Nickel City Crossfire Gary Ross (e book reader pc .txt) đ
- Author: Gary Ross
Book online «Nickel City Crossfire Gary Ross (e book reader pc .txt) đ». Author Gary Ross
Nickel City Crossfire
Gideon Rimes Book Two
Gary Earl Ross
Contents
Gideon Rimes Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Gideon Rimes Series
Gideon Rimes Series
Nickel City Blues
Nickel City Crossfire
Nickel City Storm Warning
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Copyright © Gary Earl Ross 2020
The right of Gary Earl Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted per the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Steven Novak
Published by SEG Publishing
For
Colleen, Timothy (Robin), David (Rebecca), Cody,
and Madelynne (Brian)
From Dad with Love
and
In Memory of Amrom Chodos,
supportive early reader, honest critic, wonderful friend.
1
Balding and brown-skinned, the Reverend Oscar Edgerton was a big man who dwarfed the client chair facing my desk. A chaplain twice retired, once from the army and once from the Georgia department of corrections, he had massive hands with well-kept nails. Beneath his thick salty mustache was a genial smile born of self-assurance. I had met him in October through Phoenix Trinidad, before Phoenix and I became lovers. The Friday before Thanksgiving we had seen him and his wife Louisa at a fund-raiser for Hopeâs Haven, the womenâs center where Oscar worked part-time as a security guard and where Phoenix served as legal counsel. She had called me last nightâWednesdayâto tell me that Oscar would be bringing a friend in need of help to my office in the Elmwood Village this afternoon.
âI donât know what his friend needs,â Phoenix said, âbut Oscar thinks youâre good people so be nice if you have to turn them down.â
The man in my other clientâs chair was half Oscarâs size but appeared to be around the same age, in his early to mid-sixties. His name was Winslow Simpkins. He was caramel-colored, with loose skin below his chin and thick gray hair in an arc above his forehead. He wore horn-rimmed glasses that did nothing to hide the sadness in his eyes and a topcoat that looked decades old. He had begun to tell me about his daughter Keisha, thirty-four, a nurse who served as the secretary for Sermon on the Mount, one of the cityâs most prominent black churches. Lower lip trembling, he had stopped when he came to the event that led to her disappearance. For a time, the only sound was the distant hum of washers and dryers in the laundromat downstairs.
âItâs okay, Win,â Oscar said finally, patting his friendâs arm, trying to smooth the gravel in his own voice. âTake your time. Better you tell it, the better Brother Rimes can help you.â
Winslow nodded, his eyes filling. âI didnât even know she was usinâ drugs. I mean, I wouldnâta been surprised if she smoked a little weed now and then. Lot of us did that back in the day, yâknow.â He glanced at Oscar, who nodded. âBut me and Monaâthatâs her mamaâwe never seen nothinâ to say she was even doinâ that.â He dropped his right foot to the carpet and tilted his head. âHer supervisinâ nurses and all, the last thing we woulda expected was heroin.â
âHeroin,â I said, no surprise in my voice. As I took notes in my small leather-covered notebook, I leaned forward on my left elbow to relieve my right shoulder from the pressure of the chairâs back. Iâd had a small-caliber bullet removed six weeks earlier and was nearing the end of physical therapy. My shoulder still throbbed from time to time. âYou had no idea?â
He shook his head. âDidnât know nothinâ âbout it till they called from the hospital in the middle of the night.â Winslow closed his eyes and was quiet for a time, maybe trying to organize his memories of that night, maybe just reliving it. âFriday after Thanksgiving. She was out with the man she been seeinâ for almost a year, Odell Williamson. Nice fella, I thought. Taught sixth grade. Somebody found them in a car on Jefferson, outside Wylie. Tried to get high together and they both ODâd. The cops used that nasal sprayââ
âNarcan,â I said, recalling a Buffalo News photo of a Mazda SUV at the edge of the Johnnie B. Wiley Pavilion. At the corner of Jefferson and Best, Wylie was the inner-city high school athletic field built over the remains of the RockpileâWar Memorial Stadiumâwhere the early Bills and Bisons had played and where Robert Redford had filmed The Natural. I had read about the double overdose over breakfast one morning. Over several days, the initial surprise that a much-loved teacher had died of a heroin overdose was gradually replaced by outrage and calls for greater scrutiny in the hiring of teachers after three informants stepped forward to reveal that Odell Williamson had been a mid-level dealer who laced his product with fentanyl.
âNarcan,â Winslow said, nodding. âYeah. It worked on her, thank God, but it was too late for him. She went to the ER at ECMC. He went to the morgue.â He swallowed audibly and tried to steady
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