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

Chalmers slid a hand under his sweater to scratch an itch. “With something this elaborate, there’s gotta be money at stake.”

“Big money,” Piñero said. “Maybe big enough to justify an interdivisional operation, like homicide and narcotics, or interagency, like BPD and DEA.”

“Add to that a dead meth head,” Chalmers said, opening one of his file folders and sliding it across to me. “The preliminary autopsy report. No ligature marks. No gunshot or stab wounds. No canal water in the lungs—not that we expected any. Vomit traces along the esophagus but she didn’t choke on it. This Dr. Surowiec died from blunt force trauma.”

I spent a few seconds skimming the report Mira had summarized in our telephone conversation earlier. Then I looked at the photos, arranged in the order in which they were taken. Between the close-ups of Veronica’s face tipped forward by a headrest and the step-by-step record of the Y incision and removal of organs were pictures of a wrinkled, skeletal body. She had lost considerable muscle mass during her addiction and time on the streets. Despite an abundance of sores and various patches of skin that looked rough as sandpaper, what stood out most was the damage to her chest and abdomen, multiple bruises, two of them shaped like figure eights, and small, round-edged gashes likely caused by a ring. “Beaten to death,” I said finally. “Apparently with fists. Her body was too frail to take it.”

“A shitload of blows to the midsection,” Piñero said. “Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, collapsed lung. A real sick fucker did this.”

“We knew about the beating beforehand from seeing the body,” Chalmers said. “But the extent of injury surprised even us. You’d have seen it for what it was yourself if they had lowered the sheet more.”

“Fortunately, somebody was thinking of the poor woman there to confirm the identity of the victim,” I said. “Her friend. You had prints and already knew there was no family. The dislocated jaw distorted the face enough to make photo ID trickier but there was no need to show Ileana the worst of it.”

“Exactly,” Piñero said.

Chalmers put down his pen and leveled his eyes at me. “So give us your take, G.”

“Got a question first,” I said.

“Sure,” Chalmers said.

“You guys dug so far into this, enough that you have your own doubts, and still made a bet I wouldn’t show?”

They looked at each other, and Piñero laughed. “The real bet was whether you’d remember the cookies and milk,” he said. “I had faith in you, bro.”

“We smart-asses have to stick together,” I said.

I opened my notebook and recounted the past week, from the moment Oscar Edgerton brought Winslow Simpkins to my office to what I discovered in my second last IntelliChexx search. I shared every detail I had noted and as many additional points as I could remember, at least for things I was willing to tell them. I said nothing of Glendora’s offer of sex or my breaking into the Kelly home. Nor did I mention LJ’s cracking into Keisha’s devices because there was no need for him to be on their radar, just as there was no need for them to know one of Keisha’s best friends was married to a cop. Though I told them about the Navigator, I did not reveal that Spider Tolliver had followed me into the Towne Restaurant. Before I produced and went through all the FBF papers, I said that I had heard from Keisha and expected to meet with her tomorrow.

After reviewing them, Chalmers thought the papers Keisha had taken great pains to hide were not evidence of a crime but evidence of intent to force the sale of two properties that had the potential to become more valuable. Much of the language, he agreed, sounded as if it had come from a prospectus intended to attract investors, but none of that was criminal. Even the memo that discussed ways to manipulate sales was hardly suggestive of illegality. “Shitty business practices aren’t in and of themselves against the law,” he said. “This is a weak motive for forcing an overdose or beating a druggie to death.”

“What if you don’t want the targets of those shitty practices to get a heads-up they’re in your crosshairs?”

Chalmers and Piñero looked at each other and shrugged.

“I’m still not buying it,” Chalmers said. “People have the option to sell or not sell. Nothing here talks about putting a gun to somebody’s head. What else you got?”

Next, we went through what I had learned about Dante Cuthbert—minus Bobby’s etymology lesson—and QC Griffin. That proved more intriguing, at least to Piñero. “You know, federal witness protection has been known to make mistakes, like giving families in hiding sequential social security numbers. If this is on the level, and he actually is maintaining two working identities, this Cuthbert guy is good. Yes, it’s fraud but out of our jurisdiction and tied up with a lot of real estate crap. Still no evidence of a crime we can investigate.”

“Real estate can be useful for lots of things,” I said. “Buy for a song. Rehab cheap. Sell at a modest price with a solid profit margin. Repeat. This company flips like a gymnast, especially in places ready for upscale development. Like Rafael said, big money.”

“Where are those properties this outfit wants to buy?” Chalmers asked, finally.

“One is a low-income family housing complex on Best Street,” I said. “The other is a senior citizens apartment building on Virginia. Both are in the Medical Park Neighborhood and both are owned by the Sermon on the Mount Community Development Foundation.”

“Wait a minute.” Chalmers sat forward. “That’s the church where Dr. Simpkins was the secretary.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re saying Cuthbert and his company wants to force this church to sell so those properties can be turned into upscale condos for high-income medical professionals?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll put a lot of people on the street,” Piñero said. “Poor people. Snatch even an empty purse, it’s a crime. But snatch a home away from the poor, it’s just business.”

I