He sighed deeply as Gowder changed lanes, took the unmarked car into the far lefthand one, and leveled off at an even ninety; evidently, wherever we were going, we were in a hurry.
Katz cleared his throat. “I’m trying to figure out if I have made a terrible mistake.”
I could feel my face redden a little. “No, you haven’t…”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’m trying to figure out if you are going to be an asset or a detriment.”
Gowder was watching me in the rearview mirror as I answered. “An asset. Cross my heart.”
Katz blinked for the first time. “We have about 350 homicides per annum here in Philadelphia, and we try to keep the number of police officers on that list to a minimum.” He glanced at Gowder, who might have smiled. His eyes returned to me. “Do you have any idea how lucky you were last night?”
“Probably not.”
He nodded. “Personally, I don’t think you have any idea, but since the Chief Inspector’s son was injured…”
“He stepped on a nail.” It was the first time Gowder had spoken, and Katz looked at him like he was a potted plant with blight. He stared at the side of Gowder’s head until Gowder leaned an elbow on the window ledge and covered the smile with his index finger.
After a moment, Katz looked at me again. “So, do you mind telling me how your adventures last night are going to aid in our investigation?”
“They’re not.”
He compressed his lips. “You can’t do things like that anymore.”
We rode along in silence, Katz studying me a while longer before handing me a manila envelope with more than a few files inside. I looked back up at the two of them as we rocketed down I-95. “Devon Conliffe?”
Katz spoke over his shoulder. “You’ve got thirty minutes.”
I opened the envelope. “Do you guys mind if I ask where we’re going?”
“The opera.” Gowder smiled, and the mole under his eye kicked up in the rearview mirror.
The Grand Opera House in Wilmington, Delaware, incorporated the same wedding-cake characteristics as Philadelphia’s City Hall but with slightly less drama, inside or out. French Second Empire with a cast-iron facade, it was lit from below with floodlights that highlighted the detail.
A grumpy, elderly gentleman was sitting on a stool in the lobby and ushered us into the main auditorium, where Gowder and I sat just below the balcony. Katz continued on into the dark of the theater to a large soundboard that straddled two rows at house center and tapped the stage manager on the shoulder.
The young woman pulled her earphones aside and spoke with him. He waited as she returned to her headset, prefacing and ending her conversation into it with the word “Maestro.” The seats were comfortable; I watched as Gowder propped his feet over the back of the next row, and I noticed that his socks did, indeed, match today’s ensemble. He whispered, with his head inclined toward me. “Where in the world did you get the idea for the crack house?”
I also whispered. “OIT.”
“What’s that?”
“Old Indian Trick.”
He smiled the becoming smile, and we watched the rehearsal. It was the end of Act II, where Monterone confronts the hunchback, reaffirming the curse he had placed on Rigoletto and the Duke. The irony of the father/daughter opera was not lost on me, and I could only hope that Cady and I would have a happier ending.
The scenery and costumes were brilliant, with the Duke’s salon and adjoining apartments drifting to the sixteenth-century Mantuan skyline. It was night, and the jester was watching as the tortured father was dragged away. Inspector Victor Moretti cut a bold figure as Monterone, in a torn robe stripped aside to reveal his lashed back. He was tall and lean like a Doberman, and even from this distance I could feel his eyes. Lena was right about his voice; Victor could sing his baritone ass off.
I watched and thought about the manila folder the two detectives had shared with me. The chain holding the gate to the north-side entrance of the bridge closed had been cut with a substantial pair of bolt-cutters, and there had been a scuff mark on the sidewalk next to the railing of the bridge that indicated that the perpetrator had worn leather-soled shoes or boots. There were no fingerprints at either location, and it was surmised that the killer had also worn gloves.
The decedent had been propelled over the railing and across the PATCO rail lines before landing in the alley below. Somebody had thrown Devon in an arch close to twenty feet before he fell. I would have suspected me, too.
The topper was Devon’s blood sample, which indicated that he was loaded with ketamine hydrochloride, otherwise known as Special K, a club drug that he had snorted in powder form. A chemical cousin to the animal tranquilizer PCP, ketamine creates a dreamlike state by binding the serotonin transmitters in the brain, consequently destroying the user’s ability to regulate mood, appetite, sleep, and temperature, but it supposedly feels good.
That was probably how Devon had been coerced onto the BFB late that night, in search of another hit; he’d got it, all right, and then had been thrown off the bridge. I was working on a Rasputin-like scenario when I noticed Detective Katz standing in the aisle with Verdi’s Monterone.
They were talking sharply, but sotto voce, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t in English. I looked at Gowder. “Are they speaking Italian?”
He nodded. “Asa does it to piss Victor off. His Italian is better.” He chuckled to himself. “He does everything he can to piss Victor off, including fuck his wife.”
I sat there for a moment and then turned in my seat. “What?” He didn’t have time to answer because the next thing we both knew, Chief Inspector Moretti was standing with his arms folded in the aisle in front of us. It could have been the stage makeup, but he seemed like the most intense person I’d met in quite a while. His hair flourished in a sweeping mane with eyebrows to match, and he wore a silvered goatee. With the torn robe and lacerated back, it was like meeting the returning Jesus Christ; a pissed-off, returning-like-a-lion Jesus Christ.
I smiled, but he didn’t. “Sheriff Longmire?”
I stuck my hand out. “Walt.”
He looked at my hand, then back at me, his voice flat and emotionless. “Sheriff, I’m terribly sorry about what has happened to your daughter.”
I let the hand drop. “Thank you.”
“But you must realize that you have no jurisdiction here in the city of Philadelphia or the state of Pennsylvania.”
“I am aware of that.” I was also aware that we were in Wilmington, Delaware, but figured now was a bad time to argue geographic discrepancies.
He glanced at both Gowder and Katz. “We have a number of very fine detectives assigned to the incident that concerns your daughter and to the one concerning Mr. Conliffe.” He paused for a moment. “You need to listen to this next part very carefully.” He unfolded his arms and placed his hands on the seat in front of me. “If I find that you have involved yourself in this case, in any way, I will have you in the Roundhouse so fast your eyes won’t have time to water.” He leaned in with his exposed and stage-makeupped chest. “Do you understand me?”
I nodded. “Yep, but before you get yourself all worked up, you better take a look at this.” I pulled the card from my shirt pocket and handed it to him.
He took the envelope and, to my unseen amusement, Katz lent him the designer glasses. He looked back up at me as the detectives gave me worried looks. “Where did this come from?”
“It was left in my daughter’s room. None of the staff had any idea who could have left it or when.”
He lowered the glasses and handed them back. “Did you know about this?”
I interrupted. “I asked them to let me tell you.”
He held the card a little higher. “So, from this, we are to assume that you are already involved.”
“It kind of looks that way.”
“Let’s make sure it stays in an unofficial capacity.”
“You bet.” I waited a moment. “But can I give you a piece of advice?” He didn’t move. “Monterone wouldn’t wear the Rolex.”
