John Miller - Upside Down

“I knew he was a decorated vet. I'll keep those VIPs in mind. You want to ‘red ball' this one?”

“Not just yet. It's early. If you don't have it in the bag by Monday, we'll take another look. I'm just giving you a heads-up that there are going to be some people watching over your shoulder. I assured them both that you will get it cleared fast. Keep accurate records… just in case. We need to cover our asses on this one.”

“I'll give it my undivided attention.”

Suggs started away, then turned back. “I want you to know that despite our not seeing eye-to-eye on the Porter thing, I have absolute confidence in your ability. Bond will be back on Monday”-Suggs actually managed one of his pained smiles, which looked to Manseur like something a funeral home director would wear when a grieving family opted for the cheapest casket available-“but I expect you'll have this solved by then.”

Manseur nodded impassively at his boss. “Sure looks like you were on the money on the Porter/Lee. All that evidence they found in that house. More than you'd expect to find.”

“Well, she's an amateur, and Tinnerino and Doyle are damn good cops who use old-fashioned police work. Girls that age aren't all like your daughters. The Porter gal is the sort of misfit other kids pick on-classic type to shoot things up. She was probably on her way to the school to even some scores and her Mom got in the way.”

“Nothing like good old-fashioned police work.” Like picking a suspect out, then beating a confession out of him.

“Tinnerino and Doyle are closing in on her,” Suggs said. “Just a matter of time.”

An alligator's lifetime, unless Faith Ann Porter climbs in through their open car window while they're asleep. Captain Suggs was the only thing that stood between Tinnerino and Doyle and dismissal from the squad for any number of just-cause reasons. The single positive consequence of the pair's laziness lay in the fact that, since they spent as little time around the office as possible, the productive detectives weren't constantly exposed to Suggs's rewarding their obvious incompetence with his praise and protection.

“Well, carry on,” Suggs said.

“I am going to solve this one before Bond gets back,” Manseur told Suggs's backside. Despite the lack of sleep he'd suffered lately, Manseur felt energized. He wondered if Deputy U.S. Marshal Massey was in town yet. With luck he would talk to Massey before Suggs did.

As Manseur watched the captain make his way back to his office, he felt a sensation of excited anticipation very like the one he'd had as a schoolboy waiting patiently for his teacher to open her desk drawer and find the grass snake he'd hidden there.

Winter sat on his bed and mulled over what USMS Director Richard Shapiro had just told him on the telephone.

He had expected more from Shapiro. Modesty aside, Winter had single-handedly saved the USMS witness protection program from disgrace. His personal investigation had brought down a rogue CIA-affiliated network of assassins-ex military cutouts, men with fictionalized identities. He and Hank had both been shot up during the operation. So, yes, Winter believed his director owed him and Hank a great deal more than a brushoff.

In the three minutes their conversation had lasted, the director expressed his sympathy over Hank and Millie's “unfortunate accident.” He did agree that the appearance of a connection between the death of Hank's sister-in-law and the timing of the hit-and-run was troubling. But when Winter pressed him for help, Shapiro said that after the events of the year before, the attorney general had made it clear that all federal investigations in the future would be conducted by the agencies. The AG had reminded Shapiro that the U.S. Marshals Service was not an investigative branch of the Justice Department, and, no matter what the circumstances were, the USMS would never be endowed with the powers of investigation that the FBI, CIA, DEA, and the ATF had. Shapiro told Winter to let the local police do their job. If there was any investigating to be done, the FBI would handle it.

In any case, Shapiro went on, hit-and-runs were not federal crimes unless they involved federal property or a federal agent struck down because he was a federal agent. Since Hank was not a marshal at the time of the event, and the event was not as a result of his official work, the FBI wouldn't become involved. He did say that the FBI director and the attorney general were both aware of the accident and would certainly monitor the investigation. Lastly, he told Winter that he had picked Winter's replacement. Winter couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the director would have done more to help if he hadn't resigned.

Because Winter was a United States marshal for the next two weeks, he could carry his weapon anywhere inside the United States and its territories and protectorates. What he couldn't do was operate in New Orleans under the color of federal authority. That put him in exactly the same position he had been in a year earlier, except this time his director wasn't even “unofficially” complicit. The one person who had been at his side during that life-or-death battle to save Sean was now lying in the ICU two miles away, and Winter Massey had no problem divining to whom he first owed his loyalty.

He changed into a button-down blue shirt, black jeans, and cross-trainers. Then, he slipped on his shoulder holster and picked up the lightweight leather jacket. Luckily it was cool enough that wearing it to cover his shoulder rig wouldn't be uncomfortable.

Nicky was still unpacking in the next bedroom. Winter stood at the door, looking in.

“You're originally from Mississippi, aren't you?”

“Originally,” Winter said.

“What part?”

“Cleveland. It's in the Delta.”

“When I think Delta, I picture cotton fields. Old blues singers sitting on rickety porches playing bottleneck to their neighbors and kinfolk, just a hop, skip, and jump from the mighty Mississippi. That the way it is? Sort of like an old movie?”

“Everybody there sings the blues these days. The plantations are mostly owned by corporations and farmed by machines. I don't get back there often. The rice farms around that area make porch sitting dangerous. Mosquitoes will tear you up,” Winter said.

“Big, are they?”

“It isn't necessary that they be big. They fly in clouds.”

“In Texas, we got clouds of skeeters too. But they're so big they can stand flat-foot and pleasure a turkey while they're draining it.”

“That so?” Winter said, laughing.

Nicky took out his toothpick, tossed it aside, and put a fresh one from his pocket into his mouth. “In Texas most everything is bigger. I'm surprised Hank didn't ever explain that to you.”

“Been my experience that it's just the bullshit is bigger.”

“That's because the bulls are so damn big.”

Winter saw Hank's gun on Nicky's bed, so he crossed the room and lifted it.

“A little worse for wear,” Nicky told him. “I couldn't find the piece missing from the grip. The scratches can be buffed out. Hank had it on him when he got hit. I sort of figured he'd want me to hold it for him.”

“This gun's got quite a history,” Winter said, setting it back on the bedspread.

“Well, it might have more before I hand it back to Hank.”

Faith Ann closed the bathroom door and walked down the dark hall toward the rear of the house. As she approached the den, she saw that the flickering light was from the television set. Faith Ann entered the room and saw that her mother was lying on the sofa. Kimberly was asleep, with her mouth hanging open. Faith Ann knelt and put her hand on her mother's cheek. Kimberly's eyes fluttered and opened and she smiled.