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

“How are you, G?” she said, unslinging the black tablet bag on her shoulder and hanging it on the back of the chair across from me.

“I’m fine,” I said. “How are you? As good as you look, I hope.”

“I’m okay.” She shrugged. “Work’s been kind of hectic and I miss LJ. By the way, I told Ileana and Cassidy I was meeting you for coffee.” She leaned over the table and pressed her lips to my cheek before she sat. “They said to give you a kiss from them.”

“Tell them I said thank you, and hi. So, how was your trip to Virginia?”

“I miss LJ so much.” She smiled sadly, her huge, blue-shadowed eyes lighting the pain in her face. “When you first introduced us, I thought maybe we would just be a fun thing for a little while. I mean, ordinarily I’m not interested in younger men. But this was LJ Doran, who set the computer science department on fire after I graduated. You never turn down a chance to meet a legend.”

“What is he, four or five years younger than you?”

“At my age that feels like a lot. Yes, I thought it would be a nerd fling, nothing serious. But I like him, a lot. When he gets his first FBI posting, if he asks me to go with him, I’m there. I can get an IT job anywhere.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue she pulled from the outer pocket of her tablet bag. “Look at me, losing my shit like I’m sixteen.” She cleared her throat. “So, to answer your question, Virginia is beautiful. I was good when we were going out to dinner or sightseeing with LJ’s folks.” She lowered her voice. “But I did my damnedest to cripple him when we were back in the hotel.” Flushing, she caught her lower lip between her teeth, held it for a second or two. “I hope this doesn’t embarrass you. LJ said you’re the one he talks to about stuff like this, stuff he can’t share with his parents.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “He likes you a lot too.”

“Well, whatever you’re telling him about women, don’t stop. He’s not like my old boyfriends. LJ’s a great mix of passion and unselfish kindness. He’s patient and giving and so damn smart! I feel lucky to be with him.”

We went to the counter and got coffee and returned to our table. As we drank, I asked if she had heard of Drea Wingard. When she nodded, I explained the writer’s cousin was a friend who hired me to protect her during a coming visit. Then I outlined the challenges I faced bodyguarding a high-profile target at a major conference, from complications presented by the site to the resistance I expected from some conference organizers. Finally, I asked if she would consider supervising surveillance computers from a security nerve center in a hotel suite. When I told her the job would pay a thousand dollars, her eyes widened a bit but she waited several seconds before speaking. One finger traced the rim of her coffee cup.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course. You’d need to take off work for about a week. Do you have vacation or leave time you can use?”

“No problem,” she said. “I liked her book. I’d love to meet her. I just need to think about it for a day or two.” Then she chuckled. “Funny you should mention this today.”

“Why?”

“Tonight on PBS there’s a rebroadcast of a Frontline program about white supremacy in America. Drea Wingard is interviewed in it. It was on last year but I only caught the last part. I plan to watch the whole thing this time with my sister.”

“I’ll check it out.”

The program consisted of news footage of KKK, Neo-Nazi, and alt-right rallies, young men carrying or wearing Klan crosses, Confederate flags, swastikas, or other symbols of white power. There were interviews with supremacists willing to show their faces and with those victimized by their violence—former spouses, beating victims, relatives of murder victims. Sam had told me his cousin was ten years younger than he was, which put her in her early sixties.

Interviewed twice in the first half of the program and once in the second, the Drea Wingard on my television screen looked much younger. She was a handsome, brown-skinned woman with short black hair, piercing eyes, and Africa-shaped gold earrings. She told her story without hesitation or pause, even as her eyes filled and she refused to wipe them. “Yes, I regret I was forced to kill somebody in self-defense,” she said at the close of her interview. “Everybody keeps calling what Liberty Storm did and what these others are doing hate. This is more than that. Hate is a normal human emotion. You can hate winter or canned fish or clowns or some kind of music. I grew up in a home that cherished traditional soul food but I hate okra, I mean hate it. That doesn’t make me try to wipe out all the okra on the planet.” She shook her head. “This is more than hate. This is pure, unrepentant evil.”

As the final montage unfolded and the narrator began his summation, my iPhone buzzed with a text from Yvonne.

I’m in. So is my sister if you need more eyes.

Excerpt Three

From In the Mouth of the Wolf by Drea Wingard, with Grant Gibbons (3)

“His name is Wally Ray Tucker,” you explain to Dr. Solomon Clay—not his real name—several weeks after the photo arrays, near the end of your first session. “A bad conduct discharge from the Marines. Three felony arrests. He’s done hard time. The detectives said the ID wouldn’t stand up in court because of the makeup, but it gave them a place to start the investigation—for all the good that’s done.”

Seated in the armchair perpendicular to yours, Dr. Clay is older, thin, pink-cheeked, bald save for a fringe of white hair on the