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

“Felicity Sillers.”

“She used to be Butchy boy’s bitch.”

Now I laughed. “Bet you can’t say that five times fast.”

“You’re the one broke both their noses.” He cleared his throat. “He got her into meth because of the hyped-up sex but she went farther down the tubes than he did and got lost. He still taps her now and then but says he doesn’t love her anymore.”

“You getting all this from him?”

“Yep. We sorta hinted that under New York law he could get the needle for killing a doctor, even if she was a meth head. Butch isn’t the brightest guy you’ll ever meet.”

“That was cold, man, even for you.”

Piñero chuckled. “I know, right? But it worked. He turned out to be a choir boy waiting for the right song to sing. He already spent time in the joint, two different pens in the state system. He says that was enough for him.”

“But he started shooting in public. He’s gotta go back.”

“We explained that but he wants witness protection. ‘I have enemies,’ he says like he’s in a fucking comic book. He might talk if he can be put somewhere he’s never been.”

“Not much of a poker player.”

“But he can give up a lot on the Immortals. The right people are interested. An ADA is with him right now. Somebody from the state’s WITSEC is on the way, to evaluate.”

“He got a lawyer?”

“A public defender who gave me shit about the needle nap I promised him, but he wants to roll over and she’s walking him through it.”

“Don’t you wish they were all this easy?”

“Absolutely. Anyway, he says somebody else in the gang mighta done Surowiec but not him. Oh, get this. The guy killed in the Cadillac, Titus Glenroy?”

“Yeah?”

“Butch says they played college ball together.”

“Jamestown!” I said as something moved from the back of my mind to the front and I pulled up outside my apartment building.

“No, Jamestown doesn’t have an NCAA school.”

“No, they played at Eastern Michigan,” I said. “But Jamestown—shit! I know where I’ve seen the ring. Maybe why Surowiec was killed. Can I call you back in a few? Put me on speaker when I do.”

“Sure but later you gotta tell how you knew they played at EMU.” Piñero hung up.

I parked half a block from my building. I carried my bag and tool satchel upstairs to my apartment, reloaded my Glock, and was back in the RAV4 in five minutes. Once I had turned around for a straight shot down Elmwood, I called back. The phone rang once.

“Rimes, it’s Terry,” Chalmers said. “Raf is with me and the door is closed.”

“I can’t tell you how I got some of what I’m gonna say,” I began, “but maybe it’s enough to keep the Butch thing going. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, so save your questions. Oh, and I’d appreciate it if you can send down a parking pass for Phoenix’s car.”

“Will do,” Chalmers said. “I’ll send Raf down with it when we finish the call.”

I had been wrong about Cuthbert’s dual identity, I explained. Without revealing where and how, or my shooting through Tito’s door, I summarized my conversation with Loni Markham. Crossing Virginia Street, I ended with her daring me to find proof FBF and the church foundation were both laundering drug money. Then I shifted gears to my earlier visit to Sanctuary Nimbus.

Ileana and I, I explained, had found Veronica Surowiec there during our search for Keisha. It was that evening I noticed an infinity ring on the hand of Brother Jeremiah Grace, who had grown up in the village of Celoron, right next to Jamestown. I repeated what Ileana had told me she heard from Veronica just before her disappearance: “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.” My theory was that Veronica may have refused to do it herself but had been forced to coach Felicity Sillers on how to inject an air bubble into an SVC line. Having tried to get away, she was beaten to death to keep her from talking.

Skirting the Niagara Square traffic circle in front of City Hall, I told them I would be there in less than two minutes. “One more thing,” I said. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” Chalmers asked.

“For not remembering sooner that the Sanctuary’s business manager, a guy I never met, has something in common with Butch. His name is Marco Madden.”

“Damn. All right. Get up here and make another statement so I can get a warrant.”

43

The warrant to go to Sanctuary Nimbus for the infinity ring took nearly two hours. There was much discussion about how to proceed. Given that the Sanctuary was a quasi-public shelter beginning to receive drop-ins for dinner, a no-knock warrant and caravan of squad cars would likely complicate matters more than necessary. Evidence and lives could both be lost amid chaos in a crowd that included drug users, petty criminals, the mentally ill, and people guilty of nothing other than being born poor or losing a job. In the end, the brass decided one unmarked car and one tactical SUV would go to the Sanctuary.

I was not party to official discussions but learned the specifics later. While Chalmers and Piñero were in a meeting to finalize details, I sat in front of Piñero’s desk in the homicide squad. I was on my phone, giving information to my car insurance company when Harlow Graves appeared in the doorway. He strode over to the desk, briefcase in hand. He wore the same charcoal topcoat he was in the other night, but the suit beneath it was black, not navy.

“You’re not Detective Piñero,” he said.

“Very observant,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment. “No, you’re that private detective, Gideon Rimes.”

I ignored him and finished my call. Then I stood to face him, not to intimidate him because I had only an inch or so