emergency room, where scores of cops still waited, silent and grim-faced. Winter remembered that a transit cop had been killed and understood the vigil.
“Adams is a professional killer sent to kill me,” he told Manseur. “My best guess is that he's a man named Paulus Styer, a German hit man. I believe Styer ran down Hank and Millie as part of a plan to get to me, but you'll never hang Millie's death on him, because there's nothing to prove it but what he told me and Nicky. I won't admit it to anyone else, and I'll deny I said even this much to you. Neither Nicky or I will ever admit we didn't believe Adams was FBI, and if you like your life the way it is, neither will you.”
“Why?”
“Because you have only seen the tip of this berg, and the base is a world of ruthless killers and people who would not hesitate to do whatever it takes to stay undiscovered.”
“Arturo Estrada killed Kimberly Porter and Amber Lee for Jerry Bennett. What does that have to do with Adams-or the Trammels?”
“Adams said it was a coincidence, and I believe him.”
“I don't believe in that kind of coincidence.”
“Neither would I… normally.”
“Who was the corpse in the Rover?”
“An accomplice-some loose end. Adams didn't care if it was found because he needed only a few days-had no reason to imagine you'd solve it before he was done and gone. I doubt the corpse's identity will lead to him.”
Winter shouldn't have told Manseur what he had, but he had to warn him off. Winter knew better than anybody alive that the people in Adams's sphere had few rules, didn't want to be found out, didn't give warnings, and never left any loose ends. If Adams wasn't Paulus Styer-a target of the cutouts-he was almost certainly a cutout himself. Why Adams decided to kill Nicky was a mystery, but maybe he was making his move on Winter and didn't want Nicky in his way. So, if Adams was Styer, the cutouts would deal with him. If he was a cutout, they would cover for him. Winter couldn't afford to care, especially when the differences didn't matter.
Winter finally said, “What happened to Hank and Millie was about year-old business between me and the person who sent Adams, or Styer, after me.”
“How do I leave Mrs. Trammel's murder unsolved?”
“Say Arturo and Marta did it. It'll stick. Look, Michael, I blundered into Adams's world and it's still costing me. I've got a life to get back to. My wife is going to have a baby. You have your family to think of. Let all of this bury itself.”
“But if someone sent Styer after you, why won't they send someone else?”
Winter saw flashing lights, and an ambulance rolled past the cruiser and up the ramp to the doors of the emergency room.
“That's probably my date,” Winter said. “See you around, Michael Manseur.”
When she saw Winter running up the ramp, Faith Ann dropped the blanket and launched herself into his open arms.
“God,” he said, “I thought you drowned.”
“Well, I almost did. When I came up, I saw her getting pulled up into that police boat.”
“You should have yelled. I was there.”
“I didn't see you.”
“I was underwater looking for you. Why didn't you holler at the boat?”
She looked up at Winter with disbelief in her eyes. “How could I know if they were good or bad policemen in the boat? They were helping her. I swam to a dock ladder and it wasn't easy. I didn't see you. I didn't know what the police would do, so I told the reporters who I was, about what happened, and I showed the pictures to the TV so the bad police couldn't steal them. Is Mr. Pond all right now?” she asked anxiously.
“He sure is,” Winter said. “Thanks to you.”
“That's good.” She smiled. “So do you think we could go see Uncle Hank and then maybe go get something to eat?”
“Anything you want, kiddo. Anything at all.”
Manseur came running up to Winter.
Winter introduced Faith Ann to him.
“We got Jerry Bennett,” Manseur told him. “He was at his lake place, dragging Suggs to his boat for disposal. I have to go to H.Q. for the interview. We'll get your and Nicky's official statements tomorrow. I'll do it personally.”
“You can do that?”
“Sure I can. This is New Orleans, remember?”
“The back-scratching capital of America,” Winter said.
102
The emergency room doctor gave Faith Ann two shots of antibiotics and a bottle of more antibiotics he wanted her to take for a few days. Winter received the same treatment. It was going on midnight, and even though she was yawning and fighting to keep her eyes open, she told Winter that she wanted to see Uncle Hank. She really needed to see for herself that he was alive.
When Winter and Faith Ann walked into the reception area on the ICU floor, a man Winter said was Hank's doctor was writing on a chart. When he saw Winter he smiled. “You got my message.”
“No, I didn't,” Winter said. “What was it?”
“Hank Trammel's conscious. He's been in and out since we reversed the coma drugs. A nurse was at the bedside and he asked her for a scotch on the rocks, that he was thirsty. She said she'd get him water and he told her, not that kind of thirsty.”
They followed the doctor to a cubicle where he drew back a curtain before hurrying off.
Faith Ann clenched Winter's hand and took a deep breath as they drew closer to Hank's bed. She stood there for long seconds, silent and white-faced. Her uncle's face was horribly swollen, the trademark handlebar mustache gone, and bandages covered the familiar gray hair. Both of his arms and his legs were encased in plaster.
“Uncle Hank?” she said softly. “You awake?”
There was no response from the man on the bed.
“The doctor said he was awake,” she told Winter. “How can he still be asleep?”
“Beats me.”
“Why can't he hear me?”
Winter shrugged.
“I'd give anything to hear him ask for a drink of whiskey,” Faith Ann said. She saw a slight shiver run through her uncle. She leaned in closer.
“Uncle Hank?” she repeated, praying. “It's me, Faith Ann.”
Her uncle's eyelids fluttered.
“Faith Anna-banana pants,” he murmured. “Did I hear you talking about whiskey?” he asked her.
“They said you can't drink whiskey in the rooms,” she said. She had never felt so absolutely thrilled.
“Faith Ann, you know what?”
“No, what?” she said.
“Of all the Porter women I've ever seen, you are the most beautiful. Nice haircut.”
103
Michael Manseur stared through the two-way glass at Jerry Bennett. The nightclub owner was sound asleep, his head rocked back, his mouth wide open. Bennett's toupee looked like it was made from straw, his makeup was smeared. There was blood on his face and his shirt from using a baseball bat on Suggs.
