Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3)

threw up her hands. “What’s to stop Hellman from trying to get to you through her?”
I was quiet a moment, a quip now the farthest thing from my mind. “I’ll have to do something about that.”
Then, earlier than I had anticipated, the bailiff, a beefy man with short gray hair, stepped out and called my name.

4
When I entered the courtroom, I did not yet know Phoenix’s testimony had wrapped so quickly because the public defender was saving his best cross for me.
About a dozen spectators were in the courtroom. Following the bailiff down the center aisle, I glimpsed Phoenix on my right, waving Mira into the seat beside her. Ahead was City Court Judge Marlo Vassi, an ash blonde woman in her late fifties. With the U.S. flag on her right and the New York State flag on her left, she sat in front of the bronze seal of the state’s unified court system, watching me draw near. I swore to tell the truth and took the stand in the witness box to the right of the bench. As I stated my name for the record, my nostrils caught a trace of stale cigarette smoke—in a non-smoking building, no less. Then I looked at the counsel tables—ADA Caster in a gray suit sat on one side with an auburn-haired young man and Joey Snell on the other. Joey was in white shirtsleeves and an old red tie to offset his neck tattoo. Three fingers on his right hand sported adhesive-taped metal splints. His left cheek had stitches that looked days past their scheduled removal.
Tripp Caster rose and buttoned his jacket. He asked the same questions he’d outlined in his office, using my answers to establish my military background and my time as an army detective, my brief post-retirement service as a Buffalo State College police officer, the campus firefight with Marv Tull and Jasper Hellman that ended their interstate murder spree, and my subsequent decision to become a private investigator. My bona fides in the record, he gave me the chance to recount my confrontation with Snell, cutting in once to ask me to confirm I believed the Jasper Hellman Mr. Snell mentioned was the same man I had shot in the line of duty. Then Tripp thanked me and sat down.
“Mr. Aronson,” Judge Vassi said, her voice bearing witness to a long smoking habit.
Eli Aronson rose, buttoned his brown jacket, and smiled at me. “Mr. Rimes, first, thank you for your service. Combat could not have been easy. I know the price of your Purple Heart was blood. If army policing is anything like civilian policing, that too was a difficult job. So thank you.” He paused, as if waiting for a response. When I said nothing, he rocked on his heels for a second or two as he consulted the yellow legal pad on his table. “Sir, you testified you were not carrying a gun on the day under discussion. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You were a soldier. A police officer. An army detective. Now you’re a private investigator. You have a concealed carry permit. Why weren’t you carrying a gun that day?”
“I wasn’t working.” I fought the urge to shrug. “We spent the day doing things that didn’t require me to be armed, going places that prefer not to have guns present.”
“You and the previous witness, Ms. Trinidad.”
“Yes.”
“When do you carry a gun?”
“When I do security work for a client or take part in a protection detail.”
“Like bodyguarding.”
“Yes.” I thought for a moment, adjusting my stainless steel eyeglass frames. “Sometimes I carry at night, or when process serving takes me to unfamiliar areas.”
“As a decorated soldier, you must have fired your weapon on the battlefield. Mr. Caster established that as a Buffalo State police officer you discharged your sidearm in a shootout with a pair of killers on the run.” Now Aronson leaned forward, palms flat on the defense table, confident he knew the answer to his next question: “Has firing a gun ever come into play in your role as a private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“December before last.” I took a breath to order my thoughts and shape my response. “I’d been hired to find a missing person. I found her, and someone took a shot at her when she was in my car.”
“So you returned fire.”
My passenger had fired my gun because I was struggling to control the car. But there was no need to name her when she had moved past the trauma that had driven her into hiding in the first place and was now doing well. Fortunately, Aronson’s wording kept me from lying. “To make them back off.”
He grinned. “On the Kensington Expressway, wasn’t it? With other cars around?”
“Yes.”
“But no innocent drivers were hit. Only one of the bad guys.”
“No one was hit,” I said. “The driver was killed when his car hit a bridge abutment. The shooter was injured. I held him for the police.”
“A regular hero. But your car was totaled. Your insurance must be stratospheric.”
“Objection, your honor.” Tripp was on his feet, buttoning his jacket. “Counsel is badgering the witness. His line of questioning has veered deep into irrelevance.”
“Sustained,” Judge Vassi said. “Counsel will address the matter at hand.”
“Of course, your honor,” Aronson said. “All right, Mr. Rimes, you testified Mr. Snell and two associates threatened you and Ms. Trinidad.”
“Yes.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You responded with a device called a telescoping pocket baton.”
I had an inkling where he was headed now, so I steadied myself. “Yes.”
“Your response was three quick swings of the baton that put all three men on the ground. In seconds.”
“Yes.”
“Before they actually touched you?”
“They used the name of the killer—”
“Please answer yes or no.”
“Yes, they said Jasper Hellman wanted me hurt.” I rushed my sentence to get it in before he could demand yes or no again. His surprised silence let me add, “As I testified earlier.”
He smiled as if to say, Nice move! “Would you describe the baton, for the record?”
Baton specs