Marta punched him hard in the shoulder. “Shhhhhh!” she hissed.
“It's her. The lawyer,” he told her.
“You ready?” the lawyer asked somebody. “And, let's be serious. This is serious material.”
“ It is not! Why do you say that, Mother? ” Marta, who had been anticipating another adult's voice, was surprised to hear the voice of the young girl reply.
“Because these are your thoughts, Faith Ann. And they are important.”
“Im-por-tant? Oh, Mother, please.”
“Important because you wrote them. They reflect your life, your world. Someday they might be valuable because they are your words.”
“Yeah, right,” Faith Ann's voice said. “This is so gay.”
“It is not,” her mother countered. “It's precious.”
“That's the lawyer bitch,” Arturo said. “And that's her kid.”
“Just shut up, Arturo!” Marta snapped.
He shrugged. “Kid was in the office.”
“Someday you'll be so glad to have this tape,” the lawyer said.
“And you'll use it to humiliate me,” her daughter shot back.
“No, I won't. Cross my heart. Ready? First poem…”
“Okay, you'll start the music again when I wave my hand. Okay? Okay. The name of this poem is ‘A Penny for Your Thoughts.' I wrote it about everybody having opinions about everything, even stuff they know absolutely nothing about.” The soft strains of chamber music came up in the background.
“A penny for your thoughts, by me, Faith Ann Porter.
I think without stopping. all Spring through to Fall
If you get them for a penny they're worth nothing at all.”
Marta snapped the Stop button and hit fast forward.
“I want to hear the poem,” Arturo protested.
Marta let it run for several seconds, then she punched the Stop button. “You can listen to the poem after I hear the hits.” She pressed the Play button.
“-or maybe it's the fact that your breath is bad or your feet stink sometimes-”
Arturo laughed. “She's talking about her mother!”
Stop.
FF.
Stop.
Play.
“… but I never knew him, or if he really wanted a son, or if he liked baseball or basketball more…”
Stop.
Marta stared at the tape player, unable to speak. Anger enveloped her. Or maybe it was that she wasn't accustomed to being outsmarted, outstreeted by a kid.
“This is bullshit!” Marta snapped.
“This is maybe just stuff before Amber got there, that's all,” Arturo said.
FF.
Stop.
Play.
“-because like maybe you meant to fly a kite, but never had the right string for it. And-”
Stop.
FF.
“Her poems suck,” Arturo said.
Stop.
Play.
That fucking string music. Those stupid verses.
And so it went for almost the entire side of the tape.
“Turn it over,” Arturo said.
The other side was blank.
“That little monster!” Marta raged.
“There was no tape of me,” Arturo said. “Don't you see? This was what she took from the machine. This was the last tape in the machine. Her mother didn't turn it on for her.” He sniggered. “A bunch of silly girl-shit poems about stinky feet.”
Marta burned him with her best “of all the dumb shit I ever heard” glare. “The little bitch! I can't believe this.”
“Well. If there is one, where is it? I say there's no tape.”
“That little conniving shit!” Marta yelled. She shoved the cassette player off the console onto the floor at Arturo's feet, startling him. The cigarette fell from his open mouth. Marta's hand shot out. She snatched the butt in midfall, clenched it in her fist, and squeezed hard, extinguishing it. That done, she flung it through Arturo's open window. “She handed us a dummy tape! Damn her. Goddamn her!”
“How can you know that?”
“Because I know is how I know. She left this shit in that player, and she took the earphones because she knew it would take time to hear what was on it. She was playing for time. She knew that if we had the tape, we would be satisfied enough to lose our focus for a few minutes. And it worked!”
“She's just a little kid,” Arturo said. “No way she put that together. There is no tape, Marta.”
“She has it, Turo. I am telling you she does. I would bet my life on it. And she has those negatives too. This is not a child. This is a demon. She isn't running scared at all. And she is going to give them over to someone who will use them. And, when that happens, you are going to die. Bennett will kill you, or Suggs will kill you, or the state of Louisiana will kill you. I am going to find her and I am going to cut out her little black heart and feed it to a pig.”
“Take some deep breaths,” Arturo said.
Marta stared at him, just daring him to say another word. He shrank against the door.
She closed her eyes for fifteen, maybe twenty seconds.
“I only have one question,” he said finally.
She opened her eyes slowly, pinning him with her glare. “What?”
“Where you gonna get a pig from?”
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 Cafe 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.”
Upside Down wm-2 Page 23
