Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) Gary Ross (most popular novels txt) 📖

an ultra-leftist writer, he was shot to death on the sidewalk. In cold blood. Freed after a bogus claim of self-defense, his killer, Lucille Bishop of 127 Hamlin Road in Buffalo, now sits safe and unrepentant in her home. What, I wonder, is she doing while her victim lies in a refrigerated morgue drawer? Is she sipping coffee like this is a normal morning? Is she staring out the window and hoping for a surprise breakfast from her shiftless husband and unruly children? Or is she reliving the thrill of her kill? Clipping articles that defame Carter John. Sliding fresh bullets into her revolver for the next target. Well, your humble Dawn Warrior thinks Lucille Bishop deserves her breakfast surprise. Don’t you?”

Cissy clicked her mouse button again and Krieger’s electronic voice stopped. “From there he goes on to talk about other mud people—Hispanics, Africans, Middle Easterners, Indians, Asians, Eskimos, you name it—and the Jews behind them all. You know, the same folks who are always on the shit list.”

“The usual suspects,” Pete said. “Your ranking may change but you never get off the list.”

“Good work,” I said, pulling my phone from the front pocket of my sleep shorts.

Pete shook his head. “Talk about irony. Mars subscribed to the Krieger podcasts. Now he can’t listen to his own phone to hear himself praised by his hero.”

“You think Krieger is here?” Yvonne said. “In Buffalo?”

“Maybe.” Pete turned to face her. “He knew the gun was a revolver. Maybe he’s in contact with the guys who ran away.”

“Maybe he’s one of them,” Yvonne said.

“We need to think about how he knew that,” I said, scrolling through my contact list and tapping the name I wanted. Then I put the iPhone to my ear. “The gun was in Lucy’s purse when she fired. Only somebody who knows guns like a pro could hear it was a revolver.”

“Shit,” Pete said.

Yvonne sank into the vacant chair at the monitor station. “I gotta call LJ. Maybe he can get us some help identifying Krieger.”

“Don’t matter if he’s here,” Ramos said. “Lucy’s here.”

“Along with other people from out of town who play for Krieger’s team,” I said. The ringing on the other end stopped as the phone clicked on. The hello was groggy. “Hey, I know it’s early, but this is life or death. Get a squad car over to the Bishops ASAP. Get them out of their house, without their phones, and stash them someplace nobody but you knows.”

“What the fuck, G!” Rafael Piñero said. In the background, a woman said something I couldn’t quite hear but her tone was angry.

“I know, but a white supremacist podcaster just put out a hit on them.”

31

At eight-thirty, shortly after Rafael called to say the Bishops were in a safe house, I texted Phoenix about the death threat and the family’s relocation, promising to give more details when I talked with her that night. Then I left the seventeenth floor on a brief reconnaissance mission.

The vast lobby was already crowded, but security was high and visible. Four tactical SUVs were parked outside the hotel entrance. Uniformed officers made themselves seen as they walked past check-out and early check-in lines at the front desk, the concierge desk, and the restaurant entrances. A uni with a bomb-sniffing dog stood outside the luggage storage room. A few more uniforms were on the shopping concourse above, though no stores were open yet. Scattered among the hotel guests, breakfasters, and conference registrants were plainclothes officers with visible earpiece coils above their collars. Some acknowledged me with a slight nod or a quick smile when they noticed a gold III in the center of the dark blue plastic badge pinned to my lapel. Others gave my badge a cursory glance before looking elsewhere.

On the conference level, the three metal detectors outside the main meeting hall were staffed by four men and two women from Donatello Protective Services. Two more detectors and four additional DPS employees were stationed at the opening of the corridor that led to the breakout meeting rooms. All ten had Tasers beneath their blazers and batons clipped to their belts. Police and DPS personnel alike knew there were only four blue plastic badges with Roman numerals. Apart from police, only the badge holders—Matt, Mark, Pete, and I—were authorized to carry a gun.

Satisfied, I returned to the suite.

As planned, Sam joined us outside the nine-thirty plenary session and stayed beside Drea for the entire first day. I accompanied them to the main hall, which with five hundred in attendance was about half-filled. Judge Marlo Vassi went to the stage and called for order. She introduced herself as the moderator of the opening session and praised the ethnic, religious, and cultural diversity of those assembled. Then she invited Erie County Legislature Chairwoman Amari Lockwood to give the official welcome. Wearing a yellow headwrap and carrying her five-week-old son Kwame, Lockwood welcomed visitors to Western New York and read proclamations from Alvin Zachritz and Ophelia Green. Then she reminded everyone that pages five and six of the conference program contained a list of area attractions, including the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site and Niagara Falls, as well as a schedule of tours to museums, galleries, plays, the philharmonic, and other cultural events outside the conference. After a brief logistics presentation from a hotel staffer, Rory Gramm took the stage to give a conference overview. Toward the end, the audience began to drift away to get coffee or hit the restrooms before the breakout sessions began.

I remained with Drea and Sam for the first two while Pete was upstairs with Yvonne and Cissy to review data from Carter John’s smartphone and anything new LJ funneled to them. After lunch, Pete and I traded places for the afternoon meetings. The presentations I saw discussed techniques for making English language learner classrooms adaptable and developing immigrant communities into a force of revitalization for struggling cities. Pete lucked into cultural considerations in treating infectious diseases, economic integration as a