Nickel City Crossfire

by Gary Earl Ross

  The remainder of the evening was uneventful. The food was better than I expected, the speeches shorter, and the mood lighter once Eileen declared there would be no more shop talk. Because we were walking back to her loft, Phoenix and I both had a third drink, as did Toshiko, who leaned against her husband’s shoulder and smiled when the music resumed after dinner. The band shifted from soft sounds to danceable numbers that spanned several decades of popular music. I danced twice with Phoenix, once to a “Harlem Nocturne” that let the tenor saxophonist stand apart from the rest of the band and once to a jazzed-up “Sexual Healing.” Later, as Phoenix flashed me a smile, Eileen invited me onto the floor for “Moon River” and left her cane beside her chair. For a slow song, she explained, it would be easier if I just kept an arm around her waist. We had the first extended conversation of our two-month acquaintance during that dance, and I led her back to her seat with a genuine appreciation of her radiance, wit, and drive. As I pulled out her chair, I realized that the man who saw past her cane was in for a wonderful relationship.

  Ophelia and the Chancellors never came to our table. I thought nothing more of them—or more specifically, Glendora—until a few days later.

  19

  On Sunday morning, eyes closed against gradually increasing sunlight and fingers locked behind my head, I lay on my back beside a still sleeping Phoenix. As I listened to forced hot air fans push heat into the loft and the faint noises of Main Street coming to life eleven floors below, I slipped into what I’d once read was the wisest hour of a person’s day, the unfocused time just after waking.

  My mind pinballed through every step I’d taken in my hunt for Keisha in the hope something I’d missed would announce itself. Winslow and Mona couldn’t believe their daughter was a drug user. Neither could Ileana, Carl Williamson, or even Spider Tolliver. Sonny Tyler had sounded genuinely surprised by his ex-girlfriend’s disappearance. Despite Loni Markham’s suggestion, she had hooked up with the wrong crowd, the threatening text LJ found supported the idea Keisha had run for her life after surviving a forced overdose intended to kill her as well as Odell. I was still uncertain who was the intended target and who was collateral damage, but the embedding of non-medical, non-church text in so many unrelated documents in her hard drive suggested Keisha had stumbled upon something worth hiding. What was it and where had she found it? Humanitas? Sermon on the Mount? Odell? Or was there another source not yet on my radar?

  The paragraphs I’d read were in business-speak, different from the language of the phone text. Were the two linked? How? Had that text made her run, left her trusting almost no one? The impulse to keep her parents and co-workers safe was understandable, but she hadn’t even gone to the cop wife of one of her best friends. Had she risked trusting Fatimah, who’d lied to me about how often they were in touch? With LJ assembling what was hidden in the Word files into something that might explain Keisha’s actions, three women watching places she might turn up, and two offers to have somebody watch my back, I felt the need to do something myself. But the wisdom of the hour—Melville’s maybe?—suggested I could do nothing but wait.

  We had fallen asleep almost at once last night. Now Phoenix stirred and stretched, yawning. Then she snuggled against me. “I know you’re awake. I can hear you thinking.”

  I unclasped my hands and slid an arm around her. “Okay, what am I thinking about?”

  “That in a little while you’ll make me breakfast—a spinach and cheese omelet, toast, bacon, coffee, and grapefruit.”

  “Sounds like what I put in your fridge yesterday, Miss Cleo.”

  “Uh-huh.” She walked her fingers through my chest hair. “But first you’re going to light a fire in the fireplace. Then you’ll lead me into the bathroom so we can shower together. After that, you’ll lead me back out here to the throw rug in front of the fireplace.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I guess you can see into the future.”

  “If you think my second sight is hot, just wait till I practice my braille on you.”

  Much later, in our robes and smelling of the grapeseed lotion we had massaged into each other’s skin, we ate in front of the gel fireplace. Our plates were on the coffee table, our backs against the couch’s seat cushions, and sections of the Sunday Buffalo News on the floor between us. This was different from the previous four Sundays we had spent together. The first and third we had awakened in my bed and gone out to breakfast. The second and fourth had been here, but we had eaten at the granite-topped island in the kitchen. After each of those leisurely mornings, we had spent the afternoon out, at stores or movies or last week taking a long car ride. In the evening, after dining in a restaurant or getting take-out, we had come back to one place or another to watch Netflix or HBO. If our relationship continued on its current trajectory, Sunday would likely become both our day and our refuge.

  “So what do you want to do today, mister?” Phoenix asked, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth as we swapped the Viewpoints and arts sections.

  “Whatever you feel like, counselor.” I opened the arts insert—called Gusto—to the book review pages. “The smartest person in the room should take the lead.”

  She laughed and covered her mouth to keep the bacon inside. “There’s a review on the front page, of a new installation at the Knox.”

  The Albright-Knox, just a few miles from where we were, had long been considered one of the ten best art galleries on the planet. I went to the Gusto front page and located the headline Sensorium, a full-body experience. The reviewer described an exhibit for everyone, especially those with one or more sensory impairments. Most of the works were meant to appeal to senses other than sight. There were mosaics, sculptures, and plastic creations to be touched, raised drawings visitors could trace with their fingertips, texture boxes into which they could stick their hands as a recorded story unfolded in surround sound. Also, there were floors that vibrated or crunched, an electric train large enough for adults to ride imaginary beasts inspired by J.K. Rowling, non-musical soundscapes to soothe or stimulate the body, wall jets that in total darkness sprayed mixtures of scents intended to evoke a sea voyage, a forest hike, or a space station. Several corners even had stations where one could experience both food and non-food taste sensations, like variations of popcorn and dry desert air. Of course, among the strictly visual pieces was the Mirrored Room, which had been at the Knox for more than fifty years and was one of the first infinity rooms to be exhibited anywhere.

  “Like your braille on steroids,” I said. “A good way to spend the afternoon, if I’m able to walk again by then.”

  Phoenix smiled and shook her head. “Let’s not get into who crippled whom. Better if we just share the blame.”

  “Okay.” I took another bite of toast. “We can limp out of here whenever you want.”

  She bit back a chuckle. “I need to do some legal stuff after we finish here. An hour, maybe two. Are you good till then?”

  “I brought my laptop.”

  But I never booted up the Lenovo. With the dishes in the dishwasher and Phoenix at the desk near her bed, I dressed in jeans and a pullover and stood at the window beside the fireplace. Sipping cold coffee, I looked down at the traffic and Metro trains on Main Street and again reviewed my efforts to find Keisha. In the absence of word from LJ or Ileana and her Humanitas crew, I still had no idea what to do next. That left me feeling increasingly agitated as the afterglow of making love subsided. When I was in my teens and wrestling with impulsivity, Bobby had lectured me now and then about the perils of impatience, often ending with something like, “Son, sometimes you just have to wait for things to happen.” However much I hated waiting, I had to accept that this was one of those times.

  Early that afternoon, however, something did happen. Phoenix and I were at the art gallery, about halfway through Sensorium, when my cell phone buzzed. I saw the call was from Oscar Edgerton and moved out of the hall that held the electric train ride to answer. Oscar was breathless as if he’d been running.
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  “Rimes, they shot Win’s wife!”

  My mind was a half-beat behind him, trying to make sense of his words. “What?”

  “Somebody shot Mona Simpkins!”

  20

  We found Winslow Simpkins in the Buffalo General ER waiting room, flanked on a padded bench seat by Oscar and Louisa Edgerton. Clad only in an old suit, Winslow had the empty, bloodless expression of someone still in shock. Standing over him were two uniformed police officers, both men. One took notes on a metal document case clipboard and the other scanned the room. His eyes fixed on us—particularly me—as we drew near.

  “I’m their attorney,” Phoenix said, leading me into the cluster.

  As if confirming her statement, Louisa and Oscar, still in their winter coats, stood to embrace Phoenix. Louisa cried into Phoenix’s shoulder as Oscar grasped my hand and pulled me in for a quick man-hug. “Still in surgery,” he said. “She took one to the chest.”

  The older cop, brown-skinned and bulky, held the clipboard. “We’re almost done here, ma’am, sir. Then we’ll get out of your way.” His dark-haired colleague, whose cheeks bore the windburn of a regular skier, stepped aside and continued to watch the room. His right thumb was hooked on his duty belt, near his holster, as if he expected trouble. I thought about that, wondering how likely it was a shooter would storm a hospital ER to finish killing an elderly woman. Not very, I decided, but I was glad just the same my baby Glock was on my belt beneath my leather jacket.

  A light-skinned woman whose bearing normally made her look taller than her five feet, Louisa clung to Phoenix, so I took the seat on Winslow’s right when Oscar sat again on his left. Winslow was shaking—shivering, I realized. Oscar put an arm around him.

  “Back to the car, Mr. Simpkins,” the senior officer said. “Can you describe it?”

  “Dark,” Winslow said. “Black, maybe blue. Real big I think. I got down so quick.”

  “Limo big or SUV big?”

  “SUV. I don’t know what kind. I don’t pay much attention to stuff like that anymore.”

  Black Lincoln Navigator, I thought. But I didn’t want to complicate the investigation by speaking, especially if I was wrong, so I said nothing.

  As much for Phoenix’s benefit as for Winslow’s, I realized, the officer reviewed the details of the report form, which gave me a rough picture of what had happened. Winslow and Mona had come home from a late luncheon at church and were about to enter their front door when a dark SUV sped past and someone inside fired several shots at them. They both dropped to the porch floor. Winslow didn’t know his wife had been hit until the car was out of sight. He used the old flip phone in her purse to call nine-one-one and covered her with his topcoat. Then he called Oscar, who got there before first responders. Winslow had got only a glimpse of the SUV and had no idea who was inside. They were retired, he had said in closing. For the most part, they divided their time between church and home, with trips to the supermarket and occasional visits to the casino downtown. He had said nothing about Keisha but I knew her name would come up during the investigation and could steer things one way or another.

  As Winslow initialed the form to confirm his statement, the blend of cold and fear that had soaked into him on the porch was still strong enough to make his hands shake. “I just don’t understand,” he said, lower lip quivering as it had a few days ago in my office.

  As the senior officer handed the tear-off slip with the case number to Phoenix, Oscar pulled his friend closer.

  “I know, Win. It’s crazy. No sense to it.”

  Winslow’s eyes teared. “Who does a drive-by on old folks who eat dinner on TV trays while they watch Wheel of Fortune?”

  21

  When the police left, I signaled to Oscar that he and I should talk. We surrendered our seats on the sofa-style bench to Louisa and Phoenix and stepped outside as if for air.

  Oscar pulled on leather gloves and turned up his coat collar. “This got something to do with Keisha, right?”

  I pulled on my own tightly knit gloves, designed for runners, warm but thin enough to let me grasp coins or slip a finger into a trigger guard. “I think she disappeared on purpose because she knew some bad people would come looking for her.”

  “People bad enough to shoot her folks to smoke her out.”

  “Yes, but I’m not even sure they wanted to hit anybody.”

  “How do you shoot a gun at somebody and hit ‘em by accident?”

  “It wasn’t an accident. It was a don’t-give-a-fuck-either-way drive-by, as long as it drew Keisha out.” I gave him a summary of my investigation, just enough that he would understand what had happened and follow my thinking. “These guys are cold but not pros or they would’ve made sure Keisha was dead in the first place. Cold and professional would’ve corrected that first mistake by taking the time to shoot both Mona and Winslow dead, to guarantee Keisha would come out of hiding.”

  “So they woulda kept on you with their Navigator.”

  “Exactly. Twice they started something and took off before they finished the job, hoping it would have the desired result. Between those events, they followed me but gave up after I made them and they couldn’t find me.”

  Oscar’s sigh frosted and hung in the air a bit. “The real deal woulda kept looking.”

  “But they’re like kids who try to clean up a mess before Mommy gets home and just keep making it worse.”

  “Which makes them young or inexperienced or both.”

  “Yes. Who but someone young would text a threat?”

  “What do you think is next?”

  “The mess is still there. And here.”

  “So they’ll come after Win and Mona again.”

  “Maybe they’ll get luckier next time if we don’t run interference.” I thought for a moment. “The house is a crime scene. Win can’t go back there while they’re still processing it. The shooting was outside, so they’ll probably let him back inside by tomorrow. But he can’t stay. I’ll go with him, so he can get some clothes.”

  “He can stay with us, long as he needs to. We got plenty of room.”

  I nodded. “But you can’t tell anybody, not your other friends, or his, or Louisa’s. Not your neighbors, or folks from church, or in the shelter, or any other place you go. You never know how people are connected and how an innocent comment could reach the wrong ears.”

  Oscar was quiet for a time, considering all I had said. Then he nodded. “Okay. But we both know Win ain’t going nowhere tonight except up to Mona’s room. If she makes it.”

  “Then you and I’ll have to cover that. The cops will check on her, but as far as they’re concerned, she’s just a random shooting victim. There’s nothing in her background that will justify a round-the-clock police guard.” Mona would move from surgery to post-op care and finally the ICU. Her greatest initial vulnerability would be the ICU, not easy for an outsider to get in and out of, but not impossible. If we were lucky, things would be settled before she was moved into a regular room. “Oscar, from here on out you’re going to be Mona’s brother, which means you can be with Win with no trouble. Be sure to refer to her as your sister when you’re talking to hospital staff. That’ll get them used to you being there to help your brother-in-law through all this.”

  “What about you?”

  “No problem. Pop.”

  Oscar grinned. “You’re big enough to be my kid. A little old though.”

  I smiled and shrugged. Then I began to think about how word might reach Keisha and the certainty that she would come to the hospital when it did. Mona’s name would likely be run through the system before it was released to the press, so the six p.m. newscasts probably wouldn’t have it but the one at eleven might. In any case, she’d be in the news by tomorrow.

  “I expect Keisha to try to come here by tomorrow,” I said.

  “How we gonna keep her safe? They could be outside waiting for her to show up. They could put a bullet in her or snatch her up just like that.” He snapped
his fingers, his gloves dulling the sound.

  I closed my eyes and tried to picture every door into the medical center. The ER on East North did not offer non-medical personnel a clear path into the core of the hospital. The main entrance on High Street led straight to a security station and information desk that gave out visitor passes. Older buildings on High were attached to the main tower and must have had their own doors as well but I had no idea how many there were and whether they were secure. Another entrance on Ellicott led to the information desk too but I couldn’t remember if there was a stairway someone could use to avoid check-in. The Gates Vascular Institute behind the main building also faced Ellicott but had less foot traffic to its security station. Checkpoints and keypads aside, there were at least six ways into Buffalo General, perhaps more. Also, I had no idea whether the nearest sister facilities—Roswell Park Cancer Center, and The Women and Children’s Hospital—had connecting tunnels underground. Maybe I could call someone for help—Jen Spina, when she wasn’t working, maybe even Jimmy, whose wheelchair wouldn’t look out of place in the lobby.

  Finally, I opened my eyes and sighed. “There are too many ways inside for the two of us to watch alone,” I said. “The people I could call wouldn’t be able to give us the coverage we’d need.” Then I remembered something. “Maybe we need to have some faith here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How smart is Keisha?”

  The answer came with no hesitation. “Very.”

  “If she’s been visiting homeless shelters kind of in disguise because she knows people are looking for her, why wouldn’t she take the same precautions to come here?”

  Oscar thought about that a moment. “The best place to wait for her is Mona’s room.”

  “Right, Pop.” I gave him a beat to smile. “Let’s talk to Mom and Uncle Win.”

  We went back inside and explained our new kinship without detailing the reasons someone needed to be with Mona at all times. Winslow accepted without question my lie that his house would be tied up by police for at least three days. After a moment of staring across the waiting room at nothing, he asked if they could go to Walmart for clothes and toiletries before going back to Oscar’s. Aware of the particulars of my hunt for Keisha, Phoenix shot me a sidelong glance full of concern but said nothing that might agitate Winslow. Louisa, however, put her hands on her hips and scowled at me. “Old as your ass is, I’m supposed to be your mother?”