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

so often. It makes me loopy. I think I got the last one a few minutes ago.”

“Hope it helps,”

“They said I’d be in a regular room by tonight. That’s good, but I’ll be off at least six weeks. Gonna need PT for my arm—just like you. I won’t know what to do with myself.”

“That’ll take you past the holiday season. How about a ski trip when the rates drop?”

“Damn you, G,” he said, biting his lip. “I’m not much of a laugher, man. I smile at jokes. If I smile too much and tear these stitches, it’s all your fault.”

“Sorry,” I said. “If it’s any consolation, the PT they’ll send you to is very good.”

He eased his head back against the pillow, took a deep breath. “Maybe I could spend time trying to patch things up with Diana. You know, she dumped me a couple of weeks ago.”

“I heard. Sorry about that too.”

“That’s all right. A special ed professor is out of my league anyway, like Phoenix is out of yours. Inevitable for guys like us.”

I said nothing as I thought about Phoenix. Was it inevitable that she would leave? I pushed the thought aside. I would have my answer soon enough.

“Maybe I should talk to that doctor who checked on me this morning. African lady from my surgical team. She was pretty. Can’t remember her name though. Too out of it.”

“Dr. Ibazebo,” I said. “I know her. She’s one of Bobby’s old students.”

“Is she single?”

“I don’t know, but if Diana is out of your league, Ayodele’s a champ in a completely different sport.”

“Ayodele. What a pretty name.” Then Chalmers nodded toward the paper open in his lap. “By the way, did you see that shit? He shot me and ran into the shelter?” He clicked his tongue in disgust. “Pastor Paul’s got some nerve trying to distance himself from Brother Grace.”

“I don’t think it was Pastor Paul. An ambulance took him away after the building came down. Looked to me like he was having a heart attack. I don’t know whether he ended up here or in another CCU but I heard on the radio he didn’t make it.”

He tapped the paper. “This just says people were taken to hospitals for exposure and firefighters for exhaustion.”

“Hey, they gotta put the best face on it. The stuff about Brother Grace probably came from one of Pastor Paul’s guys trying to run interference,” I said. “Maybe Marco Madden.”

“Raf stopped by about an hour ago. After the fire and what folks on the scene thought must be drugs burning up, this investigation can only grow. So far nobody’s been able to find Marco. Be nice if we could connect him to that damn church lady you keep talking about. The threads are still too loose for me.” He put his head against the pillow again, and the rhythm of his breathing changed. “So how are you spending this fine December Sunday?”

“I’m gonna try to tighten some of those threads and keep my clients’ daughter alive.”

“You can’t tell me more, can you?”

“Not yet.” I smiled. “I think I’ll let you rest a bit.”

“Yeah. Feels like that stuff is kicking in.”

He closed his eyes, and I left.

47

Sermon on the Mount was a short walk from Buffalo General, so I considered leaving the car where it was. Once I got outside, however, I realized I couldn’t break into the church if there was a car in the lot, especially Dr. Markham’s Town Car or Loni’s Camry. I would need a place to wait for whoever was inside to leave. It was too cold to wait outside. I drove past the lot and was glad to find it empty. Light afternoon traffic on Sunday made a U-turn on Main Street easier then than any other time of the week. I parked across the street from the lot and got out.

I crossed Main and walked around the outside of the church, noting the exits. There were three for the public: the front door at the top of a stone staircase, a side door at ground level near the front, and the parking lot door Dr. Markham had opened for me on my first visit. A wide garage-style door in the very back seemed to be for deliveries.

I ended up at the parking door, climbed the three steps, and pressed the electronic doorbell, just to be sure. As I waited to see if anyone would answer, I looked back at the RAV4, at the apartments and storefronts across the street. Seeing no curious faces, and getting no answer, I took out the lock pick gun and turned my back toward the sidewalk so anyone passing would process the scene as someone using a key.

The corridor I stepped into was dark but warm. I wiped my boots on the commercial-sized mat and listened for any indication of movement. The only sound I heard was a radiator hissing. I thought about that. Maintaining the heat had been Tito’s job. As far as I knew, his body was still unclaimed and unidentified. The newspaper article had carried no details about his car, no request for information. His name would not be made public until the next of kin came to identify him. Because he had no next of kin, there was a chance the congregation did not yet know he was gone. Who knew? Certainly Loni Markham and Harlow Graves. She had no reason to claim the body yet, no reason to draw police attention to the home church of a would-be murderer while she tried to figure out her next move. Graves took his cues from her. One of them—or someone else, like Dante or QC—had come in to adjust the thermostat.

I took out my Taclight and moved along the hallway with the beam held low.

Most older Christian churches had the same basic cruciform layout—the front door at the back of the sanctuary, the narthex opening onto the nave where worshippers sat, a wide aisle between rows of pews,