Upside Down (15 page)

31

The Pontchartrain Hotel had stood at 2031 St. Charles Avenue, with its right shoulder against Josephine Street, since 1927. A large canvas awning extended from the front alcove out over the sidewalk to protect guests from being inconvenienced by weather.

Winter drove the rental sedan with Nicky's fire-engine red 1965 Cadillac convertible following behind. He and Nicky parked on St. Charles, a block down from the hotel. Winter carried his duffel by its shoulder strap. Nobody noticed him because Nicky Green's outfit effectively made his companion invisible. As they approached the desk, the clerk stopped what he was doing and stared at Nicky.

“Winter Massey,” Winter said.

“Yes, Mr. Massey,” the clerk said to Nicky. “Your suite is waiting.”

“
He's
Massey.” Nicky inclined his head toward Winter.

The clerk's face reddened, and he reached down for the electronic key. “Mr. Massey. Everything is in order,” he said, meaning that Sean had handled everything with her typical efficiency.

The clerk signaled the bellboy, but Winter shook his head and took the key folder. “I think between Mr. Green and myself, we can find the room without assistance.”

“Nice hotel,” Nicky remarked as they entered the elevator.

“My wife picked it,” Winter said truthfully.

Winter's suite had once been a luxurious apartment containing 1,200 square feet of space furnished with antiques. Other than the obligatory placard in a brass frame on the inside of the door, there was nothing to indicate it was a hotel suite. Beyond the living room there was a dining room and, beyond it, the kitchen. To the left was a hallway where the bedrooms would be located.

Winter took his bag with him into the hallway. After looking into all three bedrooms, he entered the largest of them, threw his duffel on the four-poster bed, and excused himself for a bathroom stop.

“This spread is pert' near big as my whole dad-blasted house,” Nicky said when Winter came into the living room.

Winter spotted a folded
Times-Picayune
on the coffee table. The headline read: “Death Row Attorney Murdered.” Winter lifted it and looked at the picture of Kimberly Porter, who bore a resemblance to her older sister, Millie. He had met Kimberly only once, when she had driven her daughter to North Carolina. Faith Ann had visited the Trammels for a month every summer since Winter had been in Charlotte. He scanned the story, which contained very little useful information. The word
ironic
was used five times to describe the murder. The reporter was implying that her killer had probably canceled out his best chance to avoid getting a “hot shot” compliments of the state.

The second victim, Amber Lee, was referred to as a client. The story mentioned that Ms. Lee, a nightclub worker, had been the subject of a warrant for embezzlement. It implied that Ms. Lee was in the office for legal representation. The police obviously hadn't given the media enough information to allow them to craft a real story, so they filled the space with unrelated table scraps.

There was a much smaller picture of Faith Ann on the lower section of the front page. The caption below it said the police were asking for help in locating the murdered woman's missing daughter. The copy stated that the twelve-year-old was “being sought for questioning” and for anybody who spotted her to immediately call the detective bureau. It gave a telephone number.

“Faith Ann is a suspect,” Winter said.

“When I mentioned that Kimberly Porter was the Trammels' next of kin, the news hit Detective Manseur like a slaughterhouse sledgehammer. Manseur didn't say so, but he recognized your name when I said I'd best call you, since you and Hank are such close friends.”

“What exactly did Manseur tell you?”

“Not much really. He said just enough to get me to thinking. I called somebody with local P.D. knowledge and they told me Manseur is a top investigator with NOPD. He don't look like much—reminds me of that old cartoon dog cop, Droopy, with the hangy-down face, and he talks real slow—but that old dog always gets the bad guy. The two detectives that were assigned to it aren't guys with Manseur's reputation.”

“Did he say Faith Ann was a suspect?”

“Manseur's a pro. He didn't come out and say much of anything. While he was sort of vague about Faith Ann, he said if I saw her, I should call him
first
. I learned that he was the primary on the Porter double homicide, but he was pulled off it by his chief, a fellow named Harvey Suggs. Suggs is an ex-marine, beat cop who worked his way up. Made it through when they did that big corrupt-cop cleanup a few years back. Lots of high-profile cases under his belt. He might give you the facts.”

“Most cops won't give up anything to a federal officer they don't have to, especially one without any standing. I'll talk to Manseur first. You have his number?”

Nicky took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Winter.

Winter dialed the number and got forwarded directly to Manseur's voice mail. He left Manseur the name of the hotel, the room number, and his cell phone number as well.

“We hadn't talked about it yet,” Nicky told Winter, “but I sure want to help you get to the bottom of this mess. I'm just a civilian snoop, and I know all about how good you are from Hank, but I can give a decent account for myself at investigating, and I'm a fair hand at knocking the stuffing out of people if they ask for it. I'll do whatever it takes to help you find Faith Ann and track down who ran down Hank and Millie. And if you won't, I expect we'll be stepping all over each other on account of I ain't about to let the bushwhacking bastard get away with it.”

“Where're you staying?” Winter asked.

“Well, I was at the Columns till this morning, but I have to find a new place on account of I was only registered until noon today and they rented the room out from under me. I need to get checked into a new place.”

“Unless you require more than two bedrooms, pick one of the two I'm not parked in.”

“It makes sense for us to bunk together.”

Winter rubbed his hands together. “Then let's get started.”

“There's something I should mention,” Nicky said, pointing to the paper. “Earlier at the hospital, I was looking at that picture of that little girl. I thought that maybe she looks familiar because she reminds me of Millie. I mean, I was real upset last night, but I'm thinking that maybe I saw Faith Ann there, at the scene. If it was her, she was standing around in the crowd wearing a yellow raincoat. She looked upset and, if it really was her, she had a good reason to be that way. But far as I know she didn't talk to the cops. Not while I was there, anyhow. I was thinking that, if it was the kid, why didn't she say so?”

“Why would
she
have been
there
?”

“I'm not saying it was her,” Nicky said. “That photo just looks like that child I saw. Maybe. I'm not sure.”

32

Faith Ann's favorite day of the week had always been Saturday, because it was a day she always spent with her mother doing pretty much what she liked. Either they went to a movie, the museum, a concert, or just walked around in the French Quarter dropping into galleries and shops. They had family passes for Audubon Zoo and the Aquarium of the Americas on the Mississippi River. Today would be the first different Saturday.

Faith Ann used the small Mag-Lite, as she needed it to see in the dark bunker beneath her home. She used the kitchen shears to free the Walkman from its plastic cocoon. She put in the batteries and slipped on the earplug-style phones. She put in her tape, rewound it, and pressed Play. The sound of her mother's voice coming through the earphones filled her with a deep, painful sadness. As the tape played, however, that emptiness changed into anger that she directed at the Spanish policeman who had killed her mother. After the tape ended, she turned off the player and took off the earphones. Without the earphones, the player just fit inside the sandwich bag. She laid out the poncho on the dirt and lay down in the darkness with her head resting on her pillow. She scrunched herself up into a fetal curl, buried her hands in the pouch of her sweatshirt, and stared into the shadows.

An image of Horace Pond formed in her mind. In a way, although he hadn't done the murders he was supposed to die for doing, he was kind of responsible for two. It seemed to Faith Ann that if her mother hadn't been Horace Pond's appeals attorney, she would be alive, because Amber wouldn't have ever called her. Faith Ann found herself wishing that Horace Pond had been guilty and that Amber hadn't had any evidence to prove he wasn't guilty of killing that judge and his wife. But Uncle Hank had often said, “What is, is.” It meant that you can only deal with the reality of a situation. That reality was that she had to do something or Horace Pond would die that night.
But what?

God, as you know, Mama and I don't spent much time in your church. Please bless my Mama, Uncle Hank, and my Aunt Millie, who are all up there with you in Heaven. Tell them that I love them.

You know, you and me are about the only ones that know Horace Pond isn't a murderer. And just us know that Jerry man told the Spanish policeman to shoot Mama and Amber. God, we both know they'll kill me if they can get hold of me and I'm really scared to get killed, but it isn't because I don't want to go to Heaven or anything because I'm sure it's really nice. Please, Sir, I really, really, hope you can help me out. Maybe you could send an angel who can help me. Amen.

33

From his desk out in the bull pen, Manseur could see—through the open door of his office—Captain Suggs sitting at his desk. Normally on Saturday, Suggs would already be sitting on the porch of his fishing cabin near Pass Manchac, sucking expensive hooch out of a plastic cup and casting bait out into the murky water, hoping to catch fish he wouldn't eat.

None of the detectives in the bureau had mentioned the fact that the Porter/Lee case had been snatched away from him, but Manseur knew that they were all aware of the slight. And even though it wasn't because of anything he'd done, most of them would still figure that the reason was based on some delicious failing on his part—or that it was because his partner, Larry Bond, wasn't there. When your close rate was as high as Manseur and Bond's was, the less successful couldn't help but pray for an occasional failure to even things out. Maybe the reason Manseur was so angered was that his successes gave him—if not additional height, fuller hair, a few less pounds or a more aesthetically pleasing face—a certain luster that camouflaged his physical appearance.

Manseur's phone rang. He lifted the receiver without taking his eyes from the report on his computer screen.

“Detective Manseur.”

“Detective Manseur, this is Buddy Lee Toliver, sheriff in Assumption Parish. We met a while back when you were on the Teddy Trepanier murder. Mindy Trepanier was telling me the other day how decent you were to her during the case and how thankful she was that you brought her some peace of mind along with the justice.”

Manseur remembered the small, frail woman whose only son had been murdered in Armstrong Park by a crack addict for a grand total of three dollars and a Shell credit card. “That was kind of Mrs. Trepanier. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Well, I hope it's more in the nature of what I can do for you. I just fished a blue Range Rover out of the Bayou, and it seems you have a BOLO out on it. Involves a homicide.”

“A fifty-seven-year-old woman—wife of a retired U.S. marshal. He's in intensive care at Charity and probably won't live. I don't guess you caught the driver for me.”

“Maybe so. I meant it involves a homicide here. There's a guy with the vehicle, and maybe he was the driver who hit your couple. All I can tell you is that somebody set the Rover on fire with a man's body inside it, then pushed it off into the bayou using another vehicle. Only trouble was that the water was about six inches too shallow and some fishermen spotted the roof sticking up through the algae. There's tire tracks in the mud coming in and going out. I did get a cast of both sets, and one matches the Rover.”

“What about an autopsy?”

“Well, he got cooked real good. I'd like to run him over to your M.E. We usually do that since we don't have a real pathologist. We make do with a retired pediatric surgeon who does autopsies because nobody in their right mind will let him operate on a live child. This corpse has a dented-in skull, and I don't need an autopsy to tell me he was murdered. Tell the truth, I'm hoping he expired over there in New Orleans and was driven here for disposal.”

“When is he coming over?”

“I'll have the Rover towed to your garage so your people can process it. Corpse is ready to leave out of here now. I'll have him on a table in your M.E.'s suite within the hour. If he died here, I guess we'll work it, and we'll have better information to go on. With any luck he died on your side of the fence, and I'll read about you solving it in the newspaper.”

“I hope he died here too, Sheriff,” the New Orleans cop said bluntly.

Manseur suppressed a joyous yell. He dropped the receiver into place. His excitement was diminished by the sight of Suggs strolling across the bull pen toward his desk, carrying a steaming mug of coffee.

“How's the Trammel hit-and-run coming?” Suggs asked. “The old retired marshal and his wife.”

“The Rover just turned up in Assumption Parish with a corpse inside it—torched and pushed off into the bayou. Body is already on its way over.”

Suggs's frown deepened. “You mean somebody killed the driver?”

“Sheriff says there were tire tracks from a second vehicle on the scene, and his skull was crushed in.”

“So, like maybe some kid out joyriding hit the Trammels. And he had a pal follow him out to get rid of the Rover and the perp killed him and drove his car back. Something like that, you think?”

“It might be,” Manseur said cautiously. “It tracks that the driver killed the only person who could tie him to the event. Could be a kid, as far as I know. M.E. will give me an age.”

Suggs's brow creased. “Kids are psychos these days. It's those damn video games. Did you know that Trammel fellow had some friends? I've fielded calls this morning from the assistant director of the USMS, and Texas congressman Ross Fulgam. Seems Trammel's father was a Texas Ranger, killed on the job. Trammel was a decorated veteran.”

“I knew he was a decorated vet. I'll keep those VIPs in mind. You want to ‘red ball' this one?”

“Not just yet. It's early. If you don't have it in the bag by Monday, we'll take another look. I'm just giving you a heads-up that there are going to be some people watching over your shoulder. I assured them both that you will get it cleared fast. Keep accurate records . . . just in case. We need to cover our asses on this one.”

“I'll give it my undivided attention.”

Suggs started away, then turned back. “I want you to know that despite our not seeing eye-to-eye on the Porter thing, I have absolute confidence in your ability. Bond will be back on Monday”—Suggs actually managed one of his pained smiles, which looked to Manseur like something a funeral home director would wear when a grieving family opted for the cheapest casket available—“but I expect you'll have this solved by then.”

Manseur nodded impassively at his boss. “Sure looks like you were on the money on the Porter/Lee. All that evidence they found in that house. More than you'd expect to find.”

“Well, she's an amateur, and Tinnerino and Doyle are damn good cops who use old-fashioned police work. Girls that age aren't all like your daughters. The Porter gal is the sort of misfit other kids pick on—classic type to shoot things up. She was probably on her way to the school to even some scores and her Mom got in the way.”

“Nothing like good old-fashioned police work.”
Like picking a suspect out, then beating a confession out of him.

“Tinnerino and Doyle are closing in on her,” Suggs said. “Just a matter of time.”

An alligator's lifetime, unless Faith Ann Porter climbs in through their open car window while they're asleep.
Captain Suggs was the only thing that stood between Tinnerino and Doyle and dismissal from the squad for any number of just-cause reasons. The single positive consequence of the pair's laziness lay in the fact that, since they spent as little time around the office as possible, the productive detectives weren't constantly exposed to Suggs's rewarding their obvious incompetence with his praise and protection.

“Well, carry on,” Suggs said.

“I am going to solve this one before Bond gets back,” Manseur told Suggs's backside. Despite the lack of sleep he'd suffered lately, Manseur felt energized. He wondered if Deputy U.S. Marshal Massey was in town yet. With luck he would talk to Massey before Suggs did.

As Manseur watched the captain make his way back to his office, he felt a sensation of excited anticipation very like the one he'd had as a schoolboy waiting patiently for his teacher to open her desk drawer and find the grass snake he'd hidden there.