Kindness Goes Unpunished wl-3

by Craig Johnson

  “What?”

  She shook her head, opened the box, and placed a slice with anchovies on my plate. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but as near as I could remember, I hadn’t eaten since lunch. I chewed in a mechanical fashion and sipped my beer.

  I tried not to laugh at the situation; here we were with so much to say, and I couldn’t hear. I made a conscious effort to not look over to the couch, but something stirred rather deeply in the reptilian coil of my primal nature, and I felt very much like doing it again.

  I concentrated on the food instead and finished half of it to Vic’s quarter as Dog alternated between us for the crusts. After a while, she stood, saying something with a sense of finality.

  “What?”

  She placed her hands together, laid them alongside her head, and closed her eyes. I nodded and watched as she stood there for a moment longer, then turned and went up the spiral staircase to the guest bedroom above.

  I sat there wondering if I was supposed to follow. I sat there wondering if I wasn’t supposed to follow. I sat there wondering.

  The answer came to me as I finally noticed the sheets, blanket, and pillow that made up a makeshift bed on the epic sofa. I reached up with the protector on my index finger and used the other digits to feel the gauze padding where the EMTs had patched my neck. I picked up my hat, turning it over and looking at the marks where one of the pellets had raced across the brim and missed my head by a quarter inch.

  Cady was lying at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania in a coma after having been pushed down the stairs at the Franklin Institute by Devon Conliffe.

  Devon Conliffe was dead after being thrown from the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.

  Osgood was dead, shot in the head by Shankar DuVall.

  Shankar DuVall was dead after being shot by Gowder for trying to kill me behind a Greyhound bus.

  That’s all I knew.

  I turned out the lights, put my hat on since it was easier to wear than to carry, and wondered who was next. I picked up my sidearm, jacking the slide mechanism to make sure that it was empty, glanced up at the balcony, where the light from the guest bedroom was off, and limped over to the sofa. Even after having Vic call and finding there was no change, I wanted to get to the hospital at a reasonable hour in the morning, so I thought that maybe I should try to get to sleep.

  My hat seemed out of shape; maybe the shotgun blast had done more damage than I’d thought. I flipped it onto the coffee table and placed my gun under the brim, pulled off my boots, and shrugged off my filthy jacket, shirt, and tie, trying carefully to avoid my numerous and sundry injuries. I stripped off my blood-spattered jeans and collapsed gently onto the sofa with a groan that caused Dog to come over and rest his head on the cushion beside mine. I petted him with the back of my hand and watched as he curled up on the floor, the ever-vigilant protector.

  The ambient glow from the bridge cast blue through the glass of the cupola. The rain had subsided to a soft drizzle that shifted the light from above. There was probably a comforting sound that went along with it, but I couldn’t hear it; all I had was the ringing.

  Cady’s eyes had opened. I thought of going to the hospital now. I wanted to see those clear, cool, gray eyes again. I wanted to watch them blink and know that her fine mind was working in there somewhere, finding its way back, but that was stupid. I was tired, filthy, and couldn’t hear.

  I pulled the covers up and started to roll over, but my ribs reminded me that I couldn’t, and my eyes wouldn’t stay closed, so I stared at my hat. It would be a shame if it was ruined-it had gone through so much-but if it no longer fit, it no longer fit. I thought of trying it on again and started to reach for it. The inner band was brown and the lining a shiny rayon red, but something was poking up from the liner that was pointed and white.

  “Well, hell.” I was still underwater, but I know the words had slipped from my mouth. I blinked and looked again, hoping that perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me along with my ears, but it was still there. I let sleeping Dog lie and reached over, using my middle and ring fingers to pull the tiny envelope from the battered piece of beaver. The usual typewritten word struck across the crisp stock, and again it read: SHERIFF.

  I thumbed open the flap, pulled out the tiny place card, and flipped it over: MEDICINE MAN.

  I stared at it, trying to figure out the significance of the two words, but again all I could think of was Henry. He wasn’t the only medicine man I knew, but he was definitely the only one I knew in Philadelphia. I thought about the last note. SEE PAGE 72. LOOK WEST, YOU CAN FIGHT CITY HALL. I assumed that one had to do with the ledgers but, in combination with the earlier note, I wasn’t sure.

  GO BACK TO THE INDIAN had been a location, and perhaps a portion of the note about CITY HALL was, too; if that was the case, then MEDICINE MAN might also be a location. I thought about the Indian sculpture at Logan Circle and started wondering about Billy White Eyes’ fixation with all things native and the public art of the greater Philadelphia region.

  I woke up still wondering. When Vic came down the stairs in the morning in an oversized green T-shirt, I had coffee waiting for her.

  I slid her the mug; she yawned and perched on a stool. I tried not to notice her legs. “What’re you doing up?”

  I sipped my own coffee and sat down to look over the collection of books I had scattered over the surface of the counter. “I needed to call the hospital, and I had some thoughts.”

  She looked at me for a moment. “Your hearing’s back?”

  I continued to study the open books. “Not completely, but it’s a lot better.”

  I had discovered Cady’s library along one of the long walls of the living area. When the law firm in Philadelphia had hired her, she had begun accumulating books on what was to be her adopted city. There were books on its history, its architecture, politics, food, sports and, most important for the moment, its statuary.

  “Did you know that Philadelphia has one of the largest collections of public sculpture in the world?”

  “So?”

  I thought about the prophet having no honor in his own country and that if you wanted a shitty impression of Philadelphia all you had to do was ask a Philadelphian. I held up the note from the crease of the book. “I got another note last night.”

  Now she was awake. “Where?”

  “I literally pulled it out of my hat.” I looked at her. “Who gave it back to you last night?”

  She studied the note and glanced up at me, distracted. “The coat check guys. They said that one of the serving staff had picked it up in the alley behind the Academy.”

  I thought of the dark-haired kid smoking the cigarette. “I’ll be damned…”

  “What?”

  I shook my head at my own stupidity. “There was a kid at the back door of the Academy, and I ran into him when I was chasing Shankar DuVall.” I looked up at her. “It had to be William White Eyes.” I thought back. “He was wearing sunglasses and a cap to disguise himself, but it was the same voice as the one who was driving the SUV, using the same phrase ‘hey man’ or ‘yo man.’ Something like that.”

  “Walt, I would say that a full 70 percent of the residents of Philadelphia use the term ‘yo man.’”

  I kept my eyes steady with hers. “It was him, and that was also him on the bridge.”

  “What bridge?”

  “When I met you here in Philadelphia.”

  “All right, just for argument’s sake, let’s say it was. Why is this kid following you around?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible that he’s involved with this Toy Diaz group and the recently deceased Shankar DuVall?”

  “He was, but I don’t think he is now, and I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he was the cook and the accountant.” She started shaking her head before I could finish. “Look, the drug business is like any other business; if you don’t keep track of your money, you don’t make money.”

&nbs
p; “Granted.”

  “If you’re running a drug operation, you can’t exactly walk into the office of the nearest CPA. You need somebody good with numbers, somebody you can trust, but somebody under the radar.”

  She nodded. “Gladwyne on the Main Line, Ivy League, Phi Beta Kappa, and Rhodes Scholar William Carlisle.”

  I refilled my mug and held onto the pot. “But somehow Billy Carlisle became a loose cannon in the Diaz organization somewhere around the same time he became William White Eyes, and I think that happened because of Cady.”

  “In the pro bono appeal?”

  “Yep.”

  She smiled. “You think your daughter had a strong enough moral influence on this guy that it turned him?”

  I poured her some more coffee. “You’d be amazed at the influence a woman can have for good or bad.”

  She grinned and nodded her head. “Uh huh.”

  I set the pot back down. “I don’t think Billy Carlisle was that bad of a guy to begin with. I think he made some bad choices and got involved with some bad people. I think he got reminded of his conscience in his dealings with Cady, and I think she became emblematic of something.”

  Vic nodded and looked down at the collection of books I had spread across the counter. “What’s all this shit, anyway?”

  “Research. The kid’s a genius. What’s the one thing he figured I’d eventually pick up on and even be drawn to?”

  She looked at the books. “Statues?”

  “Indians.”

  Her eyes widened. “Fuck me.”

  “The first note wasn’t Henry. GO BACK TO THE INDIAN was the statue at Logan Circle. I think LOOK WEST, YOU CAN FIGHT CITY HALL means the Indian statues facing west at City Hall.” I turned one of the books and shoved it toward her and pointed at the photograph of a Plains medicine man on horseback, his arm raised above his buffalo headdress. “Dauphin at West Thirty-third Street, east Fairmount Park.”

  “Medicine man.”

  I nodded. “I’m headed over to the hospital, but I thought I might stop off at City Hall since it’s on the way. The City Hall note came before the medicine man one, and the sequence might be important.”

  The wedding cake that is the City Hall of Philadelphia was designed to be the tallest building in the world, but by the time it was finished, the Eiffel Tower and the Washington Monument had surpassed it. On four and a half acres of Penn Square, its domed tower tops out just shy of 550 feet to the top of Willy Penn’s hat. There are 250 other statues that adorn the interior and exterior of the building to keep him company.

  We got out of the cab at the west side of the building and walked across the sidewalk with Dog as though we were approaching some fantastic ship that had been docked at the center of the metropolis.

  “I hate this building.”

  I ignored her and studied the facade. “It’s Second Empire, the same as the Louvre.”

  “It’s fruity.”

  “This is quite possibly the greatest architectural achievement of the late nineteenth century.”

  I allowed my eye to cast over the dormer pediment figures on the west side of the building and walked a little ahead of Vic as she stopped to buy an Italian ice from one of the vendors that populated the area. Dog strained a little at the leash and attempted to be a part of Vic’s transaction, but I gently yanked him back.

  It was a beautiful day, and the skies and streets were washed clear with the previous night’s storms. I could feel the humidity, and the air felt like the breath of someone close. I dragged Dog along behind me as I angled a little to the left and stood there, studying the dormer caryatids. Above them were two colossal bronzes at the north corners of the tower, twenty-four to twenty-six feet in height: one was an Indian maiden, the other a brave.

  I looked at the more than two hundred vertical feet between the statues and me as Vic came over with two cups of Italian ice. “We don’t have to climb this ugly fucker, do we?”

  “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.” I took my ice and spooned out a mouthful; it was pina colada, and it was very good. “Is there a tour of the building?”

  “Yeah, or at least there used to be.”

  I clarified my question. “When?”

  “When it used to be my division, it was Monday through Friday at 12:30.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “It’s Philadelphia; nothing’s easy.”

  I sidled a little more to the left, continuing to study the massive sculptures. “A woman with a child, and a man with a dog.” I looked down at Dog, who seemed to be taking an inordinate interest in my ice. “You don’t have any notes on you, do you?” He sat in expectation of a treat. I turned back to Vic. “Do you think we’re supposed to figure it out from here?”

  She shrugged and continued eating her lemon ice. “That hasn’t been the case so far.”

  I went back to ignoring Dog and studied the tower. LOOK WEST, YOU CAN FIGHT CITY HALL. It didn’t make sense that William White Eyes would leave a note in a place where we couldn’t get it. He hadn’t done that before, and I think he was a creature of habit, albeit a creative one. As I finally succumbed and lowered the cup to Dog so that he could lap the remaining syrup at the bottom, I thought I heard somebody say something.

  I looked at Vic, who was standing another twelve feet closer to the northwestern corner of the building. “What?”

  She stared back at me. “Huh?”

  “What’d you just say?”

  She looked at me quizzically. “Is your hearing going again?”

  I stood there. “Didn’t you just say something?”

  “No.”

  This time the voice came from directly behind me. I turned and looked at the grizzled man who owned the Italian ice cart-a stocky balding man with a soiled red apron and striped shirt. “Excuse me?”

  He smiled and said it a little louder this time. “Medicine Man.”

  14

  He didn’t know William White Eyes or Billy Carlisle; he just knew that a guy had paid him twenty bucks to keep an eye out for a large man in a cowboy hat with a dog and when he saw him to say “Medicine Man.” He said the guy that had given him the message was tall, skinny, and had been wearing a cap and sunglasses, so he didn’t know what color his hair or eyes might’ve been, but that he was well dressed and had been wearing shiny shoes. He said he always noticed them and that you could tell a lot about a person from their shoes.

  He liked my cowboy boots.

  He said the guy told him I’d be around yesterday and that he’d tried the two words out on a man that was wearing a cowboy hat but wasn’t so big and didn’t have a dog. He said the man had looked at him funny, and he figured it was the wrong guy. He said the fella with the twenty had given him the message to pass along yesterday afternoon. He studied me for a while and then wanted to know if he was in trouble. I told him no.

  He wanted to know if he got another twenty bucks. I told him no to that, too. He wanted to know whether if he came up with anything else, there might be another twenty in it. I told him I was a police officer and that if he hadn’t told me everything, we could continue this conversation at the Roundhouse.

  He said he’d told me everything. I asked him if he was sure.

  He said he was twenty dollars sure.

  The cabbie took the Market Street Bridge, and I looked out at the Schuylkill River and wondered if there were any fish in it. Vic didn’t have anything to throw out the window, so I figured we’d make it all the way to the hospital.

  “Why would he deliver the message twice, once with the vendor and once in the hat?”

  “He didn’t think we got it from the vendor, and he was right.”

  “So, after the hospital, we head up to eastern Fairmount Park with Katz and Gowder?”

  I petted Dog and thought about it. “Let them do it.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I’m more concerned about Cady.” She nodded, and we rode the rest of the way in silence, but she petted D
og, too.

  The detectives were waiting for us outside when we arrived. I asked Gowder about his inquiry. “Postponed till this afternoon.”

  “What about your badge and gun?”

  He smiled the trademark smile. “I’ve decided to operate on my winning personality and bulletproof spirits.”

  I glanced at Katz, and he gave me a thumbs up. Vic followed them. “I’m going with them. You don’t need me.”

  I stood there on the sidewalk with the leash in my hand. “Would you do me a favor?” She took Dog.

  When I got to Cady’s room, Henry was asleep in a chair by the bed with his Phillies cap pulled down over his eyes. Lena looked up from the Daily News and held the front page so that I could see a smiling photograph of Vince Osgood when he had a head.

  The headline read ASSISTANT DA SLAIN. She raised her eyebrows and spoke quietly. “You’re making quite a name for yourself here in the big city.”

  “I didn’t shoot him.” I sat in the chair next to her and also spoke sotto voce. “How was the opera?”

  “Tame, in comparison.” She handed me a cup of coffee from the windowsill, and I took it even though I’d consumed enough of the stuff to tan a buffalo hide. “What happened?”

  “It was a lot of running, screaming, and shooting.” I looked at Cady. “How is she?”

  Lena folded the paper and slid it to the floor beside her chair. “Her eyes were open when Michael and I changed the guard, but she closed them about an hour ago.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since about eight.”

  “When did the Cheyenne Nation show up?”

  “Michael said a little after midnight. He’s been asleep since I got here.”

  She was wearing a floral print sundress and the shapely arch of her foot showed in strapped sandals. She lay back in her chair and stretched her legs. “He’s very handsome.”