“Hi there,” Winter said pleasantly. “Is there something we can do for you?”
The driver turned and stared at him. “Maybe there's something I can do for you.”
“Like what?”
“I could tell you why Roy Rogers there didn't shake me.”
“Okay.”
The driver held up a laptop computer. On the screen was a blinking dot positioned on a street grid. “I put a C-2 Tracker behind your visor.”
Winter flipped down the visor and unpinned the dime-size disc with a smiley-face decal stuck on it.
The driver raised his hand above the window, and the badge case in his hand fell open. “Special Agent John Everett Adams,” he said. “Maybe we should sit down and talk.”
Except for his eyes, which were light blue, Adams's features were almost bland. The FBI agent's closely cropped hair was light brown, and his fingernails were clipped so the ends appeared to be uniform in the amount of edge showing. His teeth were bright and so perfect that Winter wondered if they had been veneered.
“About?” Winter asked, handing Adams back the tracker.
“We could talk about anything you'd like. Sports? I'm a Redskins fan. Games? I play checkers and shoot pool. Or we could talk about Hank and Millie Trammel. You guys hungry?”
“I could eat something,” Winter said.
“Follow me,” Adams said. He backed up and pulled into traffic. Three blocks later he turned into a diner parking lot and got out of his car. Winter and Nicky did so too.
“You like omelets?” Adams asked. “This place looks like shit, but the omelets are to die for.”
Winter wondered if it was possible that the health department had not been informed of the existence of the diner. The space was long and narrow with booths along the left wall and stools at the long counter, behind which food was grilled in plain sight of the customers. The putty-colored paint on the walls and ceiling had been dulled years ago by airborne grease, and the floor tiles were stained and chipped. The three men took seats at the first booth, Winter and Nicky facing Adams, who kept his back to the door. They sat silent until the waitress took their orders. Adams ordered a cheese and mushroom omelet, Winter asked for black coffee. Nicky ordered a hamburger, which bought a scowl from the woman.
“Try a seafood po'boy,” Adams suggested.
“I'd rather take my chances with red meat,” Green said. “Medium rare.”
“State won't let us make ground beef but one way,” the woman muttered, walking away.
“So, what do you think of the place?” Adams asked. “It was recommended by a local agent when I was here a few years back. The seafood po'boys and omelets are the best in the world.”
“Probably half the stuff they serve will kill you,” Nicky said. He put a napkin over a sticky spot on the table. “I hope that's syrup.”
“Deputy Massey, I expect you're curious as to why I'm here.”
“I'd love to hear that. And why you're wiretapping us.”
“I'd like to know that too,” Nicky said.
“Well, when my director got this last night, he had a conference with your director, and my director told him that a hit-and-run wasn't anything the FBI could officially investigate, but that for reasons known well to you, he'd take a look from the sidelines. My director dispatched me to watch out for you, knowing you might try to interfere, and if that was the case, to unofficially give you aid if that became necessary. If it turns out that the hit-and-run had roots to what you and Chief Deputy Trammel were involved in last year, I can insert myself officially, and if need be I can call in necessary assistance. I have two associate agents a couple of hours away.”
“If the hit-and-run was related to the past, by which I assume you mean that fracas last year, what does Kimberly Porter's murder have do with it?” Nicky asked.
“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
