Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (children's books read aloud TXT) 📕

“Which means I’ll have to explain myself to whoever works your station tonight.” I let out a long breath. “Unless you’d care to put in a good word for me.”

“One of the other nurses remembered you were in here yourself not long ago. She was glad to see you’d recovered.” The elevator doors opened. She stepped in first. “Mrs. Simpkins is doing well. She’ll probably be in a regular room by this afternoon. I’m sure staff won’t mind wheeling in a recliner for her favorite nephew.” Then, briefly, she smiled.

I went home, fell into bed, and sank into blissful nothingness. My phone alarm pulled me from a dreamless sleep just before noon. I called Flowers by Fatimah and got a recorded message that the shop was closed because of an out-of-town death in the family. I wondered if Fatimah had locked everything down as a precaution. Or had something happened? The news feeds on my phone were up to date and said nothing of the shop, the Kelly family, or Keisha. I decided I would swing by for a look before returning to Buffalo General.

After a shave and a shower, I went upstairs to my godfather’s apartment for lunch.

White cheek stubble, old jeans, and a sweater with threadbare elbows told me Bobby had planned a stay-at-home Monday. While he spent much of his retirement giving guest lectures, mentoring young scholars, and attending non-profit board meetings, a day of rest after a trip was hardly unusual. Sitting at the ceramic-topped dining counter in his stainless steel kitchen, I couldn’t help thinking of poor Kayla. Though her weekend must have been just as tiring as his, she was likely in court or working in her chambers. It was probably just as well they kept separate residences.

Glasses slipping down his nose as usual, Bobby put lunch on the counter—chunky tomato soup, tuna melts on multigrain bread, two Coronas—and sat across from me. As we ate, he told me about the three shows they had seen, two of them Tony Award winners, and a museum exhibit that had taken nearly a full day to see. In addition to shopping, they also had ridden elevators to two of the most popular observation decks: the Top of the Rock at 30 Rockefeller Plaza and the One World Observatory at the new World Trade Center. He had promised Kayla they would return to the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, which they had visited a few years earlier, on their next trip. He finished his summary of their getaway with the Sunday brunch they’d had in the impressive Harlem brownstone of a former Buff State colleague who now taught at NYU.

“His wife is one of the top architects in New York,” Bobby said, swigging the last of his Corona. He described their home in minute detail, from the woodwork and bay windows to the French doors between rooms and the restored tile floors in the bathrooms. “Their unit alone—two bedrooms—costs more than this whole building.”

“What did the judge think of it?” Kayla’s condo was on the ninth floor of a ten-year-old high-rise near the marina, with a panoramic living room window that offered a stunning view of Lake Erie and amenities that included a balcony, an in-unit laundry nook, and a community exercise room with a sauna. But I suspected she had found the filigreed ceilings and wainscoting of a Nineteenth-Century brownstone irresistible.

“She loved it, even after she found out how much it cost.” He got up and went to the fridge for more Corona. “Want another?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m working this afternoon, and tonight.”

Bobby sat down again and popped the top. “Phoenix told us you were on a case but didn’t say much about it.”

While I had no trouble keeping a client’s confidences, I valued my godfather’s grasp of details and his insights into human behavior. Sometimes, as certain of his discretion as I was of nightfall and sunrise, I shared case details without naming those involved. On more than one occasion, his take had put me on the path toward a resolution. Now, as I put away the last of my soup and sandwich, I summarized the Keisha Simpkins affair. He listened without reacting—until I got to the woman’s appearance in the hospital last night. Then his eyes widened and he held the Corona without sipping for a long time. I concluded with a recap of where things stood. Finally, he took a swallow.

“So this girl saw something or knows something that put a target on her back.”

“Yes.”

“Also, the absence of some kind of attack on the place she was staying tells you the people after her don’t know about it yet.”

“I’m going to stop there before I go back to the hospital. To make sure.”

“Which means her parents are still targets to draw her out.”

“Yes.”

“The friend with them now, you’re sure of his ability to protect them?”

“I am,” I said. “He’s a close friend of theirs and no stranger to security matters.”

“The same man who brought the father to you? A guard at the women’s shelter?”

“He’s career military and a retired prison chaplain.”

“So he’s older, like the father.” Bobby thought for a moment. “You’re going to need more help, especially when she’s out of the ICU. You haven’t tried going to the police?”

“I don’t have enough proof yet.”

“Then you’ll have to find help elsewhere.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Me, for one. The dead boy’s father for another.” He took a pull of Corona. “You said he was in Nam.”

I was quiet for a time. Carl Williamson was a possibility worth considering, for his anger if for no other reason. If these were the same people who had murdered his son, he’d want a piece of them. Maybe he deserved one. But I was reluctant to involve Bobby, to expose him to danger. He was an English professor who had never served in the military, much less been in combat. Even as I had the thought, I knew my desire to protect