Nickel City Crossfire

by Gary Earl Ross

  I let another second or two pass. “Do you have a list of shelters I can check out—in case Keisha shows up at one of them?”

  “Yes, but if you’re going to hang around any of them, take me with you. Shelter directors and most staff know I’m from Humanitas. They’re very protective of the people they serve. Somebody has to be.” She studied me, shaking her head. “Guy your size hanging around at night will probably scare them enough to make them call the cops.” From one of the plastic organizers on her desktop, she produced a pamphlet, paper-clipped a business card to it, and handed it to me. “My cell number is circled. Promise you’ll call me first.”

  I promised. “Mr. and Mrs. Simpkins told me Keisha had to go to rehab.”

  “A knee-jerk bureaucratic response intended to prevent her from becoming another Veronica. The truth is, the board doesn’t know Keisha like I do. She never showed signs of instability or self-medication. Rehab was a waste of time. I’ve never even seen Keisha finish a second glass of wine.”

  I remembered the wine rack in Keisha’s kitchen. “Do you think the drugs came from Odell Williamson?”

  She was quiet a moment, then shook her head. “We double-dated several times. He always seemed intelligent and engaging. He talked a lot about his kids, about their progress and their science projects and the hilarious things they said in class.” Her eyes brightened a bit, and she smiled. “He was playful as if being a kid at heart helped him connect with his students. But that side of him was infectious. It helped him connect with everybody and brought Keisha out in ways I’d never have imagined. She got him into trivia games and long walks but he got her into paintball and ziplining.” She shook her head again. “I can imagine him smoking a joint now and then but can’t buy him as a hard-core user or dealer.”

  I picked up my pen. “When was the last time you saw Keisha before she ended up in the hospital?”

  “Here at work that very day. It was a Friday, and she was looking forward to her date with Odell that night. She’d had some bad experiences with men and kept her guard up. But Odell was different, and she appreciated him for it. From the way she’d been talking about him for the past few months, I got a sense her guard was coming down and she might even be thinking of a future with him.”

  For a long time, I said nothing as I compared Ileana’s portrait of her friend to what I already knew. Both respected professionals, Keisha and Odell had overdosed in a car near an athletic center but only Keisha responded to the Narcan. Three informants had labeled Odell a dealer. After returning home from the hospital, Keisha was moody and different, but her arms showed no signs of prior drug use. Skipping out on rehab, she disappeared and sent her parents a letter that sounded a lot like an addict’s apology. Logic said that either Keisha or Odell had gotten the other to inject heroin. Nothing else made sense. But two men in a black Navigator had followed me, perhaps hoping I’d lead them to her. That made no sense either. Unless...

  “You have to be wondering what I tried to tell the police two weeks ago,” Ileana said, breaking the silence, “when Keisha went missing. If she and Odell went from no sign of drug use, ever, to heroin in a matter of hours, what, or who made them overdose together?”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “You’re the detective. Figure it out. Then go find my friend and bring her home, one way or another.”

  7

  With a digital photo of Veronica Surowiec now in my phone’s image library, I followed Ileana back to the entrance. There I had a brief conversation with Cassidy, Yvonne, and Fareed—the three at desks near the door—but none offered anything that clarified what I had already learned. The conversation was Ileana’s idea, and I understood after the first question it was an opportunity for her to short-circuit the rumor mill. If the three had been excluded, their speculations might have spread throughout the staff. By inviting them into an abridged version of our interview and making sure each one had a Driftglass card before she advised them to keep our conversation confidential, Ileana was making them co-conspirators. On the surface, it seemed a smart move motivated by office politics I did not understand. But I still would have put my money on Ben Franklin, who said that three can keep a secret if two are dead.

  Outside, the snow had stopped and the sun, having climbed higher, promised a brighter day.

  Sitting in my car as it warmed, I flipped through my notebook to decide my next move. Because my interview list wasn’t long, I expected to clear round one by evening and hoped somebody would say something that pushed me toward the first step of round two. Three of those on the list I would have to call first: the Reverend Dr. Felton Markham, Carl and Rhonda Williamson, and Sonny Tyler, for whom I had only a cell number anyway. Ileana’s blank reaction when I mentioned the names Fatimah and Bianca told me she had never met Keisha’s childhood friends, which meant she wouldn’t tip them off I was on my way to see them unannounced. Flowers by Fatimah was on Kensington Avenue near Bailey. Bianca worked at Hunnicutt Jewelers in the suburban Galleria. The Williamsons lived on University Avenue in Northeast Buffalo. It made sense to hit the florist first and take Route 33 to the mall. I could return to the city on Eggert Road and cut over to UB’s Main Street campus, directly across from the Williamsons’ street. If I saw Odell’s parents last, I could swing over to the Doran house on Admiral Road and see what LJ had found on Keisha’s computer and iPhone. At some point I would need to call my sister Mira, an assistant medical examiner, to see if she had access to Odell Williamson’s autopsy report.

  At the moment, however, I was closest to Dr. Markham, who lived near his Main Street church, close to downtown and just blocks away. I tapped in his cell number.

  “Dr. Markham.” The voice that answered was measured and resonant—and familiar to anyone who watched the local news. Felton Markham was a frequently interviewed mover and shaker not only in religious matters but also in politics, inner-city development, public education, job training, and community service.

  “Dr. Markham, my name is Gideon Rimes. I’m a private investigator. Winslow and Mona Simpkins hired me to look for their daughter Keisha.”

  “Yes, I heard they planned to seek outside help. The police have been useless.”

  “I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes this morning.”

  “Right now I’m in my office at the church. I won’t be home till later this afternoon. I like to get my sermons done during the day on Friday so I can attend community events and spend time with my wife.”

  “I understand, sir. I’m close by, at Keisha’s job, just on the other side of Main. I promise not to take much of your time.”

  For a moment he said nothing. “All right, Mr. Rimes. I’ll give you ten or fifteen minutes. Come on over and ring the bell on the parking lot door.”

  I reached the sprawling sandstone Sermon on the Mount in less than five minutes and pulled into a blacktop parking lot that held only three vehicles: a new black Town Car in the MINISTER space by the door, a white Camry beside it, and a rusting blue F-150 four slots away. I parked beside the Camry, went up three steps, and pressed an electronic doorbell.

  The man who answered the door was big, dressed in jeans and a navy pullover that contrasted with the pristine collar of his white shirt. The Reverend Dr. Felton Markham was bald, with a black mustache and salty stubble on his dark cheeks. He was likely in his mid-fifties—the time between the graying of the beard and the graying of the mustache—but he seemed younger and vibrant. The teeth revealed by his smile were startlingly white.

  “Mr. Rimes, I presume.” He offered me a large hand with thick fingers.

  “Morning, Reverend,” I said. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Miss Simpkins is a cherished member of this congregation. Anything we can do in her time of need we will do without question or pause.” He motioned me inside.

  I didn’t know if he intended to quote the song “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha, but as I put my watch cap in my jack
et pocket and followed him around the corner to his office, the next line popped unbidden into my head: “To march into hell for a heavenly cause.”

  The office was a narrow, paneled rectangle. To the left of the door were two ceiling-high bookcases on either side of a small stained glass window and hissing steam radiator. To the right was a compact stainless steel coat rack that held a long black topcoat and a fur-collared green leather jacket. Beside it was an old cherry desk that faced three padded wooden chairs with their armrests touching and backs close to the radiator. The chair farthest from the door was occupied by a woman who turned to look at us as we entered. She appeared to be in her early forties, with an attractive amber face framed by short black hair. She had high cheekbones, a strong nose, sculpted lips barely parted, and peach-colored nails recently done.

  “Honey, this is the investigator looking for Keisha,” Dr. Markham said, closing the door. “Mr. Rimes, my wife Loni.”

  Loni Markham rose to her full height—she was almost as tall as her husband—and smoothed her russet pantsuit before shaking my hand. Bright and engaging even without makeup, her hazel eyes held mine for a heartbeat longer than I would have expected. “I am so pleased to meet you, Mr. Rimes.” Her voice was deep but too smooth to be the by-product of cigarettes. Her smile was even more radiant than her husband’s, though she offered it for barely an instant as if she were embarrassed by perfect teeth. For a moment I wondered whether they kept their dentist on retainer or chained in the basement.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Markham.”

  Dr. Markham took the high-backed leather chair behind the desk and gestured to the armchair on his left. Mrs. Markham sat back down. Unzipping my jacket, I took out my pen and notebook before I took a seat.

  Dr. Markham pushed aside a few file folders, closed the open laptop computer, and put his palms flat on his desktop. “Now, how may I—we—help you, Mr. Rimes?”

  “At the moment I’m just gathering background information on Keisha, something to point me in the right direction. Her parents tell me she’s the church secretary, so that’s where I’d like to start.”

  “All right, but she resigned from that post a few months ago. I think it got to be too much with her job and her parents getting older.”

  “Maybe she was seeing more of that young man,” Mrs. Markham said.

  I considered the edge in her voice before I spoke. “How long was she the secretary?”

  “About ten years, I think.” Dr. Markham turned to his wife.

  “Closer to eleven,” she said. “I remember Mother Smith died in our ninth year here and we just celebrated your twentieth as pastor.”

  The minister nodded. “That’s right. Keisha took Mother Smith’s place.”

  Keisha had taken the position while in her early twenties. Relevant? Maybe, maybe not. I jotted a note before continuing. “What were her duties?”

  “Mainly to type up and put out the weekly program and monthly newsletter. To keep minutes at major meetings like the quarterly congregation meeting, the monthly church board meeting, the monthly deacon board meeting, and sometimes the building committee.”

  “Was she good at fulfilling her duties?”

  Dr. Markham shrugged. “Excellent, especially since she was a volunteer. I had no complaint with her work and I can’t think of anybody who did.” Again he looked at his wife.

  Peripheral vision told me Mrs. Markham had been studying me across the chair that separated us, her expression a blend of curiosity and tension. Now she narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t understand how her secretarial duties are relevant to her disappearance.”

  “Loni, I think Mr. Rimes is just trying to get a feel for Miss Simpkins—a picture.”

  “The more pieces I have, the clearer the picture.”

  Mrs. Markham leaned forward, frowning. “Obviously, she fell in with the wrong crowd and was led astray.” She paused as if gauging my reaction. “You’re never too old to be led astray. Isn’t that where you should start? Find those people and you’ll find Keisha.”

  I almost asked her to identify someone in that crowd, but then I stopped and took a deep breath. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to be difficult, but this is how investigations work. You start with nothing and build scraps into a pile. The bigger the pile, the better the chances of success. So far nobody has been able to point me toward people who might have got Keisha into drugs, which means I have to poke through the pile and hope I uncover a name.”

  “Williamson,” she said, her lips pressed into a tight line.

  “Odell Williamson is dead.” I let that hang in the air for a moment. “His parents are as convinced Keisha led him off the straight and narrow as her parents—and, I presume, you—are convinced it was all his fault.” I held her gaze as I softened my voice. “Even if it was, we know Keisha didn’t run away with him, so I have to find someplace else to start. Did either of you know Odell?”

  “Keisha brought him to Sunday service a few times. Said he was a teacher and might be willing to get involved in our academic summer camp for kids.” The minister sighed and shook his head. “He seemed like such a nice young fella.”

  His wife sat back, her lips pursed. “Drug overdoses. Police. Keisha disappearing. This all casts the Mount in a very bad light.”

  “I don’t recall any mention of your church in newspaper articles about the overdose,” I said. “So far there’s been no news story on Keisha’s disappearance.”

  She swallowed hard. “Publicity or no publicity, we know, Mr. Rimes. We know. Our whole church family.”

  “Who are Keisha’s closest friends in the congregation?”

  “When she was a teenager it was Bianca. One of my first duties when my husband got this posting was to run the youth group. Bianca was like a sister to Keisha.”

  “Bianca Dawkins?”

  “Yes. A strong-willed girl, as I recall. She hasn’t been to church in years, not since her mother died and she went off to college. I have no idea where she is or what she’s up to.”

  “What about Fatimah Howze?”

  “I remember the name, not the face. Sometimes she came to youth group but she went to a Catholic church. Keisha may have mentioned something about a flower shop?”

  I scratched something into my notebook. “What about Sonny Tyler? Does that name mean anything to you?”

  The Markhams exchanged looks as if each hoped the other might have an answer. Then Dr. Markham said, “We have a Tyler family in the congregation, Malik and Sherry. They’re in their mid-twenties and have twin girls about two. We don’t know a Sonny Tyler.”

  “Anybody else? It doesn’t have to be somebody in her age group. Maybe somebody older who was like a mentor or somebody younger that she might have mentored.”

  “You mean somebody she might go to if she was in trouble,” Mrs. Markham said.

  “Yes.”

  She thought for a moment. “No. She wasn’t especially close to anybody that I know of. I’d have thought she would go to her parents. But Brother and Sister Simpkins requested special prayers last Sunday and asked for help. If somebody knew something about Keisha, I expect they would have come forward then, to her parents if not to us.” She huffed, as if exasperated. “This is all just too upsetting.”

  “This has been hard on all of us,” Dr. Markham said. “My wife is very protective of the work we do here.”

  I lowered my pen to ease Mrs. Markham’s agitation. “I know a few things about your church. You have an after school program, a food pantry, a job advocacy office. I’ve seen your wheelchair transportation vans. What other work do you do?”

  “Saving souls is a complex business, Mr. Rimes, especially when we’re born in the natural crossfire between heaven and hell.” Dr. Markham smiled his dazzling smile. “Yes, we prepare for the afterlife. But we are called upon to help each other in this life as well.”

  Mrs. Markham managed another brief smile and leaned toward me. “Have you heard of the Sermon on the Mount Community Developme
nt Foundation?”

  Though I had, I shook my head. I sensed talking about it might ease her tension.

  “The SMCDF. It’s a not-for-profit with a mission to elevate the neighborhood, make it a stronger presence in the city, all with grant funding and small donations. We have the programs you mentioned, but we also run a low-income family housing development two blocks from here and a senior apartment high rise on Virginia Street. We also co-sponsor the culinary arts program at the new GiGi’s.”

  “Great!” I said. “I’ve missed their sweet potato pie since fire closed the old one.”

  The minister laughed. “I don’t think truer words were ever spoken in this office.”

  His wife sat back, eyebrows arching. “If my husband will forgive me a moment of pride, I am happy to be the foundation’s CEO.”

  “The Lord allows a sprinkling of pride tempered by modesty.” Dr. Markham turned to me, his own face alight with pride. “What my wife didn’t tell you is that she established the foundation. She’s got a good head for business and an MBA. She organized the charter committee and went to the banks. She did the 501c3 paperwork herself and wrote the grants. She invited a real cross-section of the community to serve on the board. It’s all her doing and she’s helped too many people to count—without getting a lot of attention from the press.” He reached across his desk to pat her hand. “Integrity is what you do when nobody’s looking.”

  Mrs. Markham lowered her eyes as if embarrassed, and for a moment the only sound was the hiss of the radiator. Then I asked, “Did Keisha ever do any work for the foundation?”

  “No.”

  “But at one point she was on the board,” Dr. Markham said. “You see, the foundation has to have a board of directors who—”

  “That was a good while ago, honey, but even then her job made her miss too many meetings. She stepped away from the board years ago.”