Suggs didn't answer the question. Manseur noticed that the tops of his chief's ears were turning crimson. “So, how's the Trammel case coming? I'm getting calls from all over on it. You haven't requested help.”
“Haven't needed any yet. It's still preliminary.”
“You look at the Trammels' room at the guesthouse?”
“Nothing there. I sealed it for the time being.”
“Did Trammel make any calls from the guesthouse?”
“No sir.”
“He have a cell phone?”
“His took a bath in a pothole. Hers was there, but the last number she called was U.S. Air. The techs are supposed to try and retrieve the stored numbers from the chip, if they can. They're backed up.”
“I see. What did the Rover yield?”
“They just started going over it. But anything useful was burned up. Body's been autopsied.”
“And?”
“Burned up too. Not much to go on. No I.D. Some dental work. Head crushed in, neck broken manually afterward. Homicide. Looks like a professional job.”
“That's your take now?”
“Like I said earlier, there were at least two vehicles, so at least two people involved. Maybe our stiff's the driver, maybe the partner. It looks like it could be a professional hit and the killer covered his tracks. Or something else. Hard to tell with what I have to work with.”
“Motive?”
“None that's obvious yet. Trammel was a U.S. marshal. Who knows?”
“You notify next of kin?”
“Not yet. His friend said he thought Mrs. Trammel had a sister living here and that the Trammels were going to see her today. I hoped to get that this morning from the marshals office, but it's Saturday. I asked the clerk at the guesthouse to call me if anyone inquired about them. If they were supposed to see the sister today, she'll call their guesthouse. The staff at the guesthouse will forward any inquiries to me,” Manseur said.
“Well, we withheld the Trammels' names until notification,” he continued. “The friend, that P.I., called a pal of the Trammels' in North Carolina who is supposed to come in today and handle things until we locate Mrs. Trammel's sister. I haven't spoken to him yet. He's supposed to call when he gets in.”
“Are you saying that you're at an impasse?” Suggs asked.
“At the moment all I can do is wait for everything to come in. I don't see anything breaking before Monday. Bond will be back, and we can hit it hard,” Manseur answered.
Manseur had held Suggs's stare since the conversation started. He noticed beads of sweat had gathered over his chief's upper lip—a sign that he was nervous. Manseur tried to imagine how his superior was going to play this. Suggs didn't know Manseur knew that the cases were linked, because Manseur didn't have the Porters' telephone records which established their link to the Trammels. He didn't believe that Suggs could afford to inform him of the connection yet. He knew Suggs had no solid reason to take the Trammel case away from him, unless he exposed that link and could justify taking the case on some pretext, as opposed to having Manseur, Tin Man, and Doyle working as a team. Down deep, Manseur was enjoying Suggs's discomfort. He wondered how Winter Massey's appearance would affect his comfort level.
“Have you considered the possibility of old enemies? Perhaps this might be connected to that mess last year Trammel was involved in.”
“What thing is that?” Manseur asked, feigning confusion.
“The shootout between the marshals and the FBI, with Manelli? You might consider revenge. Maybe some gangster spotted him?”
Manseur managed a look of surprise. “The Sam Manelli thing? You mean that's the same Trammel? It never occurred to me, and the P.I. didn't mention it.” He touched his palm to his forehead.
“You didn't know it was the same Trammel?”
“No. It could explain some things. Like you just said—it's a motive.”
“An obvious motive,” Suggs agreed.
“Mob revenge. A mob angle,” Manseur said. “There was another marshal who was wounded. What was his name?”
Suggs seemed to be leading Manseur close to the Porter case. Maybe he was trying to trap Manseur, believing that his detective must have already made the Trammel/Massey connection, and possibly even knew what the Porter/Trammel connection was.
“Massey,” Suggs said, “guy has a reputation for attracting violence. He killed three men in Tampa, years ago. . . .”
“Who were trying to free a drug lord in the federal courthouse.”
Suggs nodded. “And here, fourteen months back . . . Well, you know all about that one.”
“He still out of North Carolina, you think?” Manseur took the casebook from his pocket and made a show of turning pages slowly as though he was reading through his notes. “Jesus,” he said, tapping a page with a fingertip, “sure is. Winter Massey. I can't believe I didn't put it together.”
“After you speak to Massey, I want to be filled in on his plans. If that marshal goes off on some sort of vendetta and creates any sort of havoc . . . I won't stand for that. You warn him about that. Be firm.”
“I'll sound him out. Maybe he knows who might still want to pay Hank Trammel back for all that . . .”
“Unpleasantness,” Suggs said, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. “Just keep me in the loop, Manseur. Whatever you get, pass on to me. If you talk to Massey or the missing sister, I want to know what they say ASAP.”
“Soon as I talk to them. Frankly, Chief, I have some other cases that I need to check in on. I thought this one was in limbo at the moment. I've been running without sleep.”
“Do what you can. Being Saturday and all, Monday should be when you can get your teeth into this one. Okay, no biggie. Just keep me in the loop and if you need anything, just ask. We have to wrap this one up. Big brother looking over our shoulders and all that happy crap.”
“I will,” Manseur said, standing. “How's the Porter/Lee case coming?”
“Tinnerino and Doyle are working it from several angles. They're getting closer to the girl.”
“Someone told me the BOLO said she's armed and dangerous.”
“We have reason to believe that is the case.”
“But you have the murder weapon.”
“She could have another weapon. It's extremely possible she had help. Maybe an older boyfriend. You're familiar with the Charlie Starkweather case from the fifties.”
“So you think some Starkweather-type boyfriend might have given the kid another gun?”
“That's what Tinnerino thinks.”
“Was the silencer found with the gun?”
“Silencer?” Suggs's eyes opened wide. “Who said anything about a silencer?”
“The M.E. on the Rover stiff mentioned the Porter and Lee wounds had strands of steel wool in them. Naturally I assumed it was from a silencer, since steel wool is commonly packed inside the baffle sleeve to absorb sound. The gun that killed Porter and Lee was a .380 automatic, wasn't it?”
“A Taurus.”
Manseur knew they'd have the serial number, which would make it difficult for anybody to swap the weapon with another, nonthreaded piece. Ballistics had matched the gun to the bullets. “Must have been evidence that a noise suppressor was attached to it. I bet the inside of the barrel is threaded.”
“I'll look into it,” Suggs said.
Manseur stood. “I'm sure Tinnerino and Doyle know how unusual it is for a twelve-year-old to have access to that sort of equipment. I'd love to know who the girl's accomplice is. I'm betting you'll find out he's a professional.”
Manseur walked from the room, wondering if he should have dropped that silencer information on Suggs just yet. At least Suggs was on notice that he'd have to be very careful about what happened from that point out. It would give his chief something else to occupy himself with. The more pressure that was put on Suggs and his detectives, the freer Manseur would be to work under their radar.
46
The knowledge that Horace
Pond's time was growing shorter by the second propelled Faith Ann Porter's steps. It was early afternoon when she crossed North Rampart Street and made her way up the sidewalk beside the brick wall that protected Saint Louis Number One, the most famous cemetery in the country after Arlington, from unauthorized visitors. Faith Ann had visited voodoo priestess Marie Lebeau's tomb in there.
She turned the corner and strode down the street that separated the Iberville housing projects from the cemetery. Her mother's friend, Sister Ellen Proctor, lived in a unit in the projects her Catholic order kept there for the sister's ministry to help the underprivileged. If anybody could help her now, the world-famous Sister Ellen could.
She didn't know which building Sister Ellen Proctor lived in. She had been there twice with her mother to pick up the anti–capital punishment nun, who was the spiritual adviser to several Death Row residents and wrote books on how bad the death penalty was. On both occasions, the nun had been waiting on the sidewalk for them to pick her up. Both times there had been people waiting there with her. Even though she was white, Sister Ellen liked living there instead of in a convent, and she'd told Kimberly that she wasn't in any danger in the all-minority projects. Kimberly had told Faith Ann that the people in the place loved the nun and protected her. Some of the automobiles parked on the street looked nice, while others like they belonged in a junkyard.
The two-story brick buildings stood lined up on land that was mostly bare dirt divided by sidewalks with a few shade trees scattered around. Some of the units had sheets of weathered plywood covering their doors and windows. On several of the concrete porches and around the buildings, people congregated, enjoying the autumn sunshine. Some were already drinking beer, while others seemed to be outside to keep an eye on the children, who were playing noisily.
As Faith Ann crossed the street, she was aware that people were watching her, as if trying to decide whether she might represent a threat. Faith Ann had assumed that since Sister Ellen was a resident and accepted as a friend of the community, that she would be too. As she approached a group of teenagers however she learned she was wrong.
A skinny boy of perhaps sixteen, whose crisp jersey and new denims would have fit someone twice his size, turned from his friends and faced her head-on. His reddish hair was in dreadlocks, his skin was almost as light as her own, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. His eyes reflected an arrogant surliness. And his front teeth were veneered in gold.
“You looking for something, zoo boy? You looking for a hookup?”
“Yes,” Faith Ann replied, stopping five feet short of the red-haired teenager.
“What it is? Chronic? Somethin' lil' heavier?”
“I'm looking for Sister Ellen.”
“Never heard of her. Y'all know no sistah name of Ellen?”
The others exchanged looks; the fattest one giggled nervously.
“You packin' any presidents?” the leader asked her.
“Yeah,” the heavyset boy joined in. “What you gone buy rock with?”
“Rock?” Faith Ann really wanted to turn and run, but another sullen boy moved up behind her.
“You lookin' to score, or what?”
“I'm looking for Sister Ellen Proctor, the nun. She lives here.”
“White lady?”
Faith Ann nodded.
“Sheeeeet. This look like a place for white nuns?”
“Maybe he thinks this is a Catholic school.” The fat boy stepped closer.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Faith Ann said, feeling scared.
“Maybe you got the wrong projects.” The leader held out his hand. “Let me hold your lid for a second.”
Before Faith Ann could respond, he jerked off her cap and was studying it.
“How much you give for this here?” the red-haired leader asked her.
“Twelve dollars.”
“I'll sell it back to you for five.”
“That's a good deal,” the fat boy piped up. “Cute-ass hat like that gots to be worth twenty.”
“Keep it,” Faith Ann managed to say.
“I don't want no zoo hat. Zoo hats for faggots. I look like a fag to you?”
“He called you a faggot,” another boy jeered. “You gone let him do that?”
The blow came out of nowhere, and Faith Ann was surprised to find herself sitting on her butt, looking up at the boys, the one in dreads smiling malevolently, showing her his fist. “You fall down, zoo boy?” Faith Ann felt the numbness where the sharp knuckles had connected with her cheekbone. She had never before been punched in the face and she was scared.
The skinny leader tossed the hat onto Faith Ann's chest, held out his open hand. “I said five dollars for the hat. That other was for calling me a faggot, faggot. You lucky I don't put one between your eyes.” He put his hand inside his large shirt, suggesting he had a gun.
“What you got in the book bag, bee-otch?” the fat boy demanded.
“Nothing,” Faith Ann stammered.
“Give me some money, zoo boy.”
Faith Ann weighed her options. Nobody was going to rush up to help her, she couldn't fight them all, and she sure wasn't going to let them have the backpack because of what it contained.
“Okay,” she said, standing, with the hat clasped in her left hand. “I'll give you some money.”
The leader backed up, his bright eyes filled with anticipation.
Faith Ann faced the wall of boys, reached into her pocket and slipped her fingers around the wad of bills. She jerked her hand out, then tossed the currency that came out with it, where the breeze caught it and turned the wad into a fluttering cloud of bills. Faith Ann turned and ran.
“Come back here!” the leader hollered—like there was some chance of that happening.
Faith Ann didn't slow down until she was back across North Rampart Street and two blocks into the French Quarter. If Sister Ellen was in there, she was beyond Faith Ann's reach. Maybe she was at the prison telling Horace Pond that Jesus loved him.
47
Winter parked in front of the house next door to the Porter residence, a narrow wood-frame raised shotgun. He climbed from his car and noticed a woman peering out at him through the screen door of the next house over. Most of the houses in the uptown neighborhood were attractive, the yards well kept. The Porter house was light gray with dark gray shutters, a burgundy-painted concrete porch, and a glass-panel burgundy front door. A picket fence stretched across the front, but the fence running down either side of the lot was of hurricane wire. A freestanding cinder-block garage beside the house was painted the same gray as the house.
“Hello there,” he called cheerfully to the woman.
She opened the door and came out on the porch, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing to protect her cotton housedress. She was thin, probably in her late sixties, and wore her hair in a bun. She had a noticeable mustache.
“Can I help you, young man?”
He opened her gate and stepped into her yard, which unlike the Porters' was filled to bursting with raised flower beds, enough plants to fill a nursery. Dozens of flower pots cut the porch's usable sitting space down to the rocking chair she occupied.
“I'm U.S. Deputy Marshal Winter Massey. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“I expect you want to ask about Mrs. Porter,” she replied, shaking her head. “Nice lady. Her daughter is a sweet girl. Y'all find her yet?”
“When did you see her last?”
“I saw them both a couple of days ago. I always speak to them, and they are friendly enough, but they kind of stay to themselves. Faith Ann is sweet and very smart. Most kids her age aren't nearly as nice or able to have conversations with adults. I sure hope she's okay. It's just horrible what happened. I told the other police that I'd call if I saw her.”
Winter said, “I'm a friend of Kimberly's sister and her husband, and Faith Ann is a close friend of my son's. I'm trying to find her on my own.”
“Are you sure . . . Are you really a police
man?”
“I'm a United States marshal.”
“Could you show me?”
He came up to the porch and handed her up his badge and I.D.
“Thought you might be a reporter. Several been by to ask me a lot of questions too, but I couldn't help them. Truth is, I only made small talk with the Porters over the fence, how neighbors do. I gave her a recipe here and there. Faith Ann was the one who generally cooked, because her mama wasn't interested in it. I know Mrs. Porter worshipped that girl and vice versa.” She smiled. “They would sit on the porch and talk and laugh and went almost everywhere together. Close, don't you see. Like best friends. They liked keeping their own company.”
The woman handed Winter back his badge case. “I'm Clara Hughes.”
“Nice to meet you. So, how many policemen searched the house?”
“Let me think . . . First, yesterday morning, the regular police came in a police car, but they didn't go in. They just walked around looking in windows. I thought that was odd, but it wasn't any of my business. I didn't know what it was about then. After a while, the man officer got in his car and he must have parked it somewhere else, because he walked back around the corner from Marengo Street, and those two sort of watched over the place.
“Later on two police detectives came, and the uniformed police left. Then the detectives went inside, and this other pair pulled up in a big Lincoln Continental and they went in too. The second bunch left after maybe forty-five minutes. They took a shopping bag with them. The two detectives stayed longer. I heard all kinds of racket in there like they were breaking things. I wasn't trying to listen, you understand. My windows were open to catch the breeze.”
“They were probably other detectives,” Winter said, making a mental note to ask Manseur about the couple in the Lincoln.
“They weren't dressed in suits like the other two. The young man was very handsome with his hair combed straight back like a movie star. Not tall as you, sort of thin, and he had a long black coat on. She was dressed up kind of fancy.”
“She? Fancy how?”
“Sort of, I don't know . . . almost like fashion models.”
Upside Down Page 16
