The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 (113 page)

I nodded and looked back at my daughter. “Then I think we’re going to go back home.”

“To Wyoming?” She sounded a little relieved.

“As soon as she can.” I squeezed Cady’s hand again, but she was asleep. “I’ve got a few things to attend to and so does she.” I smiled and looked at the young lawyer on the other side of the bed. “Can I ask you another question?”

She smiled back and wiped her face. “Sure.”

I waited. “Who assigns the pro bono cases at the firm?”

She coughed and swallowed, wiped her eyes some more, and then cleared her throat, gesturing with her hand to explain the time it took to respond. “That would be me.”

I nodded. “You.”

“Yes.”

I nodded some more. “So, you assigned William White Eyes to Cady?”

She stayed steady. “Yes.”

“Jo…” I smiled again, just to let her know I wasn’t going to jump over the bed and handcuff her, and went and sat in one of the chairs beside the window. I thought that maybe if I sat down it would be easier for her. I picked up the book on the public art of Philadelphia. She didn’t move, and her back was to me. “The way I figure it, Osgood pressured Devon…”

“I told them to not let Cady find out about any of this stuff.”

I kept looking at the book. It was an old trick, but she didn’t fall for it and stayed as she was. “Well, it looks like you were right.” I waited, but she stayed silent. I flipped through the book to the section on northwest Fairmount Park. “Where’s Riley Elizabeth?”

At that, she turned and looked at me. “What?”

“I was wondering where your daughter is?” I studied the book as she crossed to the other chair, sat, and folded her hands in her lap.

“My mother is taking care of her.” She turned her head and looked out the window.

I took a deep breath and let out with a heavy exhale, attempting some comic relief but probably sounding more like a tire going flat. “William White Eyes wasn’t supposed to get out.”

“No.”

I looked at Cady. “Leave it to ‘The Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time’ to mess up the appeal.” I laughed, and Jo turned to look at me. Her hair hung back on her shoulder, providing a stark contrast to the cream-colored luster of her skin. I smiled at her. “You want to hear something funny?” She waited. “I partially believe you.” I thought about it. “It’s pretty obvious that when Billy Carlisle went native he became a problem, but when he met Cady, he took Devon and Vince Osgood into the liability column with him. I might be a problem for Diaz, but nothing on the level of Devon Conliffe, Vince Osgood and, worse yet, the now named William White Eyes.” I continued to look at Cady and interrogate Jo Fitzpatrick. “Did you know that Osgood was in business with Toy Diaz and Shankar DuVall?”

“No.”

I went back to the book and read about a statue near the Rex Avenue Bridge on Forbidden Drive, of all places. She didn’t say anything more. “What more do you know about William White Eyes?”

“Nothing.”

She had waited just a moment too long, so I gave her one more opportunity. “You’re sure?” I listened as the severity of all the things I had told her settled like a sedimentary layer of criminal activity, making us both feel unclean. Her lips trembled and her mouth opened, but it took a long time for no words to come out. I looked at the waning afternoon sun as she quietly picked up her things and left.

I studied Cady and sighed, thinking about the photograph in her office of her and Jo. “The tiniest reason I have for wanting you back is so you can help me figure out all of this.”

* * *

Katz was coming out of the elevator when I got to it, so he did an about-face and followed me in as I pushed the button and stuffed the book on Philadelphia statuary under my arm.

“You might want to skip the third floor.”

“I take it the entire Moretti family is in attendance?”

“En tutti.”

He adjusted the glasses on his nose with an index finger. He looked at me for a while longer, but I continued to stare at the numbers as the elevator slowly descended to three. “So, it was Toy Diaz?”

“Yes.”

I felt suddenly tired. “Let me guess; the Escalade was stolen.”

“Off a lot in Wynnewood.”

“Where’s that?”

He was distracted and looking at his notes. “The Main Line; Toy has expensive tastes.”

“Is that near the area of the Medicine Man statue?”

“Not particularly.” He looked up at me. “You have a theory?”

I thought about it. “Not anymore.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“We know that Diaz is looking for William White Eyes.”

“Yes.”

“With all the notes, it’s pretty obvious that White Eyes was tailing me for Cady’s sake, but with Osgood dead I think he realized that he was the one who needed protection and so has come to the conclusion that we’re the only thing standing between him and a Salvadorian necktie.”

“Okay.”

“The Indian statues are the key, and the trick is knowing which one is next.”

He closed his notebook and grimaced, leaning against the elevator wall. “That may be a little difficult.”

“Maybe not; there’s only one left.” I opened the book from Cady’s library and held it for him to see as the door to the third floor opened.

Lena was standing alone in the hallway as we stepped out of the elevator. I handed Katz the book and reached an arm out to her. She looked up and smiled sadly. She didn’t take my hand. “I hear she’s doing all right?”

“Yes, thank God.” Her smile weakened. “She was asking for you, so you better go in.”

I stood there, glancing down at my scuffed-up boots. “I’m sorry.”

I listened to her take a deep breath and watched as she folded her arms across her chest and looked past me. “Hello, Asa. You might want to stay out here with me.” There was no edge in her voice, just fatigue. I glanced back at Katz, who quietly closed the book, looked at her through the split lenses, and put a hand out to touch hers.

I stood there for a moment more and then continued down the hallway. I opened the door and stepped into the room. Vic the Father and a group of young men were gathered around the bed; there was a younger version of Victor, a variation on Alphonse, one that didn’t look like anybody in the family that I knew, and Michael, who glanced up and smiled.

“How ya doin’, Sheriff?”

“I’m okay. Thank you, Michael.”

She was watching me, but they had her trussed up pretty good, so I felt confident in going the rest of the way into the room. I looked at her father and brothers, then back to Vic, who smiled and raised her hand to me. “Where the fuck have you been?”

* * *

By the time Asa and I got outside, Henry was valet parking a dark green, one-ton duelie, fortified with grille guards and an extensive roll bar and fifth wheel. He took the keys back from the valet guy when he saw us.

I gestured toward the giant vehicle. “What is this?”

“We needed a rental car.”

I looked at the behemoth. “Why didn’t you just get a Bluebird bus?”

“If you are going to drive like Patton, then we need a tank.” He waved at Katz and then walked around as I went to the passenger-side door. “Besides, I am thinking that we may have to haul something.”

“Where did you rent this?”

He smiled across the broad scoop that straddled the hood. “I did not rent it, your insurance did.”

Great.

I stopped and invited Katz along, but he said he’d check in with Gowder at the inquest and meet us at the Valley Green Inn at the Wissahickon ravine in Fairmount Park at six. He handed me back the book.

I climbed in and shut the door; it sounded like a vault closing. I reached back and scratched behind Dog’s ear, then turned and fastened my seat belt. Henry studied me; I knew I’d fooled everybody up to now, but he knew me too well, perhaps better than I knew myself, and was unlikely to let my mood go without comment. “Uh-oh.”

“Drive.”

The uh-oh was all I got. He hit the starter, and the truck clattered to life. “I have been in touch with the Delaware Indian Association, and they…”

“The what?”

He turned and looked at me, better than matching my stone face. “The Delaware Indian Association.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It is a rural institute for the advancement of Indian resources in an urban environment. I spoke with a nice young woman there, a Felicia Sparrowhawk, who said that the last contact they had with William White Eyes was when they arranged for a part-time job for him at the Chamounix Stables in…”

“Fairmount Park.”

“Yes.” He navigated the on-ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway alongside 30th Street Station and joined the traffic headed west. “It was a probation program between prison stints.”

“That would fit for numerous reasons.”

“Yes.” I watched as he glided the big, more-than-utility vehicle through traffic like a tiger shark swimming lazily through a school of smaller fish. “There is a contact at the stables, but Ms. Sparrowhawk didn’t have her name. She thought, by the sound of things, that there might have been something more there than an employer/employee relationship.”

I nodded and watched the traffic skitter out of his way; Henry drove smoothly, if slowly, navigating to the exit at the right. I thought of a Gladwyne cowgirl, and how it was all too convenient. “I already know who it is.”

He glanced at me and then nodded. “As do I, but there is more.” He slipped a hand in the inside pocket of his black leather blazer and handed me another note, identical to the ones we had received before. “I returned to the Medicine Man, in hopes that with Toy Diaz even momentarily inconvenienced, William White Eyes may have returned with a note.”

I opened the tiny envelope and read BIG CHIEF.

“You know where this is?” I opened the book in my lap so that he could see the illustration at the upper lefthand corner. He glanced down and nodded. “Close?”

“Very.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“How is Vic?”

“Good.” I had done pretty well up until now, but I could feel the numbness returning to my face and the stillness to my hands. I slowly unwrapped the bandages from my left, bent the aluminum protector back from my index finger, and dropped it on the floor of the big truck.

He glanced over. “What are you doing?”

“Trigger finger.”

“You are righthanded.”

I watched the trees. “I want both.”

* * *

He took the exit, and we drove the same ravines that we had earlier. “The woman teaches horseback riding to urban underprivileged children on Saturday afternoons.”

I nodded. “The Saint of Fairmount Park.”

He shook his head and studied me, his eyes pleading with me to behave. “Maybe it would be best if you were to wait in the truck, since you are angry with the world?”

I folded my arms and looked out the side window at all of the trees. In Wyoming, the silver-green aspens would be in leaf, quivering in the breeze like pinwheels. “I’m not mad at the world. I’m angry with William White Eyes for taking us on this wild goose chase, but the distiller’s choice, single-cask, limited edition, pissed-off I am holding in reserve is for Toy Diaz.”

“Let us try and remember that, shall we?” He pulled into the Chamounix Stables, and we both looked at the sign I had knocked over earlier, still lying in the barrow ditch.

When we got out of the truck, Dog followed, and Henry and I put the sign back against the pristine and manicured garden that led alongside the path to the stables a short walk away.

We each propped a boot on the first rung of the corral, leaned our folded arms across the top of the fence like bookends, and watched as a girl in pigtails who looked like she was in grade school made a strained and determined attempt at keeping her tiny bottom on a Western saddle. A young woman in her early thirties held the lead and twitched the bay’s flanks, keeping the fat mare moving at a regulated pace. The horsewoman looked as though she would have been more at home in Wyoming, and just looking at her brought a longing in my chest. She wore a battered, black quarter horse 60 hat, and a thick brunette braid uncoiled down the back of her sand-colored Carhartt barn coat. When she turned I could see a jacquard silk scarf at her neck, the denim, snap-front shirt, Western belt, and shotgun chaps.

Jo Fitzpatrick.

I felt a little of the preparatory anger fade with the blue of her eyes as she glanced at Henry and me. On the next go-round, she tilted her head and nodded toward the stables. “I’ll be done in just a minute.”

We returned to the main path and entered the barn through a large opening pointed toward the road. It was a pretty good-sized place, with two dozen stalls running the length of the slate flooring. There were about a dozen horse heads that turned and looked at us as we entered, one nickering loudly from only a few stalls down.

Dog and I tagged along behind the Bear as he went straight to the animal that had spoken to him, a large paint, patch-worked like clouds of cream in iced coffee. I pulled up short and looked at the animal, Dog stopping alongside. The big girl swung her head from Henry and looked directly at me, letting loose with a lung-vibrating whinny. Henry followed the horse’s gaze and smiled. “She knows you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Come say hello.”

I walked toward her; the small, brass nameplate read “Creampuff.” She looked exactly like the paint in my dreams. She stuck a prehensile and exploratory nose toward me, and I could see her powerful withers as the large brown eyes blinked. I reached a hand out, palm down, and let her sniff me, rubbing her lips on my knuckles. I pushed a forelock from her face, and Dog nudged my pant leg: jealous.

Henry had walked to the center of the stables to another opening at the side that led toward the corral where we had first seen Jo. There was a large tack shed adjacent to the passageway and next door, a makeshift office. I stopped petting the mare and walked to the doorway as Henry and Dog continued toward the corral. Dog stopped to look back at me when he realized that I was not following. The paint whinnied again, and I looked at her.

Henry spoke. “What?”

“Wait a minute.” I entered the office and pulled the latest note from William White Eyes out of my pocket, extracted it from the envelope, and threaded it into the mechanical typewriter that squatted on the plywood desk.