I thought of the old medicine man that I had seen in my dreams and heard the words that had lifted the two of us above the canyon on the wind that had cleansed and combed the high plains. “How can you know the earth if you do not see her?”
Under the buffalo robes, where the earth would have been if the teepee had been in Wyoming, was a parfleche satchel painted with bright geometric shapes and decorated with horsehair and the tiny cone bells that the Cheyenne call axaxevo. I moved back toward the opening so I could see, untied the strips of leather that held the satchel closed, and pulled out two actual ledgers. I opened the top one, and it was a full accounting of some kind of business dealing and was written entirely in a language I recognized but could not read.
I looked up to see Vic’s outline in the opening. “No sign of him.”
I nodded and took as big a breath as my ribs would allow. “I’ve got something here.” I closed the book and placed it carefully on top of the portfolio. “But I’m not sure exactly what it is.”
Once I’d wriggled my way outside, I set the book on my lap and opened it to a random page. Everyone looked, and Vic kneeled in front of me, but Gowder was the first to speak. “What language is that?”
“It’s Cheyenne. The teepee design is Assiniboine, that marker is Crow…It seems to me that William White Eyes is having trouble deciding what tribe he wants to be when he grows up.” I turned a few pages. “He strikes me as a very bright guy.”
“First in his class at University of Pennsylvania, majored in mathematics.”
Vic was quick with the response. “So, he’s a fucking Fortune 500 drug dealer?”
Meifert ignored her. “His father is an investment broker who is listed in Who’s Who, but his mother died when he was a child-abducted and murdered, strangled up near East Falls in the mideighties. The case wasn’t ever solved, probably drugs involved.”
“What was the mother’s name?”
“Candace Carlisle. She…”
I interrupted with a question. “Did you just say that his mother’s name was Carlisle?” Meifert nodded. I turned to look up at Gowder, who suddenly found the windows of interest. “So, his surname is Carlisle?”
Meifert nodded. “Yeah.”
“William Carlisle is Billy Carlisle, who was arrested with Shankar DuVall for trying to sell steamer trunks full of Schedule 1 of the Controlled Substance Act out of the back of an ice cream truck?” I carefully stood, walked over to Gowder, and stepped between him and the windows. “Billy Carlisle, who was in business with Shankar DuVall and Toy Diaz, whose brother was shot by Assistant District Attorney Vince ‘Oz’ Osgood in the presence of the recently deceased Devon Conliffe?” Gowder still wasn’t looking at me. “The same Billy Carlisle who was represented in his pro bono appeals case by my daughter?” I turned, and my voice echoed. “Billy Carlisle is William White Eyes?”
Katz looked at Gowder and finally nodded. “Yes.”
I shook my head. “Is there anything else in this little partnership of ours that you’re not telling me?”
Gowder looked at Katz. “Devon Conliffe was about to turn state’s evidence and implicate Oz, which will take us a little further than the current indictment and suspension.”
I stood there for a while, allowing all the lines to connect. “Then it’s Osgood.”
Gowder shook his head. “Not possible.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I was with him at the fund-raiser the night Conliffe was killed.”
I was fully irritated now. “Then he had it done.”
Katz was watching me. “By whom?”
I was yelling now. “Toy Diaz by way of Shankar DuVall, I’d imagine!”
“You don’t have to raise your voice.” We stood there, looking at each other. “They don’t owe him any favors, and they’re not on the best of terms anymore.”
I stepped toward all of them. The ache in my ribs had receded with the increase of my anger. “Then how about William Carlisle White Eyes?”
Katz adjusted his glasses again. “It occurred to us.”
I wondered if I was up to throwing the two of them out the open window. “Partnership’s over.”
I started lumbering toward the stairwell, with Vic coming up behind me as Katz spoke. “What about the third note?”
Vic called over her shoulder. “If we find it, I’ll stop by and personally shove it up your ass.”
I only lasted two flights. Vic sat beside me on the flaking gray paint of the tread’s metal surface. After catching my breath, I spoke in a low voice. “That was stupid.”
She nodded and smiled. “I bet you feel better.”
“Not really.”
“Look, I know both these guys and, if it means anything, I don’t think they took it to heart. Anyway, they’re going to want to know about the third note, so I bet you’re forgiven by the time we get to the sidewalk.”
She was right.
Katz was waiting at the truck dock with his hands in his pockets and the ledgers under one arm. “We need that third note.”
I leaned against the concrete shelf with my good side. “Yep, and people in hell need ice water.”
He closed his eyes and gave the sun his face. “Nice day for it.”
“Where’s your playmate?”
“Caught a ride with Meifert; he’s decided you don’t like him.” Katz smiled. “On account of you getting in his face and yelling at him. He’s not used to that.”
“I’m sorry.”
He opened one eye and looked at Vic, who was standing beside me. “Yelling one of those law enforcement techniques you learned out in Wyoming?”
She was now sunbathing as well. “Yeah, that and lunch.”
Katz nodded. “Terminal?”
“Yeah.”
I hoped it was a location and not a result.
The Reading Terminal Market on 12th and Arch was created in 1892 when the Reading Railroad opened markets below the elevated tracks of the new train shed. It had consistently housed an undetermined amount of aromas since then by creating a gastronomic bazaar conveniently located at street level.
We walked past the Amish baked goods, farm produce, and fresh flowers to a little diner and sat on red leatherette stools at a stainless steel counter. I was in the middle and noticed that neither Vic nor Katz had picked up a menu. A heavyset woman of uncertain age and in oversized overalls set rolled flatware, glasses of ice water, and three cups of coffee in front of us. “What’ll it be, hon?”
The wave of nostalgia for the Busy Bee overtook me, and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “The usual.”
She nodded. Evidently, it was a universal.
Katz slid one of the ledgers onto the counter, opened it, and glanced at the incomprehensible text. “So, you know where we can find an expert on Native American languages?”
I sipped my steaming coffee. “It just so happens…” I set it down to cool and took a closer look at the book. “He should be at the Academy; said he had to put the final touches on the exhibit.”
“Isn’t the reception tonight?”
“Yep.” I glanced at Vic. “But don’t you have to go to the opera?”
She rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease…”
I looked back at Katz. “Henry can translate.” I looked at the ledger to give him a little room. “Why didn’t you tell me William White Eyes is Billy Carlisle?”
“It’s IAD, special prosecutor for the DA’s office, and we really weren’t able to come forth with any of the information connecting the two.”
“Fair enough.” I lined up the suspects and started supposing. “Vince Osgood and Toy Diaz are in business.”
“It’s possible.” I looked at him, and he shrugged. “It’s likely.”
“Devon Conliffe, my daughter’s almost-fiance, was a hophead and a friend of Osgood.”
“Yes. And Devon was the money launderer.”
I nodded and stared at my coffee. “That makes sense. So, Osgood goes to bat for Shankar DuVall in his official capacity, leaving Carlisle/White Eyes to linger in Graterford.”