“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 the condition of the “Rover” body. The corpse's skin was like that of a brisket that had been left sitting on a very hot grill for several hours too long. The face was a hideous mask, and the hardened lips were curled back like the man was snarling at Death. The cadaver's torso stood open and the colorless but moist internal organs, after being weighed and sliced for sampling, were in a garbage bag, which had been reinserted into the cavity to await a suturing. The top of the skull had been set beside the head like a partly shattered bowl; the damaged brain rested in a stainless steel pan on the nearby counter.
Dr. Lawrence Ward, the Orleans Parish Medical Examiner, struck a match to light a cigar the size of a baby's wrist. His massive hands had white hair on the backs of them that showed through the tight latex gloves and matched the mane of hair sprouting on his watermelon-shaped head. Ward's watery eyes focused on his notes, made readable by the glasses perched on the tip of his bulbous nose.
“Your John Doe is approximately seventy inches in height, one hundred and sixty pounds. He's Caucasian. I'll have to do some further tests, but the only dental work, a bridge, is probably European. Age between thirty-five and forty-five. Died within past twenty-four hours. Lack of burning on his backside means he was sitting up during the fire. Safety belt melted to him. He was stripped down to his skin, probably to make our jobs harder. He's got some old injuries that could indicate a life of violence, race car driving, or an athletic background.”
Manseur scribbled the information into his notebook.
“The fire was postmortem. No water in the lungs or fire damage to the throat,” the doctor said through the dense cigar smoke that obscured his features. He turned to the X-rays on the light box. “Homicide.”
“I sort of guessed that. Exact cause?”
“Somebody struck him over the left ear with a blunt object using enough force to fracture his temporal bone and put splinters into his brain. Wound is almost circular. Maybe he caught the end of an aluminum baseball bat. I'm pretty sure he was hit first, because of the bleeding inside the skull and swelling in the brain. Then somebody snapped his neck by twisting his head. That twist stopped his heart, which in turn stopped the inner cranial bleeding.”
“Whoever did that was extremely strong?”
“Wouldn't have to be any Charles Atlas if Mr. Doe was unconscious from the blow, which he most likely was. I'd say the killer knew how to induce the injury. They teach that advanced stuff to Special Forces soldiers-SEALs, Rangers, and the like. I'll do a full body X-ray series and see what else I can pick up.”