“I'm Nicky Green, a friend of Hank's. That's Agent Adams. You're safe, stay down and let us handle this.” He winked at her, then peered at the stern area through the BMW's windows.
“Put down the gun!” Agent Adams hollered.
Faith Ann saw Adams take a step toward the woman, his gun still aimed at her.
“Now hands against the wall, Marta!” she heard Winter command.
Faith Ann ducked to look under the cars toward where Winter was standing.
Nicky straightened suddenly and aimed his gun over the BMW's roof. Faith Ann turned and looked under the BMW.
She was aware of the bald man ducking down…
A series of quick, deafening explosions…
Empty brass shells spattered the deck like they had been poured out of a box.
Glass shards rained over both her and the bald man.
She watched the two-tone shoes until they vanished around the corner.
Faith Ann had never heard a machine gun before up close and real, but she knew that was what destroyed the BMW's windshield. And, she recognized those shiny two-tone shoes.
The man who had killed her mother had just shot at Mr. Massey.
89
After the Stratus joined the line of vehicles, Arturo had joined the other passengers as they came onto the passenger deck through the sliding steel-wire door on the vessel's port side. He remained near the staircase leading down to the vehicle deck. Marta told him she'd wait until the ferry pulled away. Then she'd get to the marshal's car, use a silenced. 22 to clip the two occupants, and get the evidence. Arturo would come down the staircase and make sure she succeeded. Once she was behind the wheel of the Stratus, Arturo would get into her car and follow her to the dump site.
Arturo had no idea anything was wrong until he came down the stairs and turned the corner to see that Marta had walked straight into a trap. He had a clean shot on the FBI agent, whose back was to him, and he raised the Uzi only to see the bald-headed investigator suddenly rise from between two vehicles and aim at him. Arturo fired at the bald man, saw that he couldn't shoot the FBI agent or the marshal without hitting Marta, whirled, and ran up the stairs.
There was no plan to cover this mess.
Arturo broke up onto the passenger deck only to see a redheaded young man wearing a white shirt with epaulets come out of a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. At the sight of Arturo's raised Uzi, the young man made a squeaky noise and froze.
Arturo jerked him away from the door, slamming him into the bulkhead. Racing into the stairwell, he hurried up the narrow steps. Flinging open the door at the top of the stairs, he lunged into the lit wheelhouse and aimed the weapon at the pilot, who had turned from the console-his face becoming a fright mask.
“Take me downriver,” Arturo snarled, “or I'll kill you and drive this friggin' boat myself.”
Arturo quickly checked out the doors on either side of the pilothouse. Outside the doors, short staircases went both to the roof and down to the passenger deck. The doors didn't lock, so the crew could come and go anywhere on the vessel as necessary. He was vulnerable from three directions. The Plexiglas was probably thick enough to stop a non-magnum handgun round. He hoped the marshal and his two pals got Marta in cuffs so that all three of them were free to come for him. Because if they were confident enough to turn their backs on her, cuffed or not, Marta would be back in play.
Arturo's main goal now was just to get away alive. As long as he controlled the boat's movements, he could increase his odds of escape and the men would have no choice but to come up to stop him.
“Go faster!” he screamed at the terrified pilot.
Arturo saw the door lever move ever so slightly as someone tried it. He fired a horizontal burst across the veneered wood and was rewarded with the sound of a body falling. One down. Arturo pulled a fresh magazine from his pocket, reloaded the Uzi, and buttoned up his coat to take full advantage of the ballistic lining.
90
Detective Manseur leaned against the grille of his Impala, parked in the shadow of the World Trade Center building near the railing on the southern corner of the Riverwalk Plaza. He was, as the crow flies, perhaps a hundred feet from the Canal Street landing, and he had a commanding view of the dock, where the eighty-five-foot-long ferry would moor. Through binoculars, he watched the USS Thomas Jefferson pulling away from Algiers Point, well over a mile away. When he became aware of someone standing next to his car, he looked over to see Tinnerino staring at him.
“You and Doyle are supposed to be at the Porter house. What are you doing here?”
Tin Man smiled at him. He leaned with his beefy hands splayed on the left fender. “I was just passing by. Saw you over here by yourself and I wondered what you were doing.”
“You were passing by and saw me here?” Manseur knew that his position was invisible from the street. “I'm boat watching-to relax.”
“Wouldn't be watching for a ferry bringing Massey and the Porter kid over, would you?”
“What makes you ask me that?”
“Because I bugged your car while you were inside the hospital, and Massey's too. Doyle and me have been right with you all along.”
“Doesn't it matter that I ordered you to-”
“Your days of ordering anybody are over, Mikey.”
“What does that mean?” Manseur asked, already knowing the answer. He and Tinnerino were both empty-handed, and getting to their guns would take some effort. The Tin Man wouldn't be so cocky unless Doyle is close by.
“We can't let that little envelope the kid has reach anybody that can stop the Pond execution. Big can of worms here, Mikie. Don't make any sudden moves toward that Glock in your coat. You and me ain't out here alone.”
“So, I guess Captain Suggs sent you to silence me?”
“Yeah. That's about the size of it. Seems you been acting crazy. Buying meth from low-life dealers. Everybody knows how dangerous that is. Look at the bright side-the brass will cover up the drug thing at Suggs's suggestion, your wife will get your pension, Suggs will make sure there's a big, loud investigation. We'll pin it on some loser spook and make the streets safer in the bargain.”
“Where is Suggs?”
“Had pressing business elsewhere. He's got this all figured out. That man is a strategical genius.”
“Did he tell you Jerry Bennett killed the Williamses?”
“Yeah, he told us.”
“You know why?”
“Doesn't matter,” Tin Man answered, shrugging.
“Bennett paid Suggs to frame Pond. Bennett told Suggs where that shotgun was, and Suggs told the world Pond confessed. It was Bennett who sent Arturo Estrada to kill Amber Lee and Lawyer Porter. But you knew that, because you and Doyle have been working with him and his lady friend. We have evidence that proves it all.”
“What does any of it matter? You think too much, Mikie. Your evidence ain't worth a fart in a hurricane.”
“You'd do better to try thinking for yourself some. Do you really think Suggs can let you live, knowing what you do? He killed his own partner to keep the secret about Pond.”
“Putnam offed himself. Man was a world-class juice head,” Tinnerino said. “And I've got Doyle backing me to make sure nothing like that happens. Anything happens to me, my lawyer has a letter.”
Manseur shook his head. He was aware of a second figure sneaking up on the other side of the car. Doyle held what appeared to be a. 22 automatic. The bag containing drugs to plant on Manseur's corpse was probably in his overcoat pocket.
“Doyle,” Manseur said casually, “before you do anything stupid, you should know that Larry Bond is up there behind me on that balcony over the ferry entrance. He's aiming his Tikka 30–06 at your head about now.”
“Your partner's out of town,” Doyle said.