“Sure did.”
“Could I see those reports?”
“I gave them to Tinnerino and Doyle. You're not working that case, are you?”
“Just curious. Mind if I peek at the originals?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
After Manseur had read over the reports and the medical examiner had answered his questions, Manseur left. As he stood in the elevator, he sniffed his coat, wondering if he smelled like he'd been hanging out in the kitchen of a barbecue joint.
42
Faith Ann took a streetcar downtown. From its window she saw cops in three separate cruisers going about their Saturday-morning business. One police car raced up St. Charles Avenue with its siren and lights blazing and frightened her, but it didn't pull over to wait at the next stop, so she relaxed.
When people looked at her, they paid no particular attention. One of them had bumped into her, looked down, and said, “Excuse me, son.” Being mistaken for a boy made her smile to herself. She had hoped that her slim body enveloped in a bulky sweatshirt and jeans would disguise her budding breasts, and the half-inch-long hair gave her an added measure of safety. She had looked in the bathroom mirror after cutting off her hair and decided that she thought she looked like a boy but hadn't been sure others would think so.
Faith Ann walked self-assuredly with her shoulders slightly hunched to imitate the way boys her age carried themselves. She even occasionally cupped her hand to push up on her imaginary male genitals.
On Canal Street she looked into a newspaper dispenser and saw her mother's picture and her own. She crossed Canal and strode into the French Quarter, which was wide awake.
43
Captain Suggs had been busy since Jerry Bennett called him. He had revised the BOLO for Faith Ann Porter, adding that the “unstable” preteen had murdered two people and was probably armed and dangerous. He added that any policemen who spotted her should not approach her but keep her in sight and call it in directly to him. At that point he would call Tinnerino and Doyle, and they would clue the Latinos, who would handle the girl. Any complications-because he had no choice-he would handle. If Bennett went down, so might he and a lot of others up and down the chain.
He glanced down at his desk at the phone sheets listing two weeks' worth of calls for Kimberly Porter's office phone, home phone, and the missing cellular phone, which he assumed the daughter had in her possession. Now when she used it, he would be notified within seconds of her exact location. He was awaiting the list of the owners of the telephones that Kimberly had called and those who had called her in that time period, which the departmental researchers were gathering and had instructions to hand-deliver ASAP.
Suggs had often weighed Bennett's generosity-there was no disputing his largesse-against the damage he could do him if he ever decided to unburden himself. Suggs realized that if Bennett kept proof of his own guilt in murders, who knew what evidence of his payouts, and what he got in return for them, he had in his possession. Now he could turn rat and buy himself a lot of slack-maybe a life sentence instead of the needle. It was a disturbing thought. Suggs looked up to see a policewoman in his doorway holding up an envelope.
“You were waiting for these?” she asked. “Telephone records?”
“What do you think?” Suggs said curtly.
She placed the envelope on his desk. Before she was out of the office, he had it in his hands and had slipped out the pages.
The information for each of the three phone numbers was stapled together. Each list of numbers had, as its cover page, the names and addresses of the people the lawyer had called, followed by the names and addresses of those who had called her.
Suggs stared at one of the names in stunned silence. He rifled through all three covers and the number was included on all three lists. The name was H. Trammel, 1233 Post Road, Charlotte, North Carolina. There was another name in the same area code and this one struck a sour cord in Suggs's memory. It was Winter James Massey, Concord, North Carolina. That was a name he knew. It had been called from Kimberly Porter's cell phone two hours after she was dead. Did Kimberly Porter know Winter Massey?
Manseur's hit-and-run investigation involved Henry “Hank” Trammel. Suggs remembered Massey's partner in the shoot-out last year was named
… Trammel. “Shit!”
44
Winter went into his bedroom to call Hank's doctor for an update before he called Sean to pass on what he had learned. He also talked to his son about Faith Ann Porter. He asked Sean how she felt. Talking about the baby put him in a better, healthier frame of mind for a few moments. When he returned to the living room, Adams, in a tailored gray suit, white button-down and striped tie, sat reading the sports pages of the newspaper. The suit jacket, laid over the back of a chair, had been tailored so that the gun rig beneath it was imperceptible. Winter noted that the federal agent's high-top, dull-leather shoes with solvent-resistant crepe soles were designed for a man who understood what being sure-footed was worth. The. 40-caliber Glock in his shoulder rig was a utilitarian choice-a thoroughly dependable, highly accurate all-weather weapon, more plastic than steel. Winter's SIG Sauer 220, in the same caliber, was more steel than plastic, and Winter preferred the thinner grip posture the German weapon offered. In the right hands, both guns would drive nails at twenty-five feet. Truthfully, Winter thought Glocks looked like toys hewn out of blocks of chocolate. Winter saw that instead of a handcuff pouch, which he always carried, Adams had two three-magazine carriers so he was a walking arsenal. The ankle holster carried an odd choice in a backup weapon. The quick-release holster held a folding knife with a composite handle.
Nicky Green had changed out of his formal Western attire. He was wearing black denim jeans, a knit shirt, and suede cowboy boots, and he had swapped the cowboy hat for a plain blue baseball cap. “I pass the audition?”
Adams glanced at him over the newspaper, folded it, and set it aside.
“That's better,” Adams said.
Winter took a seat on the couch. “Faith Ann doesn't have any close friends my son is aware of. He said her favorite places are Audubon Zoo, City Park, and the aquarium. Our best hope is she'll call him again. Sean is going to call me as soon as she does.”
Adams said, “If she's still alive.”
“She was alive last night,” Nicky pointed out.
“I'm going to assume she is,” Winter said.
“Well, we can't cover all of those places and hope she shows up,” Adams told them. “The cops searched her house, so I expect the detectives working this have her address books, phone logs, computer files, correspondence.”
“We need to get in that house too,” Nicky said. “Maybe they missed something.”
“I agree,” Adams said. “Got to start somewhere.”
Winter's cell phone rang.
“It's Manseur,” Winter said.
“I think Captain Suggs has made the connection,” Manseur told him. “He just called me and told me to report to his office. He sounded pissed. Doesn't mean he knows anything.”
“How you going to play it?”
“Seat of my pants. I just wanted to tell you that the BOLO on Faith Ann has her classified as armed and dangerous. If she's spotted, instructions are to call Suggs and not to attempt to apprehend her.”
“We're going to try and get a look inside the Porter house,” Winter said.
“You can try to, but I don't know where Tinnerino and Doyle are or what they're up to. What are you going to do if they catch you?”
“I'll play it by the seat of my pants,” Winter said. “By the way, just so you know, I picked up another man.”
“That right?”
“Yeah, an FBI agent. He's a card I can play if need be.”
“That's good,” Manseur said. “By the way, the M.E. got partial prints from the Rover body. I'll go over the report with you later. After I talk to Suggs, I'm going to run them and see what I get. The body was burned, and unless the p
rints hit I'm not sure it'll help you. I wish I could do more. And the M.E. told me Kimberly and Amber's killer used a silencer, which as far as I know wasn't found with the weapon.”
“I think we're going to do doing some pot stirring.”
“You have my number. Keep me apprised. I'll do the same.”
“Thanks,” Winter said.
“Good luck,” Manseur said.
“Okay, fellows, we'll take two cars. I should call the chief deputy here in New Orleans and get some radios. Chet Long is an old friend of Hank's. I'm sure he'll be happy to assist.”
“Not a good idea,” Adams objected. “Fewer people we involve, the better. I've got the electronics end covered. I just need to stop by my room and collect some encrypted radios.”
Winter scribbled an address and handed it to Nicky. “You and Adams go do that, then meet me at the Porter residence.”
Winter called Chet Long before he had driven a block. The year before, Chet had supplied Winter and Hank with encrypted radios, long guns, and a Blackhawk helicopter to ferry an assault team comprised of U.S. deputy marshals. He wanted to check in with his and Hank's friend and alert him that he was in town. Out of habit, Winter checked his mirror for tails but didn't see anybody following him. Adams hadn't mentioned any partners, the norm for field agents, but that didn't mean he didn't have backup.
When Winter asked for Chet Long, he was informed by the receptionist that Chief Deputy Long was out of the country. She asked if he wanted to speak to anyone else and he declined, asking that she tell Chet he called.
45
When Manseur arrived at Captain Suggs's door, the chief detective was talking on his telephone. He motioned for Manseur to sit down while he finished his conversation. Manseur caught sight of what looked to be a phone log with some of the names highlighted in yellow, and he knew how Suggs had made the connection between the two cases.
Trying not to eavesdrop on what sounded like a personal conversation, Manseur let his eyes wander to the only framed picture on his boss's desk. It was a portrait of Suggs's German shepherd, Heinzie, who was a dreadful, constantly molting animal with severe gastric problems and the charm of a piranha.
Suggs dropped the phone into its cradle and turned his cold eyes on Manseur.
“Nothing on the Porter girl yet?” Manseur asked.
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.
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