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

As Rafael and I moved from access point to access point, I made a mental note of the name and face of each officer stationed at a door or cat ladder bolted to the wall. Hotel employees began setting out cups and glasses, plates and bowls, and tableware and napkins on long tables that flanked the entrance. When they began to wheel out chafing dishes of various sizes, Rafael left the hall to review the positioning of officers elsewhere on the conference level. Meanwhile, I called for a sitrep in assigned order from everyone tuned to my earbud, which now included Matt and Mark. As names sounded in my ear, with reports on the speaker’s position or the functioning of cameras and other devices, I studied the faces of staff bustling back and forth between the kitchen and the main hall. A few of the men got a longer look than most but no one set off my Wally Ray alarm.

Travis was the last to check in.

“How’s your nest, Max?” I said after she had given her name.

“Overlooking the stage,” she replied. “My angle is perfect for any Babyhawk that floats into view. Lieutenant Petrocelli from SWAT is right next to me to make sure nobody gets close to Drea.”

Between eight-thirty and nine, the hall began to fill with people who made their way through the metal detectors and bag checks. Some wore jackets and ties or morning dresses and jewelry, as if trying to look their best for the awards ceremony. Others were in jeans and simple tops, more than a few looking annoyed as they were forced to leave their roller suitcases in a nearby room. Many of the faces I saw now I had noticed over the past few days but I had been so focused on Drea throughout that no names came to me.

Bobby, Kayla, and Sam came in and nodded at me as they moved toward the table with the RESERVED #5 sign on it. Each had attended a few sessions rather than the whole conference but all had promised to be here for Drea’s speech. If something happened, Sam had said more than once, protecting Drea was my first concern. Because I didn’t need divided attention, I had assigned them to a table I considered a safe distance from the stage. Still, I was worried about them and at the same time relieved Phoenix was in court.

Other planners and dignitaries made their way to seats. A picture-sized package under his arm, James Torrance and Marlo Vassi went to RESERVED #2. They were joined by the Gramms, the Zachritzes, and Mayor Green and Judge Chancellor. At RESERVED #3 Bill Cathcart and his grandmother Catherine hosted people I had seen in the WNCZ studios. Without baby Kwame, Amari Lockwood and a man I assumed was her husband Derek joined library director Ann Marie Marciniak, banker Bart Novak, and four people I didn’t recognize at RESERVED #6. Their backs against a wall, Randall Torrance and Chelsea Carpenter were alone at RESERVED #7 until Sharon Donatello and her twin sons sat there. Randall’s look of surprise at their appearance became a grinning interaction with the boys that reminded me Matt and he had been friends at NYU.

RESERVED #1 had only four chairs, for Drea, Pete, Ramos, and me.

But I never sat that morning, not during breakfast, nor for the mayor’s greeting, nor during the awards ceremony led by Marlo Vassi and Amari Lockwood. I remained on my feet when Pete and Ramos walked Drea into the hall after the last award had been given and the doors closed behind them. They sat for less than two minutes, while Rory Gramm introduced Drea. Then, amid applause, Pete and Ramos accompanied her up to the lectern and flanked her, each angled to observe as much of the crowd as possible. Meanwhile, I floated among the tables, scanning diners and hotel staff, watching for sudden movements, focusing as much as I could on everything and everyone around me.

Drea adjusted the microphone and thanked Rory for his too-kind introduction. Then she unfolded the papers in her hand and spread them out on the lectern. After a moment she began to speak, her words magnified by the sound system:

“America was born in blood. Whatever its virtues, our country was born in the blood of indigenous peoples and slaves and baptized in the blood of the Revolutionary War. It made first communion of the blood spilled to end slavery and replenished the national chalice with blood spilled during the westward expansion, upon the Trail of Tears and the track beds of the transcontinental railroad. It invited subsequent generations of immigrants to the altar of freedom but withheld cushions to kneel upon until their skin had toughened enough not to need them. Out of such suffering there gradually arose what was promised, a new nation not dependent upon the whims of kings, the frailties of clergy, or the strictures of class, but a nation that promised all people are born free and equal with the right to pursue happiness.”

The audience was rapt. I noticed few private conversations as I skirted tables on my way from one side of the room to the other. The wall speakers were loud enough to mask what I said to my team but I spoke softly anyway to request camera updates. Yvonne and Cissy gave crisp summaries of what all the cameras showed. The roofs were clear. There was no unusual activity in any of the rooms being monitored or the corridor outside the main hall. “Only thing in the catwalk is cops,” Cissy said with a chuckle. “That real cute SWAT guy with a big ass scope on his rifle and the cool sister with the Star Trek gun.”

I looked at Ramos, pleased to see no visible reaction to Cissy’s appraisal of the sniper.

“History is replete with our nation’s failures to live up to its founding principles, but America’s true greatness lies in its steady