Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (popular romance novels .txt) 📗

She laughed and covered her mouth to keep the bacon inside. “There’s a review on the front page, of a new installation at the Knox.”

The Albright-Knox, just a few miles from where we were, had long been considered one of the ten best art galleries on the planet. I went to the Gusto front page and located the headline Sensorium, a full-body experience. The reviewer described an exhibit for everyone, especially those with one or more sensory impairments. Most of the works were meant to appeal to senses other than sight. There were mosaics, sculptures, and plastic creations to be touched, raised drawings visitors could trace with their fingertips, texture boxes into which they could stick their hands as a recorded story unfolded in surround sound. Also, there were floors that vibrated or crunched, an electric train large enough for adults to ride imaginary beasts inspired by J.K. Rowling, non-musical soundscapes to soothe or stimulate the body, wall jets that in total darkness sprayed mixtures of scents intended to evoke a sea voyage, a forest hike, or a space station. Several corners even had stations where one could experience both food and non-food taste sensations, like variations of popcorn and dry desert air. Of course, among the strictly visual pieces was the Mirrored Room, which had been at the Knox for more than fifty years and was one of the first infinity rooms to be exhibited anywhere.

“Like your braille on steroids,” I said. “A good way to spend the afternoon, if I’m able to walk again by then.”

Phoenix smiled and shook her head. “Let’s not get into who crippled whom. Better if we just share the blame.”

“Okay.” I took another bite of toast. “We can limp out of here whenever you want.”

She bit back a chuckle. “I need to do some legal stuff after we finish here. An hour, maybe two. Are you good till then?”

“I brought my laptop.”

But I never booted up the Lenovo. With the dishes in the dishwasher and Phoenix at the desk near her bed, I dressed in jeans and a pullover and stood at the window beside the fireplace. Sipping cold coffee, I looked down at the traffic and Metro trains on Main Street and again reviewed my efforts to find Keisha. In the absence of word from LJ or Ileana and her Humanitas crew, I still had no idea what to do next. That left me feeling increasingly agitated as the afterglow of making love subsided. When I was in my teens and wrestling with impulsivity, Bobby had lectured me now and then about the perils of impatience, often ending with something like, “Son, sometimes you just have to wait for things to happen.” However much I hated waiting, I had to accept that this was one of those times.

Early that afternoon, however, something did happen. Phoenix and I were at the art gallery, about halfway through Sensorium, when my cell phone buzzed. I saw the call was from Oscar Edgerton and moved out of the hall that held the electric train ride to answer. Oscar was breathless as if he’d been running.

“Rimes, they shot Win’s wife!”

My mind was a half-beat behind him, trying to make sense of his words. “What?”

“Somebody shot Mona Simpkins!”

20

We found Winslow Simpkins in the Buffalo General ER waiting room, flanked on a padded bench seat by Oscar and Louisa Edgerton. Clad only in an old suit, Winslow had the empty, bloodless expression of someone still in shock. Standing over him were two uniformed police officers, both men. One took notes on a metal document case clipboard and the other scanned the room. His eyes fixed on us—particularly me—as we drew near.

“I’m their attorney,” Phoenix said, leading me into the cluster.

As if confirming her statement, Louisa and Oscar, still in their winter coats, stood to embrace Phoenix. Louisa cried into Phoenix’s shoulder as Oscar grasped my hand and pulled me in for a quick man-hug. “Still in surgery,” he said. “She took one to the chest.”

The older cop, brown-skinned and bulky, held the clipboard. “We’re almost done here, ma’am, sir. Then we’ll get out of your way.” His dark-haired colleague, whose cheeks bore the windburn of a regular skier, stepped aside and continued to watch the room. His right thumb was hooked on his duty belt, near his holster, as if he expected trouble. I thought about that, wondering how likely it was a shooter would storm a hospital ER to finish killing an elderly woman. Not very, I decided, but I was glad just the same my baby Glock was on my belt beneath my leather jacket.

A light-skinned woman whose bearing normally made her look taller than her five feet, Louisa clung to Phoenix, so I took the seat on Winslow’s right when Oscar sat again on his left. Winslow was shaking—shivering, I realized. Oscar put an arm around him.

“Back to the car, Mr. Simpkins,” the senior officer said. “Can you describe it?”

“Dark,” Winslow said. “Black, maybe blue. Real big I think. I got down so quick.”

“Limo big or SUV big?”

“SUV. I don’t know what kind. I don’t pay much attention to stuff like that anymore.”

Black Lincoln Navigator, I thought. But I didn’t want to complicate the investigation by speaking, especially if I was wrong, so I said nothing.

As much for Phoenix’s benefit as for Winslow’s, I realized, the officer reviewed the details of the report form, which gave me a rough picture of what had happened. Winslow and Mona had come home from a late luncheon at church and were about to enter their front door when a dark SUV sped past and someone inside fired several shots at them. They both dropped to the porch floor. Winslow didn’t know his wife had been hit until the car was out of sight. He used the old flip phone in her purse to call nine-one-one and covered her with his topcoat. Then he called Oscar, who got there before first responders. Winslow had got only