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

“But this complicates our investigation.” Wesley tries to keep her voice level. “You named names, real names and nicknames, and even had a picture of someone we don’t have enough evidence to charge yet.”

“Then he can sue me for libel, if he can prove it was me.”

“If Wally Ray ever gets to trial, his lawyers would use your flier to show unfair pretrial publicity. He could walk.”

“He’s already walked. Maryland doesn’t know where he is, do they? I bet Carl Lee Stoneman isn’t saying a word in Richmond, either.”

Wesley and Covelli exchange looks of surprise but say nothing.

“Wally Ray told me he was gonna be a ghost but he’d always know how to find me.” You curl your hands into fists, nails digging into your palms. “I figured if he had a way to disappear, I needed one too. Level the playing field.”

“The case is far from cold, Drea.” Wesley says. “But we can’t crowd source justice. We have to follow procedures that give us usable evidence.” She looks about the apartment, at the sparse furnishings, the bare bookshelves, the drawn curtains. Then she turns back to you. “You actually want to live like this? Holed up in Dracula’s castle on a sunny afternoon, afraid of a scumbag like him?”

“I’m not a person of interest in a murder. It’s not my face on bulletin boards for miles around. If they got half a brain to share, they’re all hiding somewhere too. Afraid of me.”

Covelli studies you a moment. “Then I’ll wish you good luck the way my grandmother would have. In bocca al lupo!”

You smile because you know the idiom from a former co-worker. It means may all your troubles come at once so your suffering is brief. You know also the correct response. “In the mouth of the wolf,” you say. “Crepi il lupo.”

Covelli laughs and translates for Wesley. “May the wolf die.”

33

The second day of the conference, I spent the hour before our eight-thirty meeting with James Torrance reviewing my fifteen minutes of fame on YouTube. Three mobile phone videos of my encounter with Carter John and his Nazi clowns had been uploaded. Most interested in Clown Four, whose utensils and glass had been wiped clean, I scanned the videos for every possible look at him. Certain he was Wally Ray Tucker, I had talked with Bobby then and again last night about what he had seen that convinced him Clown Four was one of his attackers outside Temple Beth Zion. Cold pale eyes, he had said both times, in a face so white black eyebrows seemed unnatural. Drea, I recalled, had described the cruelty in his eyes. Even if he wasn’t Wally Ray, Clown Four was driving events toward an outcome he wanted.

Each clip had been shot from a different angle but all began after Carter John’s companions donned their clown masks, so I got no look at Clown Four’s face. The video shot from my left had recorded me in profile and caught John moving and gesturing in such a way that he partially blocked Clown Four. The clip from the front showed the two men to be about the same height—five-nine in John’s records, five-ten in Wally Ray’s—average. The video recorded from behind the five men yielded something closer to a five-dollar scratch-off than a Powerball jackpot, but it was useful information. The hair beneath the edge of Clown Four’s mask was short and black, unusually dark, as if dyed. So it wasn’t a wig. I would have to make sure everyone was alert to the momentary disconnect sparked by someone whose parts didn’t quite add up—in this case, the person whose skin seemed out of place against jet black hair.

At eight-thirty Pete and I joined Rafael Piñero and Maxine Travis outside John Torrance’s first-floor office and went through the frosted glass doors. Blazers pressed, the Donatellos were already inside, standing at the unstaffed reception desk. As we had for the past few days, Pete and I wore sports jackets over our ballistic vests. Rafael was in a suit, and Travis was in a stylish tan blazer. We were all dressed to be taken seriously.

“He said to bring you right in,” Matt said as Mark pushed open a second frosted door.

In a lightweight gray suit, white shirt, and sapphire tie, James Torrance watched us file in and form an arc in front of his large desk. Elbows resting on the tempered glass top and hands clasped between his chin and his chest, he studied us a moment. “All right, what’s got you all so hot and bothered this morning you had to see me?”

Matt gestured to Rafael and Travis. “First, sir, these are Detectives Piñero and Travis from the Homicide Squad.”

“Homicide.” James offered neither a hand nor a greeting. He looked at Pete and me and then the Donatellos. “Why is homicide here?”

“We had a lengthy conference call last night,” Matt said. “All six of us on speaker to discuss some new evidence.” Matt passed the narrative to me with a nod.

“Last night I learned Wally Ray Tucker, the man who murdered Drea Wingard’s husband, has been in town for more than two months and is planning an attack.”

James lowered his hands to the desktop and narrowed his eyes at me. “That’s always been your assumption, Mr. Rimes. What you’ve planned for. Even if this Tucker character isn’t in town, you believed from the beginning somebody would try something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My son and his girlfriend told me about the clowns the other night. You, Matt, kept me up to speed on the shooting at the library. Metal detectors all over the place, so guns are covered, right? Cops. DPS people. Mr. Rimes, it seems everything you and your associates have done has been on target. What is it about this new information that needs my attention?”

“We think we now know how. What we don’t know is when.” I had an idea when but wasn’t ready