“Damn!” Winter said when it hit him. “The cops have her cell phone number! That's how they found her. The minute she called Rush, they had her.”
“If they have the phone number, they'll know pretty quick who she's called. I think Suggs and his men will know about the connection to you pretty soon.”
“Then we can stop playing games,” Winter said. “They haven't had time to get far. They went toward Canal Street after her. Adams and I will go on foot. Nicky, you take our car. Where's yours?”
“Back there around the corner.” He handed Winter the key.
“Run a grid and look for them. You see them, radio us your position.”
Winter and Adams took off toward Canal Street. As the two men turned the corner where the power station wall ended, the city seemed to come alive with the sound of sirens. Blue strobe lights poured onto Canal Street as scores of patrol cars converged on their location.
“Good Lord,” Adams muttered. “Seems excessive to send in an army to deal with one scared little girl.”
62
There were hundreds of parked vehicles on several levels in the enormous lot: it would have taken hours for Marta to physically look under every car in the place. If she couldn't flush the kid, she'd be forced to let the cops' K-9 locate her. She didn't know how the detectives would explain her being there to the other cops. They wouldn't have to explain Arturo, because he was hooked up in the NOPD computers with official clearance.
Marta, unlike Arturo, did her best to remain in as few computers and as far off official radar as possible. She was a United States citizen. Her papers claimed she had been born on the right side of the border, in Brownsville, Texas. It was a lie, her name stolen. She owned her house and the twenty-nine creek-front acres it was located on. She had both wholesale and retail tax licenses and a retail antiques business on Magazine Street through which she laundered her earnings. She allowed a knowledgeable dealer, whose wife Marta had “accidented” so the unfaithful homosexual husband could inherit her estate before she could divorce him, to act as her partner and use her shop to warehouse his overflow stock. The real sales were his-he took the money off the books-and she got the paperwork on the sales for her purposes.
Marta heard the sirens of the approaching cruisers. She was totally relaxed, almost casual, as she strolled up the ramp to the first parking level, hunting for the child.
Maybe she would find the little rabbit herself in the next few minutes, but, if not, Faith Ann would be captured, because unless she could sprout wings and fly like a bird across the river, she couldn't escape. Before the day was out, she or Bennett would have the girl's evidence in hand. And Marta would have the opportunity to make sure she never made an identification of Arturo or herself.
Marta's attention was captured by a bulky object sitting by a stairway door. She approached it and lifted what appeared to be the girl's backpack. She squatted, opened it, and examined the contents. Among the items she found was a wadded-up red sweatshirt and a two-tone Audubon Zoo cap. She put the shirt to her nose and imagined that she could detect fear-induced perspiration in the material. Of course, Marta didn't have the tracking ability of a bloodhound, but her sense of smell was every bit as remarkable as that of a wine connoisseur or a perfume-scent tester. She was tuned in to her prey and knew her target didn't behave under pressure the way a normal twelve-year-old should. Marta's own similar behavior at that age had been influenced by years of survival in a hostile, unforgiving environment-a place filled with predators of all kinds. A place where the bodies of children were often collected from the gutters with the other garbage.
Setting aside the sweatshirt to look farther down in the backpack, Marta found the girl's Walkman with a cassette still inside it. She popped it open to retrieve the tape, which she slipped into her jacket pocket. The earphones for the device weren't there. After wiping prints from the Walkman, she replaced it and set the pack back where she'd found it. Marta had to hand it to the kid. The girl was smart enough to imagine that by abandoning the tape, her pursuers might break off the hunt. The trouble was that the child was that smart. She knew Arturo had killed her mother and that Marta was connected to him. She would still talk to someone, she would testify, and she might be believed, which simply wasn't acceptable.
Let Suggs find out if she had Bennett's negatives. Maybe Amber had separated them from the prints before she went to the lawyer's office-holding back that ace.
She dialed Tinnerino. “She went into the stairwell. Give me a few minutes without interruption and I'll track her down. You'll find her backpack outside the stairwell door on level three. It would be a good place for you to start searching.”
“I'd say five is the best I can do,” he told her, sounding odd.
Marta cracked open the door and, stepping into the stairwell, took a knife from her jacket pocket. She closed the door, opened the phone with her other hand and dialed the kid's phone. She closed her eyes, tuned her ears to listen, and heard the phone ringing in the stairwell not far above her.
Marta almost started up, but something didn't feel right. Leaning over the rail, she looked up and then down. Her heart soared as she caught the sight of a small left hand, three floors below, sliding along on the surface of the painted steel banister as Faith Ann descended, noiselessly as only a child can manage.
Marta went down after her.
63
Faith Ann ran down the stairs from the top level, backtracking. She was several floors down when she heard a door above her creak open. Close to the railing, she peeked up and saw a sliver of black leather. It was the woman cop who'd chased her from the aquarium.
64
Marta hit the ground level and would have run into a woman pushing a stroller containing a sleeping infant if she hadn't leaped over it.
“What the hell are you doing?” the mother screamed.
Marta bolted through the glass doors and into the atrium of Canal Place. She caught a glimpse of a figure wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and a red cap moving around a group of pedestrians then turning right into a shop called Georgiou. Okay, little bitch, now I have you.
Marta made herself slow down, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. She stopped at the edge of the showroom window and peered in. At the rear of the store, the kid stopped at a display table, flipped through a stack of sweaters, selected one, and went back toward the dressing rooms.
Marta waited to enter until after Faith Ann was out of sight. She walked between the racks, focusing on the rear of the store.
“Can I help you find something today?” an Asian salesgirl who was hanging up blouses asked.
“I'm just looking,” Marta said, smiling.
“Let me know if I can be of assistance.”
“If I find something, I won't hesitate to let you know,” Marta said.
Marta stopped at the table and picked up a pair of slacks. She went back into the dressing room and spotted her target in one of the cubicles, whose doors allowed her a view of the inhabitant's lower legs-tennis shoes and dark jeans. She saw a sleeve of the hooded sweatshirt when the occupant laid the garment on the chair. Marta slipped out her folding knife, opened the blade silently, and slipped her hand holding the weapon beneath the folded pants.
Marta waited until the girl was pulling on the turtleneck, then she pulled open the door. As the child's head was emerging from the neck of the garment, Marta reached out and put her hand on Faith Ann's shoulder, ready to drop the slacks, put the knife to the child's throat, and ask about the negatives. When she felt the hand, Faith Ann whirled around suddenly, and, eyes growing wide, emitted a surprised squeak.
Marta froze, her knife hand underneath the garment. It was a good thing, because Faith Ann wasn't Faith Ann at all. The young woman emerging from the sweater was roughly the same build as Faith Ann and had short blond hair but was in her mid-twenties, and she was pissed off.
“What the hell are you doing?” the woman spat.
“
Sorry, I thought you were somebody else,” Marta said, already thinking where she'd lost the girl. Was it possible she had been chasing the wrong person all the way from the deck's stairwell? All she had seen was a sweatshirt sleeve and a hand. No, it had been Faith Ann in the stairwell, but she had somehow slipped by her. She might have taken any of a dozen exits. Marta had seen the woman, and assumed …
The woman in the sweater straight-armed Marta back out of the cube, and Marta let her. She put the knife away, rushed back past the table, and tossed the slacks onto it as she passed by.
65
Winter and Adams approached the detectives who were standing at the entrance to the packing deck. The larger of them was preventing cars from entering the facility by waving off the drivers. The drivers of the exiting cars were rubbernecking, so his partner was able to visually check inside the vehicles as they passed by him. The cops had to know that it was unlikely that in the time she'd been in the building she could have enlisted the aid of anyone who would agree to sneak her past the local cops.
“Let me handle these twats,” Adams said. As he and Winter approached the larger detective, Adams opened his badge case. “Special FBI Agent Adams. What's going on here?”
“Tinnerino, NOPD Homicide.” The detective's shield was displayed-suspended from a chain around his thick neck. “We've got a murder suspect in there.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. Armed and dangerous.”
Patrol cars started arriving, and officers stepped from them. Tinnerino's phone rang, and he took the call. “I'd say five is the best I can do.”
Doyle, a short, swarthy man with a five-o'clock shadow, started giving orders to the patrolmen to get the complex surrounded and await instructions. Winter overheard him giving them Faith Ann's description. “Skinny kid, short blond hair, dark red sweatshirt, black jeans, light brown over dark brown cap.”
“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.”
Sug
gs'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 whether 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.
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