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

the other side of the yellow police tape that cordoned off the entire corner. Soon Tito would head to the ME’s office. I wondered if Mira would catch his postmortem.

“You might,” I said, shrugging. “Can’t say for sure where they went because I was driving. These weren’t exactly range conditions, you know.”

“No. This SOB’s old school, straight-up Dirty Harry.” Piñero held up the plastic evidence bag containing the long-barreled Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum he had found under the front passenger seat. “Least you didn’t shoot him when you had him on the ground.”

“The temptation was fierce,” I said. “If I had, maybe Keisha wouldn’t have run off.”

“Well, you did break his nose.” Piñero smiled. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

We had to duck under the crime scene tape to reach Locust, which was blocked by a fire truck, two ambulances, two police cruisers with lights still flashing, and Chalmers and Piñero’s unmarked car. A uniformed officer stood beside one of the cruisers, directing traffic exiting the expressway to the next available right turn, two blocks ahead on Maple. Cuffed and bandaged, the man whose wallet identified him as Delano ‘Butch’ Madden was in the back of the other cruiser, a short distance away. Phoenix sat on the rear step of the other ambulance, talking to Chalmers as a paramedic finished wrapping her right arm in bandages.

Passing what was left of my Ford Escape, Piñero and I went to the ambulance first.

“You okay?” I asked Phoenix.

“Scrapes, nothing deep.” Her voice was strangely flat, detached. I wondered if she was in shock. She stared at me before speaking again. “You’re the one still bleeding.”

The paramedic turned to me. A tall Latina with threads of gray in hair pulled back into a ponytail, she had put Betadine and a fabric bandage on my chin when her unit first reached the scene. Now she looked at me for a moment. Then she pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves and removed the bandage, which I had bled through. “You may need a stitch after all.”

“Let’s try another bandage,” I said. “Maybe surgical glue if you have it. I don’t have ER time today.”

She scowled at me, a look that clearly rebuked me for telling her how to do her job. “What is it with you two? Too busy and important to get checked out by a full-fledged doctor?” But she got to work.

Chalmers and Piñero moved away from us. Presumably, they were comparing notes. Chalmers had decided to interview Phoenix himself because of her prior brief relationship with Piñero, who had talked to me. Both men knew Phoenix and I had plenty of time before their arrival to coordinate our stories if we had been inclined to lie. But we had told the truth about the Caddy’s pursuit and gunfire—omitting, as we agreed, that Phoenix and Keisha had both handled my gun. While we focused on Madden, Keisha apparently took off on foot.

“They must have been on us for a while,” I said.

“On you, probably.”

“Maybe using cell phones to hand us off from one car to another. Waiting for Keisha to make contact.” I remembered how cocky I’d felt after we located Spider Tolliver’s GPS tracker. Maybe I’d have to start sweeping for trackers every day. “Something else I missed.”

“It’s not your fault,” Phoenix said. But she sounded uncertain.

“Now I have to find Keisha again,” I said as the paramedic smoothed a new bandage over my cut. “Home’s just blocks away. If Terry sends a car, I doubt she’ll open the door.”

“Someone tried to kill her.” Phoenix’s voice was so matter-of-fact it almost made me shiver. “They might think she’s hurt. Exigent circumstances.”

“If Terry orders them to go in, she might run again. I don’t want her to run.”

“She’s run enough. She needs to be somewhere she feels safe.”

“Okay,” the paramedic said. “A drop of glue and a different type of bandage, but if it keeps bleeding you’re gonna need a stitch unless you want a scar.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry to be a pain in the ass.”

“Early afternoon on a twelve-hour shift,” the woman said. “If I let every asshole get to me, I wouldn’t make dinner without killing somebody.” Smiling, she stepped up into the back of the ambulance and started securing the supply storage compartments for departure.

Phoenix stood, slowly and deliberately, her silence and faraway look unsettling. I took her arm and led her away from the ambulance. Before I could ask her what was wrong, Chalmers and Piñero walked over to us.

“You both declined transport to a hospital,” Chalmers said. “But I still need you to come downtown and make a statement. Afterward, we’ll see that you get home.”

“Sure, but I need some things from my car first,” I said. “Nothing relevant to your investigation. Just some personal things and tools I don’t want to disappear between here and the collision shop.”

“Make it quick,” Chalmers said.

I ducked under the yellow tape and walked around my Escape before gathering things from inside. At the time of the crash, I had given no thought to the extent of damage or cost of repairs. Now that the threat of being shot was gone, I could scarcely believe what I saw. Yes, a bullet had obliterated both rear passenger windows, but the collision had cracked or shattered other windows as well, in ways that would take an expert to explain. The liftgate window was gone. The front passenger window held only jagged chunks of safety glass—likely the source of Phoenix’s abrasions. The windshield was buckled outward, a maze of cracks. Other external damage was easier to decipher. From its contact with the Caddy, the driver’s side had a thick strip of scratched, peeled paint that ran almost the full length of the car. The corner signposts were not round but stainless steel U-lines that gouged the roofline, the rear door, and the rocker panel as they were sheared off. I knelt to examine the underside. In addition to causing two sidewall