She walked to the aquarium and stood near the entrance, watching people. She saw a mother and her daughter, hand in hand, vanish into the building. Taking off her backpack, Faith Ann found her mother's cell phone and dialed. When the familiar voice answered, “Hello?” she felt small and terrified and before she knew it she started crying.
“I . . . I . . . I. Rush . . .” she managed to say. “It's me, Faith Ann. Please . . . I need help.”
52
Winter and Adams took Winter's Stratus, and Nicky followed driving Adams's Chevrolet. They arrived outside the River Club and parked in the lot. Nicky stopped the Chevrolet thirty feet away from them.
“Okay, Nicky,” Winter said into his radio. “Adams and I'll rattle this buzzard's cage. I'll radio if we need you inside.”
As the pair walked off, Nicky's voice came over the radio. “Ten-four.”
Inside the foyer, the smiling hostess was bantering with a group of men, one of whom Winter recognized as the previous mayor of New Orleans, the son of another mayor long dead. As the local dignitaries were being led to a table, Winter and Adams waited for the hostess to return.
“Two?” she asked cheerfully. “Smoking or nonsmoking?”
Adams opened his badge case and showed it to her. “We need to speak to Mr. Bennett,” he said.
“I'll see if he's in,” she said, a pained smile freezing on her face. “Can I tell him what this is in reference to?”
“Shouldn't you see if he's in first?” Adams replied.
She lifted the telephone on the lectern and punched three digits. “Is the boss in?” she asked. After a short pause, she said, “There are two gentlemen to see Mr. Bennett. FBI agents.”
She listened and looked back up at Adams. “Might I say what this is in reference to?”
“We'll handle that,” Adams said flatly.
The hostess said, “Just go straight to the rear near the bathrooms. The iron gate will be open. His office is at the end.”
Winter and Adams walked toward the rear, skirting the dining tables. He caught sight of two people who fit Clara Hughes's description cut across the restaurant from the office area and exit through a side door. Winter keyed the radio. “Nicky, the couple in the Lincoln are exiting the far side of the building. Follow them.”
“I see them, and I'm so there,” Nicky's voice replied. “Leather lady and Stick climbed into a big bad black Lincoln, just like the neighbor lady said.”
“Stick on them,” Winter said. “But don't get too close.”
Now they would find out who the couple were.
“Well, that's an interesting turn,” Adams said.
“Nicky, we're going in to see the guy. Radio silence unless there's an emergency.” Winter shut off his cell phone as they passed through the ornamental iron doors.
Jerry Bennett's secretary was a plump, orange-haired woman seated at a desk, blinking owlishly. Her face was as round as a pie tin, and her red lips were surrounded by thin lines, like metal fatigue cracks. Her irises were the color of mud, and her eyelids seemed to be trembling under the weight of green eyeshadow. “Can I help you?”
Adams flashed his badge. “Special Agent John Adams. Jerry Bennett, please.”
“He's expecting you,” she said. She got up, crossed to a tall, solid oak door, and held it open for them.
Jerry Bennett's office was spacious and elegantly modern. Illumination was provided by hidden light fixtures. The club owner approached the two men and extended his hand, which, since neither man moved to shake it, remained suspended before him until he lowered it and sat down behind the desk. The thick surface of the desk was granite, the edges rough as though something with very hard teeth had chewed on it.
“May I see your credentials?” he said, focusing first on Winter and then on Adams.
Adams held his ID inches from Bennett's eyes. Winter pulled out his badge case, and Bennett read it silently. If the presence of a marshal meant anything to him he didn't show it.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“We're looking into something, and a name came up that seems to be connected to you.”
“Please, sit,” Bennett said.
Adams and Winter sat in the two chairs across from the club owner. Adams opened a small notebook and stared at what Winter saw was a blank page. He took out a ballpoint, snapped its tip out, and positioned it over the page.
“Amber Lee,” Adams said after a few more seconds of silence.
“I didn't know that the FBI investigates murders.”
“Did I say we were investigating murders?”
Bennett reacted by shifting in his seat and smiling sickly. “No, I guess not.”
“That would be an NOPD matter,” Adams said. “Unless it somehow wasn't being handled legitimately.”
“Poor woman,” Bennett murmured.
“Yes,” Adams agreed. “Poor woman indeed.”
“Unfortunate, what happened,” Bennett said, lowering his eyes to the desktop.
“You filed charges against her,” Adams asked, snapping the ballpoint.
“I didn't want to. We go back a long way, Amber and I. At one time, we were very close. I've known . . . I knew her for over twenty years.”
“And yet she stole from you,” Adams said.
“That was . . .”
“Unfortunate?” Adams snapped the ballpoint on, made a note, clicked it off, and looked back up at Bennett.
Bennett nodded. “Very. I've thought about it a great deal. It's very painful, as you can imagine. Maybe she needed money and was embarrassed to ask. I can't understand it, because I paid her quite well.”
“How much?”
“I'm sorry?”
“How much did she steal?”
“I believe it was fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty even?”
“Yes.”
“Your bookkeeper caught it?”
“No, it was in my drawer.”
“Fifty thousand dollars . . . in cash?”
“Yes.” Bennett nodded.
Adams scribbled. Clicked the pen closed.
Bennett cleared his throat. “Of course, I had to file charges. My insurance requires I do that if they are going to pay on my loss-by-theft policy.”
“Insurance company?” Adams clicked the pen and poised it over the pad.
“I'm sorry?”
“You filed a claim. I need the name of the company and the claims agent. So I can check it. Routine procedure.”
“Well . . . I haven't filed a claim yet . . . I will. My insurance broker is Felix Argent at Argent Consolidated. I'm not sure which company he has that handles that coverage. He uses lots of underwriting companies.”
Click. “So, Felix Argent advised you to file charges.”
“A policeman did.”
“The policeman who investigated the theft? It was investigated?”
Bennett nodded. “Look, I knew she took it. It was in my safe, she was the only other one in here who had the combination, and she left and it was gone.” He held out his open hands. “I was actually advised to file charges by a policeman, a close friend of mine, who said I would need that to collect on that kind of policy. I'm not sure Felix and I have talked about it yet. I've been extremely busy.”
Scribble. Click. “And no doubt grieving,” Adams said.
Adams's delivery was so deadpan that he could have been reading the questions out of an instruction book. Winter didn't do anything other than watch in solemn silence. It was a technique like the way Adams clicked the pen to make Bennett nervous. A mysterious U.S. marshal and an annoying FBI agent.
Silence for fifteen seconds. Click. “The name of this policeman friend?”
“Suggs. Homicide Commander Captain Harvey Suggs.”
“I see,” Adams said, not writing the name at all. “That wouldn't be the same Captain Suggs who is overseeing the Porter/Lee murder cases?”
“Is he? I suppose he would be in charge of the detectives who are. You'd hav
e to ask him.”
“Yes, I would,” Adams agreed. “I would indeed.”
Winter studied the club owner, spotting the tells, charting the lies. Bennett wasn't a talented liar, His eyes rolled up and to the right about every time he answered one of Adams's questions. He drummed his fingers on his desk and swallowed constantly. He wasn't just nervous, he was afraid, and he had been totally blindsided by their sudden appearance. Adams was shaking his tree and the miserable creature across from them was holding on for dear life.
“Did you know Kimberly Porter?”
“Who?”
“The second homicide victim.”
“The murderer's mother?”
“Suggs tell you the child was the killer?”
“Well, I just assumed it, I guess. I haven't spoken to Harvey. Not since it happened.”
Adams wrote that down. “After your friend Amber is murdered, you didn't call to ask Suggs about it? Not even seek more of his valuable advice? So, you haven't spoken to him in . . . how long?”
“In two weeks. Since the theft.”
“And you didn't know Kimberly Porter.”
“No. I never met her, as far as I know. I talk to hundreds of people in the course of my businesses.”
“Well, I guess you wouldn't have. Mrs. Porter didn't hang out in clubs like yours, probably didn't eat a lot of artificially spiced fried chicken. She was a Death Row appeals specialist, and a mother.”
Something in Bennett's eyes changed. They hardened and he seemed to have gained control of his fear. He leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers across his stomach. “I may have read that she was a lawyer. I don't have much to do with people on Death Row.”
“And did Amber Lee have much to do with people on Death Row?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Then it must seem particularly bizarre to you that Ms. Lee would be meeting with her, doesn't it?”
“I wouldn't know what she was meeting with that attorney about.”
“Are you aware that she had approached the FBI?”
“Lawyer Porter?”
Adams looked down and made notes on the pad.
“Would you know what information Ms. Lee may have had about one of Ms. Porter's clients being innocent—of knowing who the real killer was? Of having proof of it in her hands.”
“Ms. Lee never mentioned having any knowledge of any murder case. But in the past few years, we weren't as close as we once were.”
“How close were you two, in the years when you were close?”
“That is none of the FBI's business,” he said, standing abruptly. “Gentlemen, that's the end of this conversation. If you want to discuss anything else with me, submit your questions in writing to my attorney.”
Click. Adams closed his pad and pocketed it.
“There is just one more thing,” Winter said.
Bennett stood rigid, staring indignantly into Winter's eyes.
“What do you know about Hank Trammel?”
“Who?”
“United States Marshal Hank Trammel.”
“Never heard of him.”
Winter exhaled, disappointed. If his internal lie detector was working, Jerry Bennett was telling the truth . . . about that one thing.
53
Nicky Green followed the Lincoln toward the Quarter, but either the driver spotted him or she was really in a big hurry: she out-negotiated him through the traffic. He got stuck between several vehicles at a traffic light on Canal Street, unable to follow. He decided that being so close to the Monteleone Hotel, there was something he could do while he was alone.
Nicky parked in a loading zone and, entering the hotel lobby from the rear, strode to the elevator bank. He took a car up to the fourth floor. As he approached Adams's room, Nicky opened his wallet and slid out what appeared to be a credit card. There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob. He slid the electronic device into the electronic lock slot, the red light changed from red to green and the lock mechanism clicked loudly. Master key. Don't leave home without it.
As he opened the door, Nicky looked down and spotted a small sliver of paper fluttering to the carpet. Adams had put it between the door and the jamb so he'd know if he'd had any visitors during his absence. The paper was close enough to the color of the carpeting that it wouldn't be noticed by anyone who wasn't looking for that trap. Not exactly something the FBI should feel a need to do. Nicky took the sliver and placed it inside the door on the carpet, planning to replace it when he left. He checked his watch, knowing he couldn't afford to spend more than five minutes inside the room.
At first Nicky didn't see anything unusual. An inexpensive suitcase was perched on the folding rack at the foot of the bed. He knelt and studied it. The thumb releases had been polished so that any finger oil would leave a visible print. Using a tissue as a makeshift glove, Nicky opened the case. It had been packed with precision. Moving as fast as possible, he memorized the positions of everything on the top layer, then exposed the next layer with the care of an archaeologist. The shirts, slacks, and undergarments were all new. There were no hidden compartments in the case. Disappointed, he replaced everything exactly as he'd found it. He looked under the bed, checked the closet, where there was a lone gray suit—a duplicate of the one Adams was wearing—hanging, but Nicky hadn't seen any neckties. A man who wore suits every day should have had several.
The bathroom gave Adams away. The toilet articles were all unused. This room was a decoy. Nicky knelt and studied the knob on the adjoining door and found that it was also polished clean, not something most hotel maids would think to do. He looked and spotted a single broom straw leaned against the bottom left edge of the door that opened directly into the next room.
Nicky opened the door into John Everett Adams's lair. Clothes were thrown over a chair. An open suitcase on the floor contained more clothes. There were two Brioni suits, two pairs of slacks, and an Armani sports coat. There was a suitcase beside the dresser which contained eyeglasses, mustaches, wigs, and makeup. The Halliburton case on the bed contained a foam bed cut out for two handguns, two knives, an array of bullets, a noise suppressor, and assorted electronic devices. Carefully Nicky moved the upper foam insert and discovered six envelopes there. He opened one of them and slid out a Swiss passport under the name Hans Krutz. The picture was of Adams, but with his oiled hair combed to his skull. There were credit cards and photos of him with a wife and two kids.
“Well paint my butt red and call me a baboon,” Nicky whispered.
Obviously Adams, or whoever he was, was a professional, but what was he after and who was he working for? What was his interest in Trammel? Or was it Porter that he was interested in? Had he joined them to get to the girl? Was he covering Bennett's or the cops' backs—a safety in case Massey found her first? How could he know so much about Winter Massey and, for that matter, himself? He had to keep an eye on Adams, and first chance he got he would let Winter know that Adams was a fraud—a very dangerous one.
Nicky heard someone out in the hallway, so he returned the items and pocketed the envelope. It wouldn't be Adams, but he might have a partner staking out his hide. He pulled Trammel's .45 and closed the case.
Nicky saw the shadows of feet pass under the door to the hallway. He approached the door, held his breath, and waited. Someone pressed against the wood and he aimed the pistol at the door, bracing himself for someone to burst in. In his mind he saw the shots and his exact escape route from the scene—the corpse he would leave behind.
He heard voices, and he moved to the door and pressed his ear against it. He smiled as he identified two distinct voices, almost whispering. A man and a woman. It sounded to Nicky as if she was being pressed against the door.
“Let's go into my room,” a male voice urged.
“What if he comes back and I'm not there?”
“He's with George and them. They'll be drinking for hours.”
“I guess so. What are you doing? Damn it, Frank, not here.”
/>
“Come on, Betts, you're wet already.”
She giggled. “Stop it. What if somebody comes?”
“I'm going to come. Feel that? It's about to explode.”
“All right. Ten minutes and I mean it.”
“I'll make it in five.”
Nicky looked through the peephole and saw an overweight couple disappear into a doorway across the hall.
He retraced his steps, replacing first the straw and then the chip of paper as he left.
John Adams had dismissed him as an incompetent, crippled bum. Nicky Green knew the value of having people underestimate you.
Sometimes Providence smiles. Nicky was heading back toward the River Club when he spotted the black Lincoln Town Car parked on the edge of a public lot across the street from the Wyndham Hotel. He drove slowly by the car, making sure it was the right license plate. How can it get any better than this? He scanned the lot, looking for the couple, but didn't see them. Well, they'll be back. His radio coming to life startled him.
“Nicky, we're all done. You still on the pair?”
“I'm at the Lincoln. I got caught in traffic. They parked in the lot and they're on foot. I'm trying to spot them. You guys meet me here, and we can spread out and look for them.”
“We're on the way,” Winter said.
54
Concord, North Carolina
When the phone rang, Rush Massey was sitting in the porch swing listening to the latest Harry Potter novel on CD over a portable entertainment center roughly the size of a breadbox that sat on a Stickley side table.
Nemo, who had been sound asleep on the tile floor beneath the swing, barked in alarm.
“Like I couldn't hear the dang phone, Nemo.” He stood and went inside with the dog close behind him. The call wouldn't go on to the answering service until the sixth ring because Sean hated to have to run to answer it. At that moment she was across town grocery shopping. Rush would have let it ring but for the chance it might be his father calling with news about Faith Ann. More likely it was Sean with a question about something he might not eat. She was still getting accustomed to his tastes, so if he didn't accompany her to the store she often called for his food-related advice. He turned into the home office and, putting the book down, lifted the receiver.
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