Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) by Gary Ross (100 best novels of all time txt) 📗

“What?”

Pete smiled, ever tired eyes twinkling. The hand he clamped on my shoulder kept me from turning to peek. “Charlie Chan was a Chinese detective. Mr. Moto was a Japanese secret agent. Duh! But both were created by white writers.” His expression took on a mock seriousness. “My folks came from Korea, which neither idiot could pick out on a map.”

“In old movies, Mr. Moto was a detective too. But both were played by white actors.”

“Which is where Swanson learned the broken English he thought was so funny when he asked where Number One Son was or what cat tasted like.” Pete removed his hand. “G, if we weren’t real, a melanin-challenged hack would have to invent us. Two cultured men of color rising above noble savagery. One savage to another, later I want your opinion on my next move after the summer. PI license or part-time investigator for the DA? Think about it.”

“Okay. Meanwhile, I could use help on a bodyguard gig next month. Interested?”

“If you’re organizing it, sure. We can talk about that later too.”

I found Rafael Piñero talking to a late-thirtyish woman with large, bright eyes, mocha skin, short dreads, and a badge clipped to the wide belt she wore with her black jeans. On her other hip, beneath her cinched charcoal blazer, was a service pistol in a cross-draw holster.

A lover of nice suits, Rafael held his small snack plate at an angle that would keep chip dip from dropping onto his pale gray jacket. “I knew you had to be here somewhere,” he said when I stepped into his line of sight, “because I saw your much better half with Kim’s girl. Still don’t get what she sees in you.” He set down his plate. “Maxine Travis, meet sometime pain in the ass Gideon Rimes, a PI with delusions of grandeur.”

“My friends call me Max,” Travis said as she took my hand. Her nails were very short but well-manicured and lacquered in gold-flecked dark burgundy. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Don’t believe a word of it if it comes from Raf,” I said. “My friends call me G.”

“No, it was…” She cocked her head. “Did you stop a couple of muggers with a baton?”

“Three,” Rafael said. “But hearing me say it will make his head too big to fit through the door.” He grinned. “Max is new to Homicide. Came over from SOS. With Kim leaving and Terry moving up, she’s partnering with me while we reshuffle.”

I’d heard Jen Spina was assigned to the Sex Offense Squad. Maybe she’d taken Travis’s spot. “Despite what he says about me, Raf’s one of the best homicide cops in town. He’ll—”

“She doesn’t need a teacher, G,” Rafael said. “She’s new to homicide here.”

“I worked murders in Syracuse for nine years,” Travis said.

“Including two high profile serials,” Rafael said. “The Boyer estate boneyard case and Robert Farley Gilmer. She’s a superstar.”

“That was you?”

“I investigated after the Boyer graves were found and I was on the Gilmer task force.”

“Still, all respect is due,” I said. “What brings you to Buffalo?”

“Last fall my husband became head of trauma surgery at General, so I applied to BPD. The SOS opening let me get my foot in the door.”

“She can teach me,” Rafael said. “Syracuse does high tech right. Networked cameras in high crime areas, thermal imaging drones, anti-terrorist stuff. They even got ShotSpotter, the high tech gunfire locator.”

“Thermal imaging is only for the fire department,” Travis said. “With so many companies around Syracuse manufacturing and testing UAVs, politicians and the public both worry about privacy. Non-emergency cop drones are still a long way off. As for ShotSpotter, it’s part of the overall surveillance system. It adds mikes and other sensors to the mix.”

“Does it work?” I asked.

She shrugged. “It can, but nothing beats old-fashioned police work for closing cases.”

“I like her,” I said to Rafael. “She’ll fit right in, so be nice.”

Waving as I passed Terry Chalmers, in conversation with the commissioner and two other men, I made my way to where Jen and Bianca were seated. Each woman hugged me, but I declined their invitation to sit. Pete was moving to the head table, and Phoenix was signaling me to join her.

“Before I go,” I said to Bianca, “how’s Keisha?”

“Fine. She’s in Germany, visiting an old boyfriend who’s stationed there.”

“Sonny Tyler?”

She smiled. “I think he’s good for her, after…you know, after everything.”

I nodded and turned to Jen. “How’s SOS?”

“They figured out pretty quick John detail wasn’t a good fit for somebody like me.” She half chuckled before her expression grew somber. “It’s extra hard when the ones hurt are kids. But I’ve been finding my way. Right now I’m kind of a liaison to LGBT crime victims, unofficially, of course. Still, it’s a sign the world is getting better.”

“About damn time,” Bianca said.

Excerpt Two

From In the Mouth of the Wolf by Drea Wingard, with Grant Gibbons (2)

Grant’s funeral, held at the Banneker A.M.E. Church in the heart of Washington, is standing room only. Later, after you have had a chance to read through the signatures in the register of mourners, you will understand the breadth and diversity of the crowd gathered in the large sanctuary. In an echo of police and firefighter memorials you have seen on television, there are broadcast and print journalists from around the nation—including two survivors of the mass shooting in a Maryland newsroom. Others are from Canada, England, France, and Germany. But few notebooks are visible. You see no laptops or iPads. Broadcast coverage, you have been told, is limited to four cameras sharing a common feed. The words of the NBC Nightly News anchor interviewed earlier on National Public Radio linger in your mind throughout the service: “When an American journalist is attacked and murdered in his own home, we are here to mourn not only him but the death of the civility that has long made American journalists the envy of news services everywhere.”

Others in attendance include the editor of the Post,