Eyes already closed, Drea shook her head and rested it against my shoulder again. I realized the cadence and tone of Pete’s non-sequitur about a tea ceremony matched the rhythm of a typical bedtime story, the near hypnosis parents had used to coax children into sleep for the whole of human history. He was calming her in a way I hadn’t expected.
My own eyelids seemed heavier, damn him.
“Maybe tea tomorrow,” Drea said. “Right now I think I want to try going back to sleep. Give me a couple of minutes.”
“Take all the time you need,” I said.
“You’ll stay till I’m asleep?”
“Until you’re so asleep you won’t feel me stand up.”
“Thank you.”
“Guess I’ll head on back to my room now,” Pete said, shooting me a wink. “Tea tomorrow. Better dreams tonight.”
After he switched off the light and closed the door on his way out, Drea let out a long breath. “He’s such a nice man.”
“He is,” I said in the darkness.
“Hope he wasn’t insulted about the tea.” She sounded groggy now.
“He wasn’t. He just wanted you to feel better.”
After a minute or so of silence, her breathing began to slide into a regular rhythm. Presently, she twisted away and slid down, putting her head on the pillow and throwing an arm across my lap. Her breath was warm against my hip as she settled in.
“Such a nice man.” Almost a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Different from those other men.”
“I won’t let them hurt you,” I whispered. “Whatever it takes, I’ll keep you safe.”
Seconds later she was out, and I eased my head against the padded headboard. An hour passed before she pulled away enough to startle me awake and give me sufficient room to slip off the bed without waking her.
22
WNCZ-TV was located in the Eastern Hills Mall, outside the city and on the edge of the town of Clarence. A casualty of online shopping, the once-thriving mall had been declining for years, with most anchor chains gone, too many vacant stores, a three-screen cinema, and a DMV branch office. A plan for mixed-use development was in progress, enhanced by the presence of the corporate headquarters of Cathcart Communications.
In a small footprint business model replicated in dozens of states, Cathcart directed its services at consumers unable to afford Sirius radio, Netflix, or more than basic cable. In most markets, it offered a handful of over-the-air radio stations and one to three television stations for over-the-air or basic cable. In the Buffalo area, it had six radio stations—one each for classic rock, rhythm and blues, jazz, country-western, gospel, and public affairs—and three round-the-clock digital TV stations—for reruns of classic television series and game shows, classic movies with limited commercial interruptions, and comprehensive news. Though it would hardly call itself a network, its stations offered identical programming with insertions of local commercials and news updates. Only the public affairs radio and TV news channels were unique to their markets.
The main entrance was on the back side of the L-shaped building. Pete parked the Ford Transit in one of the spaces designated Z-TV Guests. He and I climbed out first and scanned our surroundings. Seeing nothing suspicious, I slid open the side door for Manuel Ramos and Lucy Bishop to step out. Ramos was in a tan blazer and pressed jeans, the yellow Taser on his right hip and the earbud power pack on his left visible when he twisted one way or the other. Bishop wore a long knit sweater-jacket that kept her .38 hidden. They were followed by Drea, in a blue dress over her body armor. Surrounding her, we hurried into the building.
We were greeted by Bill Cathcart, tall, balding, and wearing a rumpled seersucker suit that belied his wealth. He led us to Christina Donohue, whose shoulder-length auburn hair and matching lipstick and scarf stood out against her saffron dress. After small talk over coffee and mini-donuts, Donohue showed Drea and me into a sea-green studio with bright lights overhead, a stage with cushioned beige armchairs perpendicular to each other, three remote-control TV cameras, and a clean-shaven young man named Ronnie with a clip-on microphone in one hand. Once Drea was miked, I followed Ronnie out of the studio and into the control booth, where Bishop waited with a spiky-haired blonde named Marie. Pete and Ramos stood outside the studio door as if lending muscle to the red ON AIR sign above it. Bishop and I stayed in the control booth. Ronnie and Marie donned headsets and sat at a massive board of slide switches and dials. They tested the audio levels, the camera controls, and the monitors. Finally, they gave Donohue a thirty-second warning before the Morning in Buffalo theme music and title montage began.
The interview lasted the better part of an hour. Donohue began by saying NCADI, the National Conference on American Diversity and Inclusion, would open tomorrow at the Torrance Towers downtown and would be covered on Morning in Buffalo throughout its four-day run. Today, she would have a one-on-one interview with a woman whose encounter with hatred led to a best-selling book. With delicate questions, Donohue led Drea through the chain of events familiar to anyone who’d read her book, with periodic cutaways to footage of police cruisers outside her Virginia home, still pictures of her with her husband, a clip from his funeral, another clip from her Frontline interview, a photo of missing suspect Wally Ray Tucker, and a close-up of the cover of In the Mouth of the Wolf. After getting Drea to preview some of the topics she would address during the conference, Donohue brought things to a close by asking what would come after the conference. “I hope we can all come away from this event with an understanding of what we’re facing,” Drea said. “There’s a rising storm in this country, hurricane-force winds that threaten to sweep away the dream that is America if we can’t reign in the evil that makes people hate.”
After an early catered lunch sponsored by Bill Cathcart, we piled into the van to drive the twenty miles back downtown to the Buffalo News. We took Main Street, the name given to Route Five which stretched from downtown, where it cut the city in half, to a rural area fifty miles east. Highways would have made the trip faster, but we had plenty of time and Drea had plenty of questions about Western New York. Having ridden along on Bobby’s guided tours for out-of-town guests, I could have spent the entire time rattling off answers. But it was our first full day together as a security team and unit cohesion was critical. It was important that Ramos and Bishop be brought into the conversation as much as possible, that we all get to know each other and Drea to know us. The scenic tour down Main—with the inevitable slowdown in the Village of Williamsville and the parks, colleges, and historic sites we passed—was an opportunity of inestimable value.
We were more comfortable with each other when we reached the News headquarters, on the edge of Canalside. With ten minutes to spare, we were directed to a reserved spot by the Scott Street lot parking attendant, who had been given our plate number and told to expect us. We repeated our exit pattern, though the high level of afternoon pedestrian traffic made Pete and me spend a longer time surveying our surroundings before we let the others out and crossed to the building.
In tight jeans, a short-sleeved summer sweater, and expensive-looking open-toed shoes, Amanda Corso was waiting for us in the vast lobby. Petite, with dark hair and full lips, she had been straightforward but vaguely flirtatious in my two previous encounters with her. Now she smiled as I led Drea and company inside.
“Been awhile, Rimes,” she said, her voice as smoky as I remembered. “The last time I saw you was in the hospital, after you—” She looked at the group accompanying me, perhaps wondering if they knew I had been shot almost two years earlier. “After you had that mishap. I hope you’re luckier this time around.”
“Accidents happen,” I said.
“Especially to people with a knack for putting themselves in the wrong place.”
I shrugged. “A guy’s gotta eat.”
She looked me up and down. “You don’t look like you’re missing too many meals. I guess your Latina friend is feeding you a lot of t
hat good Puerto Rican food. Mofongo. Arroz con gandules.”
“Muy bien.”
Corso laughed. “I think my accent’s way better than yours. Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do,” I lied. Phoenix had met Corso once and taken an instant dislike to her. I didn’t know the reporter well enough to determine whether the feeling was mutual but I suspected it was, even though I was uncertain whether they would recognize each other.
I introduced Corso to Drea but to no one else. We had agreed in our earlier telephone conversation that her feature story would carry no mention of the subject’s security detail. Also agreed upon beforehand was the site of the interview, a private first-floor conference room rather than the bustling newsroom upstairs. Now Corso took Drea’s arm. We followed them past the security desk and around a corner to a room with a wall of glass separating it from the corridor. After Corso closed the vertical blinds, we spent another hour and change in silence as she questioned Drea and took notes.
The two women seemed to get on well. Drea was more relaxed without cameras present, and Corso was a less unctuous interviewer than Donohue. She worked to establish common ground with her subject, asking questions that evolved into friendly conversations before she moved to her next line of inquiry. There was no concluding question selected for climactic effect. “You see this as a struggle between what Lincoln called our better angels and evil,” Corso said. “Anything to add?”
“No,” Drea said. “Mr. Rimes promised me an hour at the children’s museum across the way. If we go on much longer, I won’t make it because I have to get ready for tonight.”
“Then I’ll take you over to Buddy Dobbins for a picture and go write up what I have now. I’ll add a few finishing touches after your reading tonight. See you there.” Sliding her notebook into the back pocket of her jeans, Corso opened the blinds. Then she turned to me. “Rimes, you have got to reconsider letting me interview you about life as a private investigator. I think you would make a fascinating story.”
The same request that had made Phoenix eject her from my hospital room.
“I hate publicity,” I said.
23
PAUSA Art House was a storefront jazz club and wine and tapas bar on Wadsworth Street in Allentown. In addition to being an intimate music venue, it also hosted exhibits from local and national artists, staged readings of plays, book signings, and other events related to the arts. Though normally in business Thursday through Sunday, PAUSA’s owner had been approached by members of the conference organizing committee to host a special event the night before the conference opened. Tonight was the night.
Expecting her hunters to be nowhere near a summer-packed children’s museum for an unannounced visit, I dropped Drea and the team at Explore and More across Canalside from the News. Promising to return in an hour, I went to see PAUSA’s owner, Cuban-born Zulema Alvarez, whom I had met through Phoenix early in our relationship.
A petite brown-skinned woman with close-cut hair and the widest smile I had ever seen, she greeted me at the front door and led me through her establishment so I could assess it for security. The front held a few low bistro tables with chairs and a wine and beer bar with taller chairs. The back room was larger, with track lighting overhead, a piano, more tables, a counter against one wall, chairs for about forty, a speaker’s lectern, and an emergency exit with a crash bar. The corridor between them had restroom entrances and a swinging door to the compact kitchen. All the hardwood—bar, counter, floors, molding—gleamed. Paintings and photographs from the professional to the amateur covered the walls. I compared the wall art to cell phone pictures I had taken last week, noting no changes. Then we sat at a bistro table by one of the front windows. Filling the dark red wall behind Zulema were fifty or so black and white photos of musicians who had played the back room.
“The guy from the bookstore will use this table for the book signing,” Zulema said, her accent strong, “and those two for a display and his cash box.” She pointed to two tables away from the window and against the wall.
I looked at the window, noting the absence of curtains or blinds. “Let’s change how we do that. Unless you have bulletproof glass, I won’t let my protectee sign books in front of a window.”
Zulema said nothing, her open mouth and look of surprise indications she hadn’t considered such risks.
“We’ll put Will Johannes in the window with his cash box and Ms. Wingard at the table farthest away.” I did not say I was, in effect, using the bookstore owner and anyone who paid for a book as a shield. That no one wanted them dead gave them better odds than Drea. “When does he arrive?”
She looked at her thin gold wristwatch. “Half an hour.”
“We agreed he would come himself, or with one long-time staffer if he needed help. No new hires. That goes for you too. Only the four employees I did background checks on.”
“I remember. They’re the only ones who’ll be here. Once they’re inside with the book guy, the doors will be locked until you get back with Ms. Wingard.” She looked down for a moment. “You know, I read her book in Spanish. Poor woman.” She shook her head. “Esos bastardos! Quiero castrarlos.” In case I didn’t understand, she held up something invisible with her left hand and made a snipping motion with her right thumb and forefinger.
But I understood and returned her smile.
“If the bookseller uses the tables on this side of the door,” I said, “we’ll set up on the table on the other side. My people will use a wand, a handheld metal detector, on everyone who comes in. Anything that could be used as a weapon will be tagged and put into a bin for pick-up after the event. I mean things like pocket knives, box cutters, tactical pens with glass break tips. Guns are another matter. We’ll post a sign outside that says GUN FREE ZONE, POLICE ON PREMISES.” I made a mental note to bring a few sets of plasticuffs. “Anybody tries to bring in a gun, we’ll arrest him.”
“You can do that?”
“My partner is a retired cop. We can make that happen.”
She nodded. “Is everything else okay?”
“Almost everything. When I was here once before, the back door was propped open.”
“It gets hot inside.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “No matter how hot it gets.”
“No? There is a fence outside.”
“Whatever fencing you have is not enough. People can get over it and get in without too much effort. I’ll station one of my team there in case someone tries to pry the door from the outside. But we can’t have the door open.”
She sighed and nodded again. “I guess the ceiling fan will be working overtime. At least it won’t be interfering with music.”
“One final thing. Once everyone is inside, the front door must be locked.”
“But the fire codes require—”
“No,” I said. “There’s a crash bar in back. You or one of your employees can sit by the front door in case there’s an emergency. You can let people out too but no one comes back in and no one else comes in after we lock the door.”
Before I left, I handed her a notecard with Drea’s menu selection. The plan was for the speaker to eat while attendees were drinking and making their own menu choices. She would begin her reading within ten minutes of her advertised start time, seven-thirty.
I returned to Explore and More and parked outside the front door. Certain everyone was in range, I pushed a button on the power pack clipped to my belt and said, “Rimes here, team. I’m outside. Acknowledge in sequence.” Pete’s voice was the first to crackle through my earbud. “Thank God,” he said. Then I heard simple acknowledgments from Drea and Ramos. Bishop brought up the rear. “They’re only children, Pete,” she said. “You should see my boys.”
Seconds later, surrounding Drea, they piled into the van. Pete and Ramos looked exhausted as they dropped into seats. “Kids were everywhere,” Pete said. “Running all through the place like they were on a sugar high, and their parents were sitting and watching when they were
n’t acting like kids themselves!” I glanced back at Bishop as she buckled her seatbelt. Eyes meeting mine, she bit back a smile and shook her head.
As we made the short drive back to Torrance Towers, Drea praised the creativity of the museum’s interactive exhibits in science, engineering, agriculture, art, and local history. She was especially impressed with the two-story waterfall that demonstrated the generation of electricity and function of canal locks. Bishop added that she enjoyed watching children milk the fake cow. I was pleased to hear the visit had gone without incident.
Later, as Drea prepped in the suite and the others took some downtime, Pete and I went down to a lobby coffee shop for a late afternoon shot of caffeine.
“She liked the place,” he said, halfway through his first cup. “In the art studio part she sat down to do some craft stuff with a little girl. All of a sudden she starts crying.”
“The girl?”
“No, Drea.” Pete shook his head. “It hit her out of the blue her husband would never see the grandchild she’s expecting later this year.”
Excerpt Five
In the Mouth of the Wolf by Drea Wingard, with Grant Gibbons (5)
Seated in a corner booth in the retro section of the Juke Box Diner on Columbia Pike, you see Jody Cropper step inside. You recognize him from the picture he messaged to your phone. He appears to recognize you from the one you sent back and starts toward you.
Grant’s notes described a clean-shaven young man with short black hair and a thick middle. But this man, as he himself told you, looks different now. About thirty with long sandy hair and matching full beard, he stood tall and rangy in a tan leather jacket and jeans. Running scared has melted away some weight, but no beard perfectly matches the hair above it without some assistance. When he reaches your booth, you notice drug store dye was applied even to his eyebrows. Picturing his hair jet black and short, you realize his picture was part of the police photo array.
Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) Page 18