murderer convicted by “the good people of Louisiana.” One week ago Governor Morton released a statement that said, “If ever there was a poster boy for the death penalty, that person is Horace Pond. The Fifth Circuit has refused to grant a stay, so the execution will go on as scheduled.”' The execution is scheduled for ten o'clock tonight. If the woman who claimed to have evidence exonerating a client of Kimberly's was Amber Lee, and the client was Horace Pond, then maybe it isn't that big a stretch to imagine a cop was involved in the killings,” Winter said. “If the cops framed Pond somehow…”
“The governor prosecuted him,” Nicky said. “It might be politically embarrassing if his poster boy for crime was to be proved not guilty. Says in there that he's up for reelection.”
“I seriously doubt the governor had Pond's attorney murdered and risked being on death row himself just so he could be reelected.”
“Then you don't know Louisiana politics,” Nicky countered. “You're not a Southerner, are you?”
“Not hardly,” Adams said.
“Where are you from?”
“Pacific Northwest.”
“I wonder who the detectives on the Pond case were?” Winter mused. He was still looking at the paper.
“You thinking Tin Man and Doyle?” Adams asked.
Winter didn't reply. He picked up his phone and dialed. Manseur answered on the third ring.
“Yeah?”
“Got a second?”
“Can I call you back in a few? I'm in a meeting.”
“You with Suggs?”
“That's right.”
“I need to ask you couple of a quick questions. Yes or no's.”
“Okay, if I can.”
“Were Tinnerino or Doyle on the Pond case?”
There was a long silence. Winter could hear people talking in the background.
“No. Why?”
“Who was?”
“I can't say.”
“Was it Suggs?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Can you call me when you get clear?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Winter closed his phone. “It was Suggs,” he told the two men.
“Suggs framed Pond for killing a judge,” Adams said. “Makes sense. But where does Bennett fit in?”
“Maybe Bennett found out about it and he's been blackmailing Suggs. Maybe the case was important to Suggs's career, and he framed Pond because he thought Pond was guilty and was under pressure to solve it fast. Maybe Amber learned about the frame from Bennett, got pissed at him, and threatened to tell. Maybe she wanted money for it and somebody decided not to pay in money. That would explain just about everything Suggs and Tin Man have been doing. Maybe Tin Man used his badge to get into Kimberly's office, or Amber said something about him being a cop and Faith Ann overheard, or saw it. If she can finger Tinnerino or Doyle as the shooter…”
“Or Suggs,” Nicky suggested.
“Anything's possible,” Winter admitted.
“So where do we go from here, boss?” Nicky asked Winter.
“We have to wait for her to call,” Winter said, yawning. “It'll be dark in an hour.”
“Adams, maybe you could call in some of your FBI buddies?” Nicky said.
“What for?” he said.
“To give us a hand, you know. Comb the town, watch Suggs, track down those people in the Lincoln.”
“I've tracked the female.”
“I'll just bet you have,” Nicky said.
Winter couldn't believe his eyes when Nicky leaned forward and pressed Hank's cocked. 45 against Adams's head.
“What the hell are you doing?” Winter demanded.
“Stay calm, Winter. Don't nobody do nothing at all but sit and listen. Mr. Adams here can't call in his FBI pals, because he don't have any.”
“What?” Winter said.
Adams turned his eyes up into the mirror.
“Put that gun away, Green,” he said softly.
“I don't know who this here feller is, but he sure as hell ain't Special FBI Agent John Everett Adams,” Nicky said.
“Of course I am,” Adams said.
“What makes you think he isn't?” Winter asked.
“Makes me know he isn't, you mean. If you so much as quiver, old buddy, I'll spread your brains all over the dashboard.” Nicky reached his left hand into his left coat pocket and handed Winter three envelopes.
77
“What the hell are you thinking, Nicky?” Winter said, looking from the gun at Adams's head back down at the envelopes Nicky had just handed him.
“Open 'em up and see for yourself,” Nicky said. “If the FBI knows who this bird is, it's probably because they're looking for him. That I.D. he's carrying might as well have come out of a cereal box.”
“You're making a big mistake,” Adams said.
“I doubt it.”
Winter opened one of the envelopes and poured the contents into his palm. A passport. Four credit cards. Wallet-size pictures of smiling people, business cards for a chemical company bearing the same name as the passport. Three business cards from associates to show business contacts, a list of names and telephone numbers.
“Each one of those envelopes contains a complete identity, down to wallet clutter. I didn't take but half of the ones in the secret compartment in his traveling case, which included two handguns, one fitted with a noise suppressor. Adams here also travels with makeup, wigs, false eyebrows and mustaches, and eyeglasses.”
“I can explain all that,” Adams said. His face was white with anger.
“Let's hear it,” Winter demanded curtly.
“Maybe you ask your pet cowboy to lower his weapon before he pulls a Pulp Fiction here?”
“No, I don't think I can.” Winter reached into Adams's jacket and took his Glock. “So, let's hear it.”
“If Green will get out, I will explain everything to your satisfaction.”
“Yeah, right,” Nicky said. “I'd bet you'd just love that. Being a professional and all.”
“Who's paying you?” Winter asked. “Bennett? Suggs?”
“Neither. It isn't anything like that,” Adams said.
“You kill people for kicks?” Nicky said.
“Nicky isn't going anywhere,” Winter told Adams. “So let's have it.”
Adams shrugged. “You might wish he had.”
“Then I'll just have to regret it later.”
“I'm not an FBI agent.”
“No shit?” Nicky said. “I think I already established that. You're a hit man. What I don't know yet is for who.”
“Did you murder Kimberly Porter?” Winter asked.
“No.”
