“There’s just as much a chance of Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command?”
“Exactly.” I was getting the hang of it. “Now, you are probably wondering why it is that I have told you this story.” He angled the front page of the paper toward me.
I stared at him. “Devon Conliffe?”
He nodded. “He was in the car with ADA Vince Osgood, a buddy of his.”
“What were they doing being chased by drug dealers?”
“There were a lot of questions along those lines.” He dropped the corner of the paper back on his desk. “Surprise, surprise, the charges were dropped. I think it might have been because Devon’s father, the judge, had pull with the court.”
“His father?” Tomko nodded. “And Devon still came here?”
“Lawyer League. They all come in on Thursdays.” He sat back in his chair and leaned a scarred chin on his fist. “They didn’t cancel his permit and, like I said, all the charges were dropped.”
I thought about the judge’s son. “So he might have been involved in some things he shouldn’t have been.”
“It’s likely.”
“Can you think of anybody who might’ve wanted to kill him?” The one eye stared at me for a while. “Besides me.”
“About half of Philadelphia.” He looked away for a second. “Look, I know your daughter was dating the guy, but he was a piece of shit. Did you ever see the two of ’em together?”
“No.”
“Not for nothin’, but it was like she was his personal servant.” His eye came back to me. “Why don’t you ask your daughter?”
I studied him but could tell nothing. “I’m saving that as a last resort.”
He nodded. “I’m not so sure why it is you’re concerned; best thing that could’ve happened to her.” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Sheriff, in case you hadn’t noticed, your daughter is quite a looker, intelligent, and possibly one of the best shots I’ve ever had the pleasure of not teaching.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s none of my business, but I think she’s a lot better off.”
I withheld comment. “You mind if I come in tomorrow night?”
“Nah, but there’s a guest fee, thirty bucks plus ammo. What d’ya shoot?”
“A. 45 ACP.”
He nodded; the caliber probably reminded him of Quang Tri, land mines, and poached eggs.
It was close to one o’clock when I got back to the hospital. “When do I get to meet the mother?”
I ignored Henry and watched Cady. “Anything?”
“No, but I sang to her all morning.”
I sat down. “Thank you.”
His eyes stayed on Cady. “She hears us.”
I had thought about it a great deal, but I wasn’t sure. “You think?”
“Yes.” He exhaled a short laugh. “This may be your only chance to get the first, middle, and last word.” He looked at me now, his eyes steady. “She must hear our voices so that she can return to us.”
I thought what a wonder it was that this individual should be with me, here, now. Even as a child, he had always known something the rest of us didn’t. I thought about the book I’d brought from Wyoming, the love-worn collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Maybe I could read her that. “Well, I don’t sing. Any suggestions on what I should say?”
He smiled. “Tell her how much you love her; everything after that is small talk.”
I talked to Cady for the next four hours, and then the nurses ran me off so that they could bathe her. I took my chair and sat in the hallway. The Daily News was at the nurse’s desk, so I appropriated it.
JUDGE’S SON DIES IN BRIDGE FALL. I studied the photo of Devon Conliffe; it was most likely a publicity shot from his firm. There was no denying that he was a handsome kid, but there was a wayward quality to the eyes, something that said the young man was looking for a way out. I guess he found it, or it found him.
I looked at the picture of the bridge that had a superimposed dotted line of his fall and an arrow showing where he had landed. I thought about the alley where I had spoken to the cop with the donut and made a mental note to return there in the morning when the police and the crime lab people had cleared out.
“…10 P.M. as the traffic grew sparse on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, Devon Conliffe, son of judge Robert Conliffe, fell to his death.” The article was pretty straightforward, concentrating on Devon’s career in the law and on the assorted community services he was involved with, only mentioning the episode that Jimmie Tomko had described as “the incident on Roosevelt Boulevard.” Robert Conliffe was quoted as saying that his son was a good man and an excellent lawyer who would be sadly missed in society.
There was no mention of Cady. I figured the Conliffes and I were off for dinner. The Roosevelt Boulevard thing bothered me; I needed to find out more about Devon’s background. I knew two detectives who might help me out. I dug Cady’s cell phone from my jacket, but the battery was dead. I put it back in my pocket and settled on brooding, something at which I was pretty good.
It was possible that what had happened to Devon had been triggered by what had happened to Cady, but not exclusively. It appeared that the young man could have been involved in any number of situations that could have led to his violent end.
The nurses had finished. I folded the paper, placed it back on the counter, and leaned my elbows on the ICU desk. Nancy Lyford, the head nurse, the one who had held my hand when we had first arrived, came over and stood by me. “Your friend has a beautiful voice.”
“Yep, he does.”
“He’s Native American?”
I smiled. “Indian. Yes.”
“Isn’t Native American the correct term?”
“I suppose, but most of the Indians I know would laugh at you if you used it.” I figured I’d better explain. “Most Indians don’t identify themselves as American particularly, but as members of nations unto themselves.” She looked at me blankly. “A nation, like a tribe.”
She thought about it. “He said he was Cheyenne?”
“Northern Cheyenne and Lakota.”
“Sioux?”
I shook my head. “You start calling Lakota the Sioux, and you’re going to get in real trouble.”
She laughed. “Sounds more complicated than Native American.”
I gestured toward my daughter. “How’s she doing?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The bilateral constriction subsided to a normal reaction of the pupils, which gives her a much better opportunity of recovery. The involuntary response to external stimuli is also a very good sign.”
It was basically the same speech I’d gotten from Rissman the day before, and I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “Still a wait-and-see situation?”
She nodded her head and looked a little sad. “It’s not like television. It’s a long process that takes a lot of effort, even if things go well.” I nodded, and she looked back at Cady. “I’m not sure if now is the time to mention it, but the things that people have been sending and bringing are beginning to pile up.” I guess I still looked blank. “Cards, stuffed animals, flowers, and things like that.” She smiled. “She’s a very popular young woman.”
I had the flowers donated to other units and started to put the rest into a large shopping bag the head nurse thoughtfully provided. I was still talking to Cady. “I’ve half a mind to leave all this stuff here and have you lug it all home yourself.” There were stuffed animals, mostly indicative of the West-buffalo, horses, and a bear. There were assortments of candy and a stack of cards, most of which had her name on them, except for one that had mine. I held the little envelope up for her to see. “There, I’m popular, too.”
It was the usual size of a thank you note, with a mechanical, typewritten print that read SHERIFF. I nudged my thumb under the flap and opened the sealed envelope. Inside was a plain white card that looked like the ones used for names at a place setting; it read, in the same type, YOU HAVE BEEN DONE A FAVOR, NOW DROP IT.