“No,” the detective said.
“Did she have one?”
“Matter of fact… I don't know.” There was a short pause while he asked. “Chief, Doyle says there were bills for one.”
“Have you gotten a list of the calls to and from all of her phones?”
“We're on that now,” Tinnerino said, obviously lying.
“You'd better be. I want that cell phone number ASAP.”
Suggs disconnected the line and picked up the one where Jerry Bennett was waiting. “Porter has a cell phone, and it isn't accounted for.”
“Well,” Bennett said, “if I were you, I'd put a trace on that phone and I'd figure out how to pinpoint its location. You can do that, can't you?”
“Track it? Yes, of course we can do that.”
“ She might be using it. Harvey, don't expect me to do your job for you. Let me know as soon as you get a fix on that phone. And my people will handle the pickup.”
“Of course I'll do what I can-”
“You understand how important it is for your people to keep my people in the loop?”
“She'll use the thing and we'll get a fix on her location.”
“I know that, Harvey!” Bennett snapped. “I watch television. If I were you, I absolutely would not disappoint me.”
40
Winter rode in the passenger seat of his rented Dodge Stratus, thinking as Nicky drove up St. Charles Avenue.
Other than what Nicky Green and Manseur had told him, Winter had no information to go on. Until there was evidence to the contrary, he had to assume that Faith Ann was alive and in hiding and that she had a good reason for not seeking out the police. He could accept that either Faith Ann knew, or believed, that there were cops involved in the death of her mother. Maybe she was correct. At any rate, it was her perception that mattered, not what the facts were. She was only twelve years old. If there was corrupt police involvement, then Faith Ann was in danger if the cops did find her. That would certainly explain why Suggs wanted her declared the suspect in the double homicide. The public would assume she was guilty-just another killer child, the stuff of adult nightmares. And if such a killer dies during apprehension, who's going to look too closely?
For the present, Hank was beyond his help. Winter's priority was to find Hank's niece and make sure the child was safe.
Winter trusted Nicky Green because Nicky and Hank were close friends and Hank's judgment of people was accurate. Nicky was also a professional, even though he was a strange-looking one.
Winter didn't know Detective Manseur, and he had no idea if the detective's actual reasons for not telling his chief about the connections between the two cases were what he claimed. But Winter did believe their interests-when it came to Faith Ann Porter-did in fact coincide. It wasn't relevant to Winter yet whether Manseur's prime objective was to find Kimberly's real killer. Maybe he wanted to prove Faith Ann's innocence, or maybe Manseur needed to prove he had been taken off of the Porter case for “dirty” political reasons-not because he actually wasn't competent to handle it.
Winter was taking a chance. He desperately needed Manseur's help as a navigator-without it he had nothing at all to go on and no way to see inside the investigation. But he wanted to make sure he had exhausted his options before he put Manseur in Suggs's sights.
There was one person who might know something that would be of help. He dialed his home number. Sean answered, and he told her in detail what he had learned.
“So I need for you to talk to Rush,” he concluded. “Explain this to him and ask him to think hard and try to remember if Faith Ann ever told him about any of her favorite places or named any close friends here in New Orleans. Call me back with anything. Anything at all.” Winter hung up the phone.
“We've got company,” Nicky announced, glancing in the mirror. “Two cars back.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. He was parked outside the hotel when I went out to my car for my gear. His car was one back from me. When I looked back at him, he turned his head.”
“Lose him,” Winter said. “Let's see how good he is.”
“Belts on, ladies and gentlemen.” Nicky jerked the wheel at the next cross-street without signaling. His tires squealed, and the oncoming car he cut off honked in furious protest. Nicky completed the U, took a swift right, and floored it. He was an amazingly skillful driver. He coordinated the wheels, the accelerator, and the brakes effortlessly, and the sure-footed car moved as though it was on tracks.
“You know,” he said, “with a few tweaks here and there, some minor work on the suspension, this wouldn't be a bad car. It ain't no Caddy, but it ain't bad.” He tilted back his cowboy hat and looked in the rearview. “Mission accomplished. Our tail is gone.”
“Why did Manseur have us tailed?”
“Manseur?”
“Who else knows we're around?”
When Nicky slowed for the next light, something touched their bumper.
“Jesus Christ,” Nicky murmured, looking back.
Winter turned in his seat and saw that the car they thought they had lost now had its front bumper resting against their rear end. The driver, a man with a crew cut, relaxed his grip on the wheel enough to wave his fingers.
“He looks like a cop,” Nicky told Winter.
“Pull over,” Winter replied. “Let's see what the deal is.”
Nicky pulled into the parking lot of a bicycle store. The sedan parked so that the driver was shoulder to shoulder with Winter, four feet away.
Winter zipped down his window. The driver did the same.
“Hi there,” Winter said pleasantly. “Is there something we can do for you?”
The driver turned and stared at him. “Maybe there's something I can do for you.”
“Like what?”
“I could tell you why Roy Rogers there didn't shake me.”
“Okay.”
The driver held up a laptop computer. On the screen was a blinking dot positioned on a street grid. “I put a C-2 Tracker behind your visor.”
Winter flipped down the visor and unpinned the dime-size disc with a smiley-face decal stuck on it.
The driver raised his hand above the window, and the badge case in his hand fell open. “Special Agent John Everett Adams,” he said. “Maybe we should sit down and talk.”
Except for his eyes, which were light blue, Adams's features were almost bland. The FBI agent's closely cropped hair was light brown, and his fingernails were clipped so the ends appeared to be uniform in the amount of edge showing. His teeth were bright and so perfect that Winter wondered if they had been veneered.
“About?” Winter asked, handing Adams back the tracker.
“We could talk about anything you'd like. Sports? I'm a Redskins fan. Games? I play checkers and shoot pool. Or we could talk about Hank and Millie Trammel. You guys hungry?”
“I could eat something,” Winter said.
“Follow me,” Adams said. He backed up and pulled into traffic. Three blocks later he turned into a diner parking lot and got out of his car. Winter and Nicky did so too.
“You like omelets?” Adams asked. “This place looks like shit, but the omelets are to die for.”
Winter wondered if it was possible that the health department had not been informed of the existence of the diner. The space was long and narrow with booths along the left wall and stools at the long counter, behind which food was grilled in plain sight of the customers. The putty-colored paint on the walls and ceiling had been dulled years ago by airborne grease, and the floor tiles were stained and chipped. The three men took seats at the first booth, Winter and Nicky facing Adams, who kept his back to the door. They sat silent until the waitress took their orders. Adams ordered a cheese and mushroom omelet, Winter asked for black coffee. Nicky ordered a hamburger, which bought a scowl from the woman.
“Try a seafood po'boy,” Adams suggested.
“I'd rather take my chances with red meat,” Green said. “Medium rare.”