Upside Down (30 page)

76

Vehicles exiting the ferry went up the ramp, topped the levee, passed by a statue of Louis Armstrong, then descended into Algiers Point. Nicky had parked at the base of the levee in front of the Dry Dock Café and Bar, and, when Adams parked, he slipped into the backseat of Nicky's sedan.

“As far as I can tell, she didn't walk anywhere,” Nicky told them. “You sure she was on that ferry?”

“I'm as sure as I can be,” Winter said. “She'll call Rush again soon. I just talked to him. He said Faith Ann mentioned her mother was killed because of a something pond.”

“A pond?” Adams said.

“Wait a minute,” Nicky said. He got out of the car, went to the Stratus, opened the door and reached inside and came back carrying a newspaper. Inside again, he handed the paper up to Winter. “Look down there, under the picture of Kimberly.” Nicky leaned his cane against the passenger's door.

Winter scanned the article. “‘Kimberly Porter had most recently been working on several last-minute appeals for Horace Pond, convicted of the 1993 home-invasion double homicides of Superior Court Judge Arnold Toliver Williams and his wife, Beth, both sixty-three. Pond, who had been working as a handyman for the couple, was connected to the murders by physical evidence and a signed confession. Governor Lucas Morton, who was the Orleans Parish chief prosecutor during the Pond case, has steadfastly refused to consider clemency for any murderer convicted by “the good people of Louisiana.” One week ago Governor Morton released a statement that said, “If ever there was a poster boy for the death penalty, that person is Horace Pond. The Fifth Circuit has refused to grant a stay, so the execution will go on as scheduled.”' The execution is scheduled for ten o'clock tonight. If the woman who claimed to have evidence exonerating a client of Kimberly's was Amber Lee, and the client was Horace Pond, then maybe it isn't that big a stretch to imagine a cop was involved in the killings,” Winter said. “If the cops framed Pond somehow . . .”

“The governor prosecuted him,” Nicky said. “It might be politically embarrassing if his poster boy for crime was to be proved not guilty. Says in there that he's up for reelection.”

“I seriously doubt the governor had Pond's attorney murdered and risked being on death row himself just so he could be reelected.”

“Then you don't know Louisiana politics,” Nicky countered. “You're not a Southerner, are you?”

“Not hardly,” Adams said.

“Where are you from?”

“Pacific Northwest.”

“I wonder who the detectives on the Pond case were?” Winter mused. He was still looking at the paper.

“You thinking Tin Man and Doyle?” Adams asked.

Winter didn't reply. He picked up his phone and dialed. Manseur answered on the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“Got a second?”

“Can I call you back in a few? I'm in a meeting.”

“You with Suggs?”

“That's right.”

“I need to ask you couple of a quick questions. Yes or no's.”

“Okay, if I can.”

“Were Tinnerino or Doyle on the Pond case?”

There was a long silence. Winter could hear people talking in the background.

“No. Why?”

“Who was?”

“I can't say.”

“Was it Suggs?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Can you call me when you get clear?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Winter closed his phone. “It was Suggs,” he told the two men.

“Suggs framed Pond for killing a judge,” Adams said. “Makes sense. But where does Bennett fit in?”

“Maybe Bennett found out about it and he's been blackmailing Suggs. Maybe the case was important to Suggs's career, and he framed Pond because he thought Pond was guilty and was under pressure to solve it fast. Maybe Amber learned about the frame from Bennett, got pissed at him, and threatened to tell. Maybe she wanted money for it and somebody decided not to pay in money. That would explain just about everything Suggs and Tin Man have been doing. Maybe Tin Man used his badge to get into Kimberly's office, or Amber said something about him being a cop and Faith Ann overheard, or saw it. If she can finger Tinnerino or Doyle as the shooter . . .”

“Or Suggs,” Nicky suggested.

“Anything's possible,” Winter admitted.

“So where do we go from here, boss?” Nicky asked Winter.

“We have to wait for her to call,” Winter said, yawning. “It'll be dark in an hour.”

“Adams, maybe you could call in some of your FBI buddies?” Nicky said.

“What for?” he said.

“To give us a hand, you know. Comb the town, watch Suggs, track down those people in the Lincoln.”

“I've tracked the female.”

“I'll just bet you have,” Nicky said.

Winter couldn't believe his eyes when Nicky leaned forward and pressed Hank's cocked .45 against Adams's head.

“What the hell are you doing?” Winter demanded.

“Stay calm, Winter. Don't nobody do nothing at all but sit and listen. Mr. Adams here can't call in his FBI pals, because he don't have any.”

“What?” Winter said.

Adams turned his eyes up into the mirror.

“Put that gun away, Green,” he said softly.

“I don't know who this here feller is, but he sure as hell ain't
Special
FBI Agent John Everett Adams,” Nicky said.

“Of course I am,” Adams said.

“What makes you think he isn't?” Winter asked.

“Makes me
know
he isn't, you mean. If you so much as quiver, old buddy, I'll spread your brains all over the dashboard.” Nicky reached his left hand into his left coat pocket and handed Winter three envelopes.

77

“What the hell are you thinking, Nicky?” Winter said, looking from the gun at Adams's head back down at the envelopes Nicky had just handed him.

“Open 'em up and see for yourself,” Nicky said. “If the FBI knows who this bird is, it's probably because they're looking for him. That I.D. he's carrying might as well have come out of a cereal box.”

“You're making a big mistake,” Adams said.

“I doubt it.”

Winter opened one of the envelopes and poured the contents into his palm. A passport. Four credit cards. Wallet-size pictures of smiling people, business cards for a chemical company bearing the same name as the passport. Three business cards from associates to show business contacts, a list of names and telephone numbers.

“Each one of those envelopes contains a complete identity, down to wallet clutter. I didn't take but half of the ones in the secret compartment in his traveling case, which included two handguns, one fitted with a noise suppressor. Adams here also travels with makeup, wigs, false eyebrows and mustaches, and eyeglasses.”

“I can explain all that,” Adams said. His face was white with anger.

“Let's hear it,” Winter demanded curtly.

“Maybe you ask your pet cowboy to lower his weapon before he pulls a
Pulp Fiction
here?”

“No, I don't think I can.” Winter reached into Adams's jacket and took his Glock. “So, let's hear it.”

“If Green will get out, I will explain everything to your satisfaction.”

“Yeah, right,” Nicky said. “I'd bet you'd just love that. Being a professional and all.”

“Who's paying you?” Winter asked. “Bennett? Suggs?”

“Neither. It isn't anything like that,” Adams said.

“You kill people for kicks?” Nicky said.

“Nicky isn't going anywhere,” Winter told Adams. “So let's have it.”

Adams shrugged. “You might wish he had.”

“Then I'll just have to regret it later.”

“I'm not an FBI agent.”

“No shit?” Nicky said. “I think I already established that. You're a hit man. What I don't know yet is for who.”

“Did you murder Kimberly Porter?” Winter asked.

“No.”

“Where were you when she was killed?”

“North Carolina.”

“Even that's true, you know who did. Maybe those assistants you said you had handy,” Nicky said.

Winter ignored him. “Doing what in North Carolina?”

“Watching you.”

“Bull,” Nicky said.

“I bet you were killing Kimberly Porter, posing as a cop. I bet you ran down Hank and Millie while you were trying to silence Faith Ann and then joined us so we'd find her so you could finish her. Who hired you?”

“I was in North Carolina,” Adams insisted.

“And you arrived here when?”

“I was on the flight with you, Massey. US Air 443. I was in coach. Seat 23-A.”

“I didn't see you,” Winter said.

“You weren't supposed to.”

“He's a lying sack,” Nicky said. “You killed my friend Millie, you son of a bitch.” He pushed the gun harder against Adams's skull, tilting his head to the side.

“No, I didn't. But I know who did.”

“Who?” Winter asked.

“The name won't mean anything to you.”

“I just bet not,” Nicky said. “Pick an easy one, like Doe or Smith.”

“Paulus Styer,” Adams said.

“And of course he's a foreign-coated professional killer,” Nicky mocked.

“He was born in East Germany. Styer was trained from childhood by the Soviet KGB at their academy. After the country went broke, his handler for the KGB, Yuri Chenchenko turned the group of specialists into a for-profit business. These guys handle wet work for clients all over the world. The Russian Mafia gives them a lot of work,” Adams said.

“So you're working with Styer?” Nicky said.

“Not
with
him. I'm supposed to kill him,” Adams replied. “And I will if you don't sneeze and blow my brains out.”

“Why did
Styer
kill Kimberly Porter?” Winter asked intently.

“He didn't.”

“How do you know that?” Winter repeated.

“There wouldn't have been any point. Despite the odds against such a coincidence, I doubt the two events are related.”

“But you said he ran down Hank and Millie,” Winter reminded him.

“It's classified,” he said. “I can't tell Green.”

“I could lock you up in the USMS holding cell,” Winter said. “Incognito for days. If you know anything about me, you know I always keep my word.”

Winter saw that finally something frightened Adams.

“You do that and you're dead,” Adams said.

“Threaten away, you two-bit . . .” Nicky started.

“Nicky is going to hear this,” Winter said.

“It isn't a threat, it's a fact. Styer
will
kill you both. Paulus Styer is a different sort of killer. He is a temperamental kill artist who is as idiosyncratic and brilliant as Bobby Fisher. And he kills like it's all a deadly chess game. He hit Hank as a gambit—solely to draw his opponent to him.”

“How much money does this super-killer get paid?” Nicky said. He saw the expression of impatience in Winter's eyes and shrugged. “Just wondering.”

“Who is his real target, his opponent?” Winter asked.

“There was silence for a moment. Then Adams told Winter: “You are.”

“He'll wish he had a checker player to kill,” Nicky said, laughing. “Massey here will eat him alive.”

“You are a worthy opponent for Styer, but you won't get a shot at him, Massey.”

“Sniper, is he?” Nicky said.

Adams shook his head slowly.

“You've been running surveillance on me?” Winter asked.

“Yes,” Adams said. “Audio bugs, phone taps, GPS trackers. But we've been careful to keep our numbers down so neither Styer nor you would make us.”

“You've seen him watching me?”

“We've never seen him, but he has amazing sources for intelligence, and he's a master at disguising himself. We don't think he's been piggybacking our communications, but it is possible. That's why I communicate with my handler only through encrypted e-mails.”

“How long have you been on me?”

“Awhile.”

“Days?”

Adams nodded.

“Weeks?”

“Yes. Weeks.”

“Your job is to protect me from Styer?” Winter said.

“Yes.”

Winter was sure Adams was lying. “Why is he after me?” he asked.

“That is classified.” Adams glanced up into the mirror at Nicky. “Lock me up. Styer'll kill you, and they'll kill me for letting him do it.”

“How do you know he's after me?”

“We turned Styer's handler. The—”

“Who the pink fuck is
we
?” Nicky interrupted, exasperated.

“Let him finish,” Winter snapped.

“The handler's a businessman. Yuri Chenchenko sold us Styer for enough benefits that it's a zero-sum decision. We want Styer because he kills people we don't want dead. He's an enemy of the state, so making a deal with his handler for him was a no-brainer.”

“If you are who I think you want me to believe you are, you sure as hell aren't here to protect me. If you are assigned to kill this Styer, I'm your bait, so you owe me the truth.”

“It might be because . . .” He shook his head slightly. “This is just between us, it has to stay that way.”

“Fine,” Winter said. “My word.”

“Cross my heart,” Nicky said.

“It could be sort of our fault that he's after you.”

“Define ‘sort of.'”

“Look, I know you aren't going to shoot me, Green. So aim that damn gun somewhere else.”

“So far, you ain't bought yourself a thing but a .45-caliber hollow point. I hope you got extra gore insurance on this car when you rented it.”

Winter opened the breech of the Glock he'd removed from Adams's pocket and saw the glint of brass. He pointed the weapon at Adams. “Put the Colt away, Nicky. He knows I'll shoot him.”

“When a certain Russian mobster, who wasn't technically guilty of what he was convicted of last year, whom you helped the A.G. frame, made an attempt to hire a hit on the attorney general, the FBI intercepted the messenger and came to see us about it. We saw an opportunity to thwart that hit and to get Styer, someone we wanted. We offered Yuri a deal, and Yuri offered Styer an assignment to get you, which he took because of your stellar reputation, Massey.”

Winter asked. “Why didn't y'all get Yuri to point him out to you—give you his hideout?”

“Styer moves constantly, keeps everything secret, so if there was a mole in his group, or someone gets turned, he'll be safe. He trusts Yuri, but even Yuri never knows where Styer is, so all he could do was send him to us like he did. If Styer survives and figures out he was set up, he'll go straight back to Russia and kill Yuri. He has independent ties into intelligence and helpers.”

“Styer ran over Hank and Millie because he wanted Winter?” Nicky said, obviously stunned. “That makes you people responsible.”

“Does my director know about this?” Winter asked.

“No. Nobody outside my group does.”

“You're gonna kill this Styer?” Nicky said. “How?”

“When he comes for Massey, I'll be there. He'll be coming soon. He will want to take you man to man, pit his skills against yours. That's why he used Trammell. Styer wants you angry, motivated, so you'll be on your game.”

“If he is watching, what effect will you showing up have on his plan?”

“He'll just think an FBI agent was sent in to evaluate the Trammels' accident. He'll check up on me using his intelligence resources, and he'll believe it.”

“What about my family? Will he go after them?” The Russians, like the Colombian cartels, were notorious for killing entire families as an object lesson.

“Not a chance Styer would do that.”

“He doesn't kill women or children?” Nicky asked, sounding skeptical.

“It would serve no purpose.”

“Last year I killed some men. Were any of them friends of yours?” Winter asked Adams.

“I don't have any friends,” Adams answered.

“If you are who I think you are, you know who Fifteen is.”

“He runs our organization.”

“Your boss goes by a number?” Nicky asked.

“It's not his real name,” Adams said.

“He like the fifteenth in line for the throne?” Nicky said. “This is horse dookie.”

“Fifteen ran into a blowtorch while he was on a mission in East Germany during the Cold War. Fifteen hours is how long he was interrogated without talking.”

“Can't be true,” Nicky argued. “He's lying, Winter.”

Winter handed Adams back his Glock.

The cutout made Winter uneasy, in the same way sharing the interior of the car with a coiled cottonmouth might. But since the agent was a specialist—something Winter was painfully familiar with—that uneasy feeling wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If Adams so much as sneezed wrong, Winter would kill him.

The cells run by Fifteen, the groups Adams was affiliated with, were ex-military Special Forces–trained cleaners, assassins called cutouts because their identities were fictitious. Fifteen was powerful. And he was at the top of the list of the most poisonous and frightening individuals Winter had ever met.

“Green,” Adams said, “I'm going to give you this one.”

“One what?”

“Breaking into my rooms and putting that gun to my head. I understand why you did it and, even though I would have done the same thing, the next time you aim that gun at me you'd better pull the trigger.”

“If I feel called on to draw down on you again, that won't be a problem.”

Adams laughed.