I looked back at the Indians. “Sure.”
She tossed her stick into the trash can as well and stood; she looked exactly like Vic. “My pick.”
I put Lena in a cab and grabbed one going in the opposite direction for myself. It didn’t take long to get to Spring Garden, and I felt a release doing something to track down some answers.
Tactical Training Specialists was the only going concern on the block, with gratings over the windows and a door that would have been more appropriate back home at Fort Fetter-man; it didn’t look like the best part of town. The sign on the glass read “Retail Handgun Sales-New and Used, Home Defense Classes, Indoor Shooting Range, and Basic through Advanced Training.” There was an adjacent parking lot with a side entrance that probably led to the range. I tried to remember what Cady had said about the instructor but could only come up with him being ex- army and a pretty good shot. I wondered casually how he handled throwing bodies over bridges.
I pushed the door open and an entry bell sounded. There was every gun I’d ever seen lined against the walls all the way to the back of the place. Glass-topped counters held the handguns, while the rifles and shotguns stood at attention, chained to the racks behind the counters. There were displays of body armor and home security sensors with locks and alarms at the center of the shop along with three-dimensional targets and gun safes.
“Can I help you?”
Jimmie Tomko was a little younger than I was, of average height and build with a light complexion and pattern balding that did nothing to hide the fact that he was missing his left ear; it also looked like he had a glass eye. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter and to my right, where he could see whoever walked in before they could see him. I noticed he was wearing a shoulder holster with a Kimber. 45 and was reading the Daily News, which was folded back to the second page and the continuation of the Devon Conliffe saga.
I extended my hand. “Walt Longmire. My daughter is Cady Longmire.”
He smiled without parting his lips. “Hello, Sheriff.”
We went to his office, which overlooked the firing range, and he told me about his experiences in Quang Tri Province, which ended with a pressure-detonated mine made from one of our duds, a 105-millimeter round that had been booby-trapped. “Roughly two platoons had walked right by the damn thing, and I was next to last when the guy beside me stepped on something, and I turned.” He gestured toward his left eye. “Poached my eye just like an egg. They say the sand was probably the only thing that saved me and the guy in front of us.” I didn’t ask about the fellow who had stepped on it.
Not for the first time, I was anxious to get out of Vietnam, so I changed the subject. “Jimmie, how long have you had this place?”
“Since ’77.” He gestured toward the shooting gallery. “Put the firing range in about ten years ago, and it’s been the only thing that saved my butt.”
“That many people want to learn how to shoot?”
“There’s that, but it’s also the permits.” I looked at him questioningly. “A lot of these yuppies want concealed permits, but the chances of getting one in the city, even with training, are about as likely as Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command.”
I vaguely remembered an instance in the city involving the ex-mayor, a helicopter, a bomb, and a housing project, and deduced that getting a concealed weapon permit in Philadelphia was nigh on impossible. “So, can they get limited permits through you?”
“Yeah, that way they get to transport the weapon to and from the premises within a locked case in the trunk of their car, ammo separate.”
“I gather that some of them have been abusing the privilege?”
He sighed. “I had been making good money until we had a prominent assistant district attorney who unloaded on a Toyota station wagon on Roosevelt Boulevard. He said a couple of guys had chased him at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.”
I thought about it. “I wasn’t aware that Toyota station wagons could go a hundred miles an hour.”
“He said it was drug dealers.”
I thought about it some more. “Is the Toyota station wagon the vehicle of choice for Philadelphia drug dealers?”
“No. So then he said it could have been the KKK, except that in the earlier statement he said the two occupants were not white.” Tomko watched me with the one eye. “Now, there could be two nonwhite members of the KKK cruising around Philly in a Japanese station wagon, but…”
“There’s just as much a chance of Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command?”
“Exactly.” I was getting the hang of it. “Now, you are probably wondering why it is that I have told you this story.” He angled the front page of the paper toward me.
I stared at him. “Devon Conliffe?”
He nodded. “He was in the car with ADA Vince Osgood, a buddy of his.”
“What were they doing being chased by drug dealers?”
“There were a lot of questions along those lines.” He dropped the corner of the paper back on his desk. “Surprise, surprise, the charges were dropped. I think it might have been because Devon’s father, the judge, had pull with the court.”
“His father?” Tomko nodded. “And Devon still came here?”
“Lawyer League. They all come in on Thursdays.” He sat back in his chair and leaned a scarred chin on his fist. “They didn’t cancel his permit and, like I said, all the charges were dropped.”
I thought about the judge’s son. “So he might have been involved in some things he shouldn’t have been.”
“It’s likely.”
“Can you think of anybody who might’ve wanted to kill him?” The one eye stared at me for a while. “Besides me.”
“About half of Philadelphia.” He looked away for a second. “Look, I know your daughter was dating the guy, but he was a piece of shit. Did you ever see the two of ’em together?”
“No.”
“Not for nothin’, but it was like she was his personal servant.” His eye came back to me. “Why don’t you ask your daughter?”
I studied him but could tell nothing. “I’m saving that as a last resort.”
He nodded. “I’m not so sure why it is you’re concerned; best thing that could’ve happened to her.” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Sheriff, in case you hadn’t noticed, your daughter is quite a looker, intelligent, and possibly one of the best shots I’ve ever had the pleasure of not teaching.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s none of my business, but I think she’s a lot better off.”
I withheld comment. “You mind if I come in tomorrow night?”
“Nah, but there’s a guest fee, thirty bucks plus ammo. What d’ya shoot?”
“A. 45 ACP.”
He nodded; the caliber probably reminded him of Quang Tri, land mines, and poached eggs.
It was close to one o’clock when I got back to the hospital. “When do I get to meet the mother?”
I ignored Henry and watched Cady. “Anything?”
“No, but I sang to her all morning.”
I sat down. “Thank you.”
His eyes stayed on Cady. “She hears us.”
I had thought about it a great deal, but I wasn’t sure. “You think?”
“Yes.” He exhaled a short laugh. “This may be your only chance to get the first, middle, and last word.” He looked at me now, his eyes steady. “She must hear our voices so that she can return to us.”
I thought what a wonder it was that this individual should be with me, here, now. Even as a child, he had always known something the rest of us didn’t. I thought about the book I’d brought from Wyoming, the love-worn collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Maybe I could read her that. “Well, I don’t sing. Any suggestions on what I should say?”
He smiled. “Tell her how much you love her; everything after that is small talk.”
