Upside Down (38 page)

100

Manseur and Winter erupted from the elevator into the hallway where the governor's suite and his staff's rooms were located. Badges out, they met the uniformed highway patrolmen, who had been alerted that the pair were on the way up. The patrolmen pointed them to a set of double doors set in an ornate facade at the end of the carpeted corridor.

As they approached, Parker Hurt opened the right-side door, allowing Winter and Manseur into the foyer. The governor's executive assistant were a red V-neck sweater over a starched white shirt, stiffly pressed khakis, and shiny black loafers with tassels. He looked like a college fraternity rush chairman.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Why does the press think the Pond execution is still on?” Manseur blurted out.

“Why do you think it wouldn't be?” Hurt replied easily.

“Because you said the governor would call it off,” Manseur snapped. “Hours ago.”

“I said I'd tell the governor what you told me to tell him,” Hurt replied. “I never said he would do what you wanted. Did I? That was before I spoke to Captain Suggs, your superior.”

“You talked to—”

“And he told me all about your—”

Winter seized Parker Hurt by his cashmere sweater, ending the need for Manseur's words and erasing Hurt's smirk. He had stood around far too long already talking to someone who wasn't the governor.

“We'll talk to the governor now,” Winter snarled as he shoved the governor's executive assistant backward, throwing open the door into the suite using Hurt's narrow back as a battering ram. Four men in their shirtsleeves sat around a felt-covered table playing poker.

One of the men, a bodyguard, reached to his shoulder holster, but Governor Lucas Morton grabbed his arm to stop him.

A reporter, who had the illuminated ferry in the background, was showing on the large-screen TV on the wall.

“What in God's name is the meaning of this, Detective?” the governor asked, setting his cards facedown on the felt before standing. He waved his hand in the air, signaling the other three men to remain seated.

“Governor, my name is Winter Massey. I'm a United States Deputy Marshal. You know who Faith Ann Porter is?”

“Of course I do.”

Quickly, Winter told the governor about Pond's frame, about what had happened over the past two days. He was careful to hit all of the important points. Manseur nodded, didn't interrupt. When Winter finished, Morton stared at him for long seconds, thinking.

Finally he spoke. “Let me see if I have all this. Jerry Bennett, who is a respected businessman and a friend and political supporter of mine, killed Judge and Beth Williams? Harvey Suggs, a decorated member of NOPD, fabricated Pond's case out of whole cloth? That alone is the most preposterous thing I've ever heard.

“And you say Jerry Bennett then sent a professional killer to murder Attorney Porter and this Lee woman—his mistress? Because she had in her possession photographic evidence that he murdered the Williamses. The child had the negatives and that tape, but not the pictures.”

“The killer got those back. Faith Ann said he didn't ask about negatives. He probably didn't even know she had them.”

“And tonight Commander Suggs sent two detectives to kill Detective Manseur here and two professional killers to the ferry to kill you and the Porter child. And both of those killers are dead, the detectives under arrest.”

“Yes,” Winter said.

“There are warrants out now for Bennett and Suggs,” Manseur said.

“The ferry incident, all that gunplay, that was you two?”

“You have to stop the execution,” Winter said. The time on the screen was now ten minutes to go.

“Bennett sent the killer to Kimberly Porter's office, which is on your audiotape,” Morton said. “Marshal, if you had the pictures Faith Ann claimed to have, I would stop the execution this minute. That phone is connected directly to the death house.” He looked the screen. “I've got just enough time.”

“I only have the tape,” Winter said, holding it out. “Faith Ann had the pictures and the negatives on her when she went in the river.”

“So you said.”

Winter said, “You can check me out by calling the A.G.”

“Marshal, I don't have to call anybody to know who you are. Your reputation for leaving a veritable rooster tail of death and havoc in your wake is well-enough known hereabouts. Even if there are voices on that audiotape saying that Jerry Bennett sent a hired killer to Kimberly Porter's office, it doesn't prove who killed Judge Williams and his wife, unless Bennett himself confessed to it on the tape. You say Bennett's hired killers are dead. So who can prove the voice on this tape is this dead hit man? Or that he isn't lying when he says Jerry Bennett sent him? Or is it Ms. Lee or Ms. Porter who says that?”

“Faith Ann saw him commit the murders,” Manseur insisted. “She was hiding under a table.”

“She can't testify from the grave,” Hurt said.

“I was a prosecutor for twenty-two years,” the governor told them. “Emotion and hearsay aside—you have nothing but a wild tale.”

“Stop the execution,” Winter urged, feeling more desperate by the second. “Pond
is
innocent. Suggs
will
talk, and when he does, he'll implicate Bennett in the Williams murders. So will Tinnerino and Doyle.”

Manseur said, “I'll get Bennett and Suggs.”

Morton studied Winter's face. Then he said, “I prosecuted Horace Pond, and I know the evidence better than anybody. You haven't given me a scrap of proof that Pond is innocent. If Jerry sent a killer to Porter's office, it will take more than a recording of questionable authenticity to make me short-circuit a lawful execution. Only the child could have testified that the tape was authentic. Even if she was here with this tape now and I knew she had maintained the chain of custody, anybody who watches
Judge Judy
could keep it from ever seeing a courtroom. What is the sound quality? Who says what? How are the people identified?”

“We'd have to listen to it,” Winter said.

“You haven't heard the tape?”

“Listen to it after—”

Lucas Morton laughed out loud. “Does the term
pig in a poke
mean anything to you? I'm sorry. If there is this picture proof and it turns up at some point, I'll eat crow, but what the jury and appellate courts decided on this matter is going to go forward. My stand on Horace Pond's execution is a matter of very public record.”

“What could it hurt to put it off a couple of days?” Winter pleaded.

“Faith Ann Porter had the picture evidence on her,” Manseur added. “With any luck those pictures will still be with the body when it is recovered and they
might
survive a dip in the river.”

“
May
be,
could
be,
might
surface . . .” Morton was a political animal, so he was considering, measuring the probabilities, possibilities, and weighing his options. Winter saw his resolve swaying. For a long ten seconds, Lucas Morton stared over at the telephone, three steps and three words from saving an innocent man from being murdered. Winter was sure he had convinced him to at least postpone the execution and avoid any criticism should Winter be right about Pond's guilt. Morton took the three steps.

Then Parker Hurt spoke. “Sir, the election is being decided now, at this very moment. These men don't have one scrap of evidence. Stopping the execution will give your enemies ammunition that will pull undecided voters. Sir, you're within the two-point margin of error according to our own polls. You are playing with fire. You don't
have
to do anything.”

Winter saw Morton's eyes change focus and, with his heart sinking, he knew the governor wasn't going to stop the execution. “The tape is useless,” Morton told him bluntly. “Since you don't have those pictures in your possession, it is as if they do not exist. I will not override the judicial system on a maybe.”

Manseur pleaded, “Call the chief. Check out what I've told you.”

“No,” Morton said finally, looking at his watch. “It's too late.”

“You are making a big mistake,” Winter said. “When Pond is proved innocent, when people know what happened on the ferry tonight, when they know you were told, when they know that a little girl died trying to save Pond and you turned your back on that, your career will be over. You will live the rest of your life with people pointing at you and whispering. That will be your legacy.”

“Aw, hell, Deputy Massey. In a few days the election will be over. Who's going to worry about this last-minute maneuvering? Eighty-five percent of the people in this state want Pond dead. Go on back to wherever you came here from and make trouble there. We don't need your kind screwing things up around here like you did last year,” Morton said.

Morton dismissed them by sitting down at the table, and picking up his cards. “This sounds to everybody here like a tall tale spun by a deluded detective who makes wild accusations against a quality citizen, and a deputy who shoots up the world. Who in their right mind is going to blame me for not accepting your words?”

Winter was done, and he knew it. He started to turn to leave. Then he saw something that almost stopped his heart. He pointed and said, “Well, I bet they'll believe
her
.”

Manseur looked where Winter was pointing and cursed softly in admiration. “You're damned right, they will! Governor, look behind you. Your two-point margin of error just became the landslide that's going to bury you.”

Lucas Morton whirled in his seat to face the television. Filling the screen, illuminated by floodlights, stood a very small, shivering figure wrapped in a blanket. The illuminated ferry was in the background, the angle telling Winter that the camera focused on Faith Ann Porter was set up on the plaza outside the aquarium.

“She's alive!” Manseur exclaimed. “Faith Ann's alive!”

The men at the table gaped at the screen. Since the sound was muted, they all missed the words, but Winter recognized the envelope she was opening up, and before the camera panned away from the soggy copy paper, they all clearly saw the photocopied images of murder she held in her hands.

“She has the negatives!” Winter yelled, picking up the phone's receiver and thrusting it at Lucas Morton. “You saw the pictures! Everybody in Louisiana saw the pictures. You keep watching because in ten minutes you'll see Manseur and me on that same screen explaining why you didn't stop the execution. Now make the call.”

101

After Winter talked to Faith Ann over the telephone, she had given the negatives to Larry Bond, Manseur's partner, who delivered them to the photo lab and left two men he trusted to watch over the drying and printing of the negatives. Winter told Faith Ann he'd meet her at the hospital emergency room, where she was going to be taken for a medical check-over. He called Sean and told his wife as much as he could, promising to fill her in when she and Rush arrived in New Orleans the next morning.

He waited anxiously in the cruiser while Manseur stood outside talking on the phone to his people. Then Manseur joined Winter and pulled into the traffic, heading for Charity Hospital. Winter couldn't wipe the smile off his face. But Manseur was frowning.

“Something's bothering my astute associates,” the detective said.

“What's that?” Winter asked.

“Adams got this serious, life-threatening concussion. Nicky Green told them Adams hit his head on a shelf in the wheelhouse, that as far as he knows he later collapsed on the deck downstairs from it.”

“So?”

“The pilot confirmed Adams did hit his head and was wounded in the initial fray, but he claims Adams was fine when he left the wheelhouse. The pilot swears that Nicky Green, not Agent Adams, killed Arturo Estrada with his own knife. Adams was found unconscious just outside the staircase door. But the medical people say the side of his head was literally caved in, which made it impossible that he remained conscious after the blow. There was indeed a cut where the pilot said Adams hit his head, but it was the other side of his skull that was shattered.”

Winter raised his brows noncommittally. He was going to have to let Manseur in on some things, but he wasn't sure it was going to have the desired effect of having the cop go against his instincts, training, and the nature of his occupation.

“And the copilot said he saw Nicky Green hit Adams with his cane. Said Adams was aiming his gun at Green's head at the time. He claims you saw it, too.”

“That's true,” Winter admitted. “I did.”

“Uh-huh. An FBI agent tries to shoot somebody in cold blood. I find that strange, and very troubling. Needs some serious explaining. Attempted murder is serious. I'm going to have to find out why Adams tried to kill Green.”

“You would be best served if you just forget it,” Winter said.

“I don't see that happening,” Manseur said, incredulous. “Tell me why I would even consider it.”

Winter said, “You know how it is with icebergs. Only the tip shows. The majority of it is lying underwater, waiting.”

“I saw
Titanic,
” Manseur said, irritated.

“Look, Michael, this is the best advice I have ever given anybody. You can take it or not. You are looking at the tip of one major, ugly iceberg. Let the FBI handle the Adams end. You thought he was what he claimed. Period. Who knows what a terrified pilot or copilot
think
they saw. If the Bureau asks for your help in clearing things up, want you to dig around and make a stink, do it, but if they don't—and they won't—leave it lie. I give you my word that Nicky acted in self-defense. That's all there is to it.”

“If that's true, FBI agent or not, there'll be state charges. Adams tried to kill Green. And you saw it.”

Winter exhaled loudly. “Okay, Michael. Adams isn't an FBI agent. I don't know
who
he really is, but I know what. The Feds'll take over the investigation and you'll never hear another word. If you get too curious, your superiors will discourage you from looking into it.”

“I won't sit still for that.”

“I said it was advice. Go after this case, and for the rest of your life you'll wish to God you
had
listened.”

“What's going on here, Massey?”

Winter thought about what he should say. He remained silent until Manseur parked the car outside the emergency room, where scores of cops still waited, silent and grim-faced. Winter remembered that a transit cop had been killed and understood the vigil.

“Adams is a professional killer sent to kill me,” he told Manseur. “My best guess is that he's a man named Paulus Styer, a German hit man. I believe Styer ran down Hank and Millie as part of a plan to get to me, but you'll never hang Millie's death on him, because there's nothing to prove it but what he told me and Nicky. I won't admit it to anyone else, and I'll deny I said even this much to you. Neither Nicky or I will ever admit we didn't believe Adams was FBI, and if you like your life the way it is, neither will you.”

“Why?”

“Because you have only seen the tip of this berg, and the base is a world of ruthless killers and people who would not hesitate to do
whatever
it takes to stay undiscovered.”

“Arturo Estrada killed Kimberly Porter and Amber Lee for Jerry Bennett. What does that have to do with Adams—or the Trammels?”

“Adams said it was a coincidence, and I believe him.”

“I don't believe in that kind of coincidence.”

“Neither would I . . . normally.”

“Who was the corpse in the Rover?”

“An accomplice—some loose end. Adams didn't care if it was found because he needed only a few days—had no reason to imagine you'd solve it before he was done and gone. I doubt the corpse's identity will lead to him.”

Winter shouldn't have told Manseur what he had, but he had to warn him off. Winter knew better than anybody alive that the people in Adams's sphere had few rules, didn't want to be found out, didn't give warnings, and never left any loose ends. If Adams wasn't Paulus Styer—a target of the cutouts—he was almost certainly a cutout himself. Why Adams decided to kill Nicky was a mystery, but maybe he was making his move on Winter and didn't want Nicky in his way. So, if Adams was Styer, the cutouts would deal with him. If he was a cutout, they would cover for him. Winter couldn't afford to care, especially when the differences didn't matter.

Winter finally said, “What happened to Hank and Millie was about year-old business between me and the person who sent Adams, or Styer, after me.”

“How do I leave Mrs. Trammel's murder unsolved?”

“Say Arturo and Marta did it. It'll stick. Look, Michael, I blundered into Adams's world and it's still costing me. I've got a life to get back to. My wife is going to have a baby. You have your family to think of. Let all of this bury itself.”

“But if someone sent Styer after you, why won't they send someone else?”

Winter saw flashing lights, and an ambulance rolled past the cruiser and up the ramp to the doors of the emergency room.

“That's probably my date,” Winter said. “See you around, Michael Manseur.”

When she saw Winter running up the ramp, Faith Ann dropped the blanket and launched herself into his open arms.

“God,” he said, “I thought you drowned.”

“Well, I almost did. When I came up, I saw
her
getting pulled up into that police boat.”

“You should have yelled. I was there.”

“I didn't see you.”

“I was underwater looking for you. Why didn't you holler at the boat?”

She looked up at Winter with disbelief in her eyes. “How could I know if they were good or bad policemen in the boat? They were helping
her
. I swam to a dock ladder and it wasn't easy. I didn't see you. I didn't know what the police would do, so I told the reporters who I was, about what happened, and I showed the pictures to the TV so the bad police couldn't steal them. Is Mr. Pond all right now?” she asked anxiously.

“He sure is,” Winter said. “Thanks to you.”

“That's good.” She smiled. “So do you think we could go see Uncle Hank and then maybe go get something to eat?”

“Anything you want, kiddo. Anything at all.”

Manseur came running up to Winter.

Winter introduced Faith Ann to him.

“We got Jerry Bennett,” Manseur told him. “He was at his lake place, dragging Suggs to his boat for disposal. I have to go to H.Q. for the interview. We'll get your and Nicky's official statements tomorrow. I'll do it personally.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure I can. This is New Orleans, remember?”

“The back-scratching capital of America,” Winter said.