“I know,” Jen said, closing her eyes
“I don’t want to take the chance.”
“I know.”
“So, back to my original question,” I said. “How can I help?” I needed them to say it.
Bianca released Jen’s hand and used the back of her own to wipe her eyes. Then she gazed straight into my eyes. “I want to hire you to find her before she does this and bring her in alive. I’ll pay.”
“No need,” I said. “Unfinished business I already promised Jen I’d fix. But you have to know where things stand. Keisha still thinks they tried to kill her over a real estate deal.”
I stood and went to my kitchen counter to get two sections of the Sunday paper I had already read. I took them to the living room and put them on the coffee table in front of the couch. Then I summarized the articles for Jen and Bianca.
The front page reported the Sanctuary Nimbus fire, with a full-color above-the-fold picture of the church engulfed in flames and an erroneous detail, perhaps provided by shelter staff. The lone fatality was an as yet unidentified man who had shot a police officer, fled into the Sanctuary, and locked himself in the bell tower. Tear gas canisters from the responding SWAT team were theorized to have started the fire by igniting stored papers. The unnamed officer was recovering after surgery.
The local news section reported a two-car accident near the end of the Kensington Expressway that claimed the life of one driver and saw his passenger arrested for possession and discharge of a firearm, which numerous drivers had reported by cell phone. The driver and passenger of the second vehicle were treated at the scene and released. Police were investigating whether criminal recklessness or icy conditions had caused the mishap. The article carried all our names except Tito’s, whose identity was being withheld, pending notification of next of kin. Nothing connected the accident to the fire.
“I knew about the crash, and you told me about Tito,” Jen said. “I heard the fire was a SWAT op gone wrong but we haven’t seen the paper till now.”
“We were outside the church all morning,” Bianca said. “Watching for Keisha but she never came. The ten-thirty service ended a little while ago, and we came straight here.”
“You thought Keisha would try to shoot Mrs. Markham at the church?” I asked.
“She told me she would settle things today, where everybody could learn the truth.” Bianca spread her hands. “If she goes to their house, nobody will see what happens. It has to be at church.”
“Is there another service or event today?”
“The monthly luncheon was last Sunday when Keisha’s mom got shot. But there’s a brief service every Sunday night at seven—a welcome, a sermonette, some songs of praise.”
“Are there fewer worshippers in the evening?”
“Usually, as I recall.”
“Fewer bystanders but enough witnesses to report whatever Keisha says.” Jen shifted her gaze back to the newspaper pages. “So how does this fire relate to the crash and Keisha?”
“The guy who burned was the one who tried to have Keisha’s mom killed. He and Butch, Tito’s shooter, had rings from the same gang. Things went off the rails when police went to the shelter with a warrant for his ring for testing in another murder. Also, Tito and Butch played ball together at EMU.”
“What does all that mean?” Bianca asked.
“Long story short, a white biker gang from the Southern Tier and a black drug gang out of Detroit are working together, using a development company, a church foundation, and a charity to cover money laundering and drug distribution. The newspaper doesn’t say what caused that smell last night, but my nose told me a lot of drugs burned up.”
“You were there?” Bianca said.
“Course you were,” Jen said, smiling. “I can still smell smoke on you. But that’s an off-the-wall partnership. Mrs. Minister is tangled up in a lot more than we thought.”
“Including sleeping with Tito.” I saw the surprise on Jen’s face but not Bianca’s.
“Kids started teasing him about his crush on her when he was twelve,” she said. “He would just look at her and his eyes would glaze over.”
“I guess Loni Markham didn’t have to look far for devoted help.” I shook my head and sighed. “I better get dressed.”
“You’ve got a little time,” Bianca said. “The service doesn’t start till seven.”
“Any idea why Keisha didn’t show outside church?” I asked.
“No car. It was a long walk. Or maybe Jen’s right and she wants fewer bystanders.”
“Could be,” I said. “But I think it’s because she met you at Rowhouse earlier and couldn’t get to the church fast enough to hide. With Sunday school and service right after that, it was too busy for her to slip in unseen. Everybody knows she’s missing. Wouldn’t being seen cause excitement and make it harder for her to take a shot?”
“So you think she’ll try to get inside some time before vespers,” Jen said.
Bianca scrunched her face in doubt. “I’m sure the church is locked between services.”
“But until a few months ago, Keisha was the church secretary,” I said.
Then Bianca’s face lit up with understanding. “She still has her key.”
46
I made Jen and Bianca leave before I got dressed. “From this point on, for the sake of your career, you can’t know how or when I got into the church,” I said to Jen. Then I looked at Bianca. “But I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to show your off-duty police officer wife the church you grew up in and brought her to the evening service.”
Bianca went up on her toes to kiss my cheek. “Thank you.”
After making a necessary phone call, I shaved and decided the surgical glue had made replacing the bandage on my chin unnecessary. I dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans, and rubber-soled boots. My shoulder and right arm felt ready, so I swapped the cross-draw holster for my nylon shoulder rig and pulled on the black utility jacket I used for the occasional bounty hunting job. It had a hood and pockets everywhere for plasticuffs, a short baton, Gorilla tape, a tactical knife, and a tactical flashlight that doubled as a stun gun. I added the lock pick gun.
Before going to the church, I stopped by Buffalo General to see Chalmers in the ICU.
MaryAnn Maclin, who had tried to calm Keisha the night she tried to see her mother, was on duty at the high-tech nursing pod, overseeing other patients but not Chalmers. She shook her head sadly and said, in a lowered voice, “Please tell me you are not here to see the man in Number Six, the detective who got shot.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess he’ll be known by the company he keeps.”
“I heard what happened after Mrs. Simpkins left us.” She kept her voice low but she smiled. “The whole hospital was talking about a PI who prevented a murder. I knew it was my paladin even before I heard the patient’s name. You know, I had to look that word up.”
“Then if I’m ever known by the company I keep, talking to you will bump me up several notches.”
“Oh, I do know a bullshitter when I hear one.” She laughed, softly. “I am married to a man who sells cars.”
Chalmers was alone, sitting up in his bed, trying with one arm immobilized to read a newspaper amid tubes and wires. The sutures in his right cheek were small enough to make them seem a steroid-fueled advance team for the rest of the stubble on his face. He looked up and half-grinned when he saw me. “Can’t smile too much ‘cause it hurts.” His voice sounded groggy.
“I see you made it through your post-surgical hangover,” I said. “How you feeling?”
“Okay. Luckily it wasn’t a full slug, just a chunk from a ricochet. They’re pumping in pain meds every 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, a narrow aisle along either wall lit by stained glass windows, a transept or wide area in front leading to a raised chancel for the altar and the pulpit. Sermon on the Mount was no different. But passing Dr. Markham’s office, I decided to explore the areas outside the sanctuary first. Keisha would need somewhere to hide before her ambush. It would help to anticipate where.
I went down the middle staircase to a basement lit by EXIT signs. It had classrooms with accordion doors on either side of a Sunday school chapel, a dining hall and kitchen, a choir changing room, and a steel-doored room that had the boiler, breaker boxes, and delivery door. Hiding in bathrooms was impractical, so I checked storage closets, none of which offered much room to stay out of sight, at least not for someone my size. Maybe Keisha could pull it off, but there was no place to sit, and breathing for a long time amid boxes and dust would be difficult. She would likely need a more comfortable spot.
I climbed the back stairs to a corridor that bracketed the sanctuary, with a door on either end to permit entry on either side of the chancel during a service. The only locked rooms I found were the minister’s office and an anteroom for storage of collection plates, a box of hymn board numbers, communion supplies, and other paraphernalia. As I stepped inside the nave on the right, I saw the left front had two rows of metal folding chairs arranged around an upright piano in the transept, with a drum kit off to one side. The Markhams had said something about the choir singing down in front because there was a problem with the loft.
Not up to code? New organ? Something.
I shone my beam toward the narthex. A traditional choir loft was above it. I went to the front of the building and pushed open one of the amber-glassed swinging doors. To my left, I saw stairs to the side door heading down and stairs to the loft heading up. Yellow tape with Danger in black letters made an X across the archway to the loft. I removed one leg of the X and squeezed past it to go up. If the loft had been ready to collapse, I reasoned, there would have been more than tape. At the top, I put a foot in front of a pew and pushed down on the floorboards. No give. Maybe it couldn’t support an entire choir, but the loft would hold me. When I sat on the floor, I realized I was behind a solid front panel and could not be seen from below. Shining my light around, I saw a large vacant space on the other side. Pipes were still in place, but the organ itself was gone, which explained the folding chairs. Up here the choir would be too far away from the piano. Likely having died from old age and neglect, the organ must have been disassembled and removed in pieces, some too heavy to get across the loft to the stairs. I sidled between pews to the edge of the cavity, looked down, and saw no framework to support the narthex ceiling panel below. No one would risk coming up here. It wasn’t the best place to set up a handgun shot but a perfect spot to hide.
I went down to reattach the tape. Then I returned to the loft and sat on the floor.
The doorbell rang an hour or so later. I didn’t have to strain to hear it. It wasn’t the bell on the parking lot door but the bell beside the front door, right below me. It rang for a long time. After half a minute or so of silence, it rang again. When no one answered, I heard the scrape of a key in the lock and the squeak of a heavy door. It closed and the bolt shot back into place. Whoever was there took time to listen before wiping boots on the narthex floormat. A moment later came the sound of painter’s tape being peeled away then smoothed back down, followed by footsteps on the stairs. The weak beam of a penlight came into view.
I took out my Taclight, cupped one hand over the front, and pushed the button three times. When she rounded the corner to step into the loft, I hit Keisha full in the face with the 1200 lumen strobe beam. She dropped her penlight and covered her eyes with her left hand as her right plunged into the bag hanging from her left shoulder.
I saw the gun come out. “It’s Gideon Rimes,” I said. “Don’t shoot, Keisha.” I clicked to the standard beam and lowered the light. “This is one of my favorite jackets.”
She lowered the gun. “What are you doing here!” Her voice was a harsh whisper, though we were alone in the building.
“Waiting for you.” I angled the Taclight so we could see each other. “No glasses. Must mean contacts. When you go to shoot, you have to make sure you can see your target.”
Keisha stood there looking at me, saying nothing.
“Jen and Bianca came to me,” I said. “They showed me your text and told me everything. Bianca’s worried sick about you.”
“Shit.” Keisha plopped onto the first pew. “I told her not to tell Jen.”
“Jen’s her wife.” I picked up her penlight from the floor and handed it to her. Then I rose and sat in the pew beside her. “Jen’s a cop and Bianca’s worried about her sister. How did you think this would play out?”
Nickel City Crossfire Page 27
