Upside Down (34 page)

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.

“Take me downriver,” Arturo snarled, “or I'll kill you and drive this friggin' boat myself.”

Arturo quickly checked out the doors on either side of the pilothouse. Outside the doors, short staircases went both to the roof and down to the passenger deck. The doors didn't lock, so the crew could come and go anywhere on the vessel as necessary. He was vulnerable from three directions. The Plexiglas was probably thick enough to stop a non-magnum handgun round. He hoped the marshal and his two pals got Marta in cuffs so that all three of them were free to come for him. Because if they were confident enough to turn their backs on her, cuffed or not, Marta would be back in play.

Arturo's main goal now was just to get away alive. As long as he controlled the boat's movements, he could increase his odds of escape and the men would have no choice but to come up to stop him.

“Go faster!” he screamed at the terrified pilot.

Arturo saw the door lever move ever so slightly as someone tried it. He fired a horizontal burst across the veneered wood and was rewarded with the sound of a body falling.
One down
. Arturo pulled a fresh magazine from his pocket, reloaded the Uzi, and buttoned up his coat to take full advantage of the ballistic lining.

90

Detective Manseur leaned against the grille of his Impala, parked in the shadow of the World Trade Center building near the railing on the southern corner of the Riverwalk Plaza. He was, as the crow flies, perhaps a hundred feet from the Canal Street landing, and he had a commanding view of the dock, where the eighty-five-foot-long ferry would moor. Through binoculars, he watched the USS
Thomas Jefferson
pulling away from Algiers Point, well over a mile away. When he became aware of someone standing next to his car, he looked over to see Tinnerino staring at him.

“You and Doyle are supposed to be at the Porter house. What are you doing here?”

Tin Man smiled at him. He leaned with his beefy hands splayed on the left fender. “I was just passing by. Saw you over here by yourself and I wondered what you were doing.”

“You were passing by and saw me here?” Manseur knew that his position was invisible from the street. “I'm boat watching—to relax.”

“Wouldn't be watching for a ferry bringing Massey and the Porter kid over, would you?”

“What makes you ask me that?”

“Because I bugged your car while you were inside the hospital, and Massey's too. Doyle and me have been right with you all along.”

“Doesn't it matter that I ordered you to—”

“Your days of ordering anybody are over, Mikey.”

“What does that mean?” Manseur asked, already knowing the answer. He and Tinnerino were both empty-handed, and getting to their guns would take some effort.
The Tin Man wouldn't be so cocky unless
Doyle is close by.

“We can't let that little envelope the kid has reach anybody that can stop the Pond execution. Big can of worms here, Mikie. Don't make any sudden moves toward that Glock in your coat. You and me ain't out here alone.”

“So, I guess Captain Suggs sent you to silence me?”

“Yeah. That's about the size of it. Seems you been acting crazy. Buying meth from low-life dealers. Everybody knows how dangerous that is. Look at the bright side—the brass will cover up the drug thing at Suggs's suggestion, your wife will get your pension, Suggs will make sure there's a big, loud investigation. We'll pin it on some loser spook and make the streets safer in the bargain.”

“Where is Suggs?”

“Had pressing business elsewhere. He's got this all figured out. That man is a strategical genius.”

“Did he tell you Jerry Bennett killed the Williamses?”

“Yeah, he told us.”

“You know why?”

“Doesn't matter,” Tin Man answered, shrugging.

“Bennett paid Suggs to frame Pond. Bennett told Suggs where that shotgun was, and Suggs told the world Pond confessed. It was Bennett who sent Arturo Estrada to kill Amber Lee and Lawyer Porter. But you knew that, because you and Doyle have been working with him and his lady friend. We have evidence that proves it all.”

“What does any of it matter? You think too much, Mikie. Your evidence ain't worth a fart in a hurricane.”

“You'd do better to try thinking for yourself some. Do you really think Suggs can let you live, knowing what you do? He killed his own partner to keep the secret about Pond.”

“Putnam offed himself. Man was a world-class juice head,” Tinnerino said. “And I've got Doyle backing me to make sure nothing like that happens. Anything happens to me, my lawyer has a letter.”

Manseur shook his head. He was aware of a second figure sneaking up on the other side of the car. Doyle held what appeared to be a .22 automatic. The bag containing drugs to plant on Manseur's corpse was probably in his overcoat pocket.

“Doyle,” Manseur said casually, “before you do anything stupid, you should know that Larry Bond is up there behind me on that balcony over the ferry entrance. He's aiming his Tikka 30-06 at your head about now.”

“Your partner's out of town,” Doyle said.

“He came home early. I picked this place because it's where he could cover me best and shoot without risking harming any civilians. He's one hell of a deer hunter, a crack shot with his rifle.”

“You're bluffing,” Tinnerino said. But he was looking up, squinting.

“You walked right into it. Adams was checking the perimeter at the hospital and he spotted you getting into my car. Wasn't hard for us to figure out what you were up to. The conversation we had in my car back outside the hospital was strictly for your benefit.”

“You're lying,” Doyle said.

“I've already gotten word to the governor, and he's put a hold on Pond's execution. And—you'll love the irony—I'm wearing a wire right now. What you fellows heard on your bug was our plan to get you all to do what you just did.”

“He's lying,” Doyle said to his partner, now less sure of himself. “Get in the car.”

“Not a chance,” Manseur said.

“Enough jabber.” Doyle raised the gun, but he didn't fire. Thunder rolled, and as a round from Bond's 30-06 shattered his right wrist the detective's .22 flew from his hand like a frightened bird.

Doyle screamed, considered his useless hand. Screamed some more.

Tinnerino stared dumbly up at the concrete structure, still trying to see Manseur's partner.

Manseur relieved Tinnerino of his Glock, cuffed the big detective's hands behind him, and took the .38 backup piece Tinnerino carried in an ankle holster.

“Okay, Larry,” Manseur called. “I've got it covered. Come on down.”

Tinnerino looked out at the ferry. “Listen, I can save Massey and the kid, for a deal. The Spics are on the boat to kill Massey and the kid.”

Manseur walked over, picked up the .22 from the bricks and tossed it into the trunk of his car.

“Massey's car has a tracker on it,” Tinnerino said desperately.

Manseur considered that. Massey's pals Adams and Green weren't at the hotel like the bad guys believed, they were on the ferry too. Manseur was sure the three of them could handle Estrada and Ruiz. He reached for his cell phone to call Massey just to let him know when a voice came over the tactical channel: “Transit Officer Davis. Shots fired on the Canal Street Ferry, in transit from Algiers Point. Officer needs immediate assistance. One perpetrator, armed with an automatic weapon.”

Manseur turned toward the water. Halfway across the river, the ferry was making a sharp right turn.

“Okay, maybe it's too late for them,” Tinnerino was saying. “What can you get me for flipping on Suggs?”