To my relief, most of the doorways leading to the right were either dark or closed. Seeing the lights from the other tall buildings glide past as we worked our way down the hall was making me dizzy, so I was glad when we got to the door that read CADY LONGMIRE on a little brass plaque. The door that was three before Cady’s was open with the light on. The plaque on it read JOANNE FITZPATRICK; the name sounded familiar. Henry turned the knob to Cady’s office and closed the door behind us after I followed him in.
It was a small room, and we stood there for a moment to let our eyes adjust to the darkness. I could feel some of Cady’s clothes hanging on the back of her door and steadied their swinging with my hand. Henry stood slightly to the left, looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass wall ahead of us. William Penn and City Hall were to our right, and the yellow glow of the clock below Penn told us it was a time when all good lawyers should be home and in bed. The bluish light of the building across Market reflected the streetlights below and the image of the building we were now in.
Henry reached across the shadow of a desk and clicked on a green tortoiseshell lamp. The illumination was ample but not so much that it reached the space under the doorway. I breathed the first deep breath since entering the offices. “Somebody was in the library?”
The Bear nodded. “Yes. Pretty girl, about Cady’s age with long, dark hair.”
I thought about it as I looked around. “I don’t know anybody she works with by sight.” He nodded.
There wasn’t much room to move; there were file boxes lined up against the wall, so I crossed behind the desk where there were more piles of folders and a computer. There were even more boxes at the foot of the windows, with another wall of file cabinets to the right.
I sat in her chair and looked around. There was a large map of Wyoming from the turn of the century in a heavy gilded frame. There were four ledger drawings that Henry had acquired for her flanking both sides, and an etching Joel Ostlind had done of Cloud Peak. I looked at the elegant simplicity of the etching and could feel the air and the cold wind of the west ridge.
On the desk, there was an old photograph of Cady with Martha after the chemotherapy had begun taking its toll. I studied the beautiful bone structure of the two women, mother and daughter, the brightness of their eyes, and the languid relaxation of their hands as they lay draped over each other’s shoulders. There was another of Henry standing with Dena Many Camps in traditional dress at the Little Bighorn reenactment. There was even one of Dog.
I suppose my disappointment was evident. “What is wrong?”
I waited a moment and then responded. “I know it’s stupid…but there aren’t any pictures of me.” I cleared my throat, hoping that maybe I wouldn’t sound so stupid and pathetic when I continued. “There aren’t any photographs of me at her house or here.” He was silent as he watched, watched the guilt of my misplaced emotions blunder forward like those of a wounded animal. “I just thought I was important enough in her life to support one or two photographs.”
He quietly reached across the desk and hit the space bar on the computer.
I raised my eyes, and the wave that hit me was like a wall of sentiment: wet, deep, and ancient. I sat there as the swell subsided, but the saltwater stayed in my eyes and blurred my vision.
It was a full-screen wallpaper of me with my head crushed against Cady’s, and it was obvious from the angle that she had taken the photo at arms length. We were both smiling, and her nose was stuck in my ear.
7
We had made it through only one box. The one thing we were able to discern was that Cady was involved with an awful lot of cases and that we knew little actual law.
Henry rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
I glanced back over my shoulder at City Hall. “Coming up on ten.”
He closed his folder. “We are looking for some personal connection in one of her cases?”
“Yep.”
“Someone who thinks that killing Devon Conliffe would help Cady?”
“Yep.”
“May I see the note again?” I pulled it from my pocket and handed it to him.
I waited, but he didn’t speak. I gestured toward the card. “We can deduce through this that the killer knows Cady, that the killer knew of Devon, and that the killer knows us.”
He was looking at a photograph of Cady and a young woman with long, dark hair. They were on horseback, and there was a sign that read Gladwyne Stables in the background. “A warning?”
“A threat?”
His eyes came back to mine. “And you think it is someone connected to her through work?”
“It’s the only criminal element that she has any contact with.” I shrugged. “When I’m looking for candy, I go to a candy store.” We looked at the boxes. He stood, moved toward the door, and stretched his back. “What are you doing?”
“I am going to go get two cups of coffee…” He turned the knob, opened the door, and slipped into the hallway. “And a lawyer.” Like a fool, I figured he would come back with only the coffee.
I leaned back in Cady’s chair and looked at the city stretching out along the Delaware River, the only dark band in what seemed like an ocean of diamonds on a velvet pad. It was easy to make out the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, with its blue cables and yellow buttresses stretching over to New Jersey, where I doubted life was any easier.
Who could have gotten him up there? The signs on the walkway said that the gates were closed and locked at 7 P.M., so it wasn’t a casual meeting. Somebody had wanted Devon Conliffe on that bridge, somebody who had wanted him dead.
I thought about the people I’d talked to earlier. Jimmie Tomko obviously held no great love for Devon, but in our brief interview he didn’t strike me as the type to toss people off bridges. It would be interesting to go to the firing range the next night to broaden the suspect pool. Ian O’Neil was intriguing-a young man with a past-and I figured he had a thing for Cady, but that’s about as far as that went as well.
I closed my eyes and listened to the skyscraper, to the elevators rattling up and down their shafts, to the retreating surf of the air conditioning, and to the building itself, sighing and shifting with the breeze like some colossal ship at dock.
I leaned back and felt as if I too were coming unmoored. Out of my element, it was possible that the deductive process I had always relied on was now leading me astray, or maybe it was just that I couldn’t stop thinking about Cady. I thought about walking over to the other side of the building to look out one of the windows so that I could find her. It felt like up here, with our ships anchored in the sky, I might be able to catch a glimpse of her as she used to be.
I could hear more than one pair of footsteps padding along the carpet. The door opened, and Henry stood there holding a bassinette; beside him stood a young woman with long, dark hair. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a western-style rhinestone belt; her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but she was the same woman as the one who was in the photograph.
“I got us a lawyer.” I stood up as he handed me a cup of coffee. He looked at the baby. “This is Riley Elizabeth Fitzpatrick, and this is Joanne Fitzpatrick, an associate of Cady’s.”
I noticed the way he used the word associate, like it was a friendship rather than being at the bottom of the firm’s food chain. Cady would have noticed, too. I took off my baseball cap and held out my hand. “Walt Longmire. I’m Cady’s father and potential felon.”
She laughed, then put her hand to her mouth and looked out the partially open doorway. She glanced at her daughter, Henry, and then me. “I understand you need some help.”
The current case on Cady’s agenda was one that involved the SEC and didn’t seem personal enough to get anybody thrown off a bridge. The only criminal case we had stumbled across so far was a pro bono one that concerned an inmate of Graterford Prison, a maximum-security facility in eastern Pennsylvania. He had a religious grievance, and Cady had named the file WHITE EYES. Henry was the first to ask. “How many Indian cases does the firm handle?”