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

“I don’t think so. I think it’s just a choice. Is bald a problem?”

“No!” he said quickly. “I’m just trying to picture her. So far I’m seeing the women in Black Panther, and they’re hot. But I’m wondering why she wants to meet me.”

“She said the newsletter made you sound like a genius and your picture was cute.” I thought of quoting Oscar Wilde—the only thing worse than being talked about—but leveled with him instead. “Maybe she wants to pick your brain for something because you both speak Geek. But she could want more.” I heard him take a deep breath. “Never know if you don’t take a chance.”

After we clicked off, I texted Yvonne and told her I had talked to LJ and she should expect a call or text from him in a few days.

Once the dishwasher was loaded, I opened my laptop, logged into IntelliChexx, and entered Harlow Graves. Born in Rochester. A string of addresses from Monroe County to New York City, where he had completed Columbia Law School, to suburban Buffalo, where he now lived. No liens. No bankruptcies. No criminal record. No bar association censures. Married to Rosalind Morrow-Graves, a Buffalo native and Williamsville elementary school teacher. Two girls in their teens. In addition to their sprawling home in suburban Amherst, the family owned a summer cottage on Lake Ontario in the Niagara County town of Barker, which had very few persons of color. Facebook showed Morrow-Graves was a light-skinned woman with long hair and daughters of similar complexion. Google revealed Graves was the type of lawyer who navigated the intersection of corporate law, personal injury litigation, and criminal defense. He had represented several area companies in a variety of capacities, from mergers to complex lawsuits, and won six and seven-figure personal injury settlements. He had defended Greater Buffalo Oncology Solutions in a Medicare fraud case and, in a drunk driving case tailor-made for local news rivalries, a prominent TV anchor who had struck and killed a college student bicyclist. In his more than two-decade career, Graves had received numerous professional and service awards, served on a very long list of not-for-profit boards, and handled many cases pro bono. Nothing in his resume suggested connections to any kind of organized crime.

So why had he come for the woman who tried to kill Mona?

I let that question settle into the back of my mind where parts of myself that I didn’t understand would work on finding an answer. Opening my email, I retrieved the documents LJ had promised and skimmed through them. Two of the reconstructed files were investment pitches. Flame Bright Fame invited investors to partner in the purchase of two properties adjacent to Buffalo’s growing medical corridor, for development as high-end residences for medical professionals. The language was a touch overdone, as was sometimes the case for educated people who thought fancy words equaled good writing. The third document was an internal memo that discussed successful techniques employed in other regions for getting reluctant owners to sell at low prices that made them feel they had outsmarted the buyers. Among these were aggressive intervention with assessors, which I took to mean bribes, and a suggestion that RoofRaiser, an experimental customer relationship management real estate database I had never heard of, could lower property values to favorable levels. All three documents carried the name QC Griffin, board chair—someone I would look for when I clicked the links from LJ.

Apart from the obvious manipulation, nothing stood out to me then—except that poor people would be sacrificed in another round of feeding the rich while they were still at the trough. Then I thought of the woman I had met the other night at the bar association dinner, whose brother, Judge Chancellor, was the new man in Mayor Ophelia Green’s life. Glendora Chancellor-Pratt. Gentrification had been a central concern in her failed Common Council campaign. Perhaps she knew something about FBF. I made a note to contact her.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jen: No meet til parents out of town. She’ll call u.

Before I could key in a reply, the phone vibrated again with an incoming call. Ileana.

“Gideon? It’s great news you found Keisha!” She sounded breathless, but not quite with excitement. “Have you talked to her yet?”

“Still working on the details,” I said. “But she’s safe for now.” I paused. “Thanks again for all you’ve done.”

“Can’t wait to see her.” Something in her voice caught. “But that’s not why I called.”

“What is it, Ileana?”

“Veronica. She called me at the office this morning.”

“She did?”

“She called out of the blue and said they had made her do something she didn’t want to and now they were after her so she had to get away.”

“After her? Who are they? What did they make her do?”

“She wouldn’t say, but she sounded scared. She asked me for money so she could get a bus ticket.”

I fought the sigh that wanted to follow the breath I took in. “Intercity bus companies require photo ID these days. Does she have one?”

“I don’t know.” Ileana was quiet for a moment. “Even if she does, after all she’s been through, she doesn’t look the same. Nobody will ever think she’s a doctor or even a driver. She presents as a substance abuser or someone with mental health issues.”

“Or both,” I said.

“The way she smells, they won’t even let her in the bus station much less on the bus.”

I agreed with Ileana’s take on the invisible cloud that enveloped her friend but kept that thought to myself. “Could she want the money for drugs?”

“Maybe.” She paused to consider, and when she spoke the hesitation left her voice. “She’s always on the make for drug money, but she never asked for a bus ticket before.”

“She never asked you,” I said. “Could have asked somebody else.” I waited for a response. When none came, I added, “You’re going to give it to her, aren’t you?”

“That’s just it. I was supposed