“He's not a cop?”
“A licensed private investigator, works out of the same address. He's in our files as a key consultant to the NOPD. In fact, despite his youth, he's been carried on the NOPD computer as a terrorism expert for three years.”
“How are the two of them connected?” Winter asked.
“With Bennett?”
“To each other.”
“She seems to be an antiques dealer. Seven years older. Could be married, lovers, business partners.” Manseur shrugged. “I've been going over Tinnerino's and Doyle's handwritten notes. They said they've been typing up a report as they went, but when they tried to retrieve it, it wasn't there.”
“The old dog-ate-my-homework excuse.”
“They obviously intended to write a report after they knew what had to be in it,” Manseur said. “They aren't much, but they are survivors.”
“So let's talk about motives,” Winter said.
“Porter/Lee or Trammels?” Manseur wondered.
“Trammels' hit-and-run might not be connected,” Winter said.
“They're connected,” Manseur said. “Both were professional hits. Porter/Lee was a silenced weapon, tight grouping, killer cool as a mint julep. Look at the sophisticated bug in the hat. The Rover corpse's old injuries and the European dental work, and the way he was killed. I don't see two separate pros doing this. The Trammel hit-and-run was planned, and so were the Porter/Lee hits. Faith Ann at both scenes…”
The Styer information presented a problem because Winter couldn't explain it to Manseur without risking bringing out everything Adams had told him. He would have to go into things that were not ever supposed to be talked about, because the authors of the weasel deals that made it possible-all cosigners being powerful and some certainly dangerous-wouldn't let them be known. It was bad enough that Nicky knew, but he trusted Nicky to keep it a secret.
“Any link to what happened to Hank and Millie Trammel probably sprang from the kid being there,” Winter added automatically. “To get rid of the witness. Trammels were collateral damage.”
Manseur nodded thoughtfully, sipped coffee. “Doesn't explain the bug in Trammel's hatband.”
“You didn't tell me if Suggs was involved with the Pond case,” Winter said. “Was Tinnerino or Doyle?”
“You mean the Williams case,” Manseur said, visibly stiffening in his chair. His features hardened. “Tinnerino and Doyle weren't. Suggs was the primary.”
“Your reaction to the name Horace Pond makes me think you have some connection to him too. Did you get on scene first or something?”
“Arnold and Beth Williams were close friends of mine. They lived near my parents. I mowed the judge's yard from the time I was ten until I went to college. They treated me as an equal, they introduced me to people, gave me advice. They were very dear people. If I could have gotten my hands on Pond the night he was picked up, we wouldn't be waiting for any execution.”
“You believe he's guilty,” Winter said.
Manseur burned Winter with a look of undistilled anger. “Pond violated Beth Williams with the barrel of his twelve-gauge, and he wasn't gentle. All the while Arnold, trussed up like a turkey, was forced to watch. Then Horace Pond blew their heads off.”
“That's tragic,” Winter said solemnly. Kimberly Porter may have believed her client was innocent, but Manseur was going to resist helping to save Pond. “Look. Just for the sake of argument, let's say Pond didn't do it. Let's say Suggs made sure the evidence fit Pond. He had a record. So Pond was interrogated by Suggs and his partner. Anybody listen in?”
“Billy Putnam was his partner. It was a closed interrogation.”
“Recorded?”
Manseur shook his head.
“So no witnesses. That usually means creative interrogation techniques. How long did his interrogation last?”
“Maybe twenty hours,” Manseur said. “I know what you're thinking, but the physical evidence was overwhelming. They found the weapon hidden where Pond said he put it. They lifted his fingerprints in the house and off the weapon. Fingerprints on the gun were made in their blood. A box of shells behind the seat in his truck matched the hulls from the scene, the firing-pin strike was a match.”
“Could the blood have been added to the prints after they were collected? When you fake a bloody print you can't duplicate what a bloody finger does when it comes into contact with an object-how the blood relates to the lands and grooves. If the blood was added to an existing print that was lifted from somewhere else, they can tell that now. Years ago, they couldn't. You're a detective. You going to tell me you don't have the technical expertise to frame somebody?”
“I could do it. That doesn't mean he was framed. He signed a confession.”
“Bear with me. Suggs has a lot at stake if he and his partner framed Pond-even if they believed he was guilty, he might not be. They had the power to take an illiterate man with a record and tie it all up for the D.A. with the confession. The D.A.'s career gets a big bounce from the conviction that helps put him in the governor's chair. The D.A. certainly wanted Pond to pay for slaughtering a judge and his wife. Pond probably got a lawyer who didn't want the case but had to take it. I'd bet Pond's attorney didn't try very hard.”
Manseur looked at his watch. “In four hours it will be a moot point. The trial was fair,” Manseur said. “I was there, I heard and saw it all.”
“Define fair,” Winter demanded. “An illiterate black yardman with a criminal record who signs a confession to raping a woman with a shotgun while her judge husband looks on. Done with that, he then blows their lily-white heads off and goes to trial swearing he didn't do it-he was framed, he was deprived of sleep and didn't know what he signed was a confession. He testified and the D.A. ate him alive, tied him in knots. The media worked the community into a blood fury. Come on, Manseur, you should be shocked they didn't stick a needle in him on the spot.”
“Debating this is a waste of time.”
“Okay,” Winter said, spreading his hands. “We both know the profile is all wrong. It seems to me that the foreign-object rape and murders were carefully planned sadistic acts designed to make the Williamses suffer as much humiliation and pain as possible. The perp violated her to torture him. What do you imagine the judge did to Pond to make him hate him to that extent? Give him a chance to earn a living? The D.A. said the motive was robbery, right? Home invasion gone bad?”
Manseur nodded.
“You're a homicide detective. Does Pond really make sense? If he wasn't guilty and he was framed, it means somebody else did it. And that sadistic psychopath is probably still out there.”
“How would Suggs know where the murder weapon was if Pond didn't tell him?”
“Good question. Ask Suggs's partner.”
“Putnam's been dead for six years. He retired right after the trial, and during the departmental cleanup he ate his gun. The M.E.'s report had his blood alcohol level at 2.6.”
“Who found him?”
“Putnam did it in a fishing cabin he and Suggs owned together. Suggs found him.”
“So, if Pond didn't tell Suggs and Putnam where the shotgun was because he didn't know, who did? Someone Suggs knew and agreed to protect in return for something else?”
“Okay,” Manseur said. “Like who?”
“I'll cut through the tall grass,” Winter said. “Did Judge Williams ever do anything, personally or professionally, to piss off Jerry Bennett?”
82
Tinnerino had followed Detective Manseur from headquarters to Charity Hospital and watched as the detective parked near the FBI agent's car on the street. Five minutes later his cell rang.
“What, Doyle?” Tinnerino said.
“I'm at the hotel. There's some bald guy staying with Massey. I figure he's another Fed, maybe undercover FBI working with Adams. Five minutes ago I spotted the bald agent driving Massey's car. He went in for maybe a minute and came back out. I'm trailing him toward downtown.”
�
��Yeah, he's headed to Charity. There's a powwow shaping up here. I'm parked on Tulane. Just meet me here.”
Ten minutes later the bald guy had parked near Manseur's car and waltzed into the hospital. While Doyle watched the building's entrance, Tinnerino used a flat bar to jimmy open Manseur's Impala. He planted a transmitter under the dashboard. They had to keep up with what the opposition was up to, and since they couldn't wire the detective or go inside the hospital, the car was the next best thing. Suggs had accessed Manseur's computer to see exactly what files he had been looking at. Suggs wasn't pleased with Manseur's snooping, but that was the extent of what Tinnerino knew about it. Tin Man hated Manseur, and anything he could do to fuck him up was fine with him. Doyle didn't care much one way or the other, but Tin Man's partner was always in for a penny, in for a dollar.
Tin Man locked Manseur's door and, holding the jimmy bar inside his jacket, strode back to his car and got in. He drove a block away, parked, and after calling Doyle to tell him he succeeded, he put on the headset and waited for Manseur to get back to his car. Doyle was watching the entrance: he'd call when he saw Manseur.
Tinnerino called Suggs's private number and brought him up to speed. “Chief,” Tinnerino said, “so we got three vehicles and there's two of us.”
“Call in the Spics.”
“You sure?”
“Oh yes. Absolutely certain.”
Tinnerino dialed the number.
83
Faith Ann lay in the darkness between the bags and cases, just about frozen from the wind washing over her. Nobody had told her that the thirty-minute ride to the Bible bee would involve a three-hour detour to allow some no-stopping-to-get-out sightseeing. When the van finally slowed and turned, and gravel crunched under the tires, she leaned up on her elbow to see that they had pulled up in a large gravel lot next to a church building with a tall steeple. The van doors opened, and the kids and two adult chaperones spilled out. All of the kids, delighted to be somewhere, started horsing around in the parking lot below her perch.
A male voice rang out. “Okay, gang! Take the cases down. They go inside. Your bags all go in the van. Let's get cracking. We're on the Lord's time!”
To Faith Ann's immense relief, Peter was first up the ladder. He pointed at the left side of the van and held up two fingers, warning her that the two adults were down there. He untied the first duffel and tossed it down to someone on the ground. With Peter on the ladder, there was no way anybody else could see her unless he moved aside. It seemed that the others were happy to let him do the high-altitude work.
“You okay?” he murmured. “You must have just about froze your nuts off.”
“Yeah, just about. The coat sure helped. Thanks,” she said, handing it to him.
“Okay,” he said, looking off to his left. “Mr. Lander is headed inside the church. Ms. Forest isn't looking this way. Everybody knows about you but them, so come around me and go down the ladder. Just stand down there while we unload the crap and they'll think you're one of the local yokels. Jesus, j-e-z-i-s.”
Faith did as he said, holding onto the rail and edging past him. As she hit the ground, the teenagers crowded around to cover for her. After the things were offloaded, Faith Ann wandered into the church with Peter. The competition was being set up in the sanctuary. There were about seventy kids and at least twice that many adults-mostly parents and siblings of the contestants. Faith Ann doubted anybody else would want to sit in on this if they didn't have to.
“What're you gonna do now?” a voice asked. She turned to find herself face-to-face with another boy.
“I need to make a long-distance call. I guess I ought to go find a pay phone.”
“This is Ashe,” Peter said. “He's the best speller we have.”
“Nice to meet you,” Faith Ann said, shaking the boy's hand.
Ashe's brown eyes were serious. “You're a girl, aren't you?”
Faith Ann nodded.
“I told ya,” Ashe said, punching Peter's shoulder. “I knew I saw breasts when the wind blew her shirt against 'em.”
“I knew that,” Peter said indignantly. “She's way too pretty to be a guy.”
“Unless you're turning queer,” Ashe said, laughing. “Which you probably are. You're that girl the cops are looking for, aren't you?”
Faith Ann felt the heat rising to her cheeks. She didn't know what to say, what the boys would do. “Yeah.”
“Cool,” Peter said.
“You can use this, then.” Ashe held out a Nokia cell phone painted with red and yellow flames. “My mom gets pissed if I rack up roams. Talk as long as you want.”
The two boys high-fived.
“Thank you, guys,” she said, kissing each of them in turn on their cheeks. She felt like yelling.
“Anytime,” Peter said.
“Guys, what's the name of this place again?”
“Church of Christ. Barataria, Louisiana.”
Faith Ann dialed Rush's number and held her breath while it rang.
84
Tinnerino saw the four men strolling from the hospital's main entrance stopping at Manseur's car. Tinnerino heard the sound of Manseur's car door opening over the receiver. Manseur had just opened his door when the marshal answered his cell phone, stepped away a few steps to talk. Massey was on the phone for a minute, before he took out a card and scribbled on it. Massey waved the other two men into Manseur's car.
Through the earphones Tinnerino heard the men getting into Manseur's car and slamming the doors. He opened his pad to make notes because making a tape of this wasn't smart.
“That was Sean. Faith Ann just called her,” the deputy's voice said.
“Where is she?” Manseur asked. “Did she say?”
Massey was silent for a few seconds. “She's about thirty miles from here and she's freaked.”
“You direct, I'll drive,” Manseur said.
“I have to go alone. If she sees anyone besides me, she'll bolt. Last time she called, the cops showed up before I did. I'll get her calmed down and explain things and I'll bring her back. Sean told her the police weren't trying to arrest her, but she doesn't believe it.”
Manseur said, “I'm interested in this alleged evidence. Does she have it or not?”
“She doesn't have the evidence with her. She hid it after she escaped the parking deck. You can wait at the governor's hotel and I'll bring her straight there. You can get the governor to put a hold on the execution. You can see it when we show it to him, and we won't waste time.”
Manseur said, “I won't bother the governor, attempt to stop Pond's execution, until I see absolute proof that he's innocent. I'm not believing Suggs was involved in a frame and cover-up until I see proof.”
“She has an audiotape of the killings in the office and negatives and photocopies of pictures that show the real killer doing it.”
Manseur said, “And you believe that sort of evidence exists-that somebody was stupid enough to take some sort of incriminating pictures and keep them? That girl has a vivid imagination.”
“Maybe not,” Massey said.
Manseur was silent for long seconds. “Okay. So what do we do?”
Massey said, “Nicky and Adams will go to my hotel and wait for me to bring Faith Ann there. You said a few minutes ago you hadn't seen your family in two days, so go home. I'll call you when we get the evidence and we can meet and you can see the stuff and make your call to the governor.”
“I get the feeling you don't trust me,” Manseur said.
There was a long silence in the car.
“Okay. Meet me at the ferry landing at Canal Street-an hour, an hour and a half,” Massey said. “I'll pass on the evidence envelope.”
Tin Man heard three car doors closing.
The Impala's engine came to life and Tin Man heard Manseur call his wife to tell her he was swinging by the house to say good night. Then he turned the car radio to some opera crap and Tinnerino turned the volume on the receiver down.
“W
ho the hell are we following?” Doyle asked over the radio. “They're leaving in three separate cars.”
“Nobody,” Tin Man said. “Let them go.”
“What?”
“I know where they're going. We can give them all the space in the world.”
Tin Man dialed Captain Suggs. And he smiled because he knew their plans. He also finally knew exactly what the girl had and what all that lovely knowledge was going to be worth down the road. Suggs would put together a plan to snag the evidence. Let the Spics handle the heavy lifting. Tin Man didn't want to actually kill a child, or be in a shoot-out with Massey. When Manseur sent him and Doyle out, he would be handing them alibis on a silver platter.
85
Passing under a banner proclaiming a “Bible bee,” Winter went into the Church of Christ in Barataria, Louisiana. He declined a program sheet offered by a man in a knit shirt with winglike collars and entered into the sanctuary, stopping at the top of the wide center aisle.
On the riser, teenagers sat in rows of folding chairs. A skinny girl with frizzy red hair stood at the pulpit. “Armageddon,” she said into the microphone. “A-r-m-a-g-e-d-d-o-n. Armageddon.”
“That… is correct,” a voice announced.
Someone in the audience shouted out, “Praise His holy name!”
The girl raised her hands in the air in triumph.
A camera flashed.
The crowd applauded.
Winter recognized the skinny, short-haired boy with a bruised cheek who walked briskly toward him from the back corner of the santuary. Faith Ann grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. Outside the front door Faith Ann looked up at him, her lower lip quivering.
“It's going to be all right,” Winter said, putting his arms around her. “I'm here, Faith Ann. Everything is going to be fine.”
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