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 tha
t 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.
102
The emergency room doctor gave Faith Ann two shots of antibiotics and a bottle of more antibiotics he wanted her to take for a few days. Winter received the same treatment. It was going on midnight, and even though she was yawning and fighting to keep her eyes open, she told Winter that she wanted to see Uncle Hank. She really needed to see for herself that he was alive.
When Winter and Faith Ann walked into the reception area on the ICU floor, a man Winter said was Hank's doctor was writing on a chart. When he saw Winter he smiled. “You got my message.”
“No, I didn't,” Winter said. “What was it?”
“Hank Trammel's conscious. He's been in and out since we reversed the coma drugs. A nurse was at the bedside and he asked her for a scotch on the rocks, that he was thirsty. She said she'd get him water and he told her, not that kind of thirsty.”
They followed the doctor to a cubicle where he drew back a curtain before hurrying off.
Faith Ann clenched Winter's hand and took a deep breath as they drew closer to Hank's bed. She stood there for long seconds, silent and white-faced. Her uncle's face was horribly swollen, the trademark handlebar mustache gone, and bandages covered the familiar gray hair. Both of his arms and his legs were encased in plaster.
“Uncle Hank?” she said softly. “You awake?”
There was no response from the man on the bed.
“The doctor said he was awake,” she told Winter. “How can he still be asleep?”
“Beats me.”
“Why can't he hear me?”
Winter shrugged.
“I'd give anything to hear him ask for a drink of whiskey,” Faith Ann said. She saw a slight shiver run through her uncle. She leaned in closer.
“Uncle Hank?” she repeated, praying. “It's me, Faith Ann.”
Her uncle's eyelids fluttered.
“Faith Anna-banana pants,” he murmured. “Did I hear you talking about whiskey?” he asked her.
“They said you can't drink whiskey in the rooms,” she said. She had never felt so absolutely thrilled.
“Faith Ann, you know what?”
“No, what?” she said.
“Of all the Porter women I've ever seen, you are the most beautiful. Nice haircut.”
103
Michael Manseur stared through the two-way glass at Jerry Bennett. The nightclub owner was sound asleep, his head rocked back, his mouth wide open. Bennett's toupee looked like it was made from straw, his makeup was smeared. There was blood on his face and his shirt from using a baseball bat on Suggs.
“Looks like a man without a care in the world,” Manseur said to his partner, Larry Bond.
“He said killing Suggs was self-defense. Says he didn't hire any killers. Doesn't know yet that we have the negatives. Let's wake him up and show them to him.”
“Killing Suggs probably was self-defense. Get Ellen Caesar-you two handle it.”
“You serious?” Larry asked him.
“As a heart attack.”
“This is your case, Michael. It's a big fat juicy one.”
“Yeah. Well, it's just a case. And I'm about done in from doing everything myself while you were off lazing about. Ellen's good with self-deluded fools like Bennett.”
Manseur enjoyed the perplexed expression pasted on his partner's face. It was nice to surprise people sometimes.
Manseur accepted the congratulations from the other detectives as he moved through the bull pen. He stopped at his desk to get his coat. He probably would have spent the night with Larry interviewing Bennett, but for three things: first, Bennett was toast; second, he really needed to see, kiss his daughters and his wife; and third, the superintendent of police had told him that morning that he was going to get the slot Suggs's death had left empty.
He slipped on his coat and looked at Suggs's open office door. Inside, two detectives were searching files, paper by paper. Michael took one last look at his desk and saw a white envelope from the print lab in his in-box. The corpse in the Rover. He opened the envelope, pulled out the paper, and put on his reading glasses.
He read the name of the owner of the two partial prints three times, trying to figure how he had could have contaminated the request. Obviously he was looking at the wrong inquiry. Some technician must have put two things together somehow. It was simply impossible. The burned corpse in the Rover couldn't be who the FBI claimed it was. Somebody had to be playing a joke on him.
He read the name one more time, still thinking he was reading it wrong, that it would become something close to what it said, but not the same name at all.
Nicholas Green
101 Bobcat Lane
Houston, Texas
Licensed private investigator
Nicky Green.
Even though it wasn't possible, Manseur grabbed the computer keyboard and typed in a request for the Texas driver's license and P.I. license picture of Nicholas Green.
The screen showed two images of his Nicky Green. He stared into the eyes, studied the shape of the head, the jaw, and realized that, although the man he knew as Nicky Green was a dead ringer for the corpse Nicky Green, he wasn't him.
It hit him like a bullet in the chest. Winter Massey had it all wrong.
Manseur didn't know when the real Nicky Green had been killed-precisely when the switch had been made-but it had happened after the real Green left Hank and Millie at the guesthouse and before the new Nicky Green had appeared on the scene of the hit-and-run. He had either run them over himself or had someone else do it so he could take Green's place. The real Green's body must have been in the Rover when it hit the Trammels. An accomplice did drive it off and dump it because the fake Green-Styer-had been back at the scene taking Green's life over.
Winter thought Adams was the bad guy. Manseur grabbed his phone, called Winter's cell phone, then remembered he had ruined it in the river.
Massey was probably in the hotel suite with Nicky Green, the man who had been sent to kill him. Manseur dialed the hotel and asked to be put through to Winter's suite. Massey answered.
“Massey, thank God,” he said. “Are you alone?”
“No. What you need?” Winter replied.
“Listen to me carefully. You are in danger. I got the burned corpse's prints back, and Jesus, Massey, you won't believe it… they belonged to-”
“Nicky Green.”
Manseur was stunned. “You knew?”
“He's long gone, Michael. It's finally over.”
104
Winter hung up the phone. Every muscle in his body ached, and he wanted to get into a hot bath to rid himself of any remaining trace of the Mississippi River.
Jus
t outside the door, Faith Ann, wearing one of his T-shirts, was lying on the bedroom's couch, sound asleep. She had wanted to sleep close to Winter, and she had certainly earned the right to some peace of mind. Whatever the future held for her, Winter was certain it would be vastly better than the recent past had been. The child had amazed him and everybody associated with this, especially the bad guys. He wondered if she'd had any idea how terrible the odds of her survival and of getting the evidence to the governor had really been.
Winter lifted the note he had found on the bedside table in Nicky Green's cleaned-out bedroom, held in place by the Trammel Colt. 45.
Winter,
I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoyed the exercise. I suppose sooner or later you will discover that Adams wasn't Paulus Styer, that I am. I regret what happened to the Trammels, but please believe me when I say it was for the game. You are alive because I was no longer obliged to kill you after I learned about my handler's deal with the CIA. I did stick around the rest of the evening to have some fun, which I certainly did, but I can't see the point in hanging around waiting for John Adams's pals to show up looking for me. While they might not have minded if I had killed you, I seriously doubt they will bother you now.
You know, Massey, you're a very talented man, but you have been elevated by that talent into a world of monsters where you do not belong. You should get out of the business before you find that out the hard way. Take care of the Porter kid, although going by what I saw, it may be she who ends up taking care of you. Don't think of trying to track me, figuring you might owe the Trammels some debt. If you and I ever meet again, I will not hesitate to finish what I started.
Wishing you and yours only the best.
P. Styer
Winter ripped the note into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. He undressed and slipped into the hot water, sliding forward in the long tub until the water's surface brushed his chin. He leaned his head back, placed the wet washcloth over his face, and willed his mind to slow, to find a soft place to rest itself.
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