Nickel City Crossfire

by Gary Earl Ross

  “So you a doctor too?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse, the aftereffect of a tube withdrawn earlier.

  “Not that kind,” my godfather said.

  She looked at me and narrowed her eyes at Bobby, the doubt roused by our lack of resemblance suggesting she might have misheard her husband, who, plainly, had misheard me. “You really his daddy?”

  “Since he was twelve,” Bobby said, with a tone that settled it. He took the chair beside the bed and leaned close to her. “I can tell you all kinds of stories about what he was like as a kid.” Then he smiled.

  Mona smiled, looking as flirtatious as an elderly gunshot victim could.

  Chuckling, Oscar steered Winslow out.

  And I went to work.

  26

  The neon lights were still on in the plate glass windows of Flowers by Fatimah but dark curtains behind them kept the shop interior hidden. The arc window in the upper part of the front door held a CLOSED sign. My hands gloved, I tried the handle anyway, but the door was locked.

  I had parked around the corner on Bailey. Now I looked both ways on Kensington before I went up the driveway—which was clear because it had been shoveled in the past day or so and last night’s dusting of snow had already melted. The windows were too high to peek into. At the side door, I rang the upper and lower bells and waited. Thirty seconds passed. I pressed both again. Still no response. Glancing at the street a final time, I moved into the back yard. Tall vinyl fences were in the back and on the house side. Thick shrubbery was on the driveway side. The yard felt secluded. No exterior cameras I could see, but I pulled down my watch cap anyway and pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt under my jacket. A mercury vapor light was mounted on the clapboard, near the back porches and out of reach. It had a motion detector sensor angled downward but that mattered little in the middle of the afternoon. If I kept away from the driveway, I would remain unseen.

  The lower porch had no stairs and was enclosed by glass as if it were a greenhouse. The upper was open, its awning cranked shut and outdoor furniture covered for the winter. A weathered wooden swing set sat in the middle of the snow-covered lawn. Beyond it was the garage whose upper apartment windows were covered. The entrance was at the corner where the concrete met the lawn. I passed it, crunching through the snow to the garage window. More curtains kept me from seeing inside. Then I returned to the apartment door and listened to my surroundings as I considered which building I would enter first.

  The only identifiable sounds came from traffic on Kensington and the whisper of wind. Somewhere in the distance was hammering followed by its echo, too far away to concern me. A bell from a nearby church or maybe the school just off Bailey rang three times, signaling the hour. I continued to listen. No music, no TV, no talk radio chatter. No Christmas carols. But more important to what I was about to do, no voices or sounds of people bustling about. No kids. I tried to remember if Fatimah had said how many children she had. Kids, she had said, and I hadn’t asked for information. Daughters, Bianca had said, so there were at least two. That meant that if the bastards had got here ahead of me, I might find five bodies.

  Remembering the flower shop’s alarm panel and interior security cameras, I decided to check out the garage and its apartment first. It was unlikely that a detached garage would be included in the alarm system. I reached into my jacket pocket for the leather case that held the lock pick gun and tension tool I usually kept in my gun safe. I put the bent end of the tool into the door lock and inserted the pick gun. Exerting pressure on the tool, I squeezed the trigger four or five times, until the lock’s pins vibrated into place and the tool turned like a key. Withdrawing the pick gun and the tool, I opened the door and stepped inside.

  It was dark, so I clicked on my pocket flashlight. A staircase led to the apartment. To my left was a solid wooden door that opened into the garage. I unlocked it and looked inside. Against the far wall was a tan Dodge van with Flowers by Fatimah on the side. Along the front wall were garden tools, a power mower, and boxes of flower shop supplies like plant stands and Styrofoam rings. Oil spots dotted the remainder of the cement floor, suggesting there was a second vehicle. Closing the door and mounting the stairs, I made a mental note to log into IntelliChexx for Ike Kelly’s DMV registrations. The apartment was compact—a bedroom, a kitchenette that doubled as a TV room, and a narrow bathroom. The unmade bed and the dishes in the sink suggested the occupant had intended to come back, but there were no clothes, anywhere.

  At least there were no bodies, I told myself. Yet.

  Going back downstairs, I stopped in the entryway to think about the alarm system. While the garage had not been included, I had seen the security panel inside the flower shop. Ordinarily, such panels at primary entrances had delays of thirty to forty-five seconds to give the person entering with a key time to punch in the security code. Most systems had interior panels in places like the master bedroom, so occupants could activate the alarm at night and deactivate it in the morning. Also, each panel would have two panic buttons that requested immediate police or fire dispatch. The average response time was three to six minutes, but busy days could push that to fifteen or twenty. If someone had broken in, especially with Keisha on high alert, somebody would have pushed the panic button, the primary purpose of which was to scare away the intruder. A determined and skillful killer could have taken them all out in the time it took a squad car to reach the house, but that would have meant the place I planned to enter was already a crime scene. The absence of police tape and the empty slot in the garage suggested I would find no bodies, no dead daughters.

  But I had to be sure.

  Two-family houses, as this one had been before the lower flat was converted into a business, sometimes had two separate alarm systems. The front door to the upstairs, solid steel and pristine, had struck me as seldom used. Perhaps that was intended to keep business and home separate. The side door, then, might serve as the primary access to the second floor. In any case, the interior wall would have one or two panels or none at all. If there were no panels I would know it the instant I opened the door, and I’d have to run. With two or one, I would have just enough time to get inside, peek at the downstairs if there were no additional doors to open, take the steps two at a time to peek at the upstairs, again if there were no doors to open. Locked doors usually meant the person with the keys was gone. While it was not impossible that whoever was after Keisha would lock the doors on the way out, I thought it unlikely they had grown more brain matter so soon after shooting Mona in broad daylight and fleeing.

  I left the garage and went to the side door. Once I picked the lock and turned on my flashlight, I held my breath and began to ease the door open. There was no siren shriek, only the musical beep of the entry delay.

  Thirty to forty-five seconds.

  The hallway had a single panel but no video camera. Nor was there a door to the flower shop workroom, which showed no sign of intrusion. I knew there were cameras in front, and I didn’t have much time, so I continued upstairs, the beeping of the alarm timer followed me to a locked door on the second floor. I decided to chance picking the lock, even as I counted off the seconds in my head. Thirty-four. No alarm yet. Holding the light and the tension tool in my left hand, I got the door open, darted through the kitchen to the living room, and saw nothing to suggest a struggle or violence. The alarm blew just as I opened the door to the undisturbed second bedroom. Having found nothing in the first either, I skipped the third and raced through the kitchen to the stairs.

  At the moment of the first blast, I had forced the count in my head to reset. Now I tried to focus past the rhythmic banshee wail that proclaimed a B&E to the neighborhood. Five, six, seven. Ten to fifteen seconds after the alarm started, the security company would call the first number on the contact list, likely the flower shop landline, to make sure the siren hadn’t been triggered in error. Getting no answer, they would attempt to reach the property owner’s cell phone, or they would dispatch the police, and then try th
e secondary contact number. Either way, I had very little time. I reached the outside door at the count of twenty-one and charged through the yard to the vinyl fence that led to the next street. As I pulled myself up and over, I figured I had at least three minutes before the police arrived.

  I tumbled into crusted-over snow in a large back yard that held an old steel-sided above-ground pool covered for the winter. I scrambled to my feet, cursing because snow had found its way inside my boots and pools were supposed to be surrounded, which meant I’d probably have to go over another fence. But as I rounded the corner of the house, I saw that the gate at the end of the driveway was open. I tucked my hood back inside my jacket and slowed to a walk as I neared the gate. Passing through, I turned south and walked a long block till I got to Collingwood. Then I turned left, continued on a short distance, and turned left again to emerge onto Bailey.

  The first sirens sounded in the distance.

  My car was half a block away. Moving toward it at a normal pace, I went straight to the liftgate in back and raised the wheel well cover. Once the small leather case with my lock pick gun was under the edge of the compact spare tire, I closed the back, climbed into the driver’s seat, and pushed the START button.

  An Avenue Pizza shop was a couple of blocks ahead. I decided to go there, to order a cold sub and a bottle of iced tea to take to the hospital later. While I waited, I would use my phone to log onto IntelliChexx. Once I knew the make and plate number of Ike Kelly’s car, my trip to Buffalo General would be leisurely and circuitous. I would need time to drive past the flower shop at least twice on the chance that the alarm provider had reached Ike and he had come home to inspect the damage.

  I knew it was a longshot, but if he did come, I might be able to follow him back to wherever his family and Keisha were hiding.

  Before I pulled away from the curb, however, my ring tone sounded through the car’s audio system. The number on the screen was blocked but I pushed the TALK button anyway. The soft, mannered baritone that came through the speakers chilled me.

  “Mr. Rimes, there is no reason my employer should know you are accomplished at breaking and entering, so I will say nothing of it. But I felt the need to express my personal admiration. Your speed and professionalism—”

  “Not like you to stroke another man’s ego,” I said. “What do you want, Lester? To let me know you’re still back there?”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t insult me by suggesting I wanted to blackmail you, sir. I am confident you left nothing to support such an effort.” He laughed. “As I have told you, my interest in your current situation is entirely personal. I will find my way to your vicinity whenever I have the time. Today I had the time.” He paused, perhaps to let the idea of my vulnerability sink in. “But I mean you no harm. Who knows, I may even end up being your guardian angel.”

  27

  When I got back to the hospital, about six-thirty, Mona was asleep, a nasal oxygen tube and an IV in place. Bobby sat at her bedside, reading an old O Magazine with a cover that featured a smiling Oprah Winfrey seated in a white wicker chair. On the bedside tray were a Vanity Fair and a People I expected he had already ripped through. A court reality show was on the TV angled toward the bed but the volume had been muted.

  “Want half my sub?” I said softly. “Turkey, cheese, spinach, tomato, oil, no onions.”

  He shook his head and kept his own voice low. “If you’re gonna be here all night, you’ll need the whole thing. I’ll do a chicken breast on the George Foreman or maybe pull a casserole out of the freezer.”

  Draping my jacket over the back of the second visitor chair, I sat down and began to unwrap my sandwich. “How is she?”

  “Pretty good, considering she was shot. She tires easily, so we talk a while, and then she drifts off. After half an hour or so she wakes up—or they wake her up for something—and we talk again.” He closed the magazine and massaged the back of his neck with his left hand. “Nice lady.”

  “Yes. Any visitors?”

  “Some people from her church. Two older women and the minister and his wife.”

  I thought for a moment. “They come separately or together?”

  “Separately. One woman stayed about fifteen minutes. The other was here half an hour before the Markhams came and left a few minutes after that.”

  “What did you think of the Markhams?”

  “I’ve met him here and there at public functions, but he didn’t remember me. He’s more or less the same man I saw then and see on the news now, practical and caring but given to making a show of prayer. It was my first time meeting his wife though. For the most part, she was quiet but much more observant than the average person.” He chuckled. “She’s pretty too. Very pretty. Trust me, she knows it.”

  I considered his assessment. “She wasn’t that quiet when I interviewed them in his office last week.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “She was more concerned about the church being embarrassed by association with a drug user than about Keisha being found.”

  Bobby nodded. “Gotta keep up appearances. You have any luck at the flower shop?”

  Between bites of my sandwich and swallows of iced tea, I gave him an abbreviated account of my afternoon. I told him I had visited the Dorans—who would be joining us at Mira’s for Christmas dinner if she hadn’t yet told him. I said nothing of Spider Tolliver’s call or the GPS tracking device LJ had found and removed when he swept the underside of my Escape. Ike’s silver Impala had failed to show after his alarm was triggered, I explained, so LJ would try to unearth credit card usage for Keisha, Ike, or Fatimah. “I think something spooked them and they ran. Be nice to know what it was and where they are.”

  “Must be staying somewhere.” Bobby flipped to another page in the magazine. “If they’re riding on plastic, LJ will find them. But what makes you so sure these other people aren’t good enough to track cyber footprints, like your friend Mr. Quick?”

  The mention of Quick so soon after I’d heard from Spider made me hesitate before answering. Tolliver and his associates had come for me in October because I had run an IntelliChexx search on Lorenzo Quick, whose name had come up in my investigation into another murder. Whoever handled his IT got a search alert that gave them my IP address, which led them straight to me. “If Quick wanted Keisha, she’d have been dead days ago,” I said finally. “She’d have died from the overdose and been written off as a useless user.”

  “Maybe they’re staying with family.”

  “Fatimah’s an only child. I don’t know if her husband—”

  Bobby lowered his magazine at my abrupt silence. “What?”

  “Family isn’t always blood. Be right back.”

  I stepped into the corridor and walked to a waiting room adjacent to the elevators. Gazing out the huge plate glass window at the still-new buildings of the Medical Corridor, I called Jen Spina’s private cell. It went straight to voice mail.

  “Jen, Gideon Rimes. Apparently, Keisha was staying at Fatimah’s. They both showed up at the hospital last night but took off when I tried to get close. Now Keisha’s gone, along with Fatimah’s whole family. If they’re staying with you and Bianca—or you know where they are—please tell Keisha I have people looking after her parents. And I haven’t forgotten your offer. If you want to sit with Mrs. Simpkins for a few hours, just let me know.” I paused and took a breath. “Keisha knows by now I’m being straight with her but she hasn’t reached out yet. Please have her call the hospital and ask to be put through to her mother’s room. I’ll be here tonight myself.” I gave the room number and added what I hoped would be too vague to lead to my prosecution for B&E: “Tell Fatimah and Ike I just wanted to make sure nobody had got to them.” Then I clicked off and went back to the hospital room.

  Mona was still asleep, and Bobby was shrugging into his coat. “All good?”

  “I left a message with one of her friends.” I sat down again.

  “About all you can do if you’re here. Something comes up and you
need to call...”

  “I know. I will.”

  Squeezing my shoulder, Bobby left, and I opened the Vanity Fair.

  The room phone trilled ten minutes later, just as I finished the first half of my sub. I got to the nightstand by the second ring, but the first had already startled Mona awake. She was shifting in bed, trying to angle herself to reach the phone.

  “I got it, Mona,” I said, lifting the handset. “Mrs. Simpkins’ room.”

  “Mr. Rimes?” Her voice was calmer than last night, steadier but still not resolute.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Keisha. Can I talk to my mother?”

  “She just woke up. I’ll give her the phone but first I need to tell you I know your mishap was unintentional. These people—” I stopped, mindful of Mona, now looking at me expectantly because she had heard her daughter’s voice. Uncertain what she knew, how much she could surmise, I half-turned away from her. “What I don’t know is why. Whatever it is, I’d like to help. If we can meet somewhere—”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I don’t know who they are, but I know what they are.” I let Keisha ponder that for a second or two. “For the sake of your family and friends, please trust me. I can—”

  “Not until my mother’s fit enough to travel.” She let out a long, shaky breath as if struggling to maintain her determination. “Once I get her and Dad out of town, somewhere safe, I’ll sit down with you and your lawyer friend. You told Fatimah she would help me. I’ll give her that chance when my folks are gone. I’ll explain everything. Do whatever you both say.” The sound of her swallow came through the handset. “Now, can I talk to my mother? Please.”

  I passed the phone to Mona, whose hand was up and waiting for it. Her low threshold for her daughter’s voice had already pushed tears out of her eyes and made her lower lip tremble. There was fear in her expression as if at last it was clear something external to her daughter was threatening them all. “Keisha? You okay, baby?” Her voice cracked into an almost whisper. “You coming home soon?”