John Miller - Upside Down

“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.

“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.”

“Where were you when she was killed?”

“North Carolina.”

“Even that's true, you know who did. Maybe those assistants you said you had handy,” Nicky said.

Winter ignored him. “Doing what in North Carolina?”

“Watching you.”

“Bull,” Nicky said.

“I bet you were killing Kimberly Porter, posing as a cop. I bet you ran down Hank and Millie while you were trying to silence Faith Ann and then joined us so we'd find her so you could finish her. Who hired you?”

“I was in North Carolina,” Adams insisted.

“And you arrived here when?”

“I was on the flight with you, Massey. US Air 443. I was in coach. Seat 23-A.”

“I didn't see you,” Winter said.

“You weren't supposed to.”

“He's a lying sack,” Nicky said. “You killed my friend Millie, you son of a bitch.” He pushed the gun harder against Adams's skull, tilting his head to the side.

“No, I didn't. But I know who did.”

“Who?” Winter asked.

“The name won't mean anything to you.”

“I just bet not,” Nicky said. “Pick an easy one, like Doe or Smith.”

“Paulus Styer,” Adams said.

“And of course he's a foreign-coated professional killer,” Nicky mocked.

“He was born in East Germany. Styer was trained from childhood by the Soviet KGB at their academy. After the country went broke, his handler for the KGB, Yuri Chenchenko turned the group of specialists into a for-profit business. These guys handle wet work for clients all over the world. The Russian Mafia gives them a lot of work,” Adams said.

“So you're working with Styer?” Nicky said.

“Not with him. I'm supposed to kill him,” Adams replied. “And I will if you don't sneeze and blow my brains out.”

“Why did Styer kill Kimberly Porter?” Winter asked intently.

“He didn't.”

“How do you know that?” Winter repeated.

“There wouldn't have been any point. Despite the odds against such a coincidence, I doubt the two events are related.”

“But you said he ran down Hank and Millie,” Winter reminded him.

“It's classified,” he said. “I can't tell Green.”

“I could lock you up in the USMS holding cell,” Winter said. “Incognito for days. If you know anything about me, you know I always keep my word.”

Winter saw that finally something frightened Adams.

“You do that and you're dead,” Adams said.

“Threaten away, you two-bit…” Nicky started.

“Nicky is going to hear this,” Winter said.

“It isn't a threat, it's a fact. Styer will kill you both. Paulus Styer is a different sort of killer. He is a temperamental kill artist who is as idiosyncratic and brilliant as Bobby Fisher. And he kills like it's all a deadly chess game. He hit Hank as a gambit-solely to draw his opponent to him.”

“How much money does this super-killer get paid?” Nicky said. He saw the expression of impatience in Winter's eyes and shrugged. “Just wondering.”