Upside Down wm-2

by John Ramsey Miller

  He felt the sobs wrack her thin body. He understood that it would be a while before she'd be able to speak. He knew what sort of relief she was feeling, because he shared it. It was almost over.

  86

  When his cell phone rang, Harvey Suggs was walking away from the Verdict, a restaurant located around the corner from police headquarters, where he had explained to Tinnerino and Doyle what he expected from them. The captain's seriously shaken confidence had returned to normal. He had thought every angle through to its most likely conclusion. Everybody knew exactly what to do.

  Peace of mind was going to cost Suggs a promotion each for Tinnerino and Doyle, and he'd toss the Spics a few thousand dollars. Tinnerino and Doyle would make sure that Manseur ended in such a way that he was discredited, so that whatever he had might have shared with the FBI agent and the private investigator could be more effectively denied. The Latinos were capable of the more difficult task of making the evidence vanish. They'd take care of the meddlesome Massey and the Porter kid. Without the evidence, no matter how loudly anybody howled, it would all fade away.

  “Hello,” Suggs said, not recognizing the number spelled out on the caller I.D. He strode toward his car, parked a half block away. Tinnerino and Doyle sped by in separate cars, Tinnerino nodding once in greeting.

  “Harold?” the somehow familiar voice said. “This is Parker Hurt.”

  “Parker Hurt?”

  “Governor Morton's assistant.”

  “Sure, Parker. I knew your voice was familiar. It's been a while.” Hurt had been an assistant under Lucas Morton when he was the Orleans Parish district attorney.

  “It has been a while.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I just had an interesting call, and before I talk to the governor, I thought I should talk to you.”

  Suggs's trouble antennae were fully erect. He stopped short of his car and fingered his keys. “Sure thing,” he said cordially, although his blood had turned to ice in his veins.

  “I got a call from a Michael Manseur a few minutes ago. I believe he's one of your homicide detectives.”

  “Well, he's presently one of my homicide investigators,” Suggs replied, his mind aflame with the implications. “Can you tell me why my detective called you?”

  “Manseur wanted me to tell the governor that he was about to come into possession of evidence proving that Horace Pond is innocent.”

  “So he wants to stop the execution.” Suggs added a tinge of sadness to his words. “You know…”

  Suggs knew he had one chance to find the exact words that would nip this in the bud-and cover his own ass. And he realized that given the close gubernatorial race and Manseur's recent behavior, it was going to be a breeze.

  Harvey Suggs finished his conversation with Parker Hurt, climbed into his car, and allowed himself a few moments to savor his masterful manipulation of the political animal Mr. Hurt.

  If the evidence ever somehow found its way to the police or the press, Hurt wouldn't ever dare mention he took the call from a discredited, deceased cop-and failed to mention it to his boss.

  As long as the evidence didn't surface, and Suggs knew it never would, Pond would just be another state-sponsored corpse. There would be nothing to connect Suggs to anything that happened, and everybody still living would resume life as usual. In two years, Suggs would retire and live out his life with his twin pensions. He'd also have the money Jerry Bennett had paid him over the years as filler for those little things a man appreciated. If by some miracle the Bennett negatives ever did surface, Suggs could blame his own dead partner-say Billy Putnam had gotten the location of the murder weapon from Pond when Suggs was out of the interrogation room. Ten years after the fact, who could prove differently? The fact that Billy had committed suicide would further support that the man had a guilty conscience.

  And it wasn't like Bennett would be around to dispute anything. Suggs was meeting Bennett at the businessman's boathouse, supposedly to fill him in on the status and discuss future plans.

  Suggs just hoped Bennett's cigarette racer had a nice heavy anchor on board.

  87

  Faith Ann sat in Mr. Massey's car, feeling dazed, staring out through the windshield at the church van. Mr. Massey had called a detective and told him they were on their way to get her envelope on the Canal Street ferry. After he hung up on the cop, Mr. Massey made another call, telling someone named Adams that he had “the package” and was “rolling.” As soon as that was done, he called Rush's mother and told her he had Faith Ann in his car and said he'd call back when things were settled. Before he hung up, he asked, “You want to tell Rush anything, Faith Ann?”

  She shook her head. Not because she didn't want to talk to Rush, but she wasn't in a talking mood at that particular moment. How could Mr. Massey trust the police after what she'd told him about what they did to her mother? She'd made a terrible mistake in trusting him. “Can I talk to Rush later?”

  “Sure.”

  When Mr. Massey hung up, he pocketed the phone and drove out of the parking lot.

  “You were talking to a policeman,” she said.

  “I was.”

  “You can't trust the police, Mr. Massey. The police killed Mama.”

  Mr. Massey took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her, flipping on a map light so she could see it. Faith Ann's hands trembled as she looked at the image of a driver's license that portrayed a smirking man with swept-back hair and eyes that burned with pure evil. The picture belonged to the man who'd shot her mother.

  “Is that him?”

  “Yes.” The name on the license was Arturo Estrada. “He's the policeman who killed…”

  “He isn't a policeman, Faith Ann.”

  “He is too! He was at my house with the lady who chased me this morning at the aquarium. With those other two policemen.”

  “I know he was at your house. Those two policemen are crooked, but Detective Manseur isn't one of them. He's going to help us get your mother's evidence to the governor.”

  “No! Please. She said we can't even trust the governor,” Faith Ann blurted out, her level of fear growing. He still didn't understand.

  “Who said you couldn't trust the governor?”

  “Amber Lee told Mama that. It's on the tape in the envelope. Governor Morton is a friend of Jerry's, Amber Lee said so. Arturo said Jerry sent him to get the pictures she had. I'm sure of it!”

  “Ms. Lee was mistaken. You can trust Detective Manseur. And you can trust the other men helping me; Nicky Green and Agent John Adams. And you have to trust Governor Morton, since he is the only person who can stop the execution at this late hour. He'll do the right thing here because he has no choice.”

  “Why are you so sure he will?” Faith Ann hated the wobble she heard in her voice, but she couldn't help it.

  “Because Detective Manseur called him and told him the evidence that proves Horace Pond is innocent is coming to him in a little while. If he let an innocent man die, he'd have the devil to pay. That's politics.”

  Faith Ann was sure Mr. Massey believed what he was saying, but she wasn't nearly as sure of his judgment in this instance as he seemed to be.

  “Did he run over…” She couldn't get “Uncle Hank” and “Aunt Millie” to come out.

  “There's no evidence of it. None.”

  “You don't think he was looking for me and…”

  “No,” he said, firmly. “I really don't think he did it.”

  “Did you arrest him?”

  “He'll be arrested as soon as he shows his face.”

  Mr. Massey knew about such things, she told herself. He was a U.S. marshal, just like her uncle Hank. That was even better than being a policeman, because it was being a policeman for the federal government. She had always enjoyed studying her uncle's badge, loved the smell of the mink oil he rubbed into his leather belt and holster, running her fingers over the yellowed stag grips on the Colt that had belonged to his father,
who died on duty. She had never ever told her mother that he had let her shoot it at an indoor range one summer afternoon-it would always be their secret. Even with the ear protectors it had been loud, and the gun had almost jumped out her hand.

  Faith Ann watched Mr. Massey as he drove, noticed him checking the rearview mirror. He drove fast, but he kept both of his hands on the steering wheel like her mother, and like her mother he didn't turn on the radio. No distractions.

  Faith Ann was relieved that Mr. Massey had come to get her, and she knew she should feel safe, but she just couldn't believe that it was really all over and that Horace Pond would stay alive.

  “Mr. Massey, can I go see my uncle as soon as we see the governor?”

  “Let's wait and see what time it is,” he told her. “I'm sure you could use some rest after what you've been through. Your Uncle Hank is going to be just fine in time. I spoke to the doctor earlier and he told me Hank is being weaned off the coma medicine, so he should start regaining consciousness anytime now.”

  “So when will he be well?”

  “Well, I don't know. I suppose it depends. He's going to be in the hospital for a while before he can be moved to Charlotte, and then he'll need lots of therapy. He's going to need you to help him get well. We'll help you.”

  Faith Ann leaned back, crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and pictured herself on the rear deck behind her aunt and uncle's house, sitting in a lawn chair beside Hank's wheelchair, watching his quarter horses running across the fenced-in meadow. Living in North Carolina on the little farm would be nice. It wouldn't be the same without Aunt Millie, though. Or without knowing that her mother was waiting for her to return… Tears welled up under her closed eyelids and threatened to spill out.

  Mr. Massey interrupted her thoughts. “Faith Ann, you know what I was thinking-and you don't have to make a decision right now-but we, Sean and Rush and I, we all really hope that you'll come live with us for a while. At least until Hank is back up on his feet again. And only if you want to.”

  “At your house?”

  “Sure. We have a little corner bedroom that'll fit you like a glove. We might have to paint it a color you like. That's up to you. Any color you like except pool-table green. I could never stand that color on walls.”

  “Thank you for coming,” she told him softly, because her mother had taught her to let people know she appreciated their kindnesses. “I was so scared.”

  “It's all over now. Just trust me on that. You're safe now.”

  “The cops want to arrest me.”

  “Detective Manseur fixed that. You know, just a few cops are bad,” Winter said. “The good cops will take care of the bad ones.”

  “Do you believe that?” she asked him.

  “I sure do, Faith Ann.”

  She smiled politely and yawned, covering her open mouth with her hand. She hoped he knew what he was talking about. She really did.

  88

  As Winter started down the Algier's Point ramp toward the waiting ferry, Faith Ann tried to make out the skyline across the river through the growing fog. She had studied fog in science class, and she knew that it happened when cold air came in over warmer water. The temperature had really dropped since the sun went down, and she was thankful it hadn't been this cold when she was riding on the roof of the church van.

  There were a dozen vehicles in line with them for the less-than-ten-minute ferry ride between Algiers Point and Canal Street, maybe a mile's distance. The wait while the ferry loaded stretched the time of travel to more like twenty-five minutes. The twin bridges, just a couple of miles upriver, were a faster way across, but a lot of people still liked the ferry better. A ratty-looking pickup truck filled with pieces of salvaged wood and steel scraps was right behind them. A silver BMW, which had swooped past them before they made it over the levee, was in front of them.

  “Which fire hose case?” Winter asked.

  “Around on the other side,” she told him. “Near the front. The stern.”

  “The bow,” he corrected. “Bow front, stern rear, port is the left side and starboard is the right. I think the last two are correct, but I might be wrong.” He smiled.

  “So port side would be the side where we drive on?” she wondered out loud. “Port wine stern?”

  “I think so,” Winter answered.

  He didn't get her joke, she knew, because he was distracted. Sometimes when her mother was thinking about something or reading, Faith Ann could get her to agree to things she later swore she hadn't. More than once she had taped her mother agreeing to something like putting a cotton candy machine in Faith Ann's bedroom if she made an A in Science-her best subject. It had been funny. Thinking about it now made her sad, though.

  Winter followed the silver BMW sedan around the ferry's central structure and parked on the starboard side facing the stern. The vehicles parked in the lanes that circled the center structure so that the first vehicle on would be first off. Female deckhands wearing orange vests directed traffic. One of them smiled and waved at Faith Ann, so she waved back.

  “That's the fire hose holder I put it in,” she said, pointing out her window as the car passed by.

  Winter nodded, took a radio out of his jacket pocket, and pressed the button once. “Nicky, we're on the ferry.”

  “Got it,” a voice replied.

  Winter put the radio in his pocket, looked up at the rearview mirror and then through the windows at both side mirrors.

  “I'm going to get the envelope now,” he told Faith Ann. “You sit tight. Lock the doors when I leave.”

  After he opened the door and stepped out, she locked it by pressing the button. People were moving from their cars to the railing to enjoy the wind in their faces, the view from the railing. As Winter walked back toward the hose holder, Faith Ann undid her belt, got on her knees on the seat, and watched him in the side mirror.

  Faith Ann's heart pumped furiously as Winter stopped at the hose case.

  Yes! Now it was done. Now Horace Pond will be free, Mama, and the man who killed you will be arrested and…

  When Faith Ann noticed a figure step out from between two cars behind Winter, her chest filled with ice.

  That woman!

  He doesn't see her!

  Without thinking, Faith Ann jerked up the lock, threw the car door open, and leaped from the car waving her arms. “It's her!” she screamed at Winter. “It's her!”

  The smile vanished from Winter's face.

  “Hold it there!” a voice yelled from behind Faith Ann.

  The woman, aiming the gun at Winter, didn't fire. Faith Ann saw the woman's eyes shift from Winter, light on her, then look behind Faith Ann for the source of the yelled command.

  In a motion so fast it looked like a blur, Winter reached inside his jacket, crouching as he turned.

  A hand grabbed Faith Ann's sweatshirt and jerked her off her feet, dragging her around between the BMW's trunk and the Dodge's grille.

  “Friend,” a voice connected to the hand said.

  She gasped, looked up at the man who had pulled her to safety and at the other man in a suit with short hair, who had yelled and who now stood next to the wall beside the BMW. His gun was aimed at the woman. A walking cane was leaned against the Dodge's grille.

  The bald man kneeling beside her, gun in hand, looked familiar, and she remembered that the man without any hair or eyebrows had been on the street the night Hank and Millie were run over. The cane was his.

  “I'm Nicky Green, a friend of Hank's. That's Agent Adams. You're safe, stay down and let us handle this.” He winked at her, then peered at the stern area through the BMW's windows.

  “Put down the gun!” Agent Adams hollered.

  Faith Ann saw Adams take a step toward the woman, his gun still aimed at her.

  “Now hands against the wall, Marta!” she heard Winter command.

  Faith Ann ducked to look under the cars toward where Winter was standing.

  Nicky straightened suddenly and aimed
his gun over the BMW's roof. Faith Ann turned and looked under the BMW.

  She was aware of the bald man ducking down…

  A series of quick, deafening explosions…

  Empty brass shells spattered the deck like they had been poured out of a box.

  Glass shards rained over both her and the bald man.

  She watched the two-tone shoes until they vanished around the corner.

  Faith Ann had never heard a machine gun before up close and real, but she knew that was what destroyed the BMW's windshield. And, she recognized those shiny two-tone shoes.

  The man who had killed her mother had just shot at Mr. Massey.

  89

  After the Stratus joined the line of vehicles, Arturo had joined the other passengers as they came onto the passenger deck through the sliding steel-wire door on the vessel's port side. He remained near the staircase leading down to the vehicle deck. Marta told him she'd wait until the ferry pulled away. Then she'd get to the marshal's car, use a silenced. 22 to clip the two occupants, and get the evidence. Arturo would come down the staircase and make sure she succeeded. Once she was behind the wheel of the Stratus, Arturo would get into her car and follow her to the dump site.

  Arturo had no idea anything was wrong until he came down the stairs and turned the corner to see that Marta had walked straight into a trap. He had a clean shot on the FBI agent, whose back was to him, and he raised the Uzi only to see the bald-headed investigator suddenly rise from between two vehicles and aim at him. Arturo fired at the bald man, saw that he couldn't shoot the FBI agent or the marshal without hitting Marta, whirled, and ran up the stairs.

  There was no plan to cover this mess.

  Arturo broke up onto the passenger deck only to see a redheaded young man wearing a white shirt with epaulets come out of a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. At the sight of Arturo's raised Uzi, the young man made a squeaky noise and froze.

  Arturo jerked him away from the door, slamming him into the bulkhead. Racing into the stairwell, he hurried up the narrow steps. Flinging open the door at the top of the stairs, he lunged into the lit wheelhouse and aimed the weapon at the pilot, who had turned from the console-his face becoming a fright mask.