Upside Down

by John Ramsey Miller

  “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 barb
ecue joint.

  42

  Faith Ann took a streetcar downtown. From its window she saw cops in three separate cruisers going about their Saturday-morning business. One police car raced up St. Charles Avenue with its siren and lights blazing and frightened her, but it didn't pull over to wait at the next stop, so she relaxed.

  When people looked at her, they paid no particular attention. One of them had bumped into her, looked down, and said, “Excuse me, son.” Being mistaken for a boy made her smile to herself. She had hoped that her slim body enveloped in a bulky sweatshirt and jeans would disguise her budding breasts, and the half-inch-long hair gave her an added measure of safety. She had looked in the bathroom mirror after cutting off her hair and decided that she thought she looked like a boy but hadn't been sure others would think so.

  Faith Ann walked self-assuredly with her shoulders slightly hunched to imitate the way boys her age carried themselves. She even occasionally cupped her hand to push up on her imaginary male genitals.

  On Canal Street she looked into a newspaper dispenser and saw her mother's picture and her own. She crossed Canal and strode into the French Quarter, which was wide awake.

  43

  Captain Suggs had been busy since Jerry Bennett called him. He had revised the BOLO for Faith Ann Porter, adding that the “unstable” preteen had murdered two people and was probably armed and dangerous. He added that any policemen who spotted her should not approach her but keep her in sight and call it in directly to him. At that point he would call Tinnerino and Doyle, and they would clue the Latinos, who would handle the girl. Any complications—because he had no choice—he would handle. If Bennett went down, so might he and a lot of others up and down the chain.

  He glanced down at his desk at the phone sheets listing two weeks' worth of calls for Kimberly Porter's office phone, home phone, and the missing cellular phone, which he assumed the daughter had in her possession. Now when she used it, he would be notified within seconds of her exact location. He was awaiting the list of the owners of the telephones that Kimberly had called and those who had called her in that time period, which the departmental researchers were gathering and had instructions to hand-deliver ASAP.

  Suggs had often weighed Bennett's generosity—there was no disputing his largesse—against the damage he could do him if he ever decided to unburden himself. Suggs realized that if Bennett kept proof of his own guilt in murders, who knew what evidence of his payouts, and what he got in return for them, he had in his possession. Now he could turn rat and buy himself a lot of slack—maybe a life sentence instead of the needle. It was a disturbing thought. Suggs looked up to see a policewoman in his doorway holding up an envelope.

  “You were waiting for these?” she asked. “Telephone records?”

  “What do you think?” Suggs said curtly.

  She placed the envelope on his desk. Before she was out of the office, he had it in his hands and had slipped out the pages.

  The information for each of the three phone numbers was stapled together. Each list of numbers had, as its cover page, the names and addresses of the people the lawyer had called, followed by the names and addresses of those who had called her.

  Suggs stared at one of the names in stunned silence. He rifled through all three covers and the number was included on all three lists. The name was H. Trammel, 1233 Post Road, Charlotte, North Carolina. There was another name in the same area code and this one struck a sour cord in Suggs's memory. It was Winter James Massey, Concord, North Carolina. That was a name he knew. It had been called from Kimberly Porter's cell phone two hours after she was dead. Did Kimberly Porter know Winter Massey?

  Manseur's hit-and-run investigation involved Henry “Hank” Trammel. Suggs remembered Massey's partner in the shoot-out last year was named . . . Trammel. “Shit!”

  44

  Winter went into his bedroom to call Hank's doctor for an update before he called Sean to pass on what he had learned. He also talked to his son about Faith Ann Porter. He asked Sean how she felt. Talking about the baby put him in a better, healthier frame of mind for a few moments. When he returned to the living room, Adams, in a tailored gray suit, white button-down and striped tie, sat reading the sports pages of the newspaper. The suit jacket, laid over the back of a chair, had been tailored so that the gun rig beneath it was imperceptible. Winter noted that the federal agent's high-top, dull-leather shoes with solvent-resistant crepe soles were designed for a man who understood what being sure-footed was worth. The .40-caliber Glock in his shoulder rig was a utilitarian choice—a thoroughly dependable, highly accurate all-weather weapon, more plastic than steel. Winter's SIG Sauer 220, in the same caliber, was more steel than plastic, and Winter preferred the thinner grip posture the German weapon offered. In the right hands, both guns would drive nails at twenty-five feet. Truthfully, Winter thought Glocks looked like toys hewn out of blocks of chocolate. Winter saw that instead of a handcuff pouch, which he always carried, Adams had two three-magazine carriers so he was a walking arsenal. The ankle holster carried an odd choice in a backup weapon. The quick-release holster held a folding knife with a composite handle.

  Nicky Green had changed out of his formal Western attire. He was wearing black denim jeans, a knit shirt, and suede cowboy boots, and he had swapped the cowboy hat for a plain blue baseball cap. “I pass the audition?”

  Adams glanced at him over the newspaper, folded it, and set it aside.

  “That's better,” Adams said.

  Winter took a seat on the couch. “Faith Ann doesn't have any close friends my son is aware of. He said her favorite places are Audubon Zoo, City Park, and the aquarium. Our best hope is she'll call him again. Sean is going to call me as soon as she does.”

  Adams said, “If she's still alive.”

  “She was alive last night,” Nicky pointed out.

  “I'm going to assume she is,” Winter said.

  “Well, we can't cover all of those places and hope she shows up,” Adams told them. “The cops searched her house, so I expect the detectives working this have her address books, phone logs, computer files, correspondence.”

  “We need to get in that house too,” Nicky said. “Maybe they missed something.”

  “I agree,” Adams said. “Got to start somewhere.”

  Winter's cell phone rang.

  “It's Manseur,” Winter said.

  “I think Captain Suggs has made the connection,” Manseur told him. “He just called me and told me to report to his office. He sounded pissed. Doesn't mean he knows anything.”

  “How you going to play it?”

  “Seat of my pants. I just wanted to tell you that the BOLO on Faith Ann has her classified as armed and dangerous. If she's spotted, instructions are to call Suggs and not to attempt to apprehend her.”

  “We're going to try and get a look inside the Porter house,” Winter said.

  “You can try to, but I don't know where Tinnerino and Doyle are or what they're up to. What are you going to do if they catch you?”

  “I'll play it by the seat of my pants,” Winter said. “By the way, just so you know, I picked up another man.”

  “That right?”

  “Yeah, an FBI agent. He's a card I can play if need be.”

  “That's good,” Manseur said. “By the way, the M.E. got partial prints from the Rover body. I'll go over the report with you later. After I talk to Suggs, I'm going to run them and see what I get. The body was burned, and unless the prints hit I'm not sure it'll help you. I wish I could do more. And the M.E. told me Kimberly and Amber's killer used a silencer, which as far as I know wasn't found with the weapon.”

  “I think we're going to do doing some pot stirring.”

  “You have my number. Keep me apprised. I'll do the same.”

  “Thanks,” Winter said.

  “Good luck,” Manseur said.

  “Okay, fellows, we'll take two cars. I should call the chief deputy here in New Orleans and get some radios. Chet Long is an old
friend of Hank's. I'm sure he'll be happy to assist.”

  “Not a good idea,” Adams objected. “Fewer people we involve, the better. I've got the electronics end covered. I just need to stop by my room and collect some encrypted radios.”

  Winter scribbled an address and handed it to Nicky. “You and Adams go do that, then meet me at the Porter residence.”

  Winter called Chet Long before he had driven a block. The year before, Chet had supplied Winter and Hank with encrypted radios, long guns, and a Blackhawk helicopter to ferry an assault team comprised of U.S. deputy marshals. He wanted to check in with his and Hank's friend and alert him that he was in town. Out of habit, Winter checked his mirror for tails but didn't see anybody following him. Adams hadn't mentioned any partners, the norm for field agents, but that didn't mean he didn't have backup.

  When Winter asked for Chet Long, he was informed by the receptionist that Chief Deputy Long was out of the country. She asked if he wanted to speak to anyone else and he declined, asking that she tell Chet he called.

  45

  When Manseur arrived at Captain Suggs's door, the chief detective was talking on his telephone. He motioned for Manseur to sit down while he finished his conversation. Manseur caught sight of what looked to be a phone log with some of the names highlighted in yellow, and he knew how Suggs had made the connection between the two cases.

  Trying not to eavesdrop on what sounded like a personal conversation, Manseur let his eyes wander to the only framed picture on his boss's desk. It was a portrait of Suggs's German shepherd, Heinzie, who was a dreadful, constantly molting animal with severe gastric problems and the charm of a piranha.

  Suggs dropped the phone into its cradle and turned his cold eyes on Manseur.

  “Nothing on the Porter girl yet?” Manseur asked.