Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3)

by Gary Earl Ross

  “Our other guests will be arriving in about twenty minutes or so,” Marlo said, leading us through a doorway in the middle of the dining room’s south wall. “I told Jim to have you come earlier so we could get to know each other a bit.”

  We emerged in a small circular area that opened onto a larger room on each side and another corridor straight ahead. To the right was a sprawling, commercial-looking stainless steel kitchen with six or seven staff working over ranges and at counters. To the left was a spacious sunken living room with potted plants, hardwood floors, built-in shelving with books and half a dozen small sculptures, plush chairs and sofas, four paintings that looked original, and a flat-screen TV that filled an entire wall. Soft jazz at a low volume came from a sound system I could not see.

  “We’ll go to my room,” Marlo said, moving into the corridor. “It’s cozier than the living room.”

  “As you wish,” Drea, said.

  At the end of the corridor was a master bedroom with one of its sliding doors open to reveal a king-sized bed and a floor-to-ceiling window. Perpendicular to the master bedroom on either side was a pair of regular doors—presumably for more bedrooms. Marlo opened the farther door on the right and stood aside for us to enter.

  It was a bedroom without a bed, furnished as a combination office and sitting room, with one window not quite floor-to-ceiling in its far wall and a filtration system that left the scent of roses in the air. A desk with a computer and a client chair beside it sat before the window. At a right angle to the desk and across from a mid-size flat screen on the wall were a flower-pattern loveseat and matching armchair. A lamp table between them had a few magazines, a clamshell ashtray, and a half-done needlepoint canvas in a circular frame. Bookshelves flanking the television held hardcovers and paperbacks, as well as legal volumes with thick spines. The narrow corner door past the books probably led to a bathroom shared with the adjacent bedroom.

  “Not quite my sanctum sanctorum,” Marlo said. “But a good place to retreat when I’m tired. It’s also the only room I can smoke in, though I try to limit indoor cigarettes to winter. This time of year I use the terrace. Have a seat, anywhere you like.”

  Drea sank into the loveseat near the table. Sensing Marlo wanted to sit beside her, I sat in the armchair, trying to reconcile what I knew of the judge with the needlepoint ring.

  Marlo took the seat I expected but smiled at me instead of Drea. “Gideon, the look on your face when I opened the door made me sorry I didn’t have a camera. So let me answer the question you’re too much of a gentleman to ask. Yes, James Torrance and I are a couple. We’ve been together for three years and I’ve lived here for two. It’s not a secret relationship but we’re private people and don’t appear in public together often enough to make people care. We’re not a power couple like the mayor and Judge Chancellor.”

  I nodded. Ophelia Green and State Supreme Court Justice Harold Chancellor had been together longer than Phoenix and I—how much longer I couldn’t say because their relationship came to light only after her re-election. Cameras followed them everywhere now. Everyone from ministers in pulpits to neighborhood weeklies to local news anchors mentioned what a striking couple the beautiful mayor and tall, handsome judge made. If they were anything like Bobby and Kayla, Marlo and James would hate such attention.

  “By the way, they’ll be here tonight, along with the Gramms and the Zachritzes.”

  “Buffalo’s unofficial first couple,” I said, wondering but not asking who the eleventh and twelfth diners would be. “A news item wherever they go.”

  “Which is why tonight’s dinner party is private. No pictures for Facebook or other social media. If I may be frank, Jim and I are both widowed, with enough individual assets to complicate taxes and inheritances if we marry. I hope you can appreciate we don’t need the public speculating about us the way they do about Ophelia Green and Hal Chancellor. I’ve already been called a gold digger, even though I have enough money of my own that my daughter in Seattle can retire from teaching kindergarten whenever I punch my time card.” She chuckled. “The truth is, I wouldn’t know what to do with the kind of money Jim has.”

  “Your privacy is safe with us,” I said. “But as long as we’re being frank, I imagine Randall’s happier with things as they are.”

  “You imagine correctly,” she said after a long moment. “Randall’s a good son but never quite got over the loss of his mother. He’s had trouble with anyone his father dated. Still, we’ve made our peace with each other.”

  Because outside of marriage you’re no threat to his inheritance, I thought.

  Marlo looked at Drea. “But you’re the guest of honor tonight and I’ve neglected you too long.” She took Drea’s hands in hers. “Your book ends on an uncertain but hopeful note. If I’m not being too presumptuous, I’d love to know what your life has been like since its release.”

  For the next ten minutes, Drea described a life of newfound privilege constrained by the loneliness of excessive caution. The book’s success and the sale of film rights to Hulu had enabled her to rent an expensive studio in a secure apartment building in Dupont Circle. Her precise address was unlisted anywhere. The building’s amenities included a gym, a pool, a clubhouse, yoga classes, and bicycle storage, but she never used anything other than the laundry service and had met none of her neighbors. All her finances she handled online. All her take-out was delivered to the doorman’s desk in the name of whichever doorman was on duty. All her mail went directly to her lawyer’s office, which sent an armed driver to pick her up for a biweekly office conference, groceries and other shopping, and a monthly luncheon with a few old friends who knew only her new email address and her burner phone number. Appearances and signings were arranged by her publishers, who still received death threats against her, though the number had declined in the past year. They provided security for local events and subcontracted coverage each time she left town. She had left the country once since her husband’s murder, to attend her daughter’s wedding in London. She had felt safe there and hoped to go back at the end of the year for the birth of her first grandchild, who would be named for her husband—Grant Michael if a boy, Michaela Grant if a girl. If the book continued to sell and Hulu made a series, she might even relocate to London.

  “I hope you won’t find this question prying,” Marlo said after a brief silence. “If it’s none of my business, say so. Are you still seeing your therapist?”

  “Yes. He’s so grateful I didn’t use his real name in the book, he makes a house call every week. He’s amazing and so helpful. In fact, he’s the only guest I ever have.” She giggled. “One of the doormen thinks he’s my lover.”

  Marlo threw back her head and laughed. “No finer cover story.” Then she paused, growing serious. “How do you do it? If I were in your place, I’d cower in a corner like a child.”

  “It helps to have a loaded gun in your purse,” Drea said. “I’m licensed now in DC, partly because of the attention the case got and the repeated death threats. I carry outside DC too, even where I’m not supposed to. I’d never say this in a book or interview, but if I ever see Wally Ray Tucker anywhere, I will empty my gun into him and call the cops myself.”

  Marlo let a few seconds pass. “The police have no idea where he is?”

  Drea shook her head. “Not the last time I talked to them. Not Maryland police, not Virginia, not DC. I told them all what I’ll do if I see him. They think I’m venting. Of course, I couldn’t bring my gun on the plane so I’m counting on Gideon to keep me safe.”

  “To the extent that I know him, he’s a good choice.” The judge flashed me a knowing grin I knew I’d have to explain to Drea later. “Gideon, are you carrying a gun right now?”

  “I am.”

  “Because you’re working and you’ll escort Drea elsewhere in this hotel.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would never pull your gun unless it’s necessary.”

  “Absolutely necessary,” I said. “
It stays holstered until it’s my last resort to prevent something bad.” I couldn’t help smiling at her. “I’ll use my pocket baton first.”

  For a time no one spoke. Then Marlo cleared her throat and turned to Drea again. “I admire your strength, the example you set for all of us. To survive what you did and come out a fully empowered woman is nothing short of remarkable. I’m honored to meet you.”

  Drea let out a long breath. “I have more money and attention than ever before, more of what I never wanted.” She swallowed and dabbed her eyes with a tissue she pulled from her purse. “I’d trade every dime to hold hands with Grant for one more walk in the park.”

  There was a light tap on the door.

  “Come in,” Marlo called, wiping her own eyes with the back of her hand.

  James Torrance stepped into the room, his linen suit white and his open-collared shirt black. He smiled as he drew near. “Sorry my call took so long. Business, you know.”

  I stood. “I understand, sir.” I took his outstretched hand. “Good to see you again.”

  His expression took on a concern that seemed genuine. “Mr. Rimes, is everything to your satisfaction? With the suite, I mean, now that you’re in it.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Mark Donatello has been very helpful.”

  “Good.” Then he turned to the women, who also had got to their feet. “Miss Wingard, I’m Jim Torrance. I’m so—” He studied her for a heartbeat. Then he looked at Marlo. “Have you been crying, honey? Both of you? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Drea said, sniffing one last time.

  “It’s my fault, Jim,” Marlo said. “I asked some questions I shouldn’t have, painful questions, and she answered.”

  “That’s what I’m here to do,” Drea said. “In Buffalo, I mean. To tell the truth.”

  James took one of her hands in both of his. “I want you to feel safe and welcome in our home. In this hotel.”

  “Thank you, sir. I do.”

  Still holding Drea’s hand, he looked past her to Marlo and said, “Everyone is here, including Randall and Chelsea.”

  Eleven and twelve, I thought.

  20

  “I haven’t read your book yet, Ms. Wingard, but I’m told it’s quite good.”

  “Thank you,” Drea said.

  But I couldn’t help doubting the woman who offered the gratuitous compliment would ever read the book.

  Statuesque, copper-haired, and sheathed in a tan cocktail dress, Chelsea Carpenter was about the same height and age as the man beside her, Randall Torrance. White wine glass in her left hand, she traded Drea’s hand for mine when James Torrance gave her my name. Her skin was cool to the touch, her fiercely intelligent eyes an iridescent green, her cheeks lightly freckled, and her full-lipped smile devastating. I wondered whether they were a true partnership or casual lovers and found myself envying and pitying Randall at the same time. Millionaire or not, he was so far out of her orbit he might as well have been in another star system. As were I and every other man in the room.

  “So you’re the PI Randy’s been telling me about,” she said before sipping her wine.

  “Whatever he told you, don’t believe a word of it,” I replied. “I’m much worse.”

  “Somebody’s incorrigible.” After a moment she laughed and nudged Randall with an elbow. “You never said he was so intense.”

  He chuckled awkwardly, one hand in the side pocket of his blue blazer, JFK-style. “I told her you were a war hero, Rimes, and an ex-cop. Kind of an old woman the way you worry about things but over all good at what you do. Matt thinks so. Mark too.” He grinned at me as if we were long-time friends. “They’re not easy to impress.”

  “Neither am I,” she said, gazing at me intently. Convinced Carpenter would never skim a page of In the Mouth of the Wolf, I excused myself and followed Drea to another couple who were holding glasses and sipping.

  Alvin Zachritz and his wife Arlene were both about fifty. A thin, bespectacled man with well-manicured hands, graying hair swept back, and sharp eyes, he had been county comptroller before being elected county executive. A few inches shorter than I, he wore a lightweight gray suit and was the only one wearing a tie—apart from the black-jacketed string quartet—two women, two men—tuning their instruments on the dining room stage. His wife was an inch or two shorter than he was, with a compact tennis body and brown hair with honey highlights. Her dress was off-white, her smile wide, her bracelets faintly musical. Both of them fussed over Drea, praising her book and peppering her with questions about what she had seen so far of Western New York.

  “I spent the day at Canalside.” Drea sighed dreamily. “A magnificent place.”

  Ophelia Green was still smiling at Drea’s comment when we cycled over to her and Judge Chancellor, she in a navy dress and he in a beige blazer. “An honor to meet you,” the mayor said, after I made introductions. “I’m happy you’re enjoying your visit.” After a few moments of small talk, she gave Drea a light embrace, and the judge shook hands with both of us. Next were Rory Gramm and his wife Edie. Both were dressed as unpretentiously as one would expect of a social work professor and public school teacher. Rory’s sports jacket was old but of good quality, and his glasses were suspended from a neck chain. Edie’s sleeveless yellow dress was simple, but she kept a white sweater folded over one arm—for when the air conditioner got too cold, she explained, or when we all went out to the terrace.

  Marlo directed us to our seats. James Torrance and she took the center on one side of the table, directly across from Drea and me. Mayor Green and Judge Chancellor sat beside Torrance and the county executive and his wife beside Marlo. Carpenter and Randall were on my right, across from the mayor. The Gramms sat on Drea’s left, across from the Zachritzes. From above we must have looked like a chessboard set up without pawns or rooks.

  Dinner was a four-course meal served by kitchen staff, one course at a time: stuffed mushrooms, pear salad, filet mignon with asparagus and red potatoes, and cherry cheesecake. Wine flowed freely throughout, though I limited myself to a few sips because I was working. Speaking only when spoken to, I listened to generally innocuous conversation. Talk bounced from less controversial national news stories to local concerns to anecdotes and personal experiences—opinions on new restaurants, books read and films seen, the Buffalo theater season opening in September, the accomplishments of grown children, travels and travel plans.

  The county executive’s daughter had completed an internal medicine residency in Cleveland and was joining a practice there. A Harvard Law graduate, Ophelia’s son Drake had been named associate director of a legal clinic in Harlem. Judge Chancellor had coaxed the mayor into spending the last two weeks of July with him in Maine. Each a graduate of Columbia Law and licensed to practice in several states along the Eastern Seaboard, Randall and Carpenter had reconnected at a legal conference a few years ago and began what evolved into a long-distance relationship—still in development, she said.

  Fuck buddies, I thought. She’s going to break his heart.

  Because Edie Gramm’s father would turn ninety in a few weeks, they had booked Templeton Landing at the marina for a party to be attended by friends and relatives from as far away as Colorado and Florida. Despite occasional references to the conference that would begin day after tomorrow, no one mentioned Drea’s book or the events that led to its writing. The string quartet provided a soothing background for the entire meal. I recognized only four of the dozen pieces performed: Pachelbel’s Canon, parts of Mozart’s “Spring,” and the Beatles’ “Yesterday” and “Eleanor Rigby.”

  It was still light outside when the musicians began to pack away their instruments and undo their ties. The rest of us moved out to the terrace for coffee.

  There were cushioned lounge chairs and padded folding chairs around glass-topped tables, as well as a pebbled glass bar with no one tending it. As Marlo urged everyone toward a seat and conversations began among the diners, a staffer rolled out an expensive-looking serv
ing cart and began to offer coffee or tea in gilt-edged cups and saucers. Edie Gramm pulled on her sweater and scooted back on a lounge chair to lean against her husband before both accepted tea. The Zachritzes sat at one table, Randall and Carpenter at another. Judge Chancellor straddled a lounge, and Ophelia leaned back against his chest, closing her eyes. Holding a chair for Drea, I realized Ophelia was the happiest I had seen her since Danny’s death. I imagined my old comrade in arms would be pleased his wife had found new joy.

  As I took the chair beside Drea, Marlo and James sat across from each other at a table more or less in the middle of things. Marlo had come out with a few things in hand and now put them on the table: a large ashtray holding a red phone, a lighter, two unlit cigarettes, and a gray cylinder the diameter of a cereal bowl. She lit one of the cigarettes and took a long pull on it. When she pushed a button on the cylinder, a small blue light on the side glowed. She put the phone beside what I realized was a blue tooth speaker. Then she invited Drea to join them at the table. Drea looked at me and I nodded.

  “I have an audio I’d like to play,” Marlo said after Drea sat between her and James. “I’d like you all to listen, and I’d like our guest of honor to comment on it. Then James will make an announcement.”

  A touch and a swipe made Marlo’s phone screen brighten. She tapped it twice more, and an electronically masked voice crackled out of the speaker. The sound was robotic, eerily similar to the prosthetic voice of the physicist Stephen Hawking—which made what it said all the more jarring: