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

on hard drives that are obsolete before their funerals. Sure, they’re on Facebook forever, but those are just digital headstones in a cyber cemetery on the information highway. Nobody pays them much attention.”

“So that’s it? An admitted drug user gives you a name, one you probably gave her first, and that makes me a murderer.” Loni let out a long sigh. “Gideon Rimes, ace private eye. More like Ace Ventura, pet detective.”

“Dante Cuthbert is your brother, Melony. You might as well admit it.”

Instead of replying, she undid the robe and opened it so I could see her fully naked. She sat perfectly still—breasts full, stomach taut, legs parted enough to show me what I was missing—her hazel gaze fixed on mine as if daring me not to look. “I would have given you a couple thousand bucks and the fuck of a lifetime to avoid complicating my marriage.” Then she retied the robe and sat forward, forearms resting on her knees. “But not for a horseshit soufflé like this. Even if I had some big money deal in the works, how do you know the plan didn’t include relocating residents to better housing? Nothing illegal in that. No motive for murder, especially one as sketchy as forcing an overdose. Yes, Dante Cuthbert is my brother. FBF is his company. So what? Think all this is more than wheeling and dealing? Prove it.” She sat back, crossed her arms, and smiled. “Negro, please!”

She was right. There had to be more than controversy and potential embarrassment to make them kill, to make Keisha run and Dante use a second identity. There were stakes I hadn’t seen, hadn’t imagined. If there was interstate criminality, the money would have to exceed the profits from a local real estate venture. The operation that produced that kind of money had to be bigger than a development company but off the books. Under the radar but labyrinthine, with supply chains and loyal soldiers. Drugs. It had to be drugs. Was FBF some kind of shadow company using development projects to legitimize drug money? If so, where did people like Felicity Sillers and Butch Madden fit in?

“How about this,” I said. “Your brother’s company is quiet enough to avoid too much attention. It has projects in several smaller cities trying to revitalize. Suppose FBF is actually a laundromat.”

She said nothing.

“Suppose your foundation is too, and gentrification is just part of the spin cycle. What if the kind of bad publicity that comes with putting poor people out in the cold would shine a light where the cockroaches wanted to hide? Maybe a government agency or the press would get curious enough to dig down and ruin the whole thing.” I watched the peach fingertips of her right hand ease toward the gap between the two-seat cushions. “If Tito was enough of a player to try to kill Keisha, maybe he also kept a gun stashed in his couch. For situations just like this.” I shrugged. “Could be wrong about that, but if I think there’s a gun down there and you’re reaching for it, I’ll put a bullet in your chest.”

Her fingers froze, as did her breathing. When next she exhaled, she folded her hands in her lap.

“There’s Butch too. I can’t figure exactly where he fits.”

“Never heard of any Butch,” she said. “I don’t know all Tito’s friends. Our thing was strictly fucking, once or twice a week. Anything else is on him.”

I smiled. “Good. If you don’t know Butch, you don’t need to worry he’ll flip on you now that he’s in custody.” I let that sink in, pleased she had to struggle to mask her surprise. “No, he didn’t die. You haven’t had a chance to call Harlow Graves yet either. But it doesn’t matter. Unlike Felicity Sillers, Butch will be charged with something. Attempted murder. A high-speed shootout on the Kensington? Bail is going to be steep if it’s granted at all.”

“I still don’t know Butch,” she said. “Or this Felicity.”

“Probably why Harlow Graves didn’t know her name the other night,” I said. “But I bet Butch and Felicity know somebody who knows somebody who knows you. All a good investigator or forensic accountant needs is a thread to pull.” I shook my head. “Sooner or later even Graves will have to answer for his role in this mess.”

That remark was a stab in the dark, but Loni Markham offered no reaction, nothing to confirm or deny the lawyer’s complicity. She was quiet for a long time, so still it was hard now to tell if she was breathing. She stared at me, almost unblinking, as if uncertain what to say. Finally, the hands clasped in her lap pulled apart. She flexed her fingers.

“Nothing you’ve said proves anything illegal on my part or the foundation’s,” she said. “If you walk out of here today, you’ve got nothing that can harm us. So I’ll be at church tomorrow with my clueless husband, who’ll never believe you if you go to him with this. I’ll attend all my meetings next week and the week after. Utter one word about me in public and I will own you.” She leaned forward, fixing me with the coldest stare I had ever seen. “But my brother is going to kill you for this. No matter what.” Her eyes hardened as she continued, the hatred in them crystallizing. “No matter what happens out there, remember what I’m telling you in here, right now.” Her voice went lower, to a venomous whisper. “My brother will kill you. The first time he killed, it was for me. He’s much better at it now.”

“Which brother would that be?” I said. “Dante or QC?”

“I have one brother. You’ll meet him soon enough but you’ll never see him coming.”

“Because your brother has two identities, and I don’t know either one.”

“What?”

“Your family had all the documents after your cousin Quentin was killed by a car. Dante Cuthbert and QC Griffin are the same person.”

Loni burst into