Nickel City Crossfire

by Gary Earl Ross

  “You’ve been a cop a long time,” I said. “What stinks to you?”

  Chalmers crossed his arms and let out a long breath. “First, the autopsy report on the dead teacher. Height, weight, skin condition, teeth, general appearance of health—there was nothing in there to suggest any drug habit. Good veins, no tracks or needle marks. No sneaky injection sites, like between the toes. No damaged nasal tissue. No lung or heart damage. All that’s not to say he couldn’t overdose his first time riding the horse, but it feels wrong.”

  “Narcotics buttoned it up quick because it was just another tragic opioid death,” Piñero said. “The ME says the COD was an overdose. The tox screen says heroin and China Girl. If folks off themselves by accident and the evidence supports it, the case is closed quickly.”

  “Right,” Chalmers said. “The detectives saw no bruising to suggest either one had been held down and injected by force. Williamson’s prints were on the hypo they both used.”

  “A gun,” I said. “Somebody puts a gun to your head or points it at somebody you love and says swallow this or inject that, what do you do? You take it because lots of people get high without dying but not too many come back from a double-tap to the head.” I paused. “How are you supposed to know it’s laced with enough fentanyl to kill you?”

  “That brings us to the second thing,” Chalmers said, thumbing his pen button. “Why? I don’t mean why go to the trouble of making this look like an overdose. That’s easy. It won’t be the same kind of investigation. But why do it at all? What’s the motive?”

  “Not robbery,” Piñero said. “They both had money on them when they were found, not enough to suggest dealing, but amounts that fit their jobs. Maybe payback?”

  “For what?” I said. “I haven’t found a single person who thinks either one of them was using. Or hung around users. Or suppliers. But before we go there, what about the guys who said Odell was dealing? There were supposed to be three informants.”

  “Weren’t ours,” Chalmers said. “Somebody fed that straight to a reporter at the News. Everybody ran with it, even the DA by not charging the survivor. How’s that for fake news?”

  “The finest kind,” I said. “The little lie that doesn’t get a lot of attention. No tweets. No deflections. It just sits there, without controversy, doing its job, day after day.”

  “Then there’s shooting at the parents,” Chalmers said. “The detectives on that haven’t found anything solid but some brass in the street, 9mm casings with no usable prints. They looked into Mr. and Mrs. Simpkins. He’s retired from the goddamn gas company. She gets social security from a lifetime of jobs in retail stores. Solid salt-of-the-earth church folk. Fixed income, a paid-off house in the inner city. These kinds of people aren’t targeted unless it’s for robbery. They’re collateral damage, waiting to be caught in a crossfire. Except there was nobody else out on the street that day.”

  “Then the other night, this meth mama tries to cap the mother,” Piñero said. “But you just happen to be there because none of this makes sense to you either. So you break her nose in self-defense. With no witnesses, it’s a he-said-she-said, hard to make a charge stick. But then Harlow Fucking Graves comes to get her out and he doesn’t even know her name.”

  “Which brings us back to the why.” Chalmers slid a hand under his sweater to scratch an itch. “With something this elaborate, there’s gotta be money at stake.”

  “Big money,” Piñero said. “Maybe big enough to justify an interdivisional operation, like homicide and narcotics, or interagency, like BPD and DEA.”

  “Add to that a dead meth head,” Chalmers said, opening one of his file folders and sliding it across to me. “The preliminary autopsy report. No ligature marks. No gunshot or stab wounds. No canal water in the lungs—not that we expected any. Vomit traces along the esophagus but she didn’t choke on it. This Dr. Surowiec died from blunt force trauma.”

  I spent a few seconds skimming the report Mira had summarized in our telephone conversation earlier. Then I looked at the photos, arranged in the order in which they were taken. Between the close-ups of Veronica’s face tipped forward by a headrest and the step-by-step record of the Y incision and removal of organs were pictures of a wrinkled, skeletal body. She had lost considerable muscle mass during her addiction and time on the streets. Despite an abundance of sores and various patches of skin that looked rough as sandpaper, what stood out most was the damage to her chest and abdomen, multiple bruises, two of them shaped like figure eights, and small, round-edged gashes likely caused by a ring. “Beaten to death,” I said finally. “Apparently with fists. Her body was too frail to take it.”

  “A shitload of blows to the midsection,” Piñero said. “Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, collapsed lung. A real sick fucker did this.”

  “We knew about the beating beforehand from seeing the body,” Chalmers said. “But the extent of injury surprised even us. You’d have seen it for what it was yourself if they had lowered the sheet more.”

  “Fortunately, somebody was thinking of the poor woman there to confirm the identity of the victim,” I said. “Her friend. You had prints and already knew there was no family. The dislocated jaw distorted the face enough to make photo ID trickier but there was no need to show Ileana the worst of it.”

  “Exactly,” Piñero said.

  Chalmers put down his pen and leveled his eyes at me. “So give us your take, G.”

  “Got a question first,” I said.

  “Sure,” Chalmers said.

  “You guys dug so far into this, enough that you have your own doubts, and still made a bet I wouldn’t show?”

  They looked at each other, and Piñero laughed. “The real bet was whether you’d remember the cookies and milk,” he said. “I had faith in you, bro.”

  “We smart-asses have to stick together,” I said.

  I opened my notebook and recounted the past week, from the moment Oscar Edgerton brought Winslow Simpkins to my office to what I discovered in my second last IntelliChexx search. I shared every detail I had noted and as many additional points as I could remember, at least for things I was willing to tell them. I said nothing of Glendora’s offer of sex or my breaking into the Kelly home. Nor did I mention LJ’s cracking into Keisha’s devices because there was no need for him to be on their radar, just as there was no need for them to know one of Keisha’s best friends was married to a cop. Though I told them about the Navigator, I did not reveal that Spider Tolliver had followed me into the Towne Restaurant. Before I produced and went through all the FBF papers, I said that I had heard from Keisha and expected to meet with her tomorrow.

  After reviewing them, Chalmers thought the papers Keisha had taken great pains to hide were not evidence of a crime but evidence of intent to force the sale of two properties that had the potential to become more valuable. Much of the language, he agreed, sounded as if it had come from a prospectus intended to attract investors, but none of that was criminal. Even the memo that discussed ways to manipulate sales was hardly suggestive of illegality. “Shitty business practices aren’t in and of themselves against the law,” he said. “This is a weak motive for forcing an overdose or beating a druggie to death.”

  “What if you don’t want the targets of those shitty practices to get a heads-up they’re in your crosshairs?”

  Chalmers and Piñero looked at each other and shrugged.

  “I’m still not buying it,” Chalmers said. “People have the option to sell or not sell. Nothing here talks about putting a gun to somebody’s head. What else you got?”

  Next, we went through what I had learned about Dante Cuthbert—minus Bobby’s etymology lesson—and QC Griffin. That proved more intriguing, at least to Piñero. “You know, federal witness protection has been known to make mistakes, like giving families in hiding sequential social security numbers. If this is on the level, and he actually is maintaining two working identities, this Cuthbert guy is good. Yes, it’s fraud but out of our jurisdiction and tied up wi
th a lot of real estate crap. Still no evidence of a crime we can investigate.”

  “Real estate can be useful for lots of things,” I said. “Buy for a song. Rehab cheap. Sell at a modest price with a solid profit margin. Repeat. This company flips like a gymnast, especially in places ready for upscale development. Like Rafael said, big money.”

  “Where are those properties this outfit wants to buy?” Chalmers asked, finally.

  “One is a low-income family housing complex on Best Street,” I said. “The other is a senior citizens apartment building on Virginia. Both are in the Medical Park Neighborhood and both are owned by the Sermon on the Mount Community Development Foundation.”

  “Wait a minute.” Chalmers sat forward. “That’s the church where Dr. Simpkins was the secretary.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re saying Cuthbert and his company wants to force this church to sell so those properties can be turned into upscale condos for high-income medical professionals?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’ll put a lot of people on the street,” Piñero said. “Poor people. Snatch even an empty purse, it’s a crime. But snatch a home away from the poor, it’s just business.”

  I took a deep breath. “Imagine the people running the church and foundation know nothing of efforts to force a sale. Imagine they’re cornered somehow and have no choice. FBF squeezes them out and sells everything to a big developer without even having to rehab the properties themselves. But forewarned is forearmed. With good legal advice, the minister and his wife might be able to block the effort and save affordable housing for people in the neighborhood. Maybe Keisha was threatened to keep her from alerting them.”

  “Speculation,” Chalmers said. “Still, seems like there’d be a ton of bad press.”

  “Maybe bad enough to scuttle the project,” I said.

  “Maybe so much it’d cost somebody a lot of money,” Piñero added.

  Chalmers made a clicking sound again. “How did Dr. Simpkins get this information?”

  “I’ll ask her tomorrow,” I said.

  For a time we were all quiet as the two detectives paged through and traded sections of the documents I had brought. They were studying everything, trying to make sense of my admittedly imperfect conclusions. Now and then Chalmers scratched notes on a pad he had carried in with the folders or used his cell phone to get online and verify something he had read on one page or another. Piñero alternated between rereading a page and then staring off as if in thought. Eventually, he got up to stretch and carried a few sheets with him as he paced from one side of the interrogation room to the other. I just sat there. I sensed I was missing something but I was confident I was in the vicinity of the truth.

  Finally, Chalmers broke the silence. “So, without a speck of evidence, you believe Dante Cuthbert is here in Buffalo. That he’s threatened and killed people and will kill again to swing a deal that could put a lot of money in his pocket.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?” Piñero said.

  “This.”

  From the inside pocket of my jacket, I took out the page I had chosen not to put it in the envelope with the other documents. Now I unfolded it—a printout from an IntelliChexx search of the Michigan DMV—and handed it to Chalmers. Piñero came over to read it over his shoulder.

  “It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see a front plate at Delta Sonic that night because Michigan doesn’t require one,” I said. “Dante Cuthbert owns a black Lincoln Navigator.”

  35

  That evening Phoenix and I dined at her favorite Italian restaurant. Vino’s was on Elmwood in North Buffalo, diagonally across the avenue from a building complex that once produced the luxury Pierce-Arrows driven by Golden Age Hollywood stars and international royalty. Now it housed artist studios, drafting firms, martial arts dojos, independent social service agencies, and not-for-profit dance and theater companies. Presently, one section was being renovated into upscale condominiums—more urban development fever, but at least no poor people would be displaced by this project.

  It was brisk outside, and the restaurant’s steamed windows promised warmth. Having done legal work for the owners, Phoenix explained as she led me past the small statues of lions that flanked the entrance, she was always given the same quiet corner table when she made a reservation, whether she was alone or with a client. Inside, however, was anything but quiet. The front room was a crowded dining area with white tablecloths, white walls full of black and white photographs, and a dozen conversations crisscrossing in warm air that carried traces of garlic, oil, and marinara. There was a bar on one side. The slender blonde woman behind it brightened as Phoenix waved to her and leaned across for an embrace when we were close enough.

  “Theresa, this is Gideon,” Phoenix said.

  “You’re the one she told me about!” Theresa reached across the bar and pumped my hand. “So happy to meet you, Gideon. Any friend of Phoenix is welcome here at any time. If we’re full, we can always find you a seat at the bar.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad to meet you too.” I took in a deep breath through my nose. “But if your food’s as good as it smells, I’d eat it while standing in the corner.”

  “Oh, it is,” Phoenix said to me. Turning to Theresa, she added, “He would too.”

  Laughing and giving Phoenix a subtle nod of approval, Theresa signaled a young red-haired woman in black—her nameplate said Amy—and asked her to lead us to our table.

  We followed Amy into the second dining area, where our table was indeed in a corner. When we were seated, she placed menus in front of us, lit the votive candle inside a small glass in the center of the table, and recited the evening’s specials. When she returned with our bread and a bottle of Malbec, Phoenix ordered garlic oil pasta. I chose spaghetti with pesto. We both asked for Italian sausage on the side.

  “Hope you don’t mind the garlic,” Phoenix said when Amy left to place our order. “If it’s too strong and coming through my pores, I can always stay at my place tonight.”

  “I’ll take you any way I can get you,” I said. “Besides, mine has garlic too, so I’m not defenseless. But if the night goes the way I imagine it, the garlic will be sweet as rosewater.”

  “You can be so corny sometimes,” she said. Still, she smiled as she dipped bread into a mixture of oil and balsamic vinegar and took a bite. After the first slice was gone, she was quiet for a minute or two, sipping wine and thinking, I hoped, of what would happen later. But then she said, “What time do you expect Keisha to call in the morning?”

  “The text said early. I don’t know if she’ll try the apartment, the cell, or my office. The office automatically bounces incoming calls to my cell. I gave her my apartment phone number. She’ll have no trouble getting through. We’ll decide where to meet when she does.”

  “Will we take her to eat?”

  “Sure, if she’s hungry.” I dipped my second piece of bread and chewed. “At the very least I think we’ll get some coffee. Somewhere we can talk.”

  “I can promise to be with you both when she tells her story to Rafael and Terry, if she can bring herself to trust me.”

  “You’re better at inspiring confidence than I am. Just ask your partners.”

  Phoenix laughed. “If you saw the knock-down, drag-outs we have in the office—”

  “No matter. Since we’ve been together, I haven’t met anybody who dislikes you.”

  “Those are all people who know me. Keisha doesn’t know me.”

  “She doesn’t know me either, but people who love her convinced her to trust me,” I said. “Trusting you will come easier to her. She already told me she’ll do whatever we say. We just need to say the right thing.”

  “With all she’s gone through, I’m afraid of saying exactly the wrong thing.”

  When our salads came, Phoenix steered the conversation back to Dante Cuthbert, whom we had discussed on the drive over. Because the driver’s license photos I had found wer
e old, she had used her phone in an attempt to retrieve recent pictures of Cuthbert and his alter ego through Google and social media sites. A white Dante Cuthbert in England looked to be in the British army. A brown-skinned Cuthbert in India wore a lot of superhero t-shirts. A black Dante Cuthbert in LA was clearly too young. Frustrated then, she had changed her search parameters to approach the problem from another angle. Now she took the phone from her purse and showed me several pictures of Lincoln Navigators. “Which one?”

  I pointed to a newer model. “Remember these LED running lights. That’s what I’ll be looking for in the rearview mirror. If you see a configuration like this around the headlights and I seem not to notice, just tell me. Then get down and stay there.”

  She paused a few seconds before asking, “You think he’ll make a run at you?”

  “Frankly, it’s a longshot. The office is my only public address. Very few people know where I live.” Quick and Tolliver did but I hoped she had forgotten that.

  “You have LJ. Maybe he’s got somebody smart too. Maybe a man clever enough to have two working identities is just as good himself at digging up information.”

  I reached across the table with my left hand to cover her right, casually placing my fingertips near her radial artery. “His prime target is still Keisha.” I spoke soothingly, all the while shifting my gaze from her eyes to the seconds display on my watch and counting in my head. “At some point, I might see him somewhere.” Pulse normal so far. “But I doubt it’ll be tonight.” The breathing I had grown accustomed to in the past several weeks sounded even and unstressed. “Tonight is ours.” Still, there was tension between us.

  Releasing her hand, I speared a grape tomato with my fork and popped it into my mouth. I chewed it slowly. “So good,” I said, making one silly pleasure face after another—until, finally, she cracked a smile and said how attractive chewing made me look. The next moment ended in a laugh when I recalled yesterday and told her Piñero had thought Mira was flirting with me.