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

Her smile matching the one I first saw in her photos, Keisha pushed her way through the gathering until she reached us and threw an arm around each of us, hugging us so tight I thought she had invented a new sleeper hold. When she stepped back, happy tears brimmed her eyes. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “I hear you’re going back to work in January.”

“Thanks to Ms. Trinidad,” she said, high-fiving Phoenix.

“Now they can’t stay with us long, baby,” Mona said. “They’ve got somewhere else to be. With family, right?”

Before I could answer, Phoenix said, “Yes, with family.”

“They can’t stay for dinner,” Mona announced to all, “but we can’t let ‘em outta here without a piece of my Christmas cake, now can we?”

For a moment, the resounding “No!” made me feel as if I were back in the church.

So, for us, they had dessert before the Christmas dinner. The cake had buttercream filling, green and red frosting, candy cane shavings, and green and red maraschino cherries. As we ate off paper dessert plates, I had a chance to talk with several guests. Carl Williamson patted my back and thanked me for getting his son’s killers. “I hear you kicked some serious ass,” he said. Rhonda Williamson kissed me on the cheek and wiped her eyes. Ike introduced me to his daughters, telling them I was the guy who brought Aunt Keisha back to them.

Jen said that in a just world I would have shared in her service commendation and told me to look for my lock pick gun in the mail sometime soon. Any time you need help with something, you call me,” she said. I thanked her. I also thanked Ileana for helping me understand the world of the homeless, to which she replied, “You couldn’t save Veronica but you damn sure pulled Keisha out of the fire and iced the bastards who put her there. I’m the one who should thank you.”

The tall man in dress greens had a neatly trimmed mustache and the green and yellow trimmings of an MP. He came to me and introduced himself as Sonny Tyler, Keisha’s ex-boyfriend, on leave from Stuttgart. “Heading back before New Year’s,” he said. “Had to see for myself she was okay. We’re just friends now. I don’t hope for more, especially so soon after what happened to Odell. But I wanted her to know I was a phone call away if she ever needed to talk. Thank you for passing on my message.” Then he saluted me, and I saluted back.

When it was time to go, Winslow and Mona walked us to the door, with Oscar and Louisa behind them. Mona and Louisa hugged us both, and Winslow shook our hands. Oscar walked us out to Phoenix’s car.

“Thanks for putting me back in the real game for a quick minute,” he said. “You’re both welcome any time, in our home, or the church.” Before I could say anything, he held up his hand. “I already know you’re not much of a believer. But I think I told you before, you don’t have to believe in God for God to believe in you. He believes in you, Brother Rimes. You should feel blessed.”

“I do,” I said. “You gotta be cold in just that sweater.” I embraced him. “Thanks for having my back.”

“They’re nice people,” Phoenix said, as she pulled away from the curb. “All of them.”

“Good people,” I said. “They didn’t deserve to be caught up in something so bad.”

“Feeling philosophical, are we?”

“Maybe a bit Dickensian.”

“Oh, God, if you’re gonna go all Tiny Tim on me—”

“No, not that one,” I said. “This was a tale of two churches, two gangs, and double identities. Ultimately, it was a tale of two women, one bad and willing to do anything to hide her true self and one good, willing to sacrifice herself for those she loved.”

“What was in that red punch we drank anyway?” Phoenix said, laughing. “Seriously, honey, one of the things I love about you is your need to make sense of a world that proves chaotic with every breath it takes. Sometimes things are what they are, but you see patterns that give you hope. You claim to be a cynic but you’re the most optimistic person I know.”

“No need to be insulting,” I said.

“That was nothing. Wait till we start looking for your new car. I looked up that special bumper thing you want to put on the front. Ugly as sin!”

Because it was Christmas and traffic was light, we took Main Street toward Mira’s Williamsville home rather than get on the highway. The sun was still bright. The city was beautiful as we drove through the center of it, just enough fresh snow to make the streets look sparkling and clean, just enough lights, decorations, and closed businesses up Main and into the suburbs to make us feel the holiday spirit had not been sacrificed on the altar of commercialism. Things would be different by February, of course, when the snow was dirty slush and Presidents’ Day sales tried to draw people out of their winter doldrums. But right now, on Christmas, winter in Buffalo was breathtaking.

Just as we reached the edge of the Village of Williamsville, my phone buzzed. Pulling it from my pocket, I saw I had a text from a number designated UNKNOWN. I opened the text function and saw a link. I didn’t have to click the link to understand what it meant and who had sent it to me. The tiny headline and subheadline told the whole story: Suspect in Buffalo Triple Murder Found Dead in Detroit River. Cuthbert shot once in head.

“Dante Cuthbert’s dead,” I said.

“Good,” Phoenix said, turning onto Mira’s street. “That means he won’t be coming after you. Who sent the message? Your psycho acquaintance?”

Before I could reply, the phone buzzed again, a call from UNKNOWN but I knew who it was