“Sure thing.” The sergeant nodded. “Janitor saw Porter come in around six with her daughter. Lee came in fifteen to twenty minutes later.”
“Where's the kid?”
The cop shrugged. “Janitor didn't see her leave, but she wasn't here when this happened.”
“And you know that, how?”
“She didn't call 911 or run to find help. He says she sometimes catches the bus to school from the corner. Her name is Faith Ann. There's a picture of her on the mother's desk.”
Manseur finished making his notes and underlined the child's name. Beside it, he wrote two question marks. One represented discovering where the girl was when this happened, the second was to remind him to find out all he could about her. He would assume for the present that the schoolgirl wasn't here when this took place.
Then he went to the first door down the hallway and looked into the office. He could see both bodies from the doorway. Porter was to his right, the body lying limp behind the desk. Amber Lee's corpse lay to his left, facedown in front of the desk. Another ten feet behind Ms. Lee's corpse, a second door stood open. Before he entered the office, Manseur took a pair of shoe covers and a pair of surgical gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on.
When a seasoned homicide detective looked over a crime scene, it would start to come alive. As he gleaned more information, the film that was the crime came into increasingly sharper focus, edited so that all of the collected elements defined the drama.
Was Lee in this office to get help with the embezzlement charge?
He noted how she'd fallen and studied the pattern made by bits of blood and tissue on the floor and desk. He formed an image of Ms. Lee sitting in the chair and the lawyer sitting behind the desk. Since he couldn't yet make a determination of the perp's size or sex, he visualized a featureless silhouette standing beside and behind Amber Lee, aiming a gun at her head. He noted the position of the purse, that the flap was closed and latched.
He squatted beside Ms. Lee and, using the bare end of his Cross ballpoint, parted her teased hair to examine the entrance wound located above and behind her left ear. The stippling and burned hair around the small round wound told him that the muzzle had been very close to her head. The exiting bullet had made a silver-dollar-size hole.
Could be a. 38, a. 32 revolver. If someone picked up their cases it might be a. 380 or even a nine millimeter. That was something the medical examiner could tell him. For whatever reason, you weren't looking at the killer when he fired. He leaned down and noted the tracks on her left cheek made from tear-melted eyeliner. Were you aware of the perp standing there? Were you crying because you were afraid? Or were you upset and didn't see him-or her?
Carefully, Manseur looked at both of her hands and under the nails. Nothing. Done with Amber for the time being, he stood and went around the desk and looked down at Kimberly Porter. The dead lawyer's name, but not her face, seemed familiar to him, he wasn't sure why. He was fairly sure that he had never faced her in a courtroom.
There were two holes in Porter's blouse, located so close together they almost formed a figure eight. There was a third hole in her forehead-a safety shot. It made him wonder if maybe she was the main target, had been shot first. No, he was reasonably certain based on the splatter pattern that Amber hadn't been cowering in the chair but sitting upright, her face pointed at the desk. He saw the phone beside the lawyer, and in his film he imagined her holding it-perhaps trying to make a call, before or maybe even after Amber was shot.
He saw blood on the wall behind the desk and judged that Kimberly Porter was standing when she was shot in the chest. Her missing loafer was several feet away, resting against the baseboard. Did you kick at your killer? No, it came off while you were rushing around the desk. You made it to the phone and picked it up before the killer fired. You went down, pulled the phone off the desk, and then he came around the desk and shot you again to make sure. Two that close together, fired from six, seven feet away, means he was a marksman and he was also a calm one. Two in the ticker, one in the head. A professional? Some client you didn't get results for? Someone who needed to keep one of you from doing or saying something?
Manseur was in the zone. The film was running in his mind and everything else was a million miles away. He was visualizing paths of travel, bullet channels that when charted would define angles, distances, and even put a nearly exact height to the perpetrator.
He studied the desk. A framed photo of a smiling girl-a young face that reflected equal measures of cheer, confidence, and intelligence. Faith Ann Porter was maybe ten, eleven years old in the picture, had long strawberry-blond hair tucked behind her ears, big blue eyes. Also on that desk sat a Sony cassette recorder whose door stood open, revealing an empty tape chamber. There were several unopened cassettes stacked on the credenza and an open package for one on top of the desk. He looked in the trash can. The cellophane wrapper for it lay alone in the bottom. He made a mental note to search for a tape, but he was certain it had been removed by the killer.
When he looked back down at Porter again, he saw something else. There on the far side of and beside the body, barely visible in the puddle of coagulating blood, were two distinct circular impressions. Knees. Manseur imagined the killer kneeling there, but knew that a killer wouldn't get his or her knees drenched accidentally. No way a pro would do that, and I'm dealing with a pro. On the hardwood, just beyond the threadbare carpet, he saw something both interesting and alarming. There were circular, patterned tracks where someone had tracked blood away. The partial prints looked to have been made by a small sneaker. Faith Ann Porter must have seen her mother's body, and it would have been the girl who'd knelt beside her mother, her knees planted there when the blood was still running out from under the corpse.
Manseur had a daughter who was about Faith Ann's age. His mind raced as he tried to re-edit the film using new information. Was the young girl the motive for the killings? She may have seen it happen or not. The thought struck him that the child might have been abducted by the killer. Maybe she was wandering the streets in shock. Maybe she was fleeing from the killer. Maybe he took her somewhere else to silence her and she was already dead. But why not just kill her here? He had to find out all about Faith Ann Porter and do it very soon.
“Sergeant!” he called out.
“Yes sir?” the policeman answered from the hallway.
“Search the building. Top to bottom. Roof to basement. Have units sweep the neighborhood. Get a description of what the Porter girl was wearing. Issue an APB on her. Find out what school she goes to, see if she showed up there. Send a unit by the Porter house to see if she's there. I need to get a search warrant for the residence. You know the drill.” He was barely aware of the sergeant parroting his orders into the radio.
Manseur followed the bloodied tracks. They led to a corkboard and appeared in the seat of a chair resting under it. Pinned on the board was a photograph of someone Manseur did recognize. Anger filled his hollow stomach. Horace Pond. A two-bit sack of crap who had murdered two people who caught him rifling their house.
Now he knew why Kimberly Porter's name was familiar. She was the conniving bitch who had been trying to keep that perverted piece of murdering shit alive. Horace Pond was going to die Saturday night, and no magic this lawyer could have performed could change it.
Manseur couldn't help but smile inside at the thought of that little low-life weasel taking the needle in thirty-eight hours, but he wished the powers that be had grandfathered in a nice long ride on a lightning bolt straight to hell. He was staring into the eyes of a dead man when the sergeant interrupted.
“Janitor said that there's a wall safe behind that corkboard. He says Porter had the combination changed when she moved in. And the crime scene unit is downstairs.”
“Tell them to hold off for a few minutes.”
Manseur used his pen to open the corkboard. Peering closely at the brass lever, he could see loops and swirls stamped there in dried blood. On
the floor at the end of the table, someone had dumped out three textbooks and a composition notebook from Holy Cross School for Girls. “Sergeant, she attends Holy Cross uptown. Let's get this safe cracked open.”
Manseur walked out and turned right. In the kitchen, a bored patrolman leaned against the counter watching over an ashen-faced and delicate-looking young man who sat slumped at a small table. He stared down at his clasped hands, the thin fingers of which were tipped by immaculate fingernails. Manseur sat down across from the young man, and when the kid looked up Manseur studied his eyes and knew the kid wasn't his killer.
“How well did you know Ms. Porter, Napoleon?”
“I've been helping her with two of her capital cases. I knew her sort of well. We weren't friends or anything like that.”
“You weren't friends?”
“She was sort of all business.”
“Husband? Boyfriend?”
“I only know they lived alone.”
“What can you tell me about her daughter?”
“Faith Ann? She's smart as a whip. Doesn't talk much. I've only been around her up here a few times. She's kind of quiet. Shy, I guess.”
“She and her mother get along all right?”
“They were super close. Kimberly always treated Faith Ann like an adult. She's way beyond kids her age in lots of ways. She can talk to you about most subjects.”
“Did you know the other woman,” Manseur asked, “Amber Lee? Could she have been a client?”
Napoleon shook his head. “Kimberly only does-did appeals on capital cases, so she wasn't a client. I guess she was either related to an inmate, or…”
“Or?” Manseur saw something change in the boy's eyes.
“She could have been the one who has been calling the office.”
“Calling about?”
“A woman has been calling to talk to Kimberly. Wouldn't give her name. Kimberly mentioned she claimed she had evidence that one of the inmates on The Row was innocent and that she had conclusive proof of who was guilty. Kimberly said she thought the woman wanted money for whatever she had. Nuts come out of the woodwork any time a case is in the news or an execution date is coming up. Far as I know, her last call was Wednesday. I left early yesterday, so she might have called back.”
“I didn't see a computer in the office.” Manseur made a note to request a list of the dead lawyer's incoming and outgoing calls for the past thirty days.
“Kimberly had a laptop. She carried it back and forth from home. There's a printer both places. She was sort of frugal-minded. Drove an old car, wore the same clothes. But she was the best. She saw things that are invisible to most lawyers. She could have made big bucks. But Kimberly believed in justice, not money. You know what I'm saying?”
“Yes,” Manseur said, closing his murder book. “I am intimately familiar with the syndrome.”
8
Marta Ruiz felt as if she was standing between heaven and hell as ten high-pressure nozzles-five each on opposing walls-assailed her. She stood naked in the center of the stone-tiled shower stall as cold water stung the front of her body and hot scorched her backside. Her mind was far away, her thoughts as unfocused as the eyes of a newborn. Unless she was in a completely safe place, as she was now, Marta could ill afford the luxury of letting her mind wander. In her line of work, safe places were rare. The house, which she shared with Arturo, was located in the woods north of Lake Pontchartrain miles outside Covington, Louisiana.
Marta turned off the jets and dried off using a thick towel. She stood before the full-length mirror and studied the most important weapon she owned-her chiseled and finely tuned body. The first and most important rule in her line of work was to stay in fighting trim. When she wasn't on a job she spent several hours a day in her well-equipped gym, working out on the Nautilus machines to maintain her strength. Her five-foot-five-inch frame was as close to perfection as diet and exercise could make it. She maintained a balance in her muscle structure because being too bulked would slow her and limit her range of movement, while having too little muscle would cost her strength and stamina. She swam laps in the pool behind the house, ran ten miles a day, practiced gymnastic exercises to give her stamina, balance, and strength. She kept up her proficiency with a wide variety of weapons. She could slow her heartbeat and hold her breath for over three minutes. She maintained her peak condition-pushed herself because her clients paid a lot of money for perfection.
Part of her regimen included training in absolute darkness, using the sounds and scents of her adversaries for orientation. Her sparring partner was a sixteen-year-old neighbor boy who lived a half mile up a dirt trail that ran along the Tchefuncte River. On those days the boy came, Marta wore a blindfold and went weaponless, while he used a bamboo sword and tried to hit her as many times as he could before she disarmed him. She would pay him five dollars for every blow he delivered until she took the sword away. He had never made more than five dollars, but he kept trying harder, which she appreciated. Like a blind person, each time she played the game her hearing and other senses took the place of her sight.
She smiled at her mirror image. At twenty-nine she could still pass for a teenager. If she wore her hair short it would be easier to take care of, but she loved her long hair and so did men, which gave her an edge more important than an ability to disguise herself. She studied her face and how her hazel eyes, heavy black eyebrows, high cheekbones, strong chin, and full lips worked together.
Marta put on a plush robe, wrapped her hair in a towel, and went into the bedroom humming. Hard hands grabbed her from behind. The intruder locked his forearm tight around her middle, and pressed a blade against her throat. His body odor assailed her nostrils, but under that there was a very familiar scent.
Marta grabbed his wrist, pressed her fingers against the back of his hand, and disarmed him. Effortlessly, she now held his trademark switchblade to his throat.
“Poor baby,” she crooned teasingly. “Did the little girl get the better of you?”
“Okay, I give up,” he said.
She kissed him full on the lips, both cheeks, and on his smooth forehead before handing back his knife.
“You have been sweating, Arturo,” she said.
“It was a long morning.”
She stood, pulled him to his feet, and embraced him. “Come and take a shower, Arturo. We can spend a few minutes talking. I've hardly seen you all week.”
Marta led him into the bathroom, and while he took off his clothes she set the water to cascade from the overhead nozzles.
“How did you do that?” he asked, perplexed.
“I read the instructions. They are in the-”
“The contractor should come show me again. I wasn't paying attention to him before.”
“I'll show you,” she told him.
While he stood under the water soaping himself and singing, Marta picked up his soiled clothes and dropped them into the hamper. She would wash and dry them later, as she always did. As he lathered his body she sat on the deep stone counter with her legs crossed and admired him. He was the only man she had ever loved-ever cared about at all. “Are you hungry?”
“No. Just tired.”
“I'll cook you something. I've got some of the wine you like and I picked up some prime steaks.”
“I got a triple this morning,” he said.
She shrugged. “So did I. That prick Cecil Mahoney and two of his little geckos. I just pinched off their teensy little heads.”
“I didn't think that pig was telling the truth, but Bennett did. Mahoney was insane. Anyway, I found Amber and got back the envelope. And I brought your fee. Bennett was pleased by your triple, even if it wasn't the right triple.”
“I'm happy he was pleased,” she said sarcastically.
“He invited me to bring you to his club tonight, but I told him you are a simple girl who doesn't care for noisy places.”
“What I don't care for is bad food, boom-boom music, watered-down drinks, sweaty peo
ple, and flashing lights. And I especially don't care for your boss. He should work in a circus.”
“He pays me good money and I have complete protection, which doesn't exactly hurt you.”
“I handle my own protection. And I prefer working for different clients and taking the assignments I want to take. The money is better than working for a single person.”
“Less long-term security,” he argued.
“Nobody who needs our services can offer long-term security.”
“So you don't want the piddling amount Bennett sent to you? Twenty thousand is not bad for killing the wrong people.”
“It was good exercise. I helped only because I love you, Arturo. As always, I will back you up. Not for the money, but because you need me.”
“I'll keep the twenty then.”
“I will take the money and invest it, because you will only waste it on toys you can't be bothered to learn to operate. You are too impatient, Turo. That is a bad thing.”
She stared at the lines of scar tissue scattered over his torso, made by knives, and the four familiar bullet wounds, left from three separate incidents. “You are like an alley cat, Turo. But for your battle scars you would have a perfect body.”
“I think of my scars as a road map of my life.”
His offhand comment filled her with sadness. “It isn't how you learn something, it's how you use the knowledge.”
“Always preaching,” he said curtly. “Church is out. I don't need your advice. I am a man, a professional, so let's drop it.”
He cut off the water and dried himself with the towel she tossed him. After he had combed his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist, she said, “Even with the scars, you are just too pretty. Those long eyelashes, the brows, those big golden eyes, and lips any woman would kill to have for herself.”
He tensed at the reference to femininity, as she knew he would. But it was true.
Arturo took her face between his hands, kissed her hard on her lips, and stared into her eyes. His amber-colored eyes held her soul and he knew it. “You love me.”
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