killed eight hours later a block and a half from where your daughter lives, and there you are without a strong alibi.” He laced his fingers together and looked at me from over the top of them. “We’ve done a little research and know everything there is to know about you. Marine investigator, one silver, one bronze star, Navy Cross…You’re a regular Audie Murphy.”
“Don’t forget my merit badge in macrame.”
He studied me for a moment and then continued. “More than a quarter century in law enforcement with backing from the state attorney general’s office, the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation, and the governor of Wyoming, all of whom seem to think you walk on rarified air.”
I watched the two of them. “So, what do you want from me?”
Gowder smiled again; I was trying to get sick of it, but it was a great smile. “We both have a half-dozen homicides in a case load…”
They needed an ally. The things you can always count on in law enforcement are that you’ll be underpaid, overworked, and looking for somebody to jump in the foxhole with you. “You guys hiring?”
Katz raised his head, and he was smiling, too. “We thought you might be able to assist us in that you have an advantageous position in connection with the case.”
I’d never get away with a statement like that in Wyoming. “You bet.”
We agreed to meet again in wind or rain, fair or foul, but mostly tomorrow at breakfast. They told me to keep Cady’s phone. I asked if I got a Junior G-Man ring, but they reminded me of the budget cuts.
When I got to Cady’s, Dog was happy to see me and was even happier when I found the extension cord that hung on the hook by the door. Clouds continued to threaten but nothing fell. I walked him up Race and took a left on Independence; there was a locked gate on the north side of the bridge. I looked at the open south-side walkway and decided to at least give it a try. There were two cruisers and a van from the crime lab unit still there.
I could see what Gowder had meant. There was a substantial railing and a light-rail track’s width across the high-speed train line, and only then the street below. Would have taken quite a throw; I figured Devon must have been moving about forty miles an hour when he hit the alley. The walkways looked to be twenty feet across, so there had been plenty of space to launch him, but who would he have trusted to join him that late at night?
There was a patrolman from the other side yelling at me to move on; he must not have gotten the memo. I waved and took Dog back down the walkway. At the bottom, we found a quirky subterranean passageway to the other side. We emerged just past the locked gate on the north and continued to street level, cut back on New Street, passed Saint George’s United Methodist Church, crossed Second, and stopped where the police barricade blocked the alley.
There was a chubby cop eating an honest-to-God donut. His collar insignia said unit 6, which I had learned was Cady’s district. He seemed like the friendly type, so I asked him what had happened.
He looked at Dog, the extension cord, and me. “You’re not from aroun’ here, are ya?”
I was going to have to lose the cowboy hat and get Dog a leash. “Visiting my daughter.”
“She live aroun’ here?”
“Over on Bread.”
“Well, if the jumper had been so inclined, she could’ve had a hole for a skylight.” He fed the last part of his donut to Dog. “Some society kid from out on tha…” He clinched his jaw for the imitative effect. “Main Line.” He licked his fingers after feeding Dog, and I liked him.
“Seems like an odd place to jump.”
He looked back. “Yeah, they usually go out over the water. Who knows, maybe he couldn’t swim.” He scratched Dog’s head as the beast looked around for more donut. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Cady Longmire. She bought the little tannery behind Paddy O’Neil’s.”
He nodded. “O’Neil’s I know.” His name plate read O’Connor. “Ian got it from his uncle ’bout a year ago. He runs a clean place, jus’ don’ talk politics.”
“IRA?”
“With a vengeance. You Irish?”
“Isn’t everybody?” I looked past him toward the crime lab truck parked in the alley. “You guys stuck here long?”
“Nah, we’ll be outta here this afternoon.” I made a mental note and walked Dog on down the street. “I’ll keep an eye out for your daughter.”
I half turned. “Thanks.”
By the time we got back down Race, O’Neil’s was ready for business. I stood at the propped-open side entrance with Dog and heard noise from behind the bar. “Anybody home?”
Almost immediately, hisself popped up. “’Ello.”
I gestured toward Dog. “You mind if we come in?”
He paused for a moment. “It’s against city laws, but there’s n’body ’ere. C’mon in.” I sat on the stool nearest the side entrance, and Dog curled up in the doorway. “What’ll ye have?”
“How about an Irish coffee minus the Irish?”
He smiled. “One American coffee comin’ up.” He poured two and joined me, leaning on an elbow and extending his other hand. I noticed scars on his forearm along with the rows of Celtic snake tattoos coiling up and into his black T-shirt. “We waren’t properly introduced las’ night. Ian O’Neil.”
I shook the proffered hand. “Walt Longmire.”
He leaned over to get a look at Dog. “Who’s the beastie?”
“His name is Dog.” He looked at me. “Honest.”
“How’s ya daughter doin’?”
“A little better.” I changed the subject just to see if he’d trail along and looked behind me toward the bridge. “Looks like they’ve got some business?”
When I looked back, he was still looking at me. “Aye, somethin’ ta do wi’ tha boy that fell.”
“What do you know about that?”
He reached down the bar for a copy of the Daily News and tossed it in front of me. “Only what I read in tha newspapers.” There was a portrait photograph of Devon Conliffe and another of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge; the headline read JUDGE’S SON DIES IN BRIDGE FALL. The brawny young Irishman leaned in the way I had last night. “Sheriff, if ye wanna drink or a bite ta eat, yer more then welcome, but if yer in ’ere playin’ policeman, I’d just as soon ye go somewhere else.” He smiled to show me there were no hard feelings.
I smiled back, feeling like a complete ass. “Sorry.”
He reached behind for a bottle of Jamison’s and poured a dollop into his coffee. “I don’ see how ye can drink tha’ stuff without assistance.” He held the bottle out to me, but I shook my head. “So, yer tryin’ to find out who killed yer daughter’s boyo?”
“Something like that.” I took a sip of my coffee. “What makes you think it wasn’t suicide?”
He snorted. “He was a prick. If nobody killed ’im, they should’ve.” He set his coffee cup down and looked at it. “Look, Sheriff…I don’t need any trouble. I’ve had me share between Ireland for the Irish an’ Ireland for the Catholics. Now is jus’ an Irish bar, know wha’ I mean?”
When I got back to Cady’s place, I began my investigation by going through the mail I had been dumping on the kitchen counter. There were the usual bills and junk but nothing pertinent. There was a calendar on the side of the refrigerator; I had forgotten about the shooting club until I saw that Thursdays had been marked. I tried to think of the street that Cady had mentioned on the phone and finally came up with Spring-something. I fished around in her desk drawer and pulled out five inches of Philadelphia Yellow Pages, flipped to GUNS, and found the subheading “Safety amp; Markmanship.” There were a half-dozen, but only one was on Spring Garden Street. It was listed as Tactical Training Specialists.
I copied the address and number onto the note pad on which Lena had written all my messages and looked at the phone. It was too early to call anybody in Wyoming except Ruby, who was always on duty early.
“Absaroka County Sheriff’s Office.”
“It’s me.”
It was quiet on the line. “How is she?”
