We went up. Henry paused at a railing and looked across center field toward the skyline of the city. “Do all the larger law firms have sky boxes?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Do Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind have a box?”
It’s thinking like this that kicked Custer’s ass.
I held out my hand for his cell phone, a device at which I had become a past master. I only slightly felt the twinge at seeing CADY/WORK just before I pushed the button. “Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind, Cady Longmire’s office, can I help you?”
“Patti, it’s Walt.”
There was no pause, and her voice lowered. “The police were here, asking questions.”
“Was the name Moretti?”
“No, a detective by the name of Katz. He left his card.”
“Patti…?”
“There was a black guy with him. He didn’t leave a card, but I think he was a detective, too.”
“Patti?”
“They asked a lot of questions about her and Devon…”
I let her wind down. “Patti, I need some help.”
It was quiet. “What do you need?”
I explained that we were on a little investigative junket of our own and was wondering if the firm had a luxury suite at the ballpark. She assured me that they did and, after a brief consultation, reported that it was being used by a couple of city council people today but that there were seats still available. I asked her how we could get in, and she said to check the Phillies community relations office in five minutes.
The older lady at the double glass doors smiled as she tore our tickets and handed us the stubs. “Enjoy the game.”
The gallery that provided entrance to the luxury suites was a carpeted hallway that arched around the balcony from foul pole to foul pole. We were in suite 38, and as luck would have none of it, we were right there. When I glanced into the box, I could see two brassy-looking older women drinking beer out of plastic cups that would have looked more at home strapped to a horse’s nose.
One turned and looked at me, nudging her friend with the frizzy orange hair. “Franny, look, boys!”
I stood with my head in the doorway, not sure of what to say, finally settling on a western favorite: “Howdy.” In retrospect, it probably sounded a little odd coming from someone who looked like the assistant carbohydrate coach of the Phils.
I left Henry to entertain as I excused myself to get something to drink. Bernice said that they had waitresses, but I told her I didn’t want to wait that long.
There were small nameplates beside the doors of each suite, so it was just a question of finding the right firm. I was relying on a distant phone conversation I had had with Cady months earlier when she mentioned where Devon was employed. I remembered it was Somebody and Somebody, as opposed to the Somebody, Somebody, Somebody, and Somebody of Cady’s firm. I remembered that they were not particularly memorable names and, about a third of the way around, I read “HUNT AND DRISCOLL.”
I slipped my scorecard from my back pocket and pulled the pencil from behind my ear when I heard the announcer roar through the starting lineups. I was, after all, undercover. I leaned against the far railing, which gave me a decent view of suite 51. A few people passed by, but I feigned concentration and raised my head only after they had all passed.
I could make out the backs of three young men sitting on the arm rails of their luxury box chairs. They were talking, but I couldn’t hear the conversation clearly. Having never met Devon was putting me at a disadvantage, but fortune took a hand in the form of a young woman in short pants and an abbreviated, torso-baring Phillies T-shirt. “Miss?”
She was another south Philly gem, with mall-chick hair, blue eye shadow, and rounded vowels. “Yeah?”
“Could I get you to do me a favor?”
“Prolly.”
I took this for probably, tucked the scorecard under my arm along with the pencil, and pulled a crisp twenty from my wallet by way of the Durant State Bank ATM. “Could I get you to take the largest beer you’ve got in to a young man in that suite by the name of Devon Conliffe?” She took the twenty, which was a lot even by ballpark standards. “It’s important that he not know who it’s from.”
“Wa’s goin’ on?”
I duly translated and responded. “It’s a surprise.”
She looked at me for a moment more and then looked at the twenty in her hand. “Awright.”
“When you get done, I’ll be over there, and there’s another twenty in it if you tell me his response.” She practically left skid marks.
Henry met me in the stairwell. “I am not going back in there.”
“Okay.”
He looked around, and I noticed that his eyes were dark searchlights scanning the distance and calculating all the odds. “Is he here?”
“I’m about to find out.” We waited as the young woman entered the suite; there was a loud cry of drunken insouciance, and she rapidly reappeared without the beer. I pulled another twenty and handed it to her as she tucked her serving tray under her arm. “Success?”
“Friends a youse?”
“Not exactly.”
She glanced at Henry and then glanced again; I was used to it. “I did like you said an’ tole him it was a secret admirer.”
“Tall kid, brown hair?”
She looked at me. “More blond.”
“Right.” I nodded my head. “Wearing the blue shirt?”
She continued to look at me. “White.”
I nodded some more. “And the red tie?” It was a chance, but he seemed like the red-tie type.
“Yeah.”
I handed her another twenty. “Wait about ten minutes and give him another one, okay?”
She shrugged and was off. I watched Henry watch the hot pants. “Restroom?”
I took a deep breath. “Looks like the best shot we have at getting him alone.”
“Before or after?”
I stared at the doorway to suite 51. “Before. Nobody’s tough when they have to pee.”
The Phils blew a double play at first, allowing the Small Red Machine two runs, and it was a brand new ball game. Personally, I was beginning to think that Devon Conliffe had a bladder like a sea lion’s. I had paid sixty dollars for the three most expensive beers in Philly and, so far, nada.
Henry had walked to the area that overlooked an atrium to the concourse below. He was watching the game or appeared to be watching the game. He looked back at me, and I shrugged. I was about to order the two of us a couple of beers when Devon came out of the suite. He was pretty easy to spot; it was the smirk. Tall and thin, white dress shirt and a patterned red tie. He had blondish hair parted at the side, classic Waspish good looks, and all I could think of was the phone call I had listened to very early that morning. I said “yo,” and he actually nodded to me as he passed.
“Yo.”
It was the same voice as the one on the cell phone, and I signaled the Bear and disappeared into the restroom.
I had cased the place; there was one row of sinks and mirrors along one side and urinals and toilet stalls along the other. He was just getting ready to unzip his pants and get down to business when I came around the corner. “Devon Conliffe?”
He turned and looked at me, the smirk still firmly in place. “Yeah?” He said it like I should know. “Do I know you?” I kept coming toward him. He was looking a little closer now, but it was only when he saw the cowboy boots that he started to turn. I caught him with a hand to the closest shoulder, which propelled him to the far wall. “What the fuck! Who the hell are you?”
I kept coming, and he tried to go to the right, so I caught him and pushed him back into the corner against the toilet-stall partition and the tiled wall. “My name is Walter Longmire.” He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked around the contained space. I stopped about two feet away. “You know who I am.”
Maybe he was buying time, but I was fresh out. His face stiffened, and he tried to look around me again, thinking that somebody should be coming to his rescue by now, but I knew that when the Cheyenne Nation shut a door, it stayed shut.