Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3)

by Gary Earl Ross

  “Deal, Drea.” I let go of her hand and did a quick scan of the surroundings. No media. No special interest in Drea or Sam. Good. “Only we knew when you would arrive. But I’d still like to grab your luggage and get to the van ASAP.” I gestured toward the elevator and touched her elbow to nudge her forward.

  “You look good,” Sam said. “Like the more famous you get, the younger you seem.”

  Lowering her eyes, Drea said nothing.

  “Sam, why don’t you get the carry-on.” I paused as he did so, my heightened level of tension telling me to move. “Drea, one of my colleagues will meet us at baggage claim.”

  “All right,” she said.

  Sam pulled her roller bag with his right hand and kept his left arm around her as we walked to the compact elevator. My sports jacket unbuttoned but my right hand holding it closed, I gazed about until the doors slid open and we stepped inside behind a woman with white hair. I didn’t expect her or other passengers on the stairs and the down escalator to have weapons right after leaving a plane, though a tempered glass nail file in a pocket or purse could kill, quickly, if used the right way. But in an elevator car during a ride down one floor to the baggage claim area, I could control the tight space.

  To my surprise, Bishop and Ramos were both waiting for us. After a quick introduction, we went to Carousel Two, where Bishop and I stood behind Drea and surveyed the crowd. Sam and Ramos stood on either side of her, with Ramos designated to take her luggage off the carousel when it came round and get it to the van. Moments later, the alarm sounded and the red in-motion light flashed. The carousel belt lurched forward. Ten or twelve minutes passed before Drea pointed to two roller suitcases, large and mid-size siblings to her lavender carry-on. Ramos pulled them off the carousel, and before long we were all back in the van.

  “I know how Betty and my mother pack,” Pete said after I had helped Drea inside and introduced her. “Like they’re going away for a whole calendar season. I sent both newbies because I figured you needed extra hands and wouldn’t mind extra eyes.”

  “Good call,” I said.

  17

  Cissy was twenty and the same complexion as her sister Yvonne. In jeans and an oversized pink Cardi B tee, she was shorter and a bit heavier but sported a head of thick black hair and no trace of lipstick or makeup. Having watched us step off the elevator on a monitor, she threw open the hotel suite door before we reached it and locked it behind us before emitting a squeal.

  “Oh, Ms. Wingard, it’s really you!” Cissy grabbed Drea’s hand and pumped it hard, pulling her into the living room as the rest of us clustered in the entryway. “I read your book three times, once for my English class at Villa, once for my book club, and once again when Vonnie told me we would be working with you. I’m so happy to meet you!”

  “I’m happy to meet you too, Ms. Brewster.” Drea flexed her fingers when Cissy let go and looked past her toward Yvonne, seated at the monitors and wearing a denim skirt, red top, and hoop earrings. “G told me about you both. If she’s Vonnie, you must be Cecile.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Call me Cissy.”

  Drea gazed at each Brewster sister for a moment. “Thank you for doing this.”

  “You’re more than welcome,” Cissy said, and Yvonne added, “Happy to help.”

  “Ramos, the luggage goes in the bedroom to the right,” I said.

  As Cissy’s eyes followed him, Ramos carried the two lavender suitcases into Drea’s room. Sam followed with the carry-on. Bishop, Pete, and I stepped down into the living room. I waited for Ramos and Sam to return before making introductions all around. When the handshaking stopped and greetings faded, I positioned myself in the center of the living room and cleared my throat to get everyone’s attention.

  “Thank you all for being part of this team,” I said. “If we’re going to be effective, we need to be clear on the role each of us will play and to understand the seriousness of what we’re doing.” I looked at each one in turn, my gaze lingering longest on Ramos and Cissy. Had there been a spark of something when their eyes met? I shoved the thought aside and gestured toward Sam. “Mr. Wingard here is paying us to protect his cousin, so round-the-clock safety is our primary objective. Period. In case you haven’t read her book, you need to know the people she names as her husband’s killers have never been caught. Police have no idea where Liberty Storm is hiding, especially their leader, one Wally Ray Tucker. He’s a person of interest wanted for questioning in at least three murders. Five-ten, pale skin, spiky blond hair, light brown eyes. He may have fled the country, like Robert Rundo. Unlike Rundo, Tucker may never again show his face here. But I believe in being sure. If he thinks getting caught or killed is inevitable, a diversity conference is the perfect event to make himself a martyr, one with more cachet than a guy who shoots up Walmart. He might try sacrificing himself in a run at our client or he might try something with a higher body count.”

  The room was quiet a moment. Then Bishop raised her hand. “Cops know all this?”

  “They do. The Canalside substation’s providing extra security for traffic control and street crime. But since nobody’s made a specific threat, they can’t pull out the stops. Neither can the FBI.” I nodded to Yvonne, who stood and gave each person a sheet of paper. “Hard copies of Tucker’s mugshots, our contact list, and a schedule of Ms. Wingard’s activities. The only numbers we’re missing are those of Ms. Bishop and Mr. Ramos. Once we have them, Yvonne will send all this to your phones too.”

  Bishop waited until Yvonne handed a pen to everyone who needed one and then recited her number. Ramos followed suit. Yvonne added their numbers to her own cell phone and sent a group text she had already written. The iPhone in my front right pocket buzzed. I pulled it out and looked at it as everyone else did the same. Wingard group contacts, it said. Once she knew everyone got the message, Yvonne sent the Tucker mugshots, followed by a schedule for today through Sunday. Tonight there was a dinner with conference organizers in James Torrance’s penthouse. Tomorrow Drea would appear live on Morning in Buffalo and give a Buffalo News interview in the afternoon. That evening she would have a light dinner at PAUSA Art House in Allentown, followed by a reading and book signing. Wednesday would begin with a Central Library appearance and continue in the afternoon with a second signing at Talking Leaves bookstore. Wednesday evening the conference would begin with a reception and end with Drea’s keynote at an awards brunch Saturday. After an afternoon trip to Niagara Falls and the Underground Railroad Museum in nearby Lewiston, she would speak at the university Saturday night, where we would get additional help from campus police. She would fly home Sunday evening after spending the day with Sam.

  I pocketed my phone. “For the next week, this suite will be our nerve center. From eight each morning till seven at night, Yvonne and Cissy will cover the monitors and start recording anything suspicious. Bishop and Ramos, get here by eight-thirty. You’ll be free to leave each evening with Yvonne and Cissy once Drea, Pete, and I are back. Pete will take the second bedroom. I’ll take the pull-out. Tomorrow and Wednesday will run later because of PAUSA Art House and the conference reception. Tonight Drea and I are having dinner in the owner’s penthouse so you can all take off early. Pete will watch the monitors.”

  Bishop put up her hand again, and I nodded toward her. “I see a lot of rooms on those monitors,” she said. “What happens when you’re asleep?”

  “Good question.” My already favorable opinion of Bishop climbed another rung. “Pete and I will take turns monitoring things till midnight. Then we’ll set the auto-record to kick in anytime motion sensors make a camera move. In the morning we’ll review any recordings in fast forward and slow things down when necessary. Hotel security and I will go to any area that looks like it might have been compromised. Bishop and Ramos, before the end of the day I’ll make sure you meet our security liaison, Mark Donatello.”

  “Like the Ninja Turtle,” Ramos said, which made Pete bite his lip and Cissy grin.

  Bishop rolle
d her eyes. “What if somebody tries to get in here at night?”

  “Every night I’ll put a Brink’s bar with a portable alarm under the doorknob. Nobody will get inside without waking me.” I decided not to say my gun would be under my pillow, but thinking of it reminded me of another detail I needed to share. “By the way, there will be no housekeeping during our stay. No room service unless Pete, Yvonne, or I go get it. The fewer people we let inside, the safer our client will be. The only people allowed in this suite without my say so are here now. No exceptions, not even hotel security. The closet has enough towels. The bathroom cabinet has enough toilet paper and soap to last two weeks. You can bring in food or eat whatever’s in the fridge, but please clean up after yourselves and take your garbage when you leave each day.”

  “So much for the luxury suite,” Sam said, which elicited a few chuckles.

  “In the car you said something about how we would communicate with each other,” Ramos said. “A closed-circuit system.”

  “With earbuds, like you see on TV.” I took one off the monitor table and held it up for everyone to get a look. “We’ll test them in a few minutes. They’re for use whenever we’re outside this suite. We’ll remain in contact with each other and Yvonne and Cissy while we’re in the hotel. Anyone who sees something that looks wrong should cut in immediately and let us all know. When we’re off-site, like at a library or a bookstore, Yvonne and Cissy will be out of the mix but they’ll still be monitoring things here and will contact me or Pete by cell phone if there’s anything we should know. When Ms. Wingard is speaking, her earbud power pack will be off. Any report of a potential threat puts responsibility for her safety on the person closest to her at that moment. Any questions?”

  Bishop nodded. “Can I order my vest now? If you give me a website, Mr. Rimes, I’ll use my phone.”

  “I’ll call my mom,” Ramos said.

  “You can log in on my laptop when we’re done,” I said. “It’s on the lamp table by the sofa. Anything else?”

  Drea raised her hand slowly. “G—and I’m beginning to think that means General, not Gideon—I’m hungry. I know we’re having dinner with some bigwigs tonight but I can’t wait that long. Nobody knows I’m here yet so I’d like to go someplace to eat and see a few things. Is that possible, or will you keep me prisoner here?”

  “Only if you refuse to let Bishop help you dress for the field trip.”

  18

  We spent the afternoon at Canalside.

  It was a hot day, cloudless and bright enough to darken my transition lenses rapidly. We left the earbuds at the hotel because we would remain together on this outing. We moved in a casual group, Sam and Drea at the center, with Bishop, Ramos, Pete, and me serving as flexible compass points. Bishop and Ramos happily complied with my suggestion they tie their company windbreakers around their waists. Pete and I kept on our jackets to hide our shoulder holsters. Drea had to be as clammy in her body armor as we were in ours.

  At Drea’s request, our first stop was the row of idling food trucks past the Metro Rail tracks, five mobile kitchens in five different colors. The yellow truck belonged to The Cheesy Chick, which specialized in creative takes on grilled cheese. The Organic Hispanic truck was green, its menu listing healthy tacos and burritos. Dogberry’s Hot Dogs was blue and Kit’s Kabobs was black. Middle Sister Sandwiches was a red banh mi shop on wheels.

  “There are restaurants where we can sit inside,” I said to Drea. “With AC.”

  She shook her head. “I spend too much time inside. I need the sun to remind me I’m not Dracula’s daughter.”

  “Liberty Hound has a terrace beside the battleships.” I pointed to the restaurant on the other side of the Commercial Slip. “It also has amazing truffle fries.”

  “I’d rather walk and take in everything before my time gets crazy with reporters and cameras and book lines.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds and drew in a long breath through her nose. “Look, try to see this through my eyes. The world spins forward but every time I go somewhere I have to relive the worst night of my life. I don’t get to heal.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass but if what happened to my husband and me means anything, I have to relive it and take listeners with me. It’s the only way I can make people understand and rise up for change.”

  “Maybe I’m overcautious but I can protect you better in a closed environment.”

  “I know, I know.” She stepped away from Sam and hooked her arm through mine. “I do appreciate how you do your job. But even a few minutes among people who are happy and light and normal can help me go on.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And nobody knows I’m here yet. Right?”

  Except some of the conference organizers. I kept that thought to myself and looked into her eyes. “Okay. If right here is what you want, right here is what you get.” I turned to the others, who had all been close enough to hear our exchange. “You need food you can hold in one hand and bottled water so you can stick it in a pocket.”

  “General is right,” Sam said, laughing. “Now he’s telling us what to eat! This boy is giving orders like he’s Colin goddam Powell.”

  “It doesn’t include you and Drea,” I said to Sam. “We need at least one hand free.”

  Drea smiled up at me. “So you can look like a Black Dirty Harry, hot dog in one hand and a gun in the other. Even got the sunglasses.”

  “The faster you choose your food,” I said, releasing her arm, “the sooner we can get moving.”

  Drea reached into the purse hanging from her shoulder. After a moment of fumbling around, she produced a fifty and a handful of smaller bills. “Lunch is on me. An inadequate but sincere thanks to all of you. Anything you want.”

  “I guess I feel like a dog with everything on it,” Bishop said.

  “Ice coffee from the Bean Bastard stand over there means no free hand.” Ramos sighed and turned back to the food trucks. “Bottled water it is then. What’s banh mi?”

  “A spicy Vietnamese sandwich on a soft baguette,” Pete said.

  “Is it any good?”

  Pete shrugged. “Depends on the place and what you want. All the sisters’ are good.”

  “There was this wonderful place near my home in Virginia,” Drea said. “A few times a year Grant and I…” She hesitated and swallowed. Then she took hold of her cousin’s arm. “Haven’t had a banh mi in a long time.” She pulled Sam to the end of the Middle Sister line.

  Pete and I got in line behind them, angling ourselves so each of us could scan one side, front to back, as we waited for service. Drea gave Bishop and Ramos a couple of tens and a few singles. I said they could step away long enough to get something from another truck. Bishop went to Dogberry’s and Ramos to The Organic Hispanic. Food in hand and Dasani bottles zipped in the pockets of their Weisskopf jackets, both were back before Drea and Sam reached the Middle Sister pass-through window. Inside the truck were two women in red smocks. One had a short black bob, the other dark hair to her shoulders. Both looked too young to have fled the fall of Saigon, unless they were in the arms of parents about to begin an arduous journey that would end in Buffalo. The short-haired woman in front smiled as Drea and Sam stepped up to the pass-through. The menu posted beside it listed five banh mis, each bearing a name or initials followed by ingredients. I turned away from the truck and continued to scan the area as I listened.

  “Five names, five sandwiches,” Drea said. “One for each sister?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Which one is yours?”

  “The grilled chicken and veggie. I’m JJ.”

  “I’ll have one of those and a can of Coke,” Drea said.

  “Same for me,” Sam added.

  “Pull two of mine,” JJ called out, laughing. “Puts me ahead by three, Annie.”

  “It’s a competition?” Drea said.

  JJ grinned. “Isn’t everything?”

  Pete was next, choosin
g Kathy’s traditional pork roll and a bottle of water.

  “I know you from somewhere,” JJ said as Pete waited for his order.

  “Been to your place on Allen a few times,” Pete said. “With my parents.”

  JJ drew in a sharp breath. “That’s right! I met you once when my hair was longer before I got contacts. Plus, I’ve seen you out front when I worked in the kitchen. You’re Dr. Kim’s son. The police detective.”

  “Not anymore. I retired.”

  “Good for you! Do it while you’re young enough to have fun.” She paused a moment. “You know, I worked with your dad for years. Such a nice man. Sorry I missed his retirement party. When was it, three years ago? Four? How is he?”

  “Four. He’s just fine.” Pete paused. “You worked at Roswell and now you make banh mis?”

  “I still work at Roswell,” JJ said. “This is a side gig for four of us, a way to cope with stress in our regular jobs and share a family business with our retired parents. Doing this is the therapy that helps me keep my head in the game as an oncology nurse. We all need an upside to keep going.”

  “Amen,” Pete said.

  When it was my turn, I ordered a JJ and slipped the water bottle into my jacket’s side pocket. Once I had my sandwich in hand and took a bite, we began a circuitous walk that took us past the Explore and More Museum and the stone ruins of the original canal, along the edge of the Commercial Slip, and past the vast event lawn to the boardwalk and the river.

  Canalside was crowded this first Monday after the close of school: teens in noisy clusters, parents watching children climb on playground equipment or scramble through the replica of a tugboat in the sandpit, men and boys tugging kite strings or thumbing levers that controlled a few hobby-sized drones, cyclists in helmets and shorts, runners running, walkers resting on benches facing the river, readers in plastic Adirondack chairs, couples holding hands as they walked along the water. There were ice cream vendors with stainless steel carts, stands that booked dinner cruises and on-board wine tastings, and a caricature booth with a ready sketch artist. Beyond the Clinton’s Dish food stand was the new solar-powered pavilion that housed a restored 1920s carousel. Dotting the water were kayaks, pedal boats, aqua cycles, small sailboats, and slow-moving cabin cruisers. Bobbing in the distance was the Moondance catamaran. Chugging closer, the two-deck Miss Buffalo pumped out the music of a DJ hired for the afternoon cruise. The DJ’s music clashed with the organ music from the carousel.