They had been on their way to breakfast when the call came in. Helene Toliver peered out at the bayou like it was something that could attack her. She was not a patient woman; every time they were doing something together Buddy Lee always had some emergency call, and she became a prisoner of time, sitting like a lump in the prowl car.
The driver of the battered truck and his passenger looked like the same person at two different ages and weights. Father and son lacked meaningful chins. Their suspicious eyes, long pointed noses, pronounced overbites, and sloping foreheads gave them the profiles of small unpleasant mammals. The son's hair had a curiously crusty appearance. Both wore matching outfits with the overalls folded up into cuffs and flannel shirts with rolled-up sleeves. The Herberts—pronounced “Ay-bears”—were commercial fishermen and trappers, but their hands and clothes looked like they belonged to men who stood in close proximity to burning tires while they overhauled diesel engines.
“Where?” Buddy Lee asked the Herberts, wondering which of the father's eyes was the good one.
The lanky sheriff rarely spoke when a gesture would suffice. His features were all sharp edges, the cheeks and edge of his nose trying to slice their way out, the bags under his eyes filled with something heavy.
“Ri-chonder,” the father drawled, starting to raise his hand.
“Yonder,” the son added. He jerked his hand up and aimed a finger out at the scummy water.
Standing among the knee-high weeds, the sheriff peered out at the wedge of metal breaking out through the algae. A cottonmouth as big around in the center as a quart jar glided along on the water's surface, unafraid of the men standing on the bank twenty feet away.
“Sa cah,” the older Herbert said.
“Black 'un,” the young man added in case his father wasn't believed.
“Appears somebody drove it off in the water,” the sheriff said to the deputies and the Herberts. “Insurance fraud.”
“Maybe he drove off and he's still in it?” a deputy suggested, almost hopefully.
The sheriff frowned, shook his head.
“Mine fi shoot dat snake?”
The sheriff turned to watch the older Herbert pluck a weathered shotgun from the cab of the Ford and break it to load in a single shell. “Okay, just don't shoot the damned car.”
There was a boom and the water moccasin, halved by the blast, sank out of sight.
By the time the diver and the tow truck arrived, Helene Toliver's breathing had fogged all the Blazer's windows. All Buddy Lee could see was the suggestion of his wife's yellow hair, which looked like cotton candy.
The diver hooked a cable to the submerged vehicle. The tow truck's gears ground as it dragged the water-filled Rover, on its left side, up the steep slope.
“It hit something pretty good,” a deputy said, pointing to the damaged front end. He cupped his hands trying to see through the opaque windows. “Charlie, I'll boost you up,” he told another deputy as he locked his hands to form a stirrup. “It looks to be all burnt up inside. Wait a minute. I can see something moving, but it's too dark to make it out. I need a flashlight.”
The sheriff went to his Blazer for his Mag-Lite.
“Just a few more minutes,” he mumbled. His wife had the look of a woman about to ask him to check the bottoms of his boots for what she was smelling.
Buddy Lee handed his Mag-Lite up to the deputy, who aimed the beam down into the Rover's interior.
“Sure was set on fire. It's a man in it, looks like a nigrah! His clothes was burnt right off his back.”
“Was a bulletin this morning about a dark blue Rover involved in a hit-and-run in New Orleans last night,” the sheriff said. “Said it would have front-end damage—a busted light and turn signal.”
“What you saw moving?” a deputy called up.
“Damn, Roy, it was in the bayou, what the hell you think it is?”
The young fisherman looked at his father, raised his hands up and mimicked claws pinching the air. “Trabs,” he said, smiling like the word made him hungry.
31
The Pontchartrain Hotel had stood at 2031 St. Charles Avenue, with its right shoulder against Josephine Street, since 1927. A large canvas awning extended from the front alcove out over the sidewalk to protect guests from being inconvenienced by weather.
Winter drove the rental sedan with Nicky's fire-engine red 1965 Cadillac convertible following behind. He and Nicky parked on St. Charles, a block down from the hotel. Winter carried his duffel by its shoulder strap. Nobody noticed him because Nicky Green's outfit effectively made his companion invisible. As they approached the desk, the clerk stopped what he was doing and stared at Nicky.
“Winter Massey,” Winter said.
“Yes, Mr. Massey,” the clerk said to Nicky. “Your suite is waiting.”
“He's Massey.” Nicky inclined his head toward Winter.
The clerk's face reddened, and he reached down for the electronic key. “Mr. Massey. Everything is in order,” he said, meaning that Sean had handled everything with her typical efficiency.
The clerk signaled the bellboy, but Winter shook his head and took the key folder. “I think between Mr. Green and myself, we can find the room without assistance.”
“Nice hotel,” Nicky remarked as they entered the elevator.
“My wife picked it,” Winter said truthfully.
Winter's suite had once been a luxurious apartment containing 1,200 square feet of space furnished with antiques. Other than the obligatory placard in a brass frame on the inside of the door, there was nothing to indicate it was a hotel suite. Beyond the living room there was a dining room and, beyond it, the kitchen. To the left was a hallway where the bedrooms would be located.
Winter took his bag with him into the hallway. After looking into all three bedrooms, he entered the largest of them, threw his duffel on the four-poster bed, and excused himself for a bathroom stop.
“This spread is pert' near big as my whole dad-blasted house,” Nicky said when Winter came into the living room.
Winter spotted a folded Times-Picayune on the coffee table. The headline read: “Death Row Attorney Murdered.” Winter lifted it and looked at the picture of Kimberly Porter, who bore a resemblance to her older sister, Millie. He had met Kimberly only once, when she had driven her daughter to North Carolina. Faith Ann had visited the Trammels for a month every summer since Winter had been in Charlotte. He scanned the story, which contained very little useful information. The word ironic was used five times to describe the murder. The reporter was implying that her killer had probably canceled out his best chance to avoid getting a “hot shot” compliments of the state.
The second victim, Amber Lee, was referred to as a client. The story mentioned that Ms. Lee, a nightclub worker, had been the subject of a warrant for embezzlement. It implied that Ms. Lee was in the office for legal representation. The police obviously hadn't given the media enough information to allow them to craft a real story, so they filled the space with unrelated table scraps.
There was a much smaller picture of Faith Ann on the lower section of the front page. The caption below it said the police were asking for help in locating the murdered woman's missing daughter. The copy stated that the twelve-year-old was “being sought for questioning” and for anybody who spotted her to immediately call the detective bureau. It gave a telephone number.
“Faith Ann is a suspect,” Winter said.
“When I mentioned that Kimberly Porter was the Trammels' next of kin, the news hit Detective Manseur like a slaughterhouse sledgehammer. Manseur didn't say so, but he recognized your name when I said I'd best call you, since you and Hank are such close friends.”
“What exactly did Manseur tell you?”
“Not much really. He said just enough to get me to thinking. I called somebody with local P.D. knowledge and they told me Manseur is a top investigator with NOPD. He don't look like much—reminds me of that old cartoon dog cop, Droopy, with the hangy-down face, and he talks rea
l slow—but that old dog always gets the bad guy. The two detectives that were assigned to it aren't guys with Manseur's reputation.”
“Did he say Faith Ann was a suspect?”
“Manseur's a pro. He didn't come out and say much of anything. While he was sort of vague about Faith Ann, he said if I saw her, I should call him first. I learned that he was the primary on the Porter double homicide, but he was pulled off it by his chief, a fellow named Harvey Suggs. Suggs is an ex-marine, beat cop who worked his way up. Made it through when they did that big corrupt-cop cleanup a few years back. Lots of high-profile cases under his belt. He might give you the facts.”
“Most cops won't give up anything to a federal officer they don't have to, especially one without any standing. I'll talk to Manseur first. You have his number?”
Nicky took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Winter.
Winter dialed the number and got forwarded directly to Manseur's voice mail. He left Manseur the name of the hotel, the room number, and his cell phone number as well.
“We hadn't talked about it yet,” Nicky told Winter, “but I sure want to help you get to the bottom of this mess. I'm just a civilian snoop, and I know all about how good you are from Hank, but I can give a decent account for myself at investigating, and I'm a fair hand at knocking the stuffing out of people if they ask for it. I'll do whatever it takes to help you find Faith Ann and track down who ran down Hank and Millie. And if you won't, I expect we'll be stepping all over each other on account of I ain't about to let the bushwhacking bastard get away with it.”
“Where're you staying?” Winter asked.
“Well, I was at the Columns till this morning, but I have to find a new place on account of I was only registered until noon today and they rented the room out from under me. I need to get checked into a new place.”
“Unless you require more than two bedrooms, pick one of the two I'm not parked in.”
“It makes sense for us to bunk together.”
Winter rubbed his hands together. “Then let's get started.”
“There's something I should mention,” Nicky said, pointing to the paper. “Earlier at the hospital, I was looking at that picture of that little girl. I thought that maybe she looks familiar because she reminds me of Millie. I mean, I was real upset last night, but I'm thinking that maybe I saw Faith Ann there, at the scene. If it was her, she was standing around in the crowd wearing a yellow raincoat. She looked upset and, if it really was her, she had a good reason to be that way. But far as I know she didn't talk to the cops. Not while I was there, anyhow. I was thinking that, if it was the kid, why didn't she say so?”
“Why would she have been there?”
“I'm not saying it was her,” Nicky said. “That photo just looks like that child I saw. Maybe. I'm not sure.”
32
Faith Ann's favorite day of the week had always been Saturday, because it was a day she always spent with her mother doing pretty much what she liked. Either they went to a movie, the museum, a concert, or just walked around in the French Quarter dropping into galleries and shops. They had family passes for Audubon Zoo and the Aquarium of the Americas on the Mississippi River. Today would be the first different Saturday.
Faith Ann used the small Mag-Lite, as she needed it to see in the dark bunker beneath her home. She used the kitchen shears to free the Walkman from its plastic cocoon. She put in the batteries and slipped on the earplug-style phones. She put in her tape, rewound it, and pressed Play. The sound of her mother's voice coming through the earphones filled her with a deep, painful sadness. As the tape played, however, that emptiness changed into anger that she directed at the Spanish policeman who had killed her mother. After the tape ended, she turned off the player and took off the earphones. Without the earphones, the player just fit inside the sandwich bag. She laid out the poncho on the dirt and lay down in the darkness with her head resting on her pillow. She scrunched herself up into a fetal curl, buried her hands in the pouch of her sweatshirt, and stared into the shadows.
An image of Horace Pond formed in her mind. In a way, although he hadn't done the murders he was supposed to die for doing, he was kind of responsible for two. It seemed to Faith Ann that if her mother hadn't been Horace Pond's appeals attorney, she would be alive, because Amber wouldn't have ever called her. Faith Ann found herself wishing that Horace Pond had been guilty and that Amber hadn't had any evidence to prove he wasn't guilty of killing that judge and his wife. But Uncle Hank had often said, “What is, is.” It meant that you can only deal with the reality of a situation. That reality was that she had to do something or Horace Pond would die that night. But what?
God, as you know, Mama and I don't spent much time in your church. Please bless my Mama, Uncle Hank, and my Aunt Millie, who are all up there with you in Heaven. Tell them that I love them.
You know, you and me are about the only ones that know Horace Pond isn't a murderer. And just us know that Jerry man told the Spanish policeman to shoot Mama and Amber. God, we both know they'll kill me if they can get hold of me and I'm really scared to get killed, but it isn't because I don't want to go to Heaven or anything because I'm sure it's really nice. Please, Sir, I really, really, hope you can help me out. Maybe you could send an angel who can help me. Amen.
33
From his desk out in the bull pen, Manseur could see—through the open door of his office—Captain Suggs sitting at his desk. Normally on Saturday, Suggs would already be sitting on the porch of his fishing cabin near Pass Manchac, sucking expensive hooch out of a plastic cup and casting bait out into the murky water, hoping to catch fish he wouldn't eat.
None of the detectives in the bureau had mentioned the fact that the Porter/Lee case had been snatched away from him, but Manseur knew that they were all aware of the slight. And even though it wasn't because of anything he'd done, most of them would still figure that the reason was based on some delicious failing on his part—or that it was because his partner, Larry Bond, wasn't there. When your close rate was as high as Manseur and Bond's was, the less successful couldn't help but pray for an occasional failure to even things out. Maybe the reason Manseur was so angered was that his successes gave him—if not additional height, fuller hair, a few less pounds or a more aesthetically pleasing face—a certain luster that camouflaged his physical appearance.
Manseur's phone rang. He lifted the receiver without taking his eyes from the report on his computer screen.
“Detective Manseur.”
“Detective Manseur, this is Buddy Lee Toliver, sheriff in Assumption Parish. We met a while back when you were on the Teddy Trepanier murder. Mindy Trepanier was telling me the other day how decent you were to her during the case and how thankful she was that you brought her some peace of mind along with the justice.”
Manseur remembered the small, frail woman whose only son had been murdered in Armstrong Park by a crack addict for a grand total of three dollars and a Shell credit card. “That was kind of Mrs. Trepanier. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“Well, I hope it's more in the nature of what I can do for you. I just fished a blue Range Rover out of the Bayou, and it seems you have a BOLO out on it. Involves a homicide.”
“A fifty-seven-year-old woman—wife of a retired U.S. marshal. He's in intensive care at Charity and probably won't live. I don't guess you caught the driver for me.”
“Maybe so. I meant it involves a homicide here. There's a guy with the vehicle, and maybe he was the driver who hit your couple. All I can tell you is that somebody set the Rover on fire with a man's body inside it, then pushed it off into the bayou using another vehicle. Only trouble was that the water was about six inches too shallow and some fishermen spotted the roof sticking up through the algae. There's tire tracks in the mud coming in and going out. I did get a cast of both sets, and one matches the Rover.”
“What about an autopsy?”
“Well, he got cooked real good. I'd like to run him over to your M.E. W
e usually do that since we don't have a real pathologist. We make do with a retired pediatric surgeon who does autopsies because nobody in their right mind will let him operate on a live child. This corpse has a dented-in skull, and I don't need an autopsy to tell me he was murdered. Tell the truth, I'm hoping he expired over there in New Orleans and was driven here for disposal.”
“When is he coming over?”
“I'll have the Rover towed to your garage so your people can process it. Corpse is ready to leave out of here now. I'll have him on a table in your M.E.'s suite within the hour. If he died here, I guess we'll work it, and we'll have better information to go on. With any luck he died on your side of the fence, and I'll read about you solving it in the newspaper.”
“I hope he died here too, Sheriff,” the New Orleans cop said bluntly.
Manseur suppressed a joyous yell. He dropped the receiver into place. His excitement was diminished by the sight of Suggs strolling across the bull pen toward his desk, carrying a steaming mug of coffee.
“How's the Trammel hit-and-run coming?” Suggs asked. “The old retired marshal and his wife.”
“The Rover just turned up in Assumption Parish with a corpse inside it—torched and pushed off into the bayou. Body is already on its way over.”
Suggs's frown deepened. “You mean somebody killed the driver?”
“Sheriff says there were tire tracks from a second vehicle on the scene, and his skull was crushed in.”
“So, like maybe some kid out joyriding hit the Trammels. And he had a pal follow him out to get rid of the Rover and the perp killed him and drove his car back. Something like that, you think?”
“It might be,” Manseur said cautiously. “It tracks that the driver killed the only person who could tie him to the event. Could be a kid, as far as I know. M.E. will give me an age.”
Suggs's brow creased. “Kids are psychos these days. It's those damn video games. Did you know that Trammel fellow had some friends? I've fielded calls this morning from the assistant director of the USMS, and Texas congressman Ross Fulgam. Seems Trammel's father was a Texas Ranger, killed on the job. Trammel was a decorated veteran.”
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