Kindness Goes Unpunished wl-3

by Craig Johnson

  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 elsewhere.”

  “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.”

  She stiffened a little in her chair. “Like I said, Oz and I weren’t dating; he was just helping me out.” Her hand was still on the bassinette.

  I glanced up at the photo of her on horseback and then back to mother and daughter. There were parts here, but I wasn’t quite sure how to put them together yet. “Do you mind if I ask who your baby’s father is?”

  Her eyes looked directly at mine. “Yes, I do.”

  When we got downstairs, two cops were standing in the middle of the lobby. “Hello, Michael.”

  “How you guys doin’?”

  “We’re all right.” I glanced back at the two security guards. “They call you?”

  “Yeah, they thought it was suspicious that you went in with the lady, and then she came out without you.”

  I waved at the security guards, but they didn’t wave back. I was beginning to think that Philly was just not a waving kind of town. “Who’s your friend?”

  Michael gestured toward his partner. The young man beside him was roughly the same size as Michael and in very good shape. He looked like he was enjoying himself, too, and I figured we’d have to fight them because we’d never outrun them. “This is Malcolm Chavez. Malcolm, this is Sheriff Walt Longmire and his Native American sidekick, Henry Standing Bear.”

  “Actually, I’m his sidekick.” Henry didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “Aren’t you guys out of your district?”

  “Yeah, we heard about the wild west show on the radio and called it in ourselves.”

  I looked at the Bear’s fringed jacket. “It’s your fault.” He didn’t seem to care about that either. “Are we in trouble?”

  “Well, we have to file a report even if you didn’t do anything.”

  “We didn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah, well, we have to file a report which means you’re probably going to hear from Vic the Father.”

  “Our Vic and this one’s dad.” Henry nodded, continuing to give the cops the wooden Indian treatment. I put my hands in my pockets and looked at my boots. “Do Katz and Gowder work for him?”

  “Yes, they’re Homicide North, but I heard that Katz had switched over to Internal Affairs.” He glanced at Chavez, who nodded. “I’m not sure why he’s back with Gowder in homicide, but it must’ve been some real juice from upstairs. I’m sure Vic Senior ain’t happy about it.”

  I looked back up. “I got a question for you. Does Vic the Father get along with anybody?”

  It was the first time I’d seen him smile without any warmth in it. “I gotta feeling you’re gonna find out.”

  We filed through the revolving doors and back onto the street. Chavez opened the back door of the cruiser for us. “You guys are just giving us a ride, right?” He nodded, and we got in.

  It was the beginning of the late watch, so they dropped Henry off at the Academy and drove me over the bridge into their own district. The lights on the Schuylkill River reflected the buildings along the west side of the city, and I got a quick glimpse of the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the stairs that Sylvester Stallone ran up in Rocky. Just past the museum, the eerie outline of Boathouse Row gave the empty impression of haunted houses, and I tried to think about something other than how the back seat of the cruiser smelled.

  I watched the back of the two patrolmen’s heads through the screening, the high and tight haircuts and the perfect uniforms; they even wore their hats in the car. Most of my stuff was pretty threadbare, like me. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d requisitioned a duty shirt.

  Chavez responded to a call on the radio as we drove past 30th Street Station on the way to the hospital. Michael leaned back, laid his arm across the seat, and looked at me through the rearview as we waited at a stoplight. “We have to make a little detour.”

  “As long as your mother doesn’t mind staying with Cady a little longer.”

  Michael looked at Chavez, who smiled back at me. “Hey, man, did he just say something about your mother?”

  They both exhaled a laugh and then turned on the light bar and sirens. We turned up 34th and turned left on Lancaster Avenue. I called Lena. She said to take my time, that there was no change, and that she was reading a Margaret Coel and was fine. The neighborhood began changing from the late-night bustle of Market and the colleges as we headed west; the buildings became smaller, rundown, and dirty. People began disappearing, and the streetlights grew farther apart. We were in a place like the Indian reservations back home, a place where dreams would die unquestioned, a place for the quick and, more than likely, the dead.

  We traveled a ways up Lancaster before Michael responded to another call and slowed the cruiser to a stop, turning off the lights and siren. We parked in a deserted gas station. There was a wig shop across the street at the end of the block with only one unbroken window. Michael switched off the headlights and let his eyes adjust to the dark. He peered past the corner, but I had to lean forward to see where he was looking.

  It was an abandoned lot, unwanted and unoccupied except for the usual urban detritus. There had probably been more than one building there at one time, but they had collapsed or burned. Only a three-story row house was still standing. I could tell that it had been something in its day, but the years of neglect and abuse had left it looking decrepit and dangerous. There were no lights in the building, only the mirrored illumination in the broken windows, which reflected the glow of the one streetlight left lit half a block away and the close shine of the low-flying clouds. There was garbage everywhere, and a barricade of dumpsters overflowed across the street.

  Chavez turned his head to look at me, putting his palm out flat to introduce the scene. “May I present Toy Diaz’s Fort, the Wanamaker’s of crack houses.” I could make out patterns of movement in the shadows as he spoke. “The seller takes the money from the buyer, the seller goes into the building to give the money to the holder, the holder gives the stuff to the seller, and the seller comes back out and gives the stuff to the buyer. Pretty slick, and according to the letter of the law, at no time is the seller on the street with the money and the stuff…”


  I finished the statement for him. “Which means possession, but not possession with intent to distribute.”

  Chavez laughed. “There’s a new sheriff in town.”

  I watched as Michael’s jaw clenched like Vic’s. “Some scumbag realtor in the Northeast owns the building, and he gets a monster kickback from the whole deal.”

  “Who is Toy Diaz?”

  “Salvadoran refugee, truly a grade-A asshole. His brother caught some time a few years back, but we’re still trying to get the devil himself.”

  Chavez pointed. “With all the open space around the building, we can’t get near the place without somebody giving the high sign. We come roarin’ up and they just pitch the stuff and the guns.” They were silent for a moment. “There’s a lot of guns in there.”

  “Tell ’em about the 32s.”

  “That’s what we were just responding to on the radio. Business gets good, and they just call in a 10-32 on the other side of the district to keep us distracted.” Even with my limited knowledge of the city ten code, I knew a 10-32 was a man with gun and a priority call. “They keep about twenty vials out on the street, hidden all over the place. I found one in an empty potato chip bag one time. They sell those out, then they go back in and get more, usually during a shift change.”

  Michael shook his head. “They don’t even walk away when we roll on ’em anymore. We’ve hit that damn place a dozen times now; we hit ’em twice this evening. Nothing.”

  We watched as the shadowy figures went about their business. I wanted to get back to Cady but started thinking about what the Cheyenne would do in this situation. “Do you think they count?”

  Both of the young officers turned to look at me. “What?”

  “Do you think they count how many cops go in during a bust, and how many cops come out?”

  They called a point-to-point for some of their buddies so that the radio signal wouldn’t reach Central. The eleven officers who showed up were like Moretti and Chavez-young, hopeful, and pissed off. Michael started to describe the plan.