“Second, Cordero said that Devon had dark hair, but it was blond.”
“And third?”
“The blue tie. When I spoke with Devon, he said that he hadn’t been home and that he was still wearing the same clothes. At the ballpark, his tie was red.” We were sitting on a bench in Logan Circle watching the fish and swans blow water twenty feet in the air, as if the humidity needed any help. “Individually, it’s not much, but all together…Of course, now that Devon’s picture is plastered across every newspaper in town, it’ll probably be harder to find the mystery man. Whoever he is, if he’s smart, he’ll fold up the tents and head home.”
“What if he was just some passerby? I mean, it is a big city.”
“I don’t think so. There weren’t any functions at the Institute that night, so why would anyone be hanging around the museum steps? How would he know Devon’s name, and why did he identify himself as Devon Conliffe?” I leaned back on the bench and took another bite of my ice cream. I thought about it as I looked at the nearest Indian in the Fountain of Three Rivers; he was representative of the Delaware River and had more than a passing resemblance to Henry. “Maybe, after Devon ran, the other fellow decided to pin him to the incident.”
“Then disappeared himself?”
“Evidently he had something to hide, too.” I finished my ice cream and was chewing on the stick. “We are looking for a Caucasian male, approximately thirty years of age, dark hair, and at least six feet tall.”
“You think the mystery man had something to do with Devon’s death?”
I could feel the wood beginning to splinter between my teeth. “It makes sense. Somebody cares enough about Cady to follow her, cares enough to chance revealing himself after she’s hurt, and cares enough to possibly toss Devon off the bridge.”
She finished hers. “That’s a lot of caring.”
“Yep.”
“Are you still hungry?”
“Hmm?”
She smiled. “You’re chewing the stick, and I thought you might want something else to eat.”
I dropped it in the nearest trash can. Henry was with Cady this morning, and I wanted to get back to the hospital before he had to leave for the museum, but Lena was doing so much. I took a deep breath. “You want to tell me about this affair?”
She laughed and then looked at me through the corner of an almond-shaped eye. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered that part of the conversation.”
“I’m pretty good with details, especially those involving domestic disturbances.”
She looked at the Indian maiden leaning modestly on her side against an excited swan. I had read the plaque after we had crossed the street and knew that the young girl represented Wissahickon Creek, but in Lena Moretti’s mind she was possibly emblematic of something more. “It was eight years ago. Victor had made inspector and just started working with the Mayor’s Task Force on Organized Crime. He wasn’t home a lot, and I guess I got bored.”
I waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “It sounds like there’s more to this story.”
She continued to watch the fountain. “There is, but that’s probably all you need to know.”
I waited a respectful moment before replying. “Okay.” I watched the people around the fountain, and it was only after a moment that I realized I was looking for a thirty-year-old male with dark hair and a darker reflection.
When I looked back, she had turned toward me and was smiling. “Who’s got the afternoon shift?”
“I do, but if you could check on Dog and cover for me for a little while this evening I’d really appreciate it.”
The smile held. “Buy me dinner?”
I looked back at the Indians. “Sure.”
She tossed her stick into the trash can as well and stood; she looked exactly like Vic. “My pick.”
I put Lena in a cab and grabbed one going in the opposite direction for myself. It didn’t take long to get to Spring Garden, and I felt a release doing something to track down some answers.
Tactical Training Specialists was the only going concern on the block, with gratings over the windows and a door that would have been more appropriate back home at Fort Fetter-man; it didn’t look like the best part of town. The sign on the glass read “Retail Handgun Sales-New and Used, Home Defense Classes, Indoor Shooting Range, and Basic through Advanced Training.” There was an adjacent parking lot with a side entrance that probably led to the range. I tried to remember what Cady had said about the instructor but could only come up with him being ex-army and a pretty good shot. I wondered casually how he handled throwing bodies over bridges.
I pushed the door open and an entry bell sounded. There was every gun I’d ever seen lined against the walls all the way to the back of the place. Glass-topped counters held the handguns, while the rifles and shotguns stood at attention, chained to the racks behind the counters. There were displays of body armor and home security sensors with locks and alarms at the center of the shop along with three-dimensional targets and gun safes.
“Can I help you?”
Jimmie Tomko was a little younger than I was, of average height and build with a light complexion and pattern balding that did nothing to hide the fact that he was missing his left ear; it also looked like he had a glass eye. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter and to my right, where he could see whoever walked in before they could see him. I noticed he was wearing a shoulder holster with a Kimber. 45 and was reading the Daily News, which was folded back to the second page and the continuation of the Devon Conliffe saga.
I extended my hand. “Walt Longmire. My daughter is Cady Longmire.”
He smiled without parting his lips. “Hello, Sheriff.”
We went to his office, which overlooked the firing range, and he told me about his experiences in Quang Tri Province, which ended with a pressure-detonated mine made from one of our duds, a 105-millimeter round that had been booby-trapped. “Roughly two platoons had walked right by the damn thing, and I was next to last when the guy beside me stepped on something, and I turned.” He gestured toward his left eye. “Poached my eye just like an egg. They say the sand was probably the only thing that saved me and the guy in front of us.” I didn’t ask about the fellow who had stepped on it.
Not for the first time, I was anxious to get out of Vietnam, so I changed the subject. “Jimmie, how long have you had this place?”
“Since ’77.” He gestured toward the shooting gallery. “Put the firing range in about ten years ago, and it’s been the only thing that saved my butt.”
“That many people want to learn how to shoot?”
“There’s that, but it’s also the permits.” I looked at him questioningly. “A lot of these yuppies want concealed permits, but the chances of getting one in the city, even with training, are about as likely as Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command.”
I vaguely remembered an instance in the city involving the ex-mayor, a helicopter, a bomb, and a housing project, and deduced that getting a concealed weapon permit in Philadelphia was nigh on impossible. “So, can they get limited permits through you?”
“Yeah, that way they get to transport the weapon to and from the premises within a locked case in the trunk of their car, ammo separate.”
“I gather that some of them have been abusing the privilege?”
He sighed. “I had been making good money until we had a prominent assistant district attorney who unloaded on a Toyota station wagon on Roosevelt Boulevard. He said a couple of guys had chased him at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.”
I thought about it. “I wasn’t aware that Toyota station wagons could go a hundred miles an hour.”
“He said it was drug dealers.”
I thought about it some more. “Is the Toyota station wagon the vehicle of choice for Philadelphia drug dealers?”
“No. So then he said it could have been the KKK, except that in the earlier statement he said the two occupants were not white.” Tomko watched me with the one eye. “Now, there could be two nonwhite members of the KKK cruising around Philly in a Japanese station wagon, but…”