“Could be. He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies.”
“In the aforementioned transaction, all the evidence disappeared from the holding unit, and that under Vince Osgood’s supervision.”
“What about Roosevelt Boulevard?”
I saw the mole kick up again, and I was sure he was smiling. “Easter Sunday, and Oz leaves the office with good friend and fellow attorney…”
“Devon Conliffe.”
“You got it.”
I glanced at Katz. “Easter morning?”
Gowder went on. “As they pull away, they notice that they are being followed by a Toyota station wagon occupied by two nonwhite males, approximately thirty years of age. Osgood pulls a sawed-off shotgun from the under the seat and rests it in his lap. Then he instructs Conliffe to take the 9 mm, which he keeps for insurance, from the glove box and be prepared for what happens next.” He took a deep breath, glanced at Katz, and continued. “Being a concerned citizen and aware that gunfire may result, Oz takes the exit at Fifth and pulls up at an abandoned lot in Fentonville…” His voice slowed for effect. “Three congested city miles from where they started. Oz’s initial statement was that they had decided to confront the individuals in a neutral area.”
I cleared my throat. “Going to a police station didn’t occur to them?”
“Evidently not.” Gowder eased his way around a slowpoke, and I noticed we were approaching ninety again. “Oz states that, after a brief but heated discussion punctuated by rapid small-arms fire, he saw the passenger’s head thrown back on impact and then the Toyota sped away.”
I had to ask. “What was Oz…?”
“A Hummer.”
I nodded. “I heard that Osgood also stated that they might have been KKK?”
“Yeah, his statements were a little confusing. Then Toy Diaz showed up at Temple University Hospital with numerous shotgun pellet wounds and a wounded Ramon Diaz, who had just done a three spot at Graterford.”
“Ramon any relation to Toy?”
He inclined his head to indicate I was a good student. “Brothers.”
“So it was revenge?”
Katz answered. “Well, that was the tack the U.S. District Court took, but Toy Diaz continued to state, with a great deal of emphasis, that it was an independent capitalistic venture that took a surprising turn.”
“Osgood didn’t want to pay for the drugs?”
“That was Diaz’s story, but since he is from El Salvador, and a four-time loser on assorted drug charges, his statements were taken with the proverbial grain of judicial salt.”
“Where is Toy Diaz?”
“Good question.”
“What’d Devon Conliffe say?”
Gowder laughed. “He said whatever Osgood said, and whenever Oz’s story changed, he said that, too.”
Katz studied me. I glanced up and watched the lights of Penn’s Landing reflect from his glasses. “So, Osgood was suspended?”
It was quiet in the Crown Vic as we took the off-ramp just past the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. “Yes, but he has a lot of friends in the city.” There was a moment’s pause as we stopped at a red light. “I assume we’re taking you to your daughter’s place, but if you need to go to the hospital we can drop you there.”
“Actually, as much as I’d rather go to the hospital, I need to go to a gun shop up on Spring Garden.”
They were both looking at me now.
When we got to Tactical Training Specialists, I had Gowder pull into the secured and packed parking lot and waited as he released the locks. There were no handles on the inside, so I waited for them to let me out. “Graterford.”
Gowder was looking at me, and it was a relief to see his entire face. “What?”
“It might be nothing, but there was a pro bono case that Cady was working on when we went through the papers at her office; something about Graterford. A white Indian.” I thought about it for a moment. “William White Eyes.”
They both looked at me blankly, Gowder cocking his head in disbelief. “A white Indian?”
“I’ve been told that it’s not that unusual.”
“By who?”
I folded my hands in my lap. “This guy White Eyes was trying to arrange for a sweat lodge in Graterford through the freedom of religious expression legislation. It was a pro bono case Cady had worked on, the only criminal case I could find.”
Katz shook his head. “There are four thousand guys up in Graterford…”
“It could be nothing, but I thought I should mention it.”
“William White Eyes?” I nodded. Katz wrote the name in a small note pad. “We’ll check it out.”
I stepped out, and Katz closed my door. “Thank you.”
“Hey, you’re doing us a favor.” He noticed the bright yellow Hummer parked alongside the building. “Want company?”
I looked back, thought about what Gowder had intimated about Lena Moretti, and looked at Katz with new eyes. “No, I think I’ll get better responses in my official unofficial capacity.”
Gowder’s voice caught me as I approached the wire-mesh, steel security door. “Hey, Sheriff?” I stopped and half-turned to look at the detective, still seated in the cruiser. “Is that a government-issue Colt. 45 I see in a pancake holster at the small of your back?”
I stood there for a moment. “Why? Does it make me look fat?”
The party was in full swing. I was in a side hallway with Jimmie Tomko, and I could hear music playing and the excited sound of young people’s voices, younger than me at least. I held up a finger, pulled out Cady’s cell phone, and called Lena. She said there was no change but that she wanted dinner at the end of her shift. I told her it was still her pick and that Henry had promised to be there in an hour. I told her I’d met Vic the Father, and she said she was sorry. I left out the part about who had introduced us.
I’ve spent a lot of time in gun ranges but never one like this. The entire shooters’ area was carpeted, and the walls were paneled with black walnut and decorated with green-matted Currier and Ives hunting scenes illuminated by turtleshell sconces. There was a bar, but all I saw were water bottles and nonalcoholic beer. The back wall was lined with tufted leather sectionals that gave spectators an unobstructed view of the seven firing ranges in front of them.
The place was crowded, and I stepped back as a diminutive blonde with a 9 mm Beretta approached. I looked at the congestion and then at Tomko. “Are they all lawyers?” He nodded, the glass eye drifting off. “Good time to spray for ’em.”
I tried to find a familiar face, finally recognizing a striking, dark-haired woman at the bar. As the blonde half-pointed the Beretta at our feet, I released Jimmie Tomko to his appointed rounds. “Greta, you need to not point the weapon toward…”
I turned sideways and made my way past the staging table, all the while trying to spot someone who could be Vince Osgood. They were an attractive crowd, well-dressed and coiffed, but they were lawyers, not paupers, so it was to be expected.
There was a tall man holding forth at the center firing range, his voice probably sounding normal to his muffed ears and in competition to the hip-hop music. There was a small man standing with him, and I was starting to think it odd that no one was firing when the blonde who had aimed at my feet let rip with a scattered salvo, only two rounds out of fourteen striking the paper silhouette. Jimmie Tomko raised an eyebrow at me; just in case, I kept my front toward the range to keep from being shot.
I watched as the short Latino peeled away from the tall guy so that he would intersect with me about halfway across the crowded floor. I tried to step to one side, but he countered, and we were nose to sternum. I nodded an apology and stepped to the right, just as he did. I was struck by the precision of his appearance, how defined his hair and clothes seemed. As he looked up, I noticed that his pupils were very large and that they gave his face a lifeless quality.
His voice was soft and cultured. “Pardon.”
“No, my fault.” He slipped to the side before I could continue the conversation and watched me as I made my way across the room.