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 policeman?”
“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.”
“Glamorous?”
Clara nodded. “She was shorter, and she had black hair in a ponytail. The cap, boots, jacket, and the tightest pants you ever saw, all black leather. My husband would have said she got poured into her outfit. I've never seen police wearing any outfits like that. That pair came two times. The last time, he went inside by the front door, she went to the back. And they both came out around from out back. What was funny was, the woman crawled right under the house. Now, why, I thought, would somebody all dressed up like that get under a house with all that dirt and who knows what else? Anyway she came back out in a few minutes and then they left in their big black car.”
“When was the second visit?”
“Early this morning.”
“Did they talk to you?”
“I didn't talk to anybody but two detectives. The big one gave me a card with his name and number on it.”
“Could I see the card?”
The woman went inside and returned with a business card. The name on it was Detective Anthony Brian Tinnerino, NOPD. There was an extra number added in ink.
“That's his private number,” she said. “Said to call anytime night or day. I didn't like that man one little bit.”
“You didn't?”
“He was a condescending jerk. Surly. Maybe that's police detective nature or something. You'd think they would be nicer to people they want help from.”
“You'd think so.”
“Catch more flies with honey. You'd think a policeman would know that.”
“Seems like it,” Winter agreed.
“Didn't make me want to help them at all. It's no wonder they don't solve more crimes than they do. If you call them, sometimes they don't even come unless it's a big house on St. Charles Avenue. Then they sure come running-you bet they do.”
“Clara, if I give you my phone number, could you call me if you see Faith Ann? I'll help her. I'll make sure they don't pull anything on her after all she's been through.”
“Like make me think that sweet little girl could have hurt her mama? He didn't come right out and say it, but that was what he wanted me to believe. Like that could be true, or something. That big one told me not to talk to her or anything-just call him and he'd take it from there.”
“I just think somebody who cares about Faith Ann should know what the police know. In case she needs anything.”
“And I shouldn't tell the other policemen?”
“I'm not advising you not to tell the police what they asked you to tell them. Unless there's some good reason, you should always help the legitimate authorities with official investigations. I'd just like to know. Maybe you could call me first, if you'd feel comfortable doing that. If not, I'll understand.”
She fixed Winter with her stare, then nodded slowly.
“I don't see why not. You are a policeman.” She smiled. “And you're a polite young man.”
“I always try to be, Ms. Hughes.”
“There is one thing…” she said. “Late last night, I woke up and-my bed's on this side, and after the rain it was so restful with the windows open. Well something woke me up, you know how it does sometimes when you hear something and you aren't sure about it. So I wasn't sure what woke me, but at the time I thought it was the sound of their toilet flushing.”
48
John Adams pulled up to the curb near the Monteleone Hotel, just inside the French Quarter.
“I'll be back with the radios in two minutes. Think you can keep the car from being stolen?” he said to Nicky before he climbed out.
“I reckon I can manage it,” he replied. “If you get lost in there, just fire that Glock three times in the air and I'll come get you.”
Nicky Green watched the FBI agent worm his way through the weekenders cluttering the sidewalk and vanish through the doors. The agent moved with a fluidity that added to Nicky's doubts that Adams was what he claimed to be. Nicky was sure that whatever Adams's purpose was, it wasn't what he had claimed. Adams had the eyes of a predator, not a cop. If Massey was as good as Nicky thought he was, he didn't believe Adams's story either. How had Adams gotten to town so fast, located them, and bugged the car?
Nicky decided that he needed to learn more about the man. After Adams had been gone for thirty seconds, Nicky climbed out, made his way into the hotel, and strolled to the bell captain's kiosk. The bell captain was middle-aged, dressed in a navy sport jacket with the hotel's logo over the pocket, starched white shirt, and striped tie. Telephone to his ear, he was jotting down notes. Nicky placed his hand on the desk and parted his fingers to reveal a one-hundred-dollar bill. The bell captain saw the bill but didn't acknowledge its presence.
“How may I help you, sir?” he said, hanging up the phone.
“A minute ago, a man named John Everett Adams came in here. You might have seen him. Gray suit. Five-ten, one-sixty-five. Crew cut.”
“I don't know the gentleman by sight, sir,” the bell captain said.
“Well, see, I'm hoping he's registered under John E. Adams.”
“He might be. And?”
A couple approached.
Nicky stepped aside.
The bell captain listened to their question about jazz clubs on Bourbon Street, which he answered by scribbling down the names of three he told them had good Dixieland. They left five dollars lighter.
Nicky returned to front and center. “Adams isn't exactly what he seems,” Nicky said.
“Is that so?”
“He is a married NASCAR driver. He is meeting with an actress whose name is a household word. I just need to know what room he's in so I can see if it is possible to set up a camera to see in the window.”
The bell captain inhaled deeply. Then he turned his sad gray eyes on Nicky. “You want to give me a hundred dollars for the room
number of a guest so you can photograph him from a nearby rooftop while he's in bed with an actress?”
“That's about the size of it,” Nicky said, holding the man's gaze. “A tasteful picture of her at the window with him would do.”
“Private investigator?”
“Did I say that?”
“I should ask you to leave the hotel.” He cut his eyes at the front desk, sniffed, put his fingers between Nicky's, and slid the bill out. Sighing, he flipped open a book and at the same time slipped the bill into his pocket. He ran a finger down a list, then snapped the book closed.
“I would be fired if I gave you information on this John Everett Adams. It's against hotel policy. At any rate I cannot help you because, even if I told you he was in room four-sixteen, there is no place from which you could see into that room unless you get on our window-washing platform, which isn't available for that sort of tomfoolery.”
“Damn it!” Nicky frowned like he was disappointed, then turned and walked away. Greed was so predictable. Nicky crossed the lobby to the front doors, passing by a ten-foot-tall grandfather clock as he went.
He got back to the car less than a minute before Adams appeared carrying a small leather satchel.
Nicky pulled down the bill of his cap to make it appear that he had been napping. Adams opened the driver's door and, tossing the case into the backseat, climbed in behind the wheel, cranked the car, and swung it easily into a gap in the traffic.
Nicky lifted the cap. “I see you didn't lose your way.”
“Breadcrumbs,” Adams replied,
49
The lock on Kimberly and Faith Ann's back door was a deadbolt, so it took Winter, not exactly a Houdini, over a minute to pick it and enter the utility room, which was open into the den. He found nothing there but saw where the computer had been, an empty space next to the printer and scanner. As he moved up the hall, Winter was appalled by the senseless mess the cops had made in the master bedroom, that small private bath. What could have been the point of the destructive behavior of the searchers? Faith Ann's bedroom was upside down. There had been both aquarium and Audubon Zoo posters on the bedroom wall, now torn up and scattered over the floor. A shattered boom box, ripped-up stuffed animals, glass shards…
Upside Down wm-2 Page 16
