Nickel City Crossfire, Gary Ross [ebook reader for pc and android txt] 📗

“You mean somebody she might go to if she was in trouble,” Mrs. Markham said.

“Yes.”

She thought for a moment. “No. She wasn’t especially close to anybody that I know of. I’d have thought she would go to her parents. But Brother and Sister Simpkins requested special prayers last Sunday and asked for help. If somebody knew something about Keisha, I expect they would have come forward then, to her parents if not to us.” She huffed, as if exasperated. “This is all just too upsetting.”

“This has been hard on all of us,” Dr. Markham said. “My wife is very protective of the work we do here.”

I lowered my pen to ease Mrs. Markham’s agitation. “I know a few things about your church. You have an after school program, a food pantry, a job advocacy office. I’ve seen your wheelchair transportation vans. What other work do you do?”

“Saving souls is a complex business, Mr. Rimes, especially when we’re born in the natural crossfire between heaven and hell.” Dr. Markham smiled his dazzling smile. “Yes, we prepare for the afterlife. But we are called upon to help each other in this life as well.”

Mrs. Markham managed another brief smile and leaned toward me. “Have you heard of the Sermon on the Mount Community Development Foundation?”

Though I had, I shook my head. I sensed talking about it might ease her tension.

“The SMCDF. It’s a not-for-profit with a mission to elevate the neighborhood, make it a stronger presence in the city, all with grant funding and small donations. We have the programs you mentioned, but we also run a low-income family housing development two blocks from here and a senior apartment high rise on Virginia Street. We also co-sponsor the culinary arts program at the new GiGi’s.”

“Great!” I said. “I’ve missed their sweet potato pie since fire closed the old one.”

The minister laughed. “I don’t think truer words were ever spoken in this office.”

His wife sat back, eyebrows arching. “If my husband will forgive me a moment of pride, I am happy to be the foundation’s CEO.”

“The Lord allows a sprinkling of pride tempered by modesty.” Dr. Markham turned to me, his own face alight with pride. “What my wife didn’t tell you is that she established the foundation. She’s got a good head for business and an MBA. She organized the charter committee and went to the banks. She did the 501c3 paperwork herself and wrote the grants. She invited a real cross-section of the community to serve on the board. It’s all her doing and she’s helped too many people to count—without getting a lot of attention from the press.” He reached across his desk to pat her hand. “Integrity is what you do when nobody’s looking.”

Mrs. Markham lowered her eyes as if embarrassed, and for a moment the only sound was the hiss of the radiator. Then I asked, “Did Keisha ever do any work for the foundation?”

“No.”

“But at one point she was on the board,” Dr. Markham said. “You see, the foundation has to have a board of directors who—”

“That was a good while ago, honey, but even then her job made her miss too many meetings. She stepped away from the board years ago.”

“Seems like only yesterday.” He shook his head. “Hard-working as she is, there are only so many hours in a day. Something my wife is constantly reminding me of.” He got to his feet.

Taking that as his cue the interview was over, I pocketed my notebook and stood, noting the file tabs on his desk: BLDG FUND, NEWSLETTERS, HOMILIES. I tried to make my final question as non-invasive as I could: “Are you on the board, Dr. Markham?”

“Only as a non-voting member,” he said. “Which is good because I spend so much time running here and there, I don’t get to many meetings myself.”

Someone in the hall knocked.

“Come in,” Dr. Markham said.

The door creaked open. A light-skinned man in a gray hoodie and blue HOLLISTER sweat pants filled the doorway—literally. At well over six feet, he appeared to be in his late twenties with close-cut hair and a thin mustache. He looked as if he would clock in close to two-sixty on a digital scale—pounds that seemed less the result of donuts and soda than the by-product of an NFL weight room.

“Tito, this is Mr. Rimes. Tito Glenroy, our custodian.”

He stepped inside, and my hand almost disappeared in his as we shook. His grip was gorilla powerful. He didn’t crush my fingers but doing so would have been easy. Instead, he held them a few beats longer than he should have. I wondered why.

Turning, Tito nodded at the minister and looked at Mrs. Markham for a few seconds. “Reverend. Ma’am.” He spoke in a voice that was half whisper, half crushed glass, in an almost apologetic tone. “I found where the water’s coming from in the basement. Not the men’s room but a wall in the kitchen. Had to pull the stove out to get to the source.”

“We gonna need a plumber?”

“Yes, sir.” He frowned and cocked his head to one side. “Probably work inside that wall too. Looks like it’s been wet in there a long time. You got a minute; I can show you.”

Sighing, Dr. Markham turned to his wife. “Looks like we’re gonna go another month without getting the new organ in and the choir loft brought up to code.”

“The choir’s doing just fine in the front of the assembly,” she said. “Nice for them to be seen as well as heard.”

The minister looked at me. “These old buildings. If it isn’t one thing—”

“Go,” she said. “I’ll show Mr. Rimes out. I gotta get going anyway.” She stood and pushed the center chair forward to avoid touching the hot radiator. Then she sidled past me on the way to the coat rack, and I caught a whiff of her perfume.

Awkwardly smiling at her, Tito hesitated a moment before pulling the green leather jacket off its