Nickel City Crossfire Gary Ross (e book reader pc .txt) 📖

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“You’re the detective. Figure it out. Then go find my friend and bring her home, one way or another.”

7

With a digital photo of Veronica Surowiec now in my phone’s image library, I followed Ileana back to the entrance. There I had a brief conversation with Cassidy, Yvonne, and Fareed—the three at desks near the door—but none offered anything that clarified what I had already learned. The conversation was Ileana’s idea, and I understood after the first question it was an opportunity for her to short-circuit the rumor mill. If the three had been excluded, their speculations might have spread throughout the staff. By inviting them into an abridged version of our interview and making sure each one had a Driftglass card before she advised them to keep our conversation confidential, Ileana was making them co-conspirators. On the surface, it seemed a smart move motivated by office politics I did not understand. But I still would have put my money on Ben Franklin, who said that three can keep a secret if two are dead.

Outside, the snow had stopped and the sun, having climbed higher, promised a brighter day.

Sitting in my car as it warmed, I flipped through my notebook to decide my next move. Because my interview list wasn’t long, I expected to clear round one by evening and hoped somebody would say something that pushed me toward the first step of round two. Three of those on the list I would have to call first: the Reverend Dr. Felton Markham, Carl and Rhonda Williamson, and Sonny Tyler, for whom I had only a cell number anyway. Ileana’s blank reaction when I mentioned the names Fatimah and Bianca told me she had never met Keisha’s childhood friends, which meant she wouldn’t tip them off I was on my way to see them unannounced. Flowers by Fatimah was on Kensington Avenue near Bailey. Bianca worked at Hunnicutt Jewelers in the suburban Galleria. The Williamsons lived on University Avenue in Northeast Buffalo. It made sense to hit the florist first and take Route 33 to the mall. I could return to the city on Eggert Road and cut over to UB’s Main Street campus, directly across from the Williamsons’ street. If I saw Odell’s parents last, I could swing over to the Doran house on Admiral Road and see what LJ had found on Keisha’s computer and iPhone. At some point I would need to call my sister Mira, an assistant medical examiner, to see if she had access to Odell Williamson’s autopsy report.

At the moment, however, I was closest to Dr. Markham, who lived near his Main Street church, close to downtown and just blocks away. I tapped in his cell number.

“Dr. Markham.” The voice that answered was measured and resonant—and familiar to anyone who watched the local news. Felton Markham was a frequently interviewed mover and shaker not only in religious matters but also in politics, inner-city development, public education, job training, and community service.

“Dr. Markham, my name is Gideon Rimes. I’m a private investigator. Winslow and Mona Simpkins hired me to look for their daughter Keisha.”

“Yes, I heard they planned to seek outside help. The police have been useless.”

“I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes this morning.”

“Right now I’m in my office at the church. I won’t be home till later this afternoon. I like to get my sermons done during the day on Friday so I can attend community events and spend time with my wife.”

“I understand, sir. I’m close by, at Keisha’s job, just on the other side of Main. I promise not to take much of your time.”

For a moment he said nothing. “All right, Mr. Rimes. I’ll give you ten or fifteen minutes. Come on over and ring the bell on the parking lot door.”

I reached the sprawling sandstone Sermon on the Mount in less than five minutes and pulled into a blacktop parking lot that held only three vehicles: a new black Town Car in the MINISTER space by the door, a white Camry beside it, and a rusting blue F-150 four slots away. I parked beside the Camry, went up three steps, and pressed an electronic doorbell.

The man who answered the door was big, dressed in jeans and a navy pullover that contrasted with the pristine collar of his white shirt. The Reverend Dr. Felton Markham was bald, with a black mustache and salty stubble on his dark cheeks. He was likely in his mid-fifties—the time between the graying of the beard and the graying of the mustache—but he seemed younger and vibrant. The teeth revealed by his smile were startlingly white.

“Mr. Rimes, I presume.” He offered me a large hand with thick fingers.

“Morning, Reverend,” I said. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Miss Simpkins is a cherished member of this congregation. Anything we can do in her time of need we will do without question or pause.” He motioned me inside.

I didn’t know if he intended to quote the song “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha, but as I put my watch cap in my jacket pocket and followed him around the corner to his office, the next line popped unbidden into my head: “To march into hell for a heavenly cause.”

The office was a narrow, paneled rectangle. To the left of the door were two ceiling-high bookcases on either side of a small stained glass window and hissing steam radiator. To the right was a compact stainless steel coat rack that held a long black topcoat and a fur-collared green leather jacket. Beside it was an old cherry desk that faced three padded wooden chairs with their armrests touching and backs close to the radiator. The chair farthest from the door was occupied by a woman who turned to look at us as we entered. She appeared to be in her early forties, with an attractive amber face