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

a quiet divorce, two daughters in Brooklyn with his ex, both in college. A luxury high rise condo here on West Ferry and another place in Manhattan. A sometime playboy too low key for gossip columns. Good son. Good businessman but not as outgoing as his father. Maybe worth three hundred mil on his own.”

“But his pop is a member of the Billionaires’ Club.”

“Mid-level, the two-to-four range, along with the late Damon Cathcart.”

Pete’s expression told me the name had rung a bell but he was uncertain which one.

“Cathcart Pharmaceuticals. Damon was James’s best friend at Yale,” I said. “It was Damon who brought James to Buffalo. They were partnering on the Bills deal when Damon died. His son William heads a nationwide broadcast group headquartered here. His mother Catherine is a principal backer of the non-profit sponsoring the conference.”

“WNCZ. That’s where I heard the name. Z-TV.” Pete jotted another note and pressed his lips together in thought. “Not bad for a quick background check. You dig deep enough to notice anything suspicious, delicious, or scandalous?”

“Not enough to hang a theory on. Charmaine and Randy lost a baby brother to SIDS. She got a couple speeding tickets and had a DUI settled quietly. But her clinical depression and fondness for vodka were both well documented. The nearest she came to scandal is dying at sixty from an accidental mix of alcohol and medication.”

“Suicide? You did say he donated to suicide prevention.”

I nodded. “She was home alone and left no note. Whatever her history, the M.E. had no basis to make a definitive call.” I turned to another page. “Her brother’s sudden death was never fully explained in the press. They used words like stricken, which could mean anything from a heart attack or long-term cancer to drug overdose or suicide. His obituary called him a confirmed bachelor, sometimes code for gay back then but that could mean anything too.”

“Including he had parents like mine,” Pete said. “No woman was good enough.”

“You should have dated only softball players.” I paused to let Pete smile. “Serafina and Albert Donatello led quiet, traditional lives marked by hard work, strong Catholic faith, and enough income to live in a big house and educate four sons. Ten months before he filed for divorce, Jack Donatello became an employee of DPS—a salaried CEO rather than a co-owner, thus avoiding a settlement that might have given his ex a stake in the business. Matt and Mark manage Buffalo. Luke runs Rochester, and a cousin named Simon, Cleveland. Jack oversees the company and divides his time among all three cities. He set up a profit-sharing agreement after his divorce.” I flipped to another page. “Matt and Randall were friends at NYU, maybe because their mothers were close. Since joining the company, Randall’s had occasional disagreements with James over the direction Torrance Brockhurst should take but nothing dramatic enough to cause more than a few lines in a news item or a corporate report.” I closed my notebook.

Pete thought for a moment. “What sort of disagreements?”

“The biggest had to do with gambling. This hotel was under construction when state law was changed to allow Vegas-style casinos in addition to Seneca Nation gaming. Randall pushed for a casino but his father nixed it because Seneca Creek is in walking distance.”

“Also, like every other hotel around here, this place has a shuttle bus to take its guests there.”

“Gotta get gamblers on walkers or in wheelchairs to the slots,” I said. “But if James dies and the Seneca agreement ever goes away, expect the shops and suites in the center building to give way to an in-house casino designed to enhance the convention experience.”

Pete laughed. “I went to a law enforcement conference in Atlantic City once. The breakout sessions were so small the speaker could whisper and reach the back row. A lot of people were at the slots and tables.” He looked at his notes. “What about the Cathcarts?”

“Damon died of cancer before the opioid crisis. Unlike the Sacklers, William got out of the drug business before the media could tie anything to his family. Once he started to run old TV shows on local-focused stations all over the country, he thrived.”

“Is William Cathcart close to the Torrances?”

“I don’t think so. I couldn’t find any bad blood between them. They just move in different circles.”

“All good old squeaky clean rich-as-fuck American Dreamers,” Pete said.

“Yep.” I looked past his shoulder. “Some of them are coming this way.”

Walking abreast, four men headed toward us. Two summer-weight suits, one gray and one khaki-colored, were flanked by black blazers. James Torrance was in the khaki, Randall in the gray. Matt Donatello was beside Randall, leaving a trimmer, bearded version of himself beside James. When they reached us, James stepped in front of his son to form a lopsided wedge as his hand came up.

“Good morning, Mr. Rimes!” He pumped my hand hard. “Good to see you again!”

“Good to see you too, Mr. Torrance.” I introduced Pete as a retired detective now working for Driftglass. Then Randall introduced Matt’s brother Mark, the bodyguard I had seen only through frosted glass during the APP meeting. We shook hands all around. Having been a cop, Matt asked Pete a few throw-away questions about his police experience. Mark, an ex-SEAL with gray threads in his close-cut beard, studied me with the focused intensity of one soldier who recognized another. James said he hoped breakfast had been to my liking.

“Delicious,” I said.

“Good. So, where would you like to start?”

“First a floor plan of the entire complex,” I said. “Preferably digital so I can blow it up on a computer to study it in detail.”

The Torrances exchanged a look. James turned back to me and nodded.

I opened the notebook in my left hand and flipped to a page near the end. “I’ve already checked public entrances and exits and elevator banks in each tower and the central building. I need to see all the employee entrances, truck docks, freight elevators, non-public corridors,