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

took a deep breath. “Imagine the people running the church and foundation know nothing of efforts to force a sale. Imagine they’re cornered somehow and have no choice. FBF squeezes them out and sells everything to a big developer without even having to rehab the properties themselves. But forewarned is forearmed. With good legal advice, the minister and his wife might be able to block the effort and save affordable housing for people in the neighborhood. Maybe Keisha was threatened to keep her from alerting them.”

“Speculation,” Chalmers said. “Still, seems like there’d be a ton of bad press.”

“Maybe bad enough to scuttle the project,” I said.

“Maybe so much it’d cost somebody a lot of money,” Piñero added.

Chalmers made a clicking sound again. “How did Dr. Simpkins get this information?”

“I’ll ask her tomorrow,” I said.

For a time we were all quiet as the two detectives paged through and traded sections of the documents I had brought. They were studying everything, trying to make sense of my admittedly imperfect conclusions. Now and then Chalmers scratched notes on a pad he had carried in with the folders or used his cell phone to get online and verify something he had read on one page or another. Piñero alternated between rereading a page and then staring off as if in thought. Eventually, he got up to stretch and carried a few sheets with him as he paced from one side of the interrogation room to the other. I just sat there. I sensed I was missing something but I was confident I was in the vicinity of the truth.

Finally, Chalmers broke the silence. “So, without a speck of evidence, you believe Dante Cuthbert is here in Buffalo. That he’s threatened and killed people and will kill again to swing a deal that could put a lot of money in his pocket.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Why?” Piñero said.

“This.”

From the inside pocket of my jacket, I took out the page I had chosen not to put it in the envelope with the other documents. Now I unfolded it—a printout from an IntelliChexx search of the Michigan DMV—and handed it to Chalmers. Piñero came over to read it over his shoulder.

“It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see a front plate at Delta Sonic that night because Michigan doesn’t require one,” I said. “Dante Cuthbert owns a black Lincoln Navigator.”

35

That evening Phoenix and I dined at her favorite Italian restaurant. Vino’s was on Elmwood in North Buffalo, diagonally across the avenue from a building complex that once produced the luxury Pierce-Arrows driven by Golden Age Hollywood stars and international royalty. Now it housed artist studios, drafting firms, martial arts dojos, independent social service agencies, and not-for-profit dance and theater companies. Presently, one section was being renovated into upscale condominiums—more urban development fever, but at least no poor people would be displaced by this project.

It was brisk outside, and the restaurant’s steamed windows promised warmth. Having done legal work for the owners, Phoenix explained as she led me past the small statues of lions that flanked the entrance, she was always given the same quiet corner table when she made a reservation, whether she was alone or with a client. Inside, however, was anything but quiet. The front room was a crowded dining area with white tablecloths, white walls full of black and white photographs, and a dozen conversations crisscrossing in warm air that carried traces of garlic, oil, and marinara. There was a bar on one side. The slender blonde woman behind it brightened as Phoenix waved to her and leaned across for an embrace when we were close enough.

“Theresa, this is Gideon,” Phoenix said.

“You’re the one she told me about!” Theresa reached across the bar and pumped my hand. “So happy to meet you, Gideon. Any friend of Phoenix is welcome here at any time. If we’re full, we can always find you a seat at the bar.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad to meet you too.” I took in a deep breath through my nose. “But if your food’s as good as it smells, I’d eat it while standing in the corner.”

“Oh, it is,” Phoenix said to me. Turning to Theresa, she added, “He would too.”

Laughing and giving Phoenix a subtle nod of approval, Theresa signaled a young red-haired woman in black—her nameplate said Amy—and asked her to lead us to our table.

We followed Amy into the second dining area, where our table was indeed in a corner. When we were seated, she placed menus in front of us, lit the votive candle inside a small glass in the center of the table, and recited the evening’s specials. When she returned with our bread and a bottle of Malbec, Phoenix ordered garlic oil pasta. I chose spaghetti with pesto. We both asked for Italian sausage on the side.

“Hope you don’t mind the garlic,” Phoenix said when Amy left to place our order. “If it’s too strong and coming through my pores, I can always stay at my place tonight.”

“I’ll take you any way I can get you,” I said. “Besides, mine has garlic too, so I’m not defenseless. But if the night goes the way I imagine it, the garlic will be sweet as rosewater.”

“You can be so corny sometimes,” she said. Still, she smiled as she dipped bread into a mixture of oil and balsamic vinegar and took a bite. After the first slice was gone, she was quiet for a minute or two, sipping wine and thinking, I hoped, of what would happen later. But then she said, “What time do you expect Keisha to call in the morning?”

“The text said early. I don’t know if she’ll try the apartment, the cell, or my office. The office automatically bounces incoming calls to my cell. I gave her my apartment phone number. She’ll have no trouble getting through. We’ll decide where to meet when she does.”

“Will we take her to eat?”

“Sure, if she’s hungry.” I dipped my second piece of bread and chewed. “At the very