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

“It is expensive,” Jimmy said. “Would’ve been smarter to mug you on the way in.”

12

Friday evening I called Pete Kim to ask if he was free Monday morning to tour the hotel where our protectee would be staying. Before the walk-through, he told me, we needed to discuss more than we had in our two previous calls. He invited me to join him and his father at Sahlen Field the next afternoon to see the Buffalo Bisons play the Louisville Bats.

“My old man played amateur ball in Korea,” Pete said. “Left field. He promised his father he’d go to medical school if and only if he didn’t make it into the KBO.”

“If KBO is Korean for MLB,” I said, “I assume they had no shortage of left fielders.”

“Nope. But the good old doc still loves the game—the majors, Triple-A, even Little League, where I spent a few years in Purgatory myself.”

“What promise did you make?” I asked.

“None. Some promises are deadlier than their alternatives. I stuck it out till a coach told him I should think about badminton.” He chuckled. “Even without me playing for the Dodgers, baseball’s about the only thing that makes Pop smile these days. Give him a couple of hot dogs and a beer and we can discuss whatever we want while he zones into the game.”

At the retirement dinner the steel-haired Dr. Kim, shorter and thinner than his son, had been the picture of a dour octogenarian—slow, stiff, quiet, deferential despite a frown that looked like another wrinkle in his face. But at the game, he was different. He seemed younger in his blue Bisons cap. He jumped up to clap every time the home team got on base, whipped off his glasses as if in disbelief when the umpire made a bad call, often pivoted and in an accent that delighted them called for fans behind us to cheer. By the third inning he had downed two hot dogs, a box of popcorn, cotton candy, and Dippin’ Dots ice cream.

He smiled, even when no one was looking.

“Told you,” Pete said when I nudged him and pointed. “He’s been in a world of his own since we got here. He won’t know I’m here till he really needs something.”

Off and on throughout the game, Pete took notes as we discussed Drea Wingard’s forthcoming week in the Nickel City, from her unannounced arrival at Buffalo Niagara International to the number of times her name was listed in the draft conference program I’d got from Rory Gramm to the dates and locations of every other appearance she would make. The week before, I would visit each venue to take interior and exterior photos, interview the person in charge about security, and make suggestions or, if necessary, demands. An hour or so before each event, I would return to each location and check it for signs of changes.

“If something’s different?”

“Cancellation, period,” I said. “I don’t care if it’s a bookstore or the university.”

He nodded. “Knowing they’ll lose money should keep them all on their game.”

One of us would be with Drea at all times. Pete would be in charge of both door-to-door officers from Weisskopf anytime I was away checking appearance sites. Or on a break. We would take turns monitoring computer-based surveillance equipment I would hide in the corridor and other areas of the hotel.

“I understand the suites have two bedrooms and a pull-out sofa,” I said. “Drea gets one bedroom. The other’s yours. I’ll take the pull-out. Also, I’m thinking of putting a Brink’s security bar under the doorknob and attaching a battery-powered alarm. That way we can all sleep at night and anybody trying to get in will wake us. During the conference, we can alternate taking an hour break sometime during the day, once the publisher’s people come. For her other appearances when the conference isn’t in session, we can stay in the suite and order food until it’s time to go out.”

All three of us would wear lightweight body armor, tailored to look inconspicuous. Ours would match black slacks and look like regular vests beneath the sports jackets that covered our shoulder holsters. Drea would have a white sheath designed to be worn under loose-fitting tops. I had made a recommendation, but the Weisskopf guys were responsible for their own armor. Outside the suite, all five of us would maintain contact through a closed-circuit earbud system. Drea’s control unit would be shut off only when she gave a speech.

“How weird is it?” Pete said after the seventh-inning stretch. “Somebody wants to kill a writer when fewer people are reading books?”

“Not when you consider the kind of people who are after her.” From my jacket pocket, I took out a new paperback copy of In the Mouth of the Wolf and handed it to him. “This was published last year. It’ll tell you all you need to know.”

By the top of the ninth Dr. Kim had put away enough beer to make four trips to the men’s room, with Pete accompanying him on the fourth because he seemed unsteady on his feet. When the game ended with a two-run victory for the Bisons, two of the three homers for the Bats, and no foul balls arcing into our section along the first-base line, Dr. Kim climbed to his feet and turned to me. Still smiling as he stuffed his refuse and program into a plastic bag he pulled from his windbreaker pocket, he said, “You are a very thorough man, Gideon. Very thorough and very careful.”

“Pop?” Pete said.

“If my son must do work like this so soon after retiring, carrying his gun again to protect people, I am pleased he is doing it with someone like you.” Then he looked at Pete and gave him a faint nod before turning back to me. “Though sometimes I think he saves his defiance for me, Peter is a good policeman and very careful himself. I am confident he will not disappoint you.”

Pete and I