Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3)

by Gary Earl Ross

  “Suppose Randall knew and knew why. Suppose his parents became estranged as his mother sank into substance abuse and depression. Suppose James found another woman.”

  “You’ve got some imagination, Rimes.”

  “The last thing Carpenter said was ‘Hated him for Willa.’ It got me thinking.”

  “Willa who?”

  “The late Willa Winters. The name on the award James was about to give Drea. A Black woman who worked for Torrance Brockhurst. Her son was murdered by racists who got acquitted. James was so impressed with her strength in the face of tragedy he fell in love with her. You can see it in his eyes when he talks about her. Maybe they had an affair that pushed Charmaine Torrance into suicide. Maybe Randall blamed his father. Later, after one of her clients went underground and this conference was announced, maybe Randall’s old hookup danced back into his life with an idea to turn a billionaire’s son into a billionaire, by making the father collateral damage in a domestic terror attack.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes.”

  “Pure conjecture,” I said. “But somebody spent a lot to keep these clowns off the grid. Somebody promised running money, maybe new identities. Did Wally Ray know Randall was behind the money? Did they even know each other?” I shrugged and spread my hands.

  “It would break Mr. Torrance’s heart if Randall was part of this, if he did it because his dad had a Black girlfriend. I had a great dad and I know a great dad when I see one. Mr. Torrance loved his son and taught him by example to be fair and decent with everybody. He was generous as hell with my family too—and face it, in America, we Italians haven’t been white all that long. This would break his heart. My brother’s too. Matt idolized Randall. He called him his best friend and told him everything. He made us co-godfathers to his boys.”

  “Maybe why he tried to shield them from the blast.”

  He looked down and said nothing for a few seconds. “Matt’s a great dad too, and he hit the jackpot with Sharon. Their boys are the closest I’ll ever get to having kids.”

  “The two times I’ve seen them together, I got a great family vibe,” I said.

  “I’ve never been married,” he said. “When I was in the service, my life insurance was set to go to my brother. Now my insurance and whatever estate I have will go to him and his family.” He hesitated. “I see no reason to hurt a man I admire and a brother I would die for because of an unproven theory. Do you?”

  “No,” I said. “Neither will Pete.”

  At that moment Ophelia Green opened the door to Commissioner Cochrane’s office.

  “Mr. Rimes, Mr. Donatello.” She smiled broadly. “Please come inside.”

  Commissioner Cochrane, looking every bit the GQ silver fox covered by local media, sat behind a huge desk made of a wood I couldn’t identify. Standing behind him were the city corporation counsel, Mike Gallo, Deputy Commissioner Eva Shallowhorn, Fire Chief Nick Woodbeck, County Executive Zachritz, County Sheriff Johanna Hill, Judge Chancellor, and three others I didn’t recognize. Ophelia joined them in what imprinted itself on my brain as a portrait of local power, framed by a wide window that looked out over downtown on a sunny afternoon.

  “Gentlemen, my chief of detectives says we owe you both our gratitude for keeping this conference from turning into another Las Vegas,” Cochrane said.

  “County Executive Zachritz and I were there, commissioner,” Ophelia said. “Both men displayed selfless heroism.”

  “We thank you.” Cochrane leaned back and drew in a deep breath. “But before we draft an official press release about the joint city and county police investigation into white supremacy and praising hotel security for their invaluable assistance in minimizing the damage of this attack, we need your selflessness one more time.” He slid two sheets of paper across the desk. “For a host of complicated reasons, including limiting your liability should anything that happened today land in court, we need you to sign this NDA that forbids you from speaking to anyone about your role in this affair, including the press. Any questions?”

  I felt Mark looking at me but I gazed right into Cochrane’s steel-gray eyes. “You got a pen?”

  40

  That evening, after a brief stop at Buffalo General to visit Sam in surgical recovery, Drea delivered an address to a sold-out audience at the University at Buffalo Fine Arts Center—an event protected by campus police, police from the Town of Amherst, where the North Campus was located, and officers from the Erie County Sheriff’s Department. The speech, including questions, lasted seventy minutes and passed without incident.

  On the way back to Torrance Towers, Pete dropped me at my place so I could pick up my CRV and drive it to the hotel. By the time I returned to the suite, Drea had retreated to her room to pack and sleep. Pete, Ramos, Yvonne, and Cissy had begun disassembling our work station and recovering cameras from various points throughout the hotel, conference center, and roofs. By eleven-thirty, we were zip-tying cables and packing padded carry cases.

  At a quarter to midnight, I got a call from Rafael and took my phone into Pete’s room.

  “Those guys were living on the West Side for over three months,” Rafael said. “Not far from your place in an old house subdivided into four units. But get this. Looks like they all shared one apartment. Their neighbors are mostly college kids, the landlord lives out in Clarence, and nobody knows shit. They had fake IDs, good ones, and paid for everything in cash. Man, it bothers me that kind of money is floating around out there for shit like this.”

  “Me too,” I said, picturing the toothpick Rafael often chewed rolling from one side of his mouth to the other as he thought about the implications of what he was learning. “You heard Drea. Hatred is a monster we unchain at great risk to ourselves. Guys who thrive on it haven’t learned yet you can’t make a deal with the devil without a trip to the Burn Unit.”

  Five minutes later Mark called, and I went back to Pete’s room.

  “I’m with Mr. Torrance and the judge,” he said. “They came over to Randall’s tonight to get a suit for his funeral and look for some papers.” He hesitated. “They found a lot of the lawyer’s clothes and her computer like she was living here too. So they picked out a dress for her. They found other stuff they couldn’t understand—or believe. So they called me.”

  “Stuff related to our discussion earlier?”

  I heard him swallow. “Nothing like bomb diagrams or a money trail to Tucker’s crew. No direct links to what happened today.”

  “Good, because that would be evidence the judge would have to report, no matter whose heart it broke.”

  “This broke the old man’s heart for sure. Randall had a spare bedroom converted into a recording studio. Soundboards, top-shelf microphones, computers and monitors, equipment to disguise voices, CDs and jump drives with recordings that made Mr. Torrance go pale. He kept asking what happened to his son.”

  The new Morgan Krieger. I wasn’t entirely surprised. Had Matt inadvertently kept Randall informed about things, like Bishop’s revolver? I wondered if Randall believed the filth he promoted. Did Copperhead? Or was Krieger a means to an end for them both?

  “He called me over because he wanted to know what to do. I said get rid of it, ASAP. The judge agreed. They’re upstairs right now, boxing it up. Truth be told, Mr. Torrance is sitting there with his head in his hands, crying. Judge Vassi is doing the packing and burning papers in the kitchen sink.” He chuckled. “The smoke alarm keeps going off.”

  “So nothing will be left to connect Randall to anything, even if cops suspect him.”

  “Maybe the lawyer left a trail somewhere, but any trace of her here will be gone. A hotel van will be here soon to take everything to the trash unit in the basement. Equipment will go into the compactor, any papers and all her clothing into the incinerator.”

  “The judge loves him.” Not the worst thing, I thought, to have someone love you enough to skirt the law. “You told him we talked about this earlier. So you’re calling to ask if I still see
no reason to share my theory and hurt Matt. Didn’t I sign an NDA?”

  “Which we both know could blow up City Hall if this came out,” Mark said. “It’s beyond Matt now. This will ruin Mr. Torrance, destroy everything he ever did, from his company to the foundation. He’s hard-charging, sure, but he’s done a lot of good for a lot of people and still can. Before he returns to heading the company, everybody hurt today will get a nice settlement before any claim can be filed. The BPD will get a big grant. A generous bonus for DPS employees. Mr. Torrance wants to cover all your expenses too—the suite, the computers and cameras, the time your people put in. And Lucy.”

  “He decided all this tonight?” I said. “While he was crying? I guess I can put together an itemized invoice, but it may take a while. Bookkeeping isn’t my strong suit. I haven’t even looked at my receipts yet.”

  “No matter. I already gave him an estimate that should cover everything twice.”

  “Jeez, Mark!” I paused and decided not to ask what the estimate was. “I like Mr. Torrance. Pete and I already agreed there’s no point in jamming him up. I don’t need to be bought off. Tell him to keep his money.”

  “It’s not a payoff. He’s doing what he can to make things right, to make up for his son, to save his company. He’s thinking of his granddaughters too. Bad enough they lost their father. This could kick the shit out of their lives too. Poor guy’s trying to fix whatever he can. Because he can.”

  My favorite justification for privilege and the punchline to an old joke about dogs.

  “So you’re getting a check to share with your people,” he continued. “A big one, for services rendered, no questions asked. Just pay your taxes, all of you.”

  After Mark clicked off, I was still uneasy about the money and considered tearing up the check when it came. Would Willa Winters have approved of James Torrance’s attempt to balance his son’s account? Then I thought of Lucy Bishop’s sons, innocents who had been targeted for death by Randall’s podcast.

  Who was I to jeopardize their shot at college?

  41

  By nine the next morning, all the tech equipment had been packed and placed in my car or Yvonne’s. Yvonne would drop Manuel Ramos at his home before she took her sister back to the apartment they shared. Pete would return the van and pick up his car from the Enterprise lot. With my SUV’s rear compartment full of equipment I had borrowed from Jimmy or rented—all to be returned Monday—I had to put my two large suitcases and Drea’s three-piece set on the back seat. It felt good to be in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans, but I was sweating by the time I puzzle-pieced everything to make the door close.

  When we gathered at Charmaine’s Table for the Sunday brunch, our suite was back to its original state, minus a needed thorough cleaning. While the others got a table, I stopped at the front desk to return the swipe cards and check out. The amount due on my bill was zero.

  Stacked on the desk, The Buffalo News proclaimed Domestic terror attack leaves four dead at diversity conference. Drone bomb kills two. White supremacist among dead. Suspect found hanging in cell. Amanda Corso and Dennis Quinnell both had bylines.

  Wally Ray’s death, one of many behind bars in recent years, would be investigated before it was declared a suicide. Unsure if I cared how he had died, I wondered if he had hanged himself because without Carpenter’s brains he saw no way out. I wanted to hate him for his poisonous soul, for the rage I’d felt and what he’d done to Drea. Then I thought of Bobby. If Tucker and his ilk could push the best man I knew to the edge of his capacity for forgiveness, their toxicity must be resisted, not fed by emulation. I resolved to feel nothing until my memory scabbed over and my objectivity returned. If I read the articles at all, it would be later, after I dropped Drea at the airport and went to Phoenix’s for dinner.

  Phoenix and Betty, both dressed in jeans and casual tops, joined us for brunch. So did the Bishop family, in church clothes. When I reached the two tables pushed together, Drea was on her feet, holding a newspaper and glaring like a school librarian at restless fourth graders. “No cell phones either,” she said, looking down at Phoenix, in the chair beside hers. “Wally Ray Tucker has taken enough from me. I refuse to let him take this day, this beautiful day. We’re here to celebrate life, hope, and new friendships. Let him burn quietly.” Everyone applauded and presently we joined the buffet line. After forty minutes we were stuffed. The Bishop boys—Logan, nine, and Charles, ten—seemed to consume more than anyone. They were ready to make another trip to the trough when their father said it was time for church. Drea had one too many mimosas and though not drunk wobbled when we all stood. My arm caught her waist as the bill came. She took it from me, intending to pay. Again, zero.

  “Courtesy of Mr. Torrance,” I said, without revealing it was an apology for his son’s attempt on her life.

  “I wanted to hear Liberty Storm’s death rattle. You gave me that, Gideon,” she said as we walked to the parking ramp elevator. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

  “Keep speaking the truth,” I said as Phoenix, beside me, smiled. “Somebody has to.”

  After handshakes and hugs and promises to call, the group parted company in the ramp. Lucy strapped her boys into the back of her champagne-colored Malibu, her husband Tillman slid behind the wheel, and all four waved as the car rolled away.

  Having come in Phoenix’s RAV4, Betty climbed into the van with Pete as I stood shaking his hand through the open window.

  “Thanks, Pete,” I said. “I’m glad we had each other’s back.”

  “Good to work with somebody who knows how to step up when the shit hits the fan and when to keep a secret.” He grinned. “Call you soon for darts, maybe a ball game.”

  After Cissy got into the back of her sister’s red Corolla so Ramos could stretch his legs in front, Yvonne hugged Drea for a long time and then Phoenix before she sank into the driver’s seat.

  “If you talk to LJ, tell him how fucking good I was on this gig,” she said.

  “He knows you’re good,” I said.

  “Course he does.” She grinned. “But you’re my bold italics.”

  After the Corolla left, Phoenix embraced Drea, edging her away from me and whispering in her ear. When they stepped apart, she took a business card from her jeans and handed it to Drea, who nodded. Then Phoenix pulled me in for a long kiss. “I’ll see you when you get back from the airport.” Waving, she climbed into her RAV4 and was gone.

  My first stop with Drea was Buffalo General, where she sat holding Sam’s hand for half an hour. His injuries from the water glass he had been holding at the moment of the blast were severe enough that he would need even thicker special glasses when he healed. But he was grateful he could still see. Drea asked what he wanted to do during his visit to DC, after the dressing was removed and he could travel. “Up to you, baby girl,” he said. “Surprise me.”

  Soon we were back in my CRV.

  “Your plane isn’t till seven, which means you check in around five-thirty,” I said. “How would you like to spend the day? We could try the Falls and the Underground Railroad Museum. Or the Buffalo History Museum. Or get Bobby and do a tour of historic sites. He knows city history the way a spoken word poet knows his lines.”

  “I want to go to Attica,” she said.

  42

  The general population visitation room hadn’t changed since my earlier visit—the tables, the mix of visitors and prisoners, the line for Instax photographs, the toys and wall paintings to make things kid-friendly, even the fading Donald Duck. But the wait was shorter as if we had been expected.

  Drea and I were at a table for only fifteen minutes before Jasper Hellman shuffled in, supervised by a different CO—older and white, with a brown mustache. Grinning, Hellman sat and looked at us for a long time before he laughed, exposing his wretched teeth.

  “How you doing, Bag Man?” I said.

  “You know, I thought it might be you.” He had not shaved today and still looked too thin
, almost lost in his greens. “I don’t get many second visits. Reporters or book-writers who never tell my story the way it should be told. Lawyers who don’t know jack shit. Sometimes I just say no. But something told me to say yes today, and I’m glad I did.” The eyes behind his dirty lenses narrowed into slits. “So what brings old Mr. Sorry-but-I-had-to-shoot-your-ass here today?”

  “I was here visiting somebody else.” I smiled. “But I wanted you to meet my friend.”

  “Your friend? Why the f—why would I wanna meet your friend?” He studied Drea more intently now. She looked calm and composed in her modest peach-colored summer dress and offered him an unbroken smile that seemed to annoy him. “You got a name, Miss Friend?”

  “Ma’am,” Drea said.

  “Okay…Ma’am. You here to pull my pud like Rimes or you got something to say?”

  “I wanted to meet the man who hired somebody to kill my friend.”

  “Look, Ma’am, or whoever the hell you are, I didn’t hire nobody to kill this fool. That’s a story he likes to tell to get sympathy. He needs to get a new act.” He began to rise.

  “I’d sit if I were you,” Drea said, still smiling.

  Halfway to his feet, Hellman froze, as if something in her voice had arrested his motion. “Why should I sit for you?”

  “Because I’ll tell my son you were rude to me, in addition to trying to kill my friend. He won’t like hearing you were rude to his mother.”

  Hellman sank back into his seat. “Who the fuck is your son?”

  “Language, inmate,” the nearby CO said.

  “Who the bleep is your son?” Hellman snapped in a half-whisper.

  “He’s in here, doing life for murder. Life without parole, actually, for more than one.”

  “Like me,” Hellman said.

  “Yes. I’m here to visit him.” Drea sighed but her smile never weakened. “He gets so upset when I give him bad news. But I had good news today. I ran into my old friend here, Mr. Rimes. If anything happened to him or his loved ones, I would be so upset I’d have to tell my son. Then he would be so upset about me, there’s no telling what he would do.”