Upside Down Page 9

  “She lives in the neighborhood,” the woman told the man. “She'll be fine.”

  “Go on home,” he told Faith Ann calmly. “This isn't anything for you to see.”

  She took a few steps, then looked back to where cars had stopped and people were getting out of them. Through the rain, she saw the strangest-looking man limping toward the intersection. He wore a long raincoat, a white cowboy hat, and matching boots, and he was using a walking cane for balance.

  The man in the white cowboy hat removed his coat to expose a bright red suit with white accents. His belt was also bright white. He spread the coat over the body in the wet street as gently as a mother might cover her sleeping child, then went to Hank and knelt beside him.

  A siren was wailing in the distance. Faith Ann turned back to the restaurant and joined the crowd on the sidewalk beneath the awning. She moved to her bike and put a hand on the crossbar. She tucked her wet hair behind her ears and snugged her hood.

  She saw the blue lights approaching, but she remained standing there because she had absolutely no notion of what else to do.

  19

  Paulus Styer hadn't planned to run down the Trammels with the Rover. He despised the sloppiness of it. He liked precision, especially in his wet work.

  He had the stolen taxicab waiting nearby with his driver, the second man. Up until the kid showed up out of nowhere, again, and screwed everything, the plan had been to see that Nicky Green never got to the restaurant. Then, when Green didn't show up, the Trammels would have called a cab, and Styer's taxi would have picked them up. He'd have met the cab a few blocks away and clipped them while they were still in the backseat. His stocky accomplice in the Lexus, two blocks away, was the plan's wild card—ready to do whatever Styer needed him to do. When Styer saw the Trammels come out of the bar and spot that kid, he knew instantly the plan was dead, so he'd pulled out of his parking space and mowed them down.

  He was glad the child hadn't run out to meet them, because he would have had no choice but to hit all three.

  After hitting the Trammels, Styer sped off, stopping only after he was far enough away to safely hand off the vehicle to his second accomplice for disposal. He had climbed out of the Rover and walked briskly on a parallel street back to the accident scene. Once there, he took a few seconds to admire his handiwork. The Trammel woman was obviously dead. Hank wasn't yet, but he would soon be.

  Styer saw the kid in the overlarge yellow poncho across the street holding up her bicycle. Having her show up like she had had been a shock, and now that he was able to think it over he was certain she was the very same whelp he'd almost run over in front of the guesthouse thirty minutes earlier. He knew from eavesdropping that morning and through the afternoon that Faith Ann Porter was their niece, so this kid had to be the same girl. Styer had no idea why she was on a bicycle flying around alone in the rain, or why her lawyer mother would allow it. He wasn't really worried about her being a factor in his deal, because she couldn't have seen him through the Rover's dark windows.

  Styer stood in the crowd under the awning of the bar watching the EMS technicians waste their time and energy trying to save Hank Trammel's life. Now that the Trammels were down and out of play, all he had to do was sit back and wait for his victim to come running into his web.

  20

  Detective Manseur had been at home, napping before eating dinner with his wife and daughters, when he got a call ordering him to respond to a vehicular homicide. Vehicular homicides were handled by Traffic, unless Traffic requested a homicide detective or the victim was a cop or a VIP capable of generating a lot of heat. According to Sergeant Suggs, this victim was in the VIP category. Still tired and upset over being pulled off the Porter/Lee homicides, Manseur parked short of the intersection, climbed from his Impala, popped open his umbrella, and surveyed the scene. Fifty feet beyond the intersection, where a corpse had been covered by a raincoat, an EMS unit was working on the other victim. Four patrolmen worked to keep the street cleared, the crowd back. Manseur walked over to the body, leaned down, and lifted the coat to look at the woman underneath it. Her crushed head was almost severed.

  The detective looked up the street, trying to spot the point of impact; but due to the pelting rain he couldn't see any debris. He let down the coat and walked up the street to where the second victim, a silver-haired man on a cot, was being fed into the ambulance.

  “How is he?” Manseur asked, showing his shield to the EMT.

  “Has a very weak pulse,” the tech, busy securing the gurney, answered impatiently. “We'll take him to Charity Trauma Center. Maybe they can perform a miracle.”

  Seconds later the ambulance pulled away, siren whooping.

  A patrolwoman approached Manseur. “Sir, your eyewitnesses are under the awning over at the steakhouse.” She handed Manseur two driver's licenses, which he read as she talked. “Henry and Mildred Trammel from Charlotte, North Carolina, were crossing the street when a black or dark blue Range Rover traveling at a high rate of speed struck them. All the witnesses agree that the driver didn't apply the brakes, just kept going. The driver never turned on his lights. Probably drunk. We're talking extensive front-end damage. Lots of glass back there.” Manseur turned to look at the glass and orange plastic, much farther back than he had imagined it could be.

  “Put a BOLO on the damaged Rover,” he said, referring to a “be on lookout” alert.

  “I already have.”

  “Good.”

  Manseur looked over at the restaurant and scanned the crowd clustered under the awning, then at the bar where another crowd was standing like an assembled audience. His eyes were drawn to a cowboy chewing on a toothpick, standing on the sidewalk, wearing a water-saturated red suit, and staring directly at him. As if he had been waiting for Manseur to see him, the cowboy limped out into the street. Raindrops splashed harmlessly on the stiff brim of his pristine white Stetson. It looked to be an expensive bonnet. Otherwise, the entire outfit looked like a stage costume.

  “I'm Nicky Green. I'm a private investigator out of Houston.”

  Manseur hoped he was dealing with a trained witness. That would simplify his job considerably. “Detective Manseur, Homicide. You witness this?”

  “No. I arrived a couple of minutes afterward. I was supposed to meet them here for drinks and dinner. I had a meeting at the Clarion that ran long, and I had trouble finding a parking space.”

  “Where were y'all staying?”

  “I'm at the Columns. Hank and Millie are staying . . . were at the Park View. They're good friends of mine. I've known Hank since I was knee high to a jackrabbit and Millie since '73 or so. Hank was a U.S. marshal until he retired a few months back.”

  “That so?”

  Manseur saw that either a cell phone or a handgun was pushing Green's jacket out slightly.

  Green saw him looking at it. “I've got a carry permit,” he said, opening his coat to expose a Colt .45 with yellowed stag grips. The right base cover was broken and the blue steel on the butt was scratched.

  “Did you drop your piece?” Manseur asked.

  “I reckon I did.”

  “I suppose it's registered to you?”

  “To Hank.”

  Manseur knew the gun had been on Trammel when he was hit. It wasn't relevant, and he'd never be able to prove Hank Trammel had been carrying it. For a cop, carrying was a tough habit to break. He doubted it mattered. He noticed for the first time that Green wasn't just bald, as he'd thought. He didn't have any eyebrows or lashes either.

  “Detective Manseur, Hank Trammel is a veteran who won a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. He served the marshals with distinction for twenty years. You're going to find out that he has a lot of influential friends who'll be watching your investigation.”

  “Do you happen to know their next of kin?” Manseur asked, opening his notebook and balancing his umbrella by using his forearm to hold the handle against his ribs.

  “Millie's sister lives here. Name's Porter. Le
t's see . . . Karen, no—Kimberly, I think it is.”

  Manseur looked slowly up from the pad into Nicky Green's shrewd brown eyes. “Does she have a daughter named Faith Ann?”

  21

  Concord, North Carolina

  Winter Massey sat at the table across from his son and, picking up one card at a time, appraised his hand. A pair of fives, an ace, a jack, and a three. Rush, who wore a ball cap pulled down low to make him look more like a dealer, set aside the deck. He lifted his own cards, fanning them so he could use his fingertip to read the dots located on the upper left-hand corner of the face of each card. He closed his hand and turned his head to his left, where Sean sat arranging her cards.

  “Pot's right. Bet's up to you, little lady,” Rush said flatly.

  Sean lifted two chips and dropped them one after the other in the center of the table.

  “Two to you, old fellow.”

  Winter contemplated his odds of drawing another five, then tossed in two chips. “I'll check to the dealer.”

  Rush placed his fingers on either side of one of his five tall stacks of chips and lifted up several of them. Without counting them out, he put them down on the felt and said, “Your two, and three more is the raise.” Laying his cards down and lifting the deck, he said, “Cards, lady and elderly gentleman?”

  “One,” Sean said.

  Rush said, as he handed her a card, “Okay, the little lady has two pairs . . . or might she be drawing to fill a straight . . . or maybe she is a card short of a flush.”

  “Three,” Winter said.

  Rush passed the cards to his father. “Read them and weep. Working on building two pairs or three of a kind, are we?”

  “You're fixing to find out,” Winter told him.

  “This is my last hand,” Sean said.

  “Because I have almost all the chips?” Rush said, arching his brows.

  “No, not merely because your father and I are both almost out of chips. Also because it's almost ten.”

  “I'll give you more,” Rush told her.

  “Absolutely not. I hate losing the same money twice.”

  “If Daddy wins, we play one more hand. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Sean said quickly. “Like that's going to happen.”

  “Dealer is standing pat,” Rush said, laying aside the deck and lifting his cards. “Bets?”

  Unbelievably, Winter had drawn a third five and a pair of sixes. Full house.

  Sean bet five chips. Winter raised her a like amount.

  Rush put in twenty.

  “Perfect. I have only ten left,” Winter said.

  Sean pushed in her remaining chips. “I'll be light two.” She laid her hand down. “Three aces,” she declared triumphantly. “Beat that, Misters Massey.”

  Winter cut out three cards, which he put facedown on the table. He put down the other two faceup. “Beats my pair of fives.”

  “Read 'em and weep.”

  “What in the world do you call that?” Winter said, laughing. Rush laid down a hand devoid of any merit whatsoever.

  “I was bluffing,” Rush replied.

  “You were trying to let us win,” Sean accused.

  Winter watched his son laugh. If you didn't notice the scar that ran from his temples, across both eyelids and the bridge of his nose, you would never guess that Rush was blind. Despite the limitations caused by his blindness, his son came as close to leading a normal life as most kids his age. Often it seemed that his other senses more than made up the difference. Winter hadn't thrown the hand to let Rush win because the boy was blind. He had thrown it because he didn't care if he won. He didn't at all mind coming in last in his home. Rush and his wife Sean meant everything to him.

  “Did Mama call today?” Winter asked.

  “No, Lydia hasn't called yet,” Sean said as she gathered up the cards and boxed them.

  “It's that new friend,” Winter said. “Distracting her from her motherly and grandmotherly duties.”

  “Her condo beau.” Rush was grinning. “Gram calls about every single night. Think they'll get married?”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Winter said.

  Lydia Massey had moved to Sarasota, Florida, the week after Winter and Sean's wedding the previous March. She was dating a retired doctor who had a unit on the floor above hers. Winter had spoken to the doctor on several occasions and he seemed nice enough. It was just weird that his mother was dating.

  “I have something for you fellows,” Sean announced. “A present.”

  “What kind of present?” Rush asked suspiciously.

  “A small one representing a very large one.” Sean leaned back and opened a drawer in the Stickley sideboard and removed a thin, gift-wrapped package. She handed it to Rush. “Open it.”

  Rush tugged the ribbon off and removed the paper. It was a small silver frame.

  “A picture frame?” Rush sounded disappointed. “So what's in it?”

  “Nothing,” Winter said.

  “Why is it empty?” Rush asked. “What's it for?”

  “That's where we'll put the very first picture.”

  “You bought a new camera?” Winter asked. Sean had told them it was a small something representing a larger something.

  “Nope. The first picture of the new baby,” she said softly.

  “A new baby? Holy shit!” Rush said.

  “Rush!” Winter snapped. “Don't say that. Whose new baby?”

  “Holy crapoly,” Rush said.

  Winter finally got his mind around what his wife had said. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Sean replied.

  “The doctor said so? That's why you've been sick?”

  “You don't just guess at something like that,” Sean said, laughing.

  He stood and pulled Sean up out of her chair and hugged her to him.

  “Winter, are you crying?” she asked.

  “Of course I'm not. I'm happy!” He knew, of course, that he was crying. But they were tears of joy. “We need champagne!”

  “We have champagne,” Sean said. “In the fridge.”

  “Holy—” Rush started.

  “Rush,” Winter said warningly.

  “Sorry! Do I get champagne too?”

  It was a big deal for all of them. Winter didn't believe he could be any happier. He wished he could freeze that moment so he could have it to take out and relive over and over for the rest of his life.

  The telephone started to ring.

  “Let it ring,” Winter said.

  “Might be Lydia,” Sean said.

  “Gram is gonna freak out!” Rush said gleefully.

  “I'll get it. I need to get some soap to wash out Rush's mouth with anyway,” Winter joked. He rushed into the kitchen to answer the phone, certain that he was going to be able to share the news with Lydia.

  “Hello,” he said cheerfully.

  “Is this Mr. Winter Massey?” The unfamiliar voice was heavily accented.

  “Yes,” he answered, still thinking of Sean and her news. A baby. “I'm Winter Massey.”

  Of course it would be a salesman, but for once he didn't care. From where he was standing, he could see into the dining room where Rush and Sean were actually dancing arm in arm. He wished he had a camera so he could capture the image. “So friend, what is it you're selling on this fine evening?”

  “I'm Nicky Green.”

  “I'm sure you are,” Winter said distractedly. “What's the pitch?”

  “I'm a friend of Hank and Millie's.”

  Winter's mind downshifted and he started paying closer attention. Why would he be calling? Maybe Hank put him up to something. “Sure, I know who you are. Sorry, what can I do for you, Mr. Green?”

  “Well, I hate worse than anything to have to call you, but I'm afraid I have some god-awful news. It's bad . . . I . . . I . . .”

  The smile had left Winter's face, and ice-cold fear froze his mind. Hank's old friend couldn't continue because he was crying.

  22

&n
bsp; In the open pool cabana, behind the sleekly modern concrete-and-glass house, a fire dancing in the small metal-mesh wastebasket positioned on a slate bar top was mirrored orange-red in the lap pool's crystal-clear water. Marta Ruiz, who sat on a stool at the outdoor bar before a cassette player, was at the end of an hour spent going through the stack of audiocassettes she had taken from the Porter house.

  “Not here,” she announced.

  Frustrated, she jerked the final audiotape out and tossed it into the wastebasket inferno. Arturo, standing outside the cabana biting his fingernails, uttered a long string of obscenities, then stomped around in the wet grass beside the rain-slick patio. Before listening to the cassettes, Marta had inspected each of the strips of negatives he'd taken from the dead lawyer and thrown them all into the same fire.

  “I'm fucking cooked!” Arturo yelled.

  “It isn't good,” Marta agreed. “Let's stay calm. We don't know that she has them either. The negatives could be anywhere Amber was during the days she was missing.”

  “The tape . . .”

  “If such a tape even exists,” Marta said, trying to calm him.

  “All the police saw was an open machine, right? Probably there was no tape inside it. But if there was, it has my voice on it, Amber said my name a couple of times! It has my voice! I think I said Mr. Bennett's name! It has the fucking hits recorded on it!”

  “Unfreak, Turo,” Marta said calmly. “There probably isn't a tape.”

  “That's easy for you to say! Your balls aren't in the vise.”

  “It's always counterproductive to freak. You are a professional. Anyway, Mr. Bennett doesn't know what might be on the tape, and the cops didn't find one.”

  “Oh, so now there is a tape,” he said sourly.

  “Whether there is a tape is not yet relevant to the situation,” she told him. “What Bennett is most worried about is the negatives—”

  “Negatives which he didn't mention,” Arturo interrupted. “How dare that strutting rooster be angry with me, when he didn't bother to mention them in the first place!”