Upside Down (18 page)

40

Winter rode in the passenger seat of his rented Dodge Stratus, thinking as Nicky drove up St. Charles Avenue.

Other than what Nicky Green and Manseur had told him, Winter had no information to go on. Until there was evidence to the contrary, he had to assume that Faith Ann was alive and in hiding and that she had a good reason for not seeking out the police. He could accept that either Faith Ann knew, or believed, that there were cops involved in the death of her mother. Maybe she was correct. At any rate, it was her perception that mattered, not what the facts were. She was only twelve years old. If there was corrupt police involvement, then Faith Ann was in danger if the cops did find her. That would certainly explain why Suggs wanted her declared the suspect in the double homicide. The public would assume she was guilty—just another killer child, the stuff of adult nightmares. And if such a killer dies during apprehension, who's going to look too closely?

For the present, Hank was beyond his help. Winter's priority was to find Hank's niece and make sure the child was safe.

Winter trusted Nicky Green because Nicky and Hank were close friends and Hank's judgment of people was accurate. Nicky was also a professional, even though he was a strange-looking one.

Winter didn't know Detective Manseur, and he had no idea if the detective's actual reasons for not telling his chief about the connections between the two cases were what he claimed. But Winter did believe their interests—when it came to Faith Ann Porter—did in fact coincide. It wasn't relevant to Winter yet whether Manseur's prime objective was to find Kimberly's real killer. Maybe he wanted to prove Faith Ann's innocence, or maybe Manseur needed to prove he had been taken off of the Porter case for “dirty” political reasons—not because he actually wasn't competent to handle it.

Winter was taking a chance. He desperately needed Manseur's help as a navigator—without it he had nothing at all to go on and no way to see inside the investigation. But he wanted to make sure he had exhausted his options before he put Manseur in Suggs's sights.

There was one person who might know something that would be of help. He dialed his home number. Sean answered, and he told her in detail what he had learned.

“So I need for you to talk to Rush,” he concluded. “Explain this to him and ask him to think hard and try to remember if Faith Ann ever told him about any of her favorite places or named any close friends here in New Orleans. Call me back with anything. Anything at all.” Winter hung up the phone.

“We've got company,” Nicky announced, glancing in the mirror. “Two cars back.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. He was parked outside the hotel when I went out to my car for my gear. His car was one back from me. When I looked back at him, he turned his head.”

“Lose him,” Winter said. “Let's see how good he is.”

“Belts on, ladies and gentlemen.” Nicky jerked the wheel at the next cross-street without signaling. His tires squealed, and the oncoming car he cut off honked in furious protest. Nicky completed the U, took a swift right, and floored it. He was an amazingly skillful driver. He coordinated the wheels, the accelerator, and the brakes effortlessly, and the sure-footed car moved as though it was on tracks.

“You know,” he said, “with a few tweaks here and there, some minor work on the suspension, this wouldn't be a bad car. It ain't no Caddy, but it ain't bad.” He tilted back his cowboy hat and looked in the rearview. “Mission accomplished. Our tail is gone.”

“Why did Manseur have us tailed?”

“Manseur?”

“Who else knows we're around?”

When Nicky slowed for the next light, something touched their bumper.

“Jesus Christ,” Nicky murmured, looking back.

Winter turned in his seat and saw that the car they thought they had lost now had its front bumper resting against their rear end. The driver, a man with a crew cut, relaxed his grip on the wheel enough to wave his fingers.

“He looks like a cop,” Nicky told Winter.

“Pull over,” Winter replied. “Let's see what the deal is.”

Nicky pulled into the parking lot of a bicycle store. The sedan parked so that the driver was shoulder to shoulder with Winter, four feet away.

Winter zipped down his window. The driver did the same.

“Hi there,” Winter said pleasantly. “Is there something we can do for you?”

The driver turned and stared at him. “Maybe there's something I can do for you.”

“Like what?”

“I could tell you why Roy Rogers there didn't shake me.”

“Okay.”

The driver held up a laptop computer. On the screen was a blinking dot positioned on a street grid. “I put a C-2 Tracker behind your visor.”

Winter flipped down the visor and unpinned the dime-size disc with a smiley-face decal stuck on it.

The driver raised his hand above the window, and the badge case in his hand fell open. “Special Agent John Everett Adams,” he said. “Maybe we should sit down and talk.”

Except for his eyes, which were light blue, Adams's features were almost bland. The FBI agent's closely cropped hair was light brown, and his fingernails were clipped so the ends appeared to be uniform in the amount of edge showing. His teeth were bright and so perfect that Winter wondered if they had been veneered.

“About?” Winter asked, handing Adams back the tracker.

“We could talk about anything you'd like. Sports? I'm a Redskins fan. Games? I play checkers and shoot pool. Or we could talk about Hank and Millie Trammel. You guys hungry?”

“I could eat something,” Winter said.

“Follow me,” Adams said. He backed up and pulled into traffic. Three blocks later he turned into a diner parking lot and got out of his car. Winter and Nicky did so too.

“You like omelets?” Adams asked. “This place looks like shit, but the omelets are to die for.”

Winter wondered if it was possible that the health department had not been informed of the existence of the diner. The space was long and narrow with booths along the left wall and stools at the long counter, behind which food was grilled in plain sight of the customers. The putty-colored paint on the walls and ceiling had been dulled years ago by airborne grease, and the floor tiles were stained and chipped. The three men took seats at the first booth, Winter and Nicky facing Adams, who kept his back to the door. They sat silent until the waitress took their orders. Adams ordered a cheese and mushroom omelet, Winter asked for black coffee. Nicky ordered a hamburger, which bought a scowl from the woman.

“Try a seafood po'boy,” Adams suggested.

“I'd rather take my chances with red meat,” Green said. “Medium rare.”

“State won't let us make ground beef but one way,” the woman muttered, walking away.

“So, what do you think of the place?” Adams asked. “It was recommended by a local agent when I was here a few years back. The seafood po'boys and omelets are the best in the world.”

“Probably half the stuff they serve will kill you,” Nicky said. He put a napkin over a sticky spot on the table. “I hope that's syrup.”

“Deputy Massey, I expect you're curious as to why I'm here.”

“I'd love to hear that. And why you're wiretapping us.”

“I'd like to know that too,” Nicky said.

“Well, when my director got this last night, he had a conference with your director, and my director told him that a hit-and-run wasn't anything the FBI could officially investigate, but that for reasons known well to you, he'd take a look from the sidelines. My director dispatched me to watch out for you, knowing you
might
try to interfere, and if that was the case, to unofficially give you aid if that became necessary. If it turns out that the hit-and-run had roots to what you and Chief Deputy Trammel were involved in last year, I can insert myself officially, and if need be I can call in necessary assistance. I have two associate agents a couple of hours away.”

“If the hit-and-run was related to the past, by which I assume you mean that fracas last year, what does Kimberly Porter's murder have do with it?” Nicky asked.

“That I can't tell you. I know only what you know about it. I know what Manseur told you guys.”

“You have my hotel room bugged?” Winter wasn't surprised.

“I used a device to capture the sound in your suite straight from the windows. You should be happy about it,” Adams said. “It saves you from having to bring me up to speed.”

“Were you already watching Hank?” Winter asked.

“What? Oh, because of that bug? No, it wasn't us. I'd like to have a look at it.”

“About the size of collar button, but thinner. Gray, with a thin wire loop.”

Adams nodded. “Definitely not ours.”

“So does it look like these two incidents are related to
old
business?” Winter asked.

“Not on its face. But these two incidents are almost certainly related. It's not much of a stretch to imagine they are connected through Hank to the past—perhaps to you as well.”

“You think I'm tied into this?”

Adams shrugged. “Well, even if it's totally new business, when you stick your nose in you could be in danger.”

“That's probably true,” Winter conceded. “What's your take on Manseur?”

“He seems to be a decent enough sort. Family man. We looked at him when we were poking around for crooked cops a while back. It's possible he's playing a political game of his own and you two might wind up in the middle of it. He appears to be clean, but then so does his commander Captain Harvey Suggs.”

“I'm thinking I have to go at Bennett,” Winter said.

“His name has come up from time to time, but if he's involved with organized crime, we've never seen proof. I'll go with you.”

“Welcome aboard,” Nicky said. “The more badges the merrier.”

“Aboard? We don't need your help, Mr. Green,” Adams said.

Nicky looked at Winter. “What's this
we
shit? You got worms?”

The waitress delivered the order. Adams cut into his omelet and tasted it tentatively.

After she was gone, Nicky said, “I'm thinking I have some say about it.”

Adams shrugged and swallowed. “Say whatever's on your mind, Mr. Green. I couldn't care less. I don't want this omelet to get cold.”

Nicky said, “I don't know you, Agent. Hank's about my closest friend. He's also Massey's friend. I'm not stepping aside to let some sneaky, funeral-director–looking Federal snot-wad who isn't Hank's friend—and who I doubt very much has ever had one—push me out. You smell like trouble to me, Adams. I wouldn't trust you to park my damn car. You push me out and I'm going to keep on sticking my nose in this until I know who killed my friend and why. And you can't help Massey and stop me both.”

“Nothing personal. You're out of your element,” Adams said. “This isn't some cheating husband you can sling a skunk at, and I can't worry about what you do or what happens to you. Massey is a trained law enforcement professional, and I know he can more than handle himself. That's just the way it is.”

“And what am I: Swiss cheese?”

“Since you asked, you're physically handicapped. That, coupled with the way you dress, and you might as well be going around waving a red bedsheet on a pole. Plus if there's gunplay, I don't want to be responsible for the innocent bystanders. Nor do I want to catch one of your rounds in my back.”

“I can change my clothes,” Nicky said. “And this cane, which I don't require for mobility, does more than steady me. Maybe in the future I'll show you what I mean.”

Adams shot back, “It's more likely I'd make that cane a permanent part of your anatomy.”

“Nicky stays,” Winter said.

“Listen, Massey—” Adams protested.

“That's the way it has to be,” Winter cut in. “I trust Nicky. You, I'll have to get to know. Since
I
haven't been spying on
you
.”

41

Detective Manseur stood beside a raised stainless-steel table in the autopsy suite in the city's morgue. A combination of intense fire and immersion in warm water teaming with carnivorous scavengers was responsible for the condition of the “Rover” body. The corpse's skin was like that of a brisket that had been left sitting on a very hot grill for several hours too long. The face was a hideous mask, and the hardened lips were curled back like the man was snarling at Death. The cadaver's torso stood open and the colorless but moist internal organs, after being weighed and sliced for sampling, were in a garbage bag, which had been reinserted into the cavity to await a suturing. The top of the skull had been set beside the head like a partly shattered bowl; the damaged brain rested in a stainless steel pan on the nearby counter.

Dr. Lawrence Ward, the Orleans Parish Medical Examiner, struck a match to light a cigar the size of a baby's wrist. His massive hands had white hair on the backs of them that showed through the tight latex gloves and matched the mane of hair sprouting on his watermelon-shaped head. Ward's watery eyes focused on his notes, made readable by the glasses perched on the tip of his bulbous nose.

“Your John Doe is approximately seventy inches in height, one hundred and sixty pounds. He's Caucasian. I'll have to do some further tests, but the only dental work, a bridge, is probably European. Age between thirty-five and forty-five. Died within past twenty-four hours. Lack of burning on his backside means he was sitting up during the fire. Safety belt melted to him. He was stripped down to his skin, probably to make our jobs harder. He's got some old injuries that could indicate a life of violence, race car driving, or an athletic background.”

Manseur scribbled the information into his notebook.

“The fire was postmortem. No water in the lungs or fire damage to the throat,” the doctor said through the dense cigar smoke that obscured his features. He turned to the X-rays on the light box. “Homicide.”

“I sort of guessed that. Exact cause?”

“Somebody struck him over the left ear with a blunt object using enough force to fracture his temporal bone and put splinters into his brain. Wound is almost circular. Maybe he caught the end of an aluminum baseball bat. I'm pretty sure he was hit first, because of the bleeding inside the skull and swelling in the brain. Then somebody snapped his neck by twisting his head. That twist stopped his heart, which in turn stopped the inner cranial bleeding.”

“Whoever did that was extremely strong?”

“Wouldn't have to be any Charles Atlas if Mr. Doe was unconscious from the blow, which he most likely was. I'd say the killer knew how to induce the injury. They teach that advanced stuff to Special Forces soldiers—SEALs, Rangers, and the like. I'll do a full body X-ray series and see what else I can pick up.”

“Between the fire and foreign dental work, an identification is going to be a bitch,” Manseur said.
Why foreigners?

“You're in luck,” the coroner told him. “The fire didn't completely destroy two of his fingertips, because those fingers weren't totally exposed to the heat.” He made a loose fist that put two fingers against the palm of that hand. “I might have lifted enough detail to get you enough for a partial match. Maybe. Who knows?”

The doctor turned to pick up an index card from the table behind him. When he handed it to Manseur, the detective saw that there were two inked spots with lines, grooves, and clearly visible swirls.

Manseur put the fingerprint card in his pocket, then looked at the gurneys lined up against the far wall. “Dying to get in,” he said.

“We've never needed to advertise.”

“You autopsied the Porter and Lee women?”

“Sure did.”

“Could I see those reports?”

“I gave them to Tinnerino and Doyle. You're not working that case, are you?”

“Just curious. Mind if I peek at the originals?”

“If you want.”

“I want.”

After Manseur had read over the reports and the medical examiner had answered his questions, Manseur left. As he stood in the elevator, he sniffed his coat, wondering if he smelled like he'd been hanging out in the kitchen of a barbecue joint.