“Who's in charge?” Adams asked him.
“I am,” Tinnerino said. “Just stay out of the way, agents.”
“I'm not an FBI agent,” Winter said.
“No, he's a federal fugitive specialist—United States deputy marshal,” Adams said.
“This is NOPD business,” Tinnerino said acidly, but he was flustered and sweating.
“We can help,” Adams said.
“You can help by keeping out of our way.”
“So, who did this little girl murder?” Adams asked.
“Two people. Her mother and . . .” Tinnerino's eyes changed, and he cocked his large head to one side as he realized that he hadn't said the suspect was female or a little girl.
“Amber Lee,” Adams said.
“That's right.” Tinnerino's mean eyes were like small black stones.
“You don't actually believe that,” Winter said.
“I've warned you to stay out of this. You have no right to interfere.”
“I don't see how we can stay out of it,” Winter said. “The odds are too heavily stacked against her to be fair.” He turned and started into the parking deck.
“He's right,” Adams said. “I think we'll interfere. Stand down, Officer.”
“Wait just a damned minute,” Tinnerino bellowed at Winter's back. “If you step one foot into that building, I will arrest you.”
Winter stopped and turned. “Listen, Tin Man,” he said. “There won't be any trouble as long as you keep your people out here. We're going to go in.”
“Yes, we are,” Adams said.
“I'm in charge here!” Tinnerino snapped. “You two have no authority here.”
“Get your superior on the phone,” Winter said. “Ask him if you can arrest us to stop us from entering that complex.”
“Ask him yourself,” Tinnerino said as a Crown Victoria screeched up to the curb, rocking on its suspension. A stocky man with white hair got out and, his radio in one beefy hand, strode up onto the sidewalk to where the trio was standing. His red golf jacket didn't cover the mother-of-pearl–handled, short-barreled Python in his side holster.
“What's happening, Detective?”
“Captain Suggs, we have the Porter girl cornered inside.”
“That's what I understood.” He stared suspiciously at Winter and Adams. “And?”
“These two are attempting to go inside against my orders. I was about to arrest them.”
“No, we weren't attempting anything,” Adams told him. “We were going inside. We have noted your detective's strong advice not to, but I think we'll be just fine.”
“Let's see some I.D.”
Winter and Adams opened their badge cases.
Winter saw Suggs's discomfort and uncertainty when he read his name.
“There isn't any federal crime here. We don't require, and I haven't requested, your involvement. To the contrary, I suggest you both stay back and let my men do their jobs,” Suggs said. “Tinnerino and Doyle will go in first.”
“Can we speak in private?” Winter asked.
Suggs followed Winter over beside his car. Adams stood behind Suggs, his back to Tin Man.
Winter spoke in a low voice so he wouldn't be overheard.
“I have known Faith Ann Porter and her family for years. My son and Faith Ann are close friends. Her uncle is a dear friend and was my boss.”
“You know who her next of kin is? We haven't notified them yet, because we didn't know specifics about the Porter family.” Winter read the lie in Suggs's eyes.
“You mean when Detectives Tinnerino and Doyle ransacked the Porter house, there were no letters, address books . . . phone records?” Adams said. “Now, I find that very strange that an attorney like her didn't keep records.”
“What do you mean ransack? Of course they searched the house for evidence. And they found plenty.”
“I'm at a disadvantage because I don't know what they found,” Winter lied. “I know only that Faith Ann Porter didn't kill anybody. Maybe you don't know that, but if you knew that little girl you would.”
“There's conclusive evidence that she is absolutely guilty.”
Adams said, “I'd be very sure of that—not only of the evidence's authenticity. I was you, I'd be sure it'll hold up under the scrutiny of our forensics people.”
“Very sure indeed,” Winter added. “What I believe is that whoever did it also ran down her aunt and uncle, Hank and Millie Trammel. You are familiar with the Trammel hit-and-run case? Last night, uptown. Vehicle dumped into the bayou with a stiff inside it. You have the vehicle impounded. There was an autopsy on the body.” Winter gave Suggs a suspicious look.
“Detective Manseur mentioned he spoke to you. He didn't say that the Trammels and the Porters were related.”
“I didn't tell him.”
Suggs's ears were turning red; beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip.
“I've been asking around,” Adams said. “I was told Manseur was primary on the Porter case but that he was pulled off before he could get into it good. What I find curious is that Manseur is an exemplary detective, with a clearance ratio above average, while Tinnerino's and Doyle's reputations are less than stellar.”
“There were extenuating circumstances. Michael's partner is out of town. It was a field decision I made because I wanted manpower in motion.”
Adams nodded. “You should reconsider that ‘field' decision, because it is highly suspect when viewed with certain evidence we've already obtained.”
“If she shoots . . .” Suggs started.
Winter said, “Your men chased her here directly from the aquarium, where she went through metal detectors going and coming. We have good reason to believe Faith Ann is in danger from someone on your force, which is why Agent Adams is here. Whoever killed the child's mother is still after her and is getting real-time police intelligence.
“Agent Adams and I are going in there, and we'll escort Faith Ann out. I will be accompanying her wherever she goes from here on out, and nobody is going to interrogate her without her legal counsel, C. Errol Cunningham, present.”
Suggs's eyes reflected that he was very familiar with the energetic New Orleans criminal defense attorney—a man with an unparalleled ability to make life a living hell for anyone who found themselves opposing one of his clients.
Suggs was trying to compose himself. Winter knew the wheels in his mind were spinning as he tried to figure out what to do. “My detectives are highly competent. They didn't make the connections, because you withheld next of kin information.”
“I've been gathering information, not giving it out,” Winter said. “I'll make this easy. I'm going in now. Unless we request your assistance, no officers will come inside.”
Adams keyed his radio. “This is Number One,” he said, knowing Nicky alone would be monitoring the radio. “Massey and I are going in. Watch the perimeter. Spot anything queer, let me know immediately.”
Suggs looked around, probably trying to spot whoever Adams was addressing.
66
Winter dialed Faith Ann's cell phone as soon as they were inside. She didn't pick up.
“I'll take the main ramp. Take the elevator to the top floor of the parking deck and come down. And be careful. That couple is probably in here.”
“Number One?” Nicky's voice said.
“Here,” Winter said into his radio.
“I have Mr. Fashion outside Brooks Brothers, talking on a cellular. Okay, he's moving. Turned the corner, I think he's heading back to their car. What do you want me to do?”
“Is he moving fast?”
“No.”
Winter couldn't be sure Suggs had informed him of their presence, but it would explain why he was retreating. “Then hold your position.”
He put the radio into his pocket and started up the ramp. “Faith Ann! It's Winter Massey!”
He heard nothing but the plaintive whistle of the ferry at the base of Canal Street.
It was impossible to predict whet
her Faith Ann would stay in the deck, maybe hide in or under a car, or if she had gone into the main complex, which was what he would have done. He didn't think the police could get her out of the building without Nicky seeing the activity, but he doubted Suggs would risk having the Feds catch them at it. Suggs was either going to be very cautious now, or act in the rash manner of a desperate man. Winter hoped the captain wasn't feeling desperate yet. But since he didn't know the man, nor how dirty Suggs's hands might be, there was no way to judge what he might do.
There were a lot of places for Faith Ann to hide, but if she tried to exit the building the cops would get her for sure.
On the first parking level, after he had yelled out several times, he spotted a backpack next to the stairwell door. There was nothing on its exterior to indicate that it belonged to Faith Ann, but he knew it was hers. As soon as he saw the dark red sweatshirt and zoo cap inside, he radioed to tell Adams and Nicky that Faith Ann had changed her clothes. He had no way of knowing why she'd abandoned the pack where it would be found, unless she'd decided that it had become part of the description of her that her pursuers were going by. He wondered if she had done it to lead her pursuers in the wrong direction. If she was older, more experienced, he would have assumed it was calculated misdirection.
There was nothing else in the backpack of help, and nothing to indicate that she had been lugging it for any reason other than to hold a change of clothes. He lifted out the new Walkman—the one whose packaging he had found under the porch. He opened the battery compartment and saw that the batteries were the same brand as the two she'd left behind under the house. He put it back. Before standing, he turned his head and spotted the earphones beneath a nearby car. He reached under and lifted them out. Why had Faith Ann thrown them there?
“Adams, if you spot her, don't frighten her.”
After calling Faith's name out again, Winter dialed Kimberly Porter's cell phone again. This time Adams answered it.
“Third level. Inside the stairwell.”
Winter ran up the stairs and found Adams holding the phone in his raised hand.
“It was just sitting on the steps.”
“She left a false trail,” Winter told the federal agent. “She's long gone. I think she planted the pack on the floor below, then came up to dump the phone and went out or doubled back. She could have gone into the building next door.”
“She could be anywhere,” Adams said. “We need a psychic.”
“Exactly. Go down and tell Suggs we would like a K-9 and a handler.”
67
The small-framed, wiry German shepherd walked beside its handler, a thin NOPD officer who could have easily passed for a high-school student. Adams walked behind them. Winter wanted to start at the last place Faith Ann had been, for good reason. While Adams went for the animal, Winter had gone back down, gotten her cap from the backpack, and brought it back to the second-level stairwell where Adams had found the phone.
“Deputy Massey, this is Patrolman Gale,” Adams said. “And his partner Beaux-Beaux.”
“He's got a great nose,” the young cop said proudly.
Winter opened the door, reached in, and picked up the cap, which he had placed on the concrete floor. He handed it to Officer Gale, who held it down for the dog to sniff. Beaux-Beaux focused on the scent, made a quick circle, came straight back to the door, lowered his head and froze before the door, growling.
“He's alerting,” Gale said.
Beaux-Beaux started up the first riser, then whirled and came back down.
On the first level, the animal stopped at the door and signaled to go out. He found Faith Ann's backpack and led his handler toward the ramp down.
Winter directed the handler to take Beaux-Beaux back into the stairwell, and the animal excitedly began a descent.
“She doubled back,” Winter said.
At the bottom floor the dog led them through the double glass doors into Canal Place, but the dog didn't head straight into the area. He stopped at an unmarked steel door, put his nose to it, and barked.
Winter tried it. “Locked.”
“Beaux-Beaux says she went in there,” the handler assured them. “We can get maintenance to open it.”
“Allow me,” Adams said. “You better turn your back, Officer Gale.” He reached into his coat and took out what appeared to be a fountain pen. He popped it open and poured a pair of lock-picking tools into his palm. Using one as a tension bar, he worked the other one carefully. Within seconds Adams opened the door, and Beaux-Beaux pulled his handler through.
The animal worked its way down two hundred feet of hallway and through several doors, finally leading the trio through a physical plant packed with pieces of machinery working hard to perform tasks required to keep the building supplied with air and water.
The animal took them on a curving course between water pumps and around vents and pipes before coming to a pair of doors. They entered a wide companionway where a janitor, working within some plastic warning cones, was mopping what looked like vomit from the tiles. Beaux-Beaux sneezed violently. The scent of bleach had interrupted his trail.
Winter looked up the hallway, past where passing people hugged the wall to avoid the filthy mop water.
“Hold Beaux-Beaux here,” Winter told Gale. He and Adams walked down the hall and to an exit that opened into the lobby for the Wyndham Hotel. Faith Ann was nowhere to be seen.
Nicky's voice came over Winter's radio. “Massey?”
“Go ahead, Nicky.”
“You alone?”
“Just me and Adams at the moment.”
“I spotted the kid. I mean I think it was her.”
“Where?”
“She crossed the street from the aquarium, went over to the ferry's pedestrian walkway, got onto the ferry. I went after her, but the boat was already leaving when I got there.”
“Drive. Take the bridge over,” Winter told him sharply. “See if you can spot her. We'll be there as fast as we can get loose without creating suspicion.”
68
Faith Ann had slipped out of the hotel, made her way around the power station, and crossed the intersection near the aquarium. Police cars were everywhere, but the cops were focused on Canal Place. Crossing the intersection along with a noisy group of tourists, she passed by the concrete benches. She went up the staircase to the pedestrian walkway to the ferry.
She couldn't have timed her escape better, because as she hurried onto the moored vessel the ferry's horn blasted and the deckhand closed the steel-wire door. Within seconds she was down the stairs to the car deck, standing at the bow of the USS Thomas Jefferson, gazing across the river at Algiers Point.
As the cool wind evaporated the sweat from her face, Faith Ann went back over the escape. She had hastily switched sweatshirts in the parking deck. She had run up to the fourth level and left her cell phone there. They had the number and were somehow able to track her down when she used it. Instinctively, she knew she needed to slow her pursuers, to keep them busy trailing her without getting too close, while she figured out how to get to Mr. Massey. She had seen enough television shows to know the cops could listen in on calls if they had a number, and they could track the phone's location.
She had escaped for the moment, but there could still be cops waiting for her. She had the strangest feeling that an angel had guided her steps. She would call Rush again as soon as she was near a phone.
The envelope was tucked inside her pants, hidden by the thick, hooded gray Tulane sweatshirt. Carrying the negatives and photocopies around was too risky. She needed to hide them somewhere safe. She only had eight hours until Horace Pond was going to die.
Without any plan in mind, she closed her eyes and prayed silently. She was aware that several teenagers had joined the crowd at the bow. She looked around and saw that the boys and girls were obviously not related, and they had all come from a stretched GMC passenger van parked thirty feet away. The side door of the vehicle said UNITED CHURCH OF CHRIS
T, HATTIESBURG, MISSISSIPPI. There were luggage cases in an aluminum cage on the van's roof and a ladder leading up from the rear bumper.
Faith Ann picked out a boy close to her own age and sidled over to him. “Hi there. You guys on a field trip?”
“Nah. A stupid Bible bee contest in Barataria, Louisiana.”
“Bible bee?”
“Like a spelling bee, but only with words from the Bible.” He shrugged. “Some trip to New Orleans. Like we go right to the French Quarter, and instead of going to see Bourbon Street or something cool, they march us through some church, get us some lame powdered doughnuts, then drag us to see a bunch of stupid fish. Now we're crossing the Big Muddy to enjoy some dumb scenery before the contest.”
“That's messed up,” Faith Ann said sympathetically.
“Tell me about it.”
“Can you do me a favor, you think?”
The boy eyed Faith Ann suspiciously. “Is it anything I could catch grief over?”
Faith Ann shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe.”
“Cool,” the boy said, smiling.
69
Winter knew Faith Ann would beat Nicky to Algiers Point by a good ten minutes, but since the girl was on foot there was a chance he might spot her on the sidewalks.
As long as the cops didn't know she was on the ferry, Nicky had an advantage.
Winter and Adams returned to find Gale waiting with his dog.
“She exit?” Gale asked.
“She didn't go that way,” Adams said with certainty.
Winter nodded his agreement. “Guy who's been there for the last fifteen minutes said nobody came through the lobby from here.”
“Nobody saw her?” Gale asked. “She went into the hotel, right? I'm sure Beaux-Beaux can track her.”
“I said she didn't go that way,” Adams snapped.
The K-9 officer didn't protest when Winter suggested that they go back the way they'd come, to see where she'd pulled the last double-back on them.
Before they got to the parking deck, however, Adams stopped.
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