papers at her office; something about Graterford. A white Indian.” I thought about it for a moment. “William White Eyes.”
They both looked at me blankly, Gowder cocking his head in disbelief. “A white Indian?”
“I’ve been told that it’s not that unusual.”
“By who?”
I folded my hands in my lap. “This guy White Eyes was trying to arrange for a sweat lodge in Graterford through the freedom of religious expression legislation. It was a pro bono case Cady had worked on, the only criminal case I could find.”
Katz shook his head. “There are four thousand guys up in Graterford…”
“It could be nothing, but I thought I should mention it.”
“William White Eyes?” I nodded. Katz wrote the name in a small note pad. “We’ll check it out.”
I stepped out, and Katz closed my door. “Thank you.”
“Hey, you’re doing us a favor.” He noticed the bright yellow Hummer parked alongside the building. “Want company?”
I looked back, thought about what Gowder had intimated about Lena Moretti, and looked at Katz with new eyes. “No, I think I’ll get better responses in my official unofficial capacity.”
Gowder’s voice caught me as I approached the wire-mesh, steel security door. “Hey, Sheriff?” I stopped and half-turned to look at the detective, still seated in the cruiser. “Is that a government-issue Colt. 45 I see in a pancake holster at the small of your back?”
I stood there for a moment. “Why? Does it make me look fat?”
The party was in full swing. I was in a side hallway with Jimmie Tomko, and I could hear music playing and the excited sound of young people’s voices, younger than me at least. I held up a finger, pulled out Cady’s cell phone, and called Lena. She said there was no change but that she wanted dinner at the end of her shift. I told her it was still her pick and that Henry had promised to be there in an hour. I told her I’d met Vic the Father, and she said she was sorry. I left out the part about who had introduced us.
I’ve spent a lot of time in gun ranges but never one like this. The entire shooters’ area was carpeted, and the walls were paneled with black walnut and decorated with green-matted Currier and Ives hunting scenes illuminated by turtleshell sconces. There was a bar, but all I saw were water bottles and nonalcoholic beer. The back wall was lined with tufted leather sectionals that gave spectators an unobstructed view of the seven firing ranges in front of them.
The place was crowded, and I stepped back as a diminutive blonde with a 9 mm Beretta approached. I looked at the congestion and then at Tomko. “Are they all lawyers?” He nodded, the glass eye drifting off. “Good time to spray for ’em.”
I tried to find a familiar face, finally recognizing a striking, dark-haired woman at the bar. As the blonde half- pointed the Beretta at our feet, I released Jimmie Tomko to his appointed rounds. “Greta, you need to not point the weapon toward…”
I turned sideways and made my way past the staging table, all the while trying to spot someone who could be Vince Osgood. They were an attractive crowd, well-dressed and coiffed, but they were lawyers, not paupers, so it was to be expected.
There was a tall man holding forth at the center firing range, his voice probably sounding normal to his muffed ears and in competition to the hip-hop music. There was a small man standing with him, and I was starting to think it odd that no one was firing when the blonde who had aimed at my feet let rip with a scattered salvo, only two rounds out of fourteen striking the paper silhouette. Jimmie Tomko raised an eyebrow at me; just in case, I kept my front toward the range to keep from being shot.
I watched as the short Latino peeled away from the tall guy so that he would intersect with me about halfway across the crowded floor. I tried to step to one side, but he countered, and we were nose to sternum. I nodded an apology and stepped to the right, just as he did. I was struck by the precision of his appearance, how defined his hair and clothes seemed. As he looked up, I noticed that his pupils were very large and that they gave his face a lifeless quality.
His voice was soft and cultured. “Pardon.”
“No, my fault.” He slipped to the side before I could continue the conversation and watched me as I made my way across the room.
Joanne Fitzpatrick’s eyes locked with mine as I lumbered up to her. “Hey, Jo.” I looked around for effect. “What’re you doing here?”
She smiled. “I thought you would be happy to see a friendly face.”
She didn’t have one of the cases that most of people in the room carried. “You don’t shoot?”
“No.”
“Me either.” She laughed, and the smile was an exact replica of the one that was in the horseback photo in Cady’s office. I took one of the bottled waters from the bar and glanced back over my shoulder, but the tiny man was gone. “Do you know that guy I was just dancing with?”
“Who?”
“The little guy?”
“No.”
I nodded my head at the tall man at center. “Is that Osgood?” She nodded slightly. “He doesn’t seem real broke up about his buddy Devon.”
She leaned in. “No, he doesn’t.”
About that time, Osgood unloaded his 9 mm into the paper target at the center of the firing range. The kid was pretty good. There was a smattering of applause as he turned and took a perfunctory bow, taking just an extra moment to glance at me.
I turned back to Jo. “C’mon, I’ll teach you how to shoot.”
Tomko handed me a tray with a box of. 45 ACPs and a questioning look until I patted the small of my back. By the time I made my way to the other side of the room, Osgood was openly watching me. I gave him a tight- lipped smile and a nod, but he didn’t respond.
I set Jo up at range 7 along the wall in hopes that numerology would be on our side. “I’ve never done this before.”
I unsnapped the thumb strap from the Colt at my back, pulled it, and placed it on the counter with the slide group locked in the open position and the magazine removed. “That’s what they all say.” I palmed the seven-shot clip in my hand, dropped it to my side, and told her to pick up the. 45.
“It looks old.”
“Older than you.” After getting her acquainted with the particularities of the weapon, she adopted a wide stance with her arms extended; we both now wore the hearing protectors that had been hanging in the stall.
She squeezed the trigger as instructed, and the big Colt jumped in her hands; it was pointed at the ceiling, but I caught her shoulder. She peered at the paper target but could see no effect, unaware that the gun hadn’t fired. I pulled one of her ear cups back. “You flinched.”
“No, I didn’t.”
I cocked the empty. 45. “Try it again, but make sure you keep your eyes open this time.” I put her ear cup back, and she imitated the exact same motion, but this time the automatic stayed steady.
She turned and looked at me. “It didn’t fire.”
“It didn’t last time, either.” I showed her the clip in my hand. “The involuntary response is pretty common. You think the gun’s going to jump, so you make it jump.” I took the Colt, popped the mag into place, cocked the slide, and placed her hands around the gun, aimed toward the target. “Don’t worry about blinking; a lot of people do it.”
She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Do you?”
I looked at the target. “No.”
She doubled her attentions on the silhouette and squeezed, all her efforts going into not blinking. The. 45 blew her back and, from her expression, there was no doubt in her mind that it had fired this time. We both peered at the target; there was a perforation at his left kidney on the line between the four and five score. “Much
