Nickel City Storm Warning Gideon Rimes Book Three Gary Earl Ross Contents Gideon Rimes Series Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Excerpt One Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Excerpt Two Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Excerpt Three Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Excerpt Four Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Excerpt Five Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Excerpt Six Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Excerpt Seven Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Acknowledgments About the Author Gideon Rimes Series Gideon Rimes Series Nickel City Blues Nickel City Crossfire Nickel City Storm Warning SEG Publishing invites you to visit our site! Join our newsletter and receive a free short story in the Gideon Rimes Series. Copyright © Gary Earl Ross 2020 The right of Gary Earl Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted per the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. Cover design by Steven Novak Published by SEG Publishing Dedication For the brothers who share my DNA: Steve (fiercely independent businessman) and Rob (corrections officer and a generous soul). As well as my brothers from other mothers: Duane Crockett (electrician), Dennis Hollins (medical doctor), Scott Williams (mathematician). We all beat the odds for men who look like us. Also, in Memory of Bobby Edwards, more brother than cousin, investment advisor, inspiration for Bobby Chance, and Shelia Crockett, more sister than friend’s wife, tireless educator, peerless mystery fan. I wish you both had lived to read this one. 1 A brief stint with the Buffalo State campus police aside, after my retirement from the Army CID I worked for myself and only when I wanted—taking depositions for lawyers, serving summonses, investigating fraud for insurance companies, running deep background checks for employers and aspiring spouses, looking for people who sometimes didn’t want to be found, and providing security for stalking victims, trial witnesses, or visiting VIPs. Phoenix Trinidad, a full partner in a small but demanding law firm, was usually busier than I was. Our time together was mostly on weekends, though the demands of our professions sometimes leached into Saturday or Sunday. We were well into the second year of our relationship. Late April was colder and drier than usual but warm enough for the New York Power Authority to remove the ice boom, the steel pontoons that kept Lake Erie ice from entering the Niagara River and disrupting electricity generation. For the first time in more than a month, we had an unencumbered weekend and did our best to fill it. On Friday, after the chicken teriyaki stir fry I made in her kitchenette, we went to the Colored Musician’s Club on Broadway for an evening of jazz. We spent Saturday touring wineries in Monroe County, stocking up on reds and whites and grape seed lotion, Phoenix’s moisturizer of choice. After Sunday brunch at Canalside, the inner harbor development around the ruins of the terminus of the Erie Canal, we strolled from the Naval and Military Park to the Erie Basin Marina and back. Returning to Phoenix’s loft, we parked on Chippewa and walked up Main Street to Shea’s Performing Arts Center to see the matinee of War of the Worlds, a touring production of the hit Broadway musical mashup of the H.G. Wells 1897 novel and the Orson Welles 1938 radio adaptation. Now, having dined at the Buffalo Chophouse on Franklin, we were headed back to Phoenix’s place, where we would either play Scrabble or make love one more time before settling in for the next episode of an HBO series we liked. A slight chill was in the air. We were half a block from Chippewa, my blue leather jacket zipped to the neck and Phoenix’s left arm hooked through my right. A rusting red Chevy SUV slid to the curb ahead of us. Three men got out, all in jeans and dark jackets and two in baseball caps. They started toward us. Hatless and linebacker big, the man a step ahead of the others was the only one who looked familiar—early twenties, bulbous nose, short black hair with a sharp widow’s peak, a red and black neck tattoo curling above his collar. I was sure I’d seen him somewhere before but could not recall where. I might have dismissed them as guys on their way to a bar if Tattoo hadn’t locked eyes with me and kept his fists clenched tight. I stopped, easing Phoenix behind me. My work had been routine of late, things like depositions and summonses, and required no sidearm. Also, I had been carrying less when I was with Phoenix, perhaps to prove I didn’t need a gun to feel complete. Even though I’d had a small biometric lockbox installed in my car, my guns were in my safe at home, more secure than I was. So much for my denial of an inferiority complex. “Gideon Rimes, right?” Tattoo said, establishing himself as the leader. “Do I know you?” I said. “No, but I know you.” He grinned and his sidekicks chuckled, one of them nodding like a bobblehead. Tattoo ground a massive right fist into his large left palm. “Jasper Hellman says hi. He wants you to feel the pain first.” Before he could move any closer, I pushed Phoenix back another step and whipped out the small telescoping baton I kept in my right jacket pocket. A flick of my wrist brought it to its full length. As he drew back his fist, I swung for his face as if it were a tennis ball and felt the contact vibration through the thin
