything but turned and walked toward the structure that would have looked much more at home…well, back home. I watched as Gowder unsnapped the holster where his .40 Glock rested.

  It was a family-sized teepee with rows of ledger paintings traversing the heavy canvas. It sat there, a domestic island at the center of industrial isolation. As we got closer, I could see that the stake loops were tied off to Velcro straps that had been attached to the wooden floor and that there were buffalo rugs and blankets spilling from the opening even though the flap was secured and tied shut. There was a totem with a mule-deer skull that was painted and wrapped in trade cloth and beads in the Crow style. There were feathers and a fringe of leather draped from the upright pole, which stood in a slot that had been cut in the floor. The place was clean, the floors swept, and the hundreds of windowpanes had been washed and reflected the structure in the middle of the room.

  Gowder was in the lead and turned to look back, the empty eye sockets of the antlered skull looking at me over his shoulder. He pointed at the head. “What in the hell is this?”

  “A teepee marker.” They all looked at me blankly. “It’s kind of a combination welcome sign and mailbox.”

  Everyone else stopped, but I continued to the right, reading the story of the drawings that circled the teepee. The centerline had caught my attention. There were horses with men on them, shooting at each other, not something totally unique to the form, but the details were different than those I was used to seeing. The men on horseback were not red but were white and black. They were not shooting arrows or Sharps but were firing modern weapons; one even wore a 76ers jersey. The uniforms of the white riders and their hats indicated that they were policeman, and the large man falling comically from the back of a horse wore a star on his chest. The centerline had not been finished.

  There was a set of paints on the floor, a Dixie cup full of thinner, and a couple of brushes, one of which had paint on it. I stooped and touched the brush, and the bright red pigment was still wet. I looked around and spotted an open window hinged at the top at the back of the loft. “Is that a fire escape?” They all looked at me as I held up a fingertip daubed red. “He was just here.”

  Gowder was the first to move, quietly slipping the Glock from his holster and heading for the fire escape while gesturing for Katz to take the stairwell. Asa’s sidearm appeared in his hand, and they fanned out. Meifert turned and looked at me. “I don’t carry.”

  I caught Vic’s attention as she came around the other side and tossed her the .45 from my pancake holster; I wished I were feeling better. I watched as she took the route I would have, the one toward the fire escape. She looked odd with my large-frame Colt in her small hands, but she held it with a confidence born of five years’ street duty, all in these very streets.

  I watched them, sighed, and continued with my bruised ribs and aluminum-shrouded finger around the teepee. There were more ledger drawings on the backside—one with a man in a suit and tie pushing a red-haired woman from a cliff and then another of the same man falling from what looked like a burial platform: the Devon Conliffe story.

  Vic returned with Gowder from the fire escape. He looked at the paints on the floor, kneeled, and tested the brush. Evidently, he didn’t trust my analysis. “Careful, or you’ll get it on your suit.”

  He nodded and wiped his fingers on a stained towel that lay on the floor. “Nothing on the roof.”

  I looked back at Meifert. “If you don’t mind my asking, how does a guy like William White Eyes have a place like this?”

  “His uncle owned the building and left it to him in a trust.”

  I straightened up and breathed for a minute. “I take it William comes from money?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. The kid had it all, address in Gladwyne, Ivy League advanced degree in chemistry, even a shot at the Olympics in dressage.”

  Interesting. I turned back to the front and looked at the closed flap. “I assume we are ignoring the fact that we might need a warrant.”

  Meifert cocked his head. “It’s a tent.”

  We stared at each other for a second, then I glanced over at Vic, tugged at the strips of canvas, and watched as the flaps opened. I looked into the relative darkness of the teepee. “I don’t suppose anyone has a flashlight?” They all shook their heads, so I kneeled for a better view. The top flaps were closed, so only a little light made it to the floor. There was stuff in there and the only way I was going to find out what it was was to go in, so I did, warrant be damned.

  I was able to keep the finger guard from bumping into anything as I slid into the teepee with my legs trailing behind me. It had occurred to me that William White Eyes might be inside, but I couldn’t hear any breathing and made the assumption I was alone.

  All I could see were the folds of more buffalo skins and a few Navajo blankets piled in one corner. There was nothing more in there; evidently, William White Eyes was living somewhere else. This place must be a work in progress or just for show, at least for now. I sat there in the muffled silence; I could barely hear the conversation among the three policemen outside. It felt like home, and I closed my eyes for just a moment to block out the talk, the traffic from the streets below, and the thunder of jets overhead.

  I thought of the old medicine man that I had seen in my dreams and heard the words that had lifted the two of us above the canyon on the wind that had cleansed and combed the high plains. “How can you know the earth if you do not see her?”

  Under the buffalo robes, where the earth would have been if the teepee had been in Wyoming, was a parfleche satchel painted with bright geometric shapes and decorated with horsehair and the tiny cone bells that the Cheyenne call axaxevo. I moved back toward the opening so I could see, untied the strips of leather that held the satchel closed, and pulled out two actual ledgers. I opened the top one, and it was a full accounting of some kind of business dealing and was written entirely in a language I recognized but could not read.

  I looked up to see Vic’s outline in the opening. “No sign of him.”

  I nodded and took as big a breath as my ribs would allow. “I’ve got something here.” I closed the book and placed it carefully on top of the portfolio. “But I’m not sure exactly what it is.”

  Once I’d wriggled my way outside, I set the book on my lap and opened it to a random page. Everyone looked, and Vic kneeled in front of me, but Gowder was the first to speak. “What language is that?”

  “It’s Cheyenne. The teepee design is Assiniboine, that marker is Crow…It seems to me that William White Eyes is having trouble deciding what tribe he wants to be when he grows up.” I turned a few pages. “He strikes me as a very bright guy.”

  “First in his class at University of Pennsylvania, majored in mathematics.”

  Vic was quick with the response. “So, he’s a fucking Fortune 500 drug dealer?”

  Meifert ignored her. “His father is an investment broker who is listed in Who’s Who, but his mother died when he was a child—abducted and murdered, strangled up near East Falls in the mideighties. The case wasn’t ever solved, probably drugs involved.”

  “What was the mother’s name?”

  “Candace Carlisle. She…”

  I interrupted with a question. “Did you just say that his mother’s name was Carlisle?” Meifert nodded. I turned to look up at Gowder, who suddenly found the windows of interest. “So, his surname is Carlisle?”

  Meifert nodded. “Yeah.”

  “William Carlisle is Billy Carlisle, who was arrested with Shankar DuVall for trying to sell steamer trunks full of Schedule 1 of the Controlled Substance Act out of the back of an ice cream truck?” I carefully stood, walked over to Gowder, and stepped between him and the windows. “Billy Carlisle, who was in business with Shankar DuVall and Toy Diaz, whose brother was shot by Assistant District Attorney Vince ‘Oz’ Osgood in the presence of the recently
deceased Devon Conliffe?” Gowder still wasn’t looking at me. “The same Billy Carlisle who was represented in his pro bono appeals case by my daughter?” I turned, and my voice echoed. “Billy Carlisle is William White Eyes?”

  Katz looked at Gowder and finally nodded. “Yes.”

  I shook my head. “Is there anything else in this little partnership of ours that you’re not telling me?”

  Gowder looked at Katz. “Devon Conliffe was about to turn state’s evidence and implicate Oz, which will take us a little further than the current indictment and suspension.”

  I stood there for a while, allowing all the lines to connect. “Then it’s Osgood.”

  Gowder shook his head. “Not possible.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I was with him at the fund-raiser the night Conliffe was killed.”

  I was fully irritated now. “Then he had it done.”

  Katz was watching me. “By whom?”

  I was yelling now. “Toy Diaz by way of Shankar DuVall, I’d imagine!”

  “You don’t have to raise your voice.” We stood there, looking at each other. “They don’t owe him any favors, and they’re not on the best of terms anymore.”

  I stepped toward all of them. The ache in my ribs had receded with the increase of my anger. “Then how about William Carlisle White Eyes?”

  Katz adjusted his glasses again. “It occurred to us.”

  I wondered if I was up to throwing the two of them out the open window. “Partnership’s over.”

  I started lumbering toward the stairwell, with Vic coming up behind me as Katz spoke. “What about the third note?”

  Vic called over her shoulder. “If we find it, I’ll stop by and personally shove it up your ass.”

  I only lasted two flights. Vic sat beside me on the flaking gray paint of the tread’s metal surface. After catching my breath, I spoke in a low voice. “That was stupid.”

  She nodded and smiled. “I bet you feel better.”

  “Not really.”

  “Look, I know both these guys and, if it means anything, I don’t think they took it to heart. Anyway, they’re going to want to know about the third note, so I bet you’re forgiven by the time we get to the sidewalk.”

  She was right.

  Katz was waiting at the truck dock with his hands in his pockets and the ledgers under one arm. “We need that third note.”

  I leaned against the concrete shelf with my good side. “Yep, and people in hell need ice water.”

  He closed his eyes and gave the sun his face. “Nice day for it.”

  “Where’s your playmate?”

  “Caught a ride with Meifert; he’s decided you don’t like him.” Katz smiled. “On account of you getting in his face and yelling at him. He’s not used to that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He opened one eye and looked at Vic, who was standing beside me. “Yelling one of those law enforcement techniques you learned out in Wyoming?”

  She was now sunbathing as well. “Yeah, that and lunch.”

  Katz nodded. “Terminal?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hoped it was a location and not a result.

  The Reading Terminal Market on 12th and Arch was created in 1892 when the Reading Railroad opened markets below the elevated tracks of the new train shed. It had consistently housed an undetermined amount of aromas since then by creating a gastronomic bazaar conveniently located at street level.

  We walked past the Amish baked goods, farm produce, and fresh flowers to a little diner and sat on red leatherette stools at a stainless steel counter. I was in the middle and noticed that neither Vic nor Katz had picked up a menu. A heavyset woman of uncertain age and in oversized overalls set rolled flatware, glasses of ice water, and three cups of coffee in front of us. “What’ll it be, hon?”

  The wave of nostalgia for the Busy Bee overtook me, and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “The usual.”

  She nodded. Evidently, it was a universal.

  Katz slid one of the ledgers onto the counter, opened it, and glanced at the incomprehensible text. “So, you know where we can find an expert on Native American languages?”

  I sipped my steaming coffee. “It just so happens…” I set it down to cool and took a closer look at the book. “He should be at the Academy; said he had to put the final touches on the exhibit.”

  “Isn’t the reception tonight?”

  “Yep.” I glanced at Vic. “But don’t you have to go to the opera?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease…”

  I looked back at Katz. “Henry can translate.” I looked at the ledger to give him a little room. “Why didn’t you tell me William White Eyes is Billy Carlisle?”

  “It’s IAD, special prosecutor for the DA’s office, and we really weren’t able to come forth with any of the information connecting the two.”

  “Fair enough.” I lined up the suspects and started supposing. “Vince Osgood and Toy Diaz are in business.”

  “It’s possible.” I looked at him, and he shrugged. “It’s likely.”

  “Devon Conliffe, my daughter’s almost-fiancé, was a hophead and a friend of Osgood.”

  “Yes. And Devon was the money launderer.”

  I nodded and stared at my coffee. “That makes sense. So, Osgood goes to bat for Shankar DuVall in his official capacity, leaving Carlisle/White Eyes to linger in Graterford.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a question.” I placed my hands on the edge of the counter, bumped my finger guard, and felt the vibration all the way up to my elbow. “Who was Shankar DuVall’s lawyer?”

  Katz thought for a moment. “Not your daughter.”

  I smiled at him. “I figured there were other lawyers in Philadelphia; I was just wondering who it was?”

  “Why?”

  I thought about an itch I’d had in my head for the last few days. “I think there are more connections among all these people.” Katz scribbled in his pad. “So Carlisle/White Eyes did the cook, DuVall the muscle, Diaz the distribution, and Devon laundered the money while Osgood looked the other way.”

  “That’s the way it’s headed.”

  I thought about the things that weren’t adding up. “If Osgood sent Diaz’s brother Ramon up the river, why would Toy go into business with him?”

  “It was not a happy family; if Oz hadn’t gotten rid of Ramon, Toy probably would have.”

  “How did you find out about the money laundering?”

  “We checked the files at Hunt and Driscoll; Devon was channeling large sums of money through clients’ accounts, but we’re having trouble finding all the numbers. You want to hear the kicker?” I continued looking at him. “They hired him on Osgood’s recommendation.”

  “There’s got to be more.”

  Katz studied me for a moment. “You’re thinking that more of these lawyers might be involved?”

  “I don’t know.” I took a sip of my coffee since it had finally cooled enough to drink. “I’m just saying that part of this puzzle is still missing. Some connection is out there; somebody.” I thought about it, and it all made sense.

  “Didn’t Meifert say Carlisle’s mother was killed when he was a kid?”

  “Yes, it was a well-publicized case.” Katz gestured toward Vic. “Her father had that one.”

  “Can you get me a psychological workup on Carlisle?”

  “Absolutely, but why?”

  “I think he was the one at the Franklin Institute the night Cady was hurt, and I think he’s the one that’s been sending me love letters, but I don’t think he threw Devon Conliffe off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.”

  Katz made a face. “Then why was he following you this morning?”

  “Protection.”

  He made a show of looking at my battered body. “You sure about that?”

  I shrugged. “I’m the one that pulled my gun and tried to arrest him.”

  “So, who’s he protecting you from?�
�

  “I don’t know; Osgood, maybe Diaz.” The food arrived, and the usual turned out to be chicken livers with onions, bacon, and fresh mozzarella. Dorothy would have been pleased. “Billy Carlisle is a Philadelphia drug chemist, but William White Eyes has a romance with the West, a west of which Cady and I may be emblematic.” I reached out with my broken finger and gently tapped the leather surface of the ledger. “I think this is going to be a very detailed record of William White Eyes’ business dealings with Toy Diaz.” I took another bite of the usual. “Anyway, we have to go see an Indian.”

  Katz picked up his fork and cleaved off a section of his salmon salad. “We need that third note.”

  I nodded and chewed. “That’s why we’re going to see the Indian.”

  The swans and fish the Indians were throttling were still shooting water into the air of Logan Circle when we got there. Katz pulled the unmarked car into a no-parking zone in front of the Four Seasons and cut the engine. As we got out, I waved at the same doorman who had waited with me after I’d been ejected from the back bumper of the Expedition. “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “Howdy, Lou.”

  We’d gotten to know each other pretty well while I’d bled on his sidewalk. He came over from his official station and assisted me with the door. “How you feelin’?”

  “Fit as a fiddle and ready for love.” I reached over the top of the car. “Asa, you still have that photo of Billy Carlisle?”

  Katz pulled it from the file on the seat and handed it to me. “Lou, you strike me as a guy who doesn’t miss much.” I held up the photocopy. “You ever see this guy?” He glanced at the photo. “Some very bad people on both sides of the law are looking for this kid. I’m just trying to bring him in safe.”