years.”
I bought some upper-tier tickets from a guy standing behind an abandoned magazine stand on the corner of 11th and Pattison. I handed Henry a ticket and stuffed the rest of my money back in my wallet.
We were undercover. The Cheyenne Nation was resplendent in jeans, his weathered chambray shirt, and a pair of running shoes. He had bought a Phillies hat as we’d gotten off the subway at Broad and had tucked his substantial ponytail over the adjustable strap in the back. He could have been from Philadelphia; he could have been a very large Indian from Philadelphia, but he could have been from Philadelphia. I was blending in even better. I had left my hat at the hospital on Lena Moretti’s head, had purchased a natty fitted cap and a vast red-satin jacket from the Broad Street vendor, and now approached the major league ballpark looking like a British phone booth.
“What if he is not here?”
“Then we watch a ball game.” The tiny terror was creeping in on me again, even though we had checked with Lena no more than ten minutes earlier. She said that eleven lawyers from Cady’s firm had stopped in, that even David Calder-the Calder of Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind-had been to visit. Lena said she had recognized him from Philadelphia Inquirer society page photographs, that he was ancient but that he liked my cowboy hat. She also said that Cady was resting comfortably but had shown no signs of change.
We gave our tickets to the lady at the turnstile and walked into the broad interior thoroughfare of the ballpark. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the environs, with the Kentucky bluegrass below- street-level playing field, giant scoreboard, and a capacity approximately one-tenth that of Wyoming’s entire population, but I had other things on my mind.
I bought a scorecard and a stubby pencil from a vendor and stepped onto the metal treads of the escalator for the ride up. Henry lingered behind me. “Do we know which luxury suite?”
I shrugged. “How many can there be?”
There were seventy-three, to be exact. This we discovered from a kindly octogenarian in a red straw hat and vest. The Bear also asked what we should do if we were invited to stop by one of the luxury boxes but had no tickets? He said we should call our friends and have them meet us at the back of the secured area at the rear of that level.
We went up. Henry paused at a railing and looked across center field toward the skyline of the city. “Do all the larger law firms have sky boxes?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Do Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind have a box?”
It’s thinking like this that kicked Custer’s ass.
I held out my hand for his cell phone, a device at which I had become a past master. I only slightly felt the twinge at seeing CADY/WORK just before I pushed the button. “Schomberg, Calder, Dallin, and Rhind, Cady Longmire’s office, can I help you?”
“Patti, it’s Walt.”
There was no pause, and her voice lowered. “The police were here, asking questions.”
“Was the name Moretti?”
“No, a detective by the name of Katz. He left his card.”
“Patti…?”
“There was a black guy with him. He didn’t leave a card, but I think he was a detective, too.”
“Patti?”
“They asked a lot of questions about her and Devon…”
I let her wind down. “Patti, I need some help.”
It was quiet. “What do you need?”
I explained that we were on a little investigative junket of our own and was wondering if the firm had a luxury suite at the ballpark. She assured me that they did and, after a brief consultation, reported that it was being used by a couple of city council people today but that there were seats still available. I asked her how we could get in, and she said to check the Phillies community relations office in five minutes.
The older lady at the double glass doors smiled as she tore our tickets and handed us the stubs. “Enjoy the game.”
The gallery that provided entrance to the luxury suites was a carpeted hallway that arched around the balcony from foul pole to foul pole. We were in suite 38, and as luck would have none of it, we were right there. When I glanced into the box, I could see two brassy-looking older women drinking beer out of plastic cups that would have looked more at home strapped to a horse’s nose.
One turned and looked at me, nudging her friend with the frizzy orange hair. “Franny, look, boys!”
I stood with my head in the doorway, not sure of what to say, finally settling on a western favorite: “Howdy.” In retrospect, it probably sounded a little odd coming from someone who looked like the assistant carbohydrate coach of the Phils.
I left Henry to entertain as I excused myself to get something to drink. Bernice said that they had waitresses, but I told her I didn’t want to wait that long.
There were small nameplates beside the doors of each suite, so it was just a question of finding the right firm. I was relying on a distant phone conversation I had had with Cady months earlier when she mentioned where Devon was employed. I remembered it was Somebody and Somebody, as opposed to the Somebody, Somebody, Somebody, and Somebody of Cady’s firm. I remembered that they were not particularly memorable names and, about a third of the way around, I read “HUNT AND DRISCOLL.”
I slipped my scorecard from my back pocket and pulled the pencil from behind my ear when I heard the announcer roar through the starting lineups. I was, after all, undercover. I leaned against the far railing, which gave me a decent view of suite 51. A few people passed by, but I feigned concentration and raised my head only after they had all passed.
I could make out the backs of three young men sitting on the arm rails of their luxury box chairs. They were talking, but I couldn’t hear the conversation clearly. Having never met Devon was putting me at a disadvantage, but fortune took a hand in the form of a young woman in short pants and an abbreviated, torso-baring Phillies T-shirt. “Miss?”
She was another south Philly gem, with mall-chick hair, blue eye shadow, and rounded vowels. “Yeah?”
“Could I get you to do me a favor?”
“Prolly.”
I took this for probably, tucked the scorecard under my arm along with the pencil, and pulled a crisp twenty from my wallet by way of the Durant State Bank ATM. “Could I get you to take the largest beer you’ve got in to a young man in that suite by the name of Devon Conliffe?” She took the twenty, which was a lot even by ballpark standards. “It’s important that he not know who it’s from.”
“Wa’s goin’ on?”
I duly translated and responded. “It’s a surprise.”
She looked at me for a moment more and then looked at the twenty in her hand. “Awright.”
“When you get done, I’ll be over there, and there’s another twenty in it if you tell me his response.” She practically left skid marks.
Henry met me in the stairwell. “I am not going back in there.”
“Okay.”
He looked around, and I noticed that his eyes were dark searchlights scanning the distance and calculating all the odds. “Is he here?”
“I’m about to find out.” We waited as the young woman entered the suite; there was a loud cry of drunken insouciance, and she rapidly reappeared without the beer. I pulled another twenty and handed it to her as she tucked her serving tray under her arm. “Success?”
“Friends a youse?”
“Not exactly.”
She glanced at Henry and then glanced again; I was used to it. “I did like you said an’ tole him it was a secret admirer.”
“Tall kid, brown hair?”
She looked at me. “More blond.”
