Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) by Gary Ross (i can read books TXT) 📕

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 weren’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.

“You alone?” he says.

“Always.”

Cropper sits, angling himself so he can keep an eye on both sides of the diner—the door, the counter with pink-topped stools, and the entrance to the bar and larger dining room. Few patrons are here this weekday afternoon in early February, but Cropper is still vigilant, gray eyes ever-shifting, scanning. He went into hiding before the home invasion and fled north after it. Using his middle name instead of the Joseph D that had contracted into Jody over his lifetime, Danny Cropper ended up in rural New York, working at a feed store and keeping to himself. Now that he is back, his fear is palpable.

The veins in his neck pulse.

For a moment neither of you speaks. Then you say, “Grant liked the onion rings here and the vanilla milkshake.”

Cropper turns to you. “Okay, I’ll have those with a cheeseburger.” After a breath, he adds, “Nice fella. I’m real sorry about what happened to him.”

“Thank you.”

Once the server takes your order, Cropper begins to relax.

“I didn’t tell nobody I was coming back this way.” He smooths his beard in what seems a not yet habitual gesture. “Last man I want to see is Wally Ray Tucker.”

“He knows police are still investigating him.”

“Why I expect most of his boys are staying close to home these days. But you can never be too careful with Wally Ray.” He shakes his head. “One crazy sumbitch—meaner than a cottonmouth pissed off he can’t wear shoes, and he likes to get even. Another guy told me once Wally Ray bragged about killing the sergeant who got him thrown outta the Marines. Waited till the man was discharged. I hear the body was never found.”

“You didn’t have to drive all this way,” you say after a few seconds. “When you called I was…stunned. We could have talked on the phone.”

“Like I said, I got a sick cousin in Richmond. Used to babysit me. Wouldn’t be right I didn’t see her one last time.” His face tightens. For a moment he looks off. “Wally Ray don’t know about her so I doubt he’ll be waiting outside the hospital.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Also wouldn’t be right I didn’t give you a face to face after what they done to your husband. Kinda feel like it was my fault.”

You say nothing as he looks down at his nail-bitten fingers before glancing at the door and then scanning the diner.

“I was the one contacted him,” Cropper says finally. “You see, I got involved with Liberty Storm when it was starting out. I was kinda drifting along. Went to a meeting with one of my co-workers and left thinking it was a place I could belong. Be part of something.” He hesitates. “I worked with Brick at Westfield Montgomery, in the Sears stockroom.”

“The man I killed? He took you to Liberty Storm?”

“Yeah. His mother couldn’ta picked a better name for him. A real doofus but always pretty decent to me.” He gazes about the diner again. “We had no idea what to do with our lives. The stockroom was good for guys like us, me leaving college one month in, him barely getting out of high school. But Sears wasn’t secure. Always losing money, always talking about closing stores. Then there was our supervisor, Jerry. Nasty little bastard. We both hated him, but Brick used to talk about hanging him