“Between the fire and foreign dental work, an identification is going to be a bitch,” Manseur said. Why foreigners?
“You're in luck,” the coroner told him. “The fire didn't completely destroy two of his fingertips, because those fingers weren't totally exposed to the heat.” He made a loose fist that put two fingers against the palm of that hand. “I might have lifted enough detail to get you enough for a partial match. Maybe. Who knows?”
The doctor turned to pick up an index card from the table behind him. When he handed it to Manseur, the detective saw that there were two inked spots with lines, grooves, and clearly visible swirls.
Manseur put the fingerprint card in his pocket, then looked at the gurneys lined up against the far wall. “Dying to get in,” he said.
“We've never needed to advertise.”
“You autopsied the Porter and Lee women?”
“Sure did.”
“Could I see those reports?”
“I gave them to Tinnerino and Doyle. You're not working that case, are you?”
“Just curious. Mind if I peek at the originals?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
After Manseur had read over the reports and the medical examiner had answered his questions, Manseur left. As he stood in the elevator, he sniffed his coat, wondering if he smelled like he'd been hanging out in the kitchen of a barbecue joint.
42
Faith Ann took a streetcar downtown. From its window she saw cops in three separate cruisers going about their Saturday-morning business. One police car raced up St. Charles Avenue with its siren and lights blazing and frightened her, but it didn't pull over to wait at the next stop, so she relaxed.
When people looked at her, they paid no particular attention. One of them had bumped into her, looked down, and said, “Excuse me, son.” Being mistaken for a boy made her smile to herself. She had hoped that her slim body enveloped in a bulky sweatshirt and jeans would disguise her budding breasts, and the half-inch-long hair gave her an added measure of safety. She had looked in the bathroom mirror after cutting off her hair and decided that she thought she looked like a boy but hadn't been sure others would think so.
Faith Ann walked self-assuredly with her shoulders slightly hunched to imitate the way boys her age carried themselves. She even occasionally cupped her hand to push up on her imaginary male genitals.
On Canal Street she looked into a newspaper dispenser and saw her mother's picture and her own. She crossed Canal and strode into the French Quarter, which was wide awake.
43
Captain Suggs had been busy since Jerry Bennett called him. He had revised the BOLO for Faith Ann Porter, adding that the “unstable” preteen had murdered two people and was probably armed and dangerous. He added that any policemen who spotted her should not approach her but keep her in sight and call it in directly to him. At that point he would call Tinnerino and Doyle, and they would clue the Latinos, who would handle the girl. Any complications-because he had no choice-he would handle. If Bennett went down, so might he and a lot of others up and down the chain.
He glanced down at his desk at the phone sheets listing two weeks' worth of calls for Kimberly Porter's office phone, home phone, and the missing cellular phone, which he assumed the daughter had in her possession. Now when she used it, he would be notified within seconds of her exact location. He was awaiting the list of the owners of the telephones that Kimberly had called and those who had called her in that time period, which the departmental researchers were gathering and had instructions to hand-deliver ASAP.
Suggs had often weighed Bennett's generosity-there was no disputing his largesse-against the damage he could do him if he ever decided to unburden himself. Suggs realized that if Bennett kept proof of his own guilt in murders, who knew what evidence of his payouts, and what he got in return for them, he had in his possession. Now he could turn rat and buy himself a lot of slack-maybe a life sentence instead of the needle. It was a disturbing thought. Suggs looked up to see a policewoman in his doorway holding up an envelope.
“You were waiting for these?” she asked. “Telephone records?”
“What do you think?” Suggs said curtly.
She placed the envelope on his desk. Before she was out of the office, he had it in his hands and had slipped out the pages.
The information for each of the three phone numbers was stapled together. Each list of numbers had, as its cover page, the names and addresses of the people the lawyer had called, followed by the names and addresses of those who had called her.
Suggs stared at one of the names in stunned silence. He rifled through all three covers and the number was included on all three lists. The name was H. Trammel, 1233 Post Road, Charlotte, North Carolina. There was another name in the same area code and this one struck a sour cord in Suggs's memory. It was Winter James Massey, Concord, North Carolina. That was a name he knew. It had been called from Kimberly Porter's cell phone two hours after she was dead. Did Kimberly Porter know Winter Massey?
Manseur's hit-and-run investigation involved Henry “Hank” Trammel. Suggs remembered Massey's partner in the shoot-out last year was named
… Trammel. “Shit!”
44
Winter went into his bedroom to call Hank's doctor for an update before he called Sean to pass on what he had learned. He also talked to his son about Faith Ann Porter. He asked Sean how she felt. Talking about the baby put him in a better, healthier frame of mind for a few moments. When he returned to the living room, Adams, in a tailored gray suit, white button-down and striped tie, sat reading the sports pages of the newspaper. The suit jacket, laid over the back of a chair, had been tailored so that the gun rig beneath it was imperceptible. Winter noted that the federal agent's high-top, dull-leather shoes with solvent-resistant crepe soles were designed for a man who understood what being sure-footed was worth. The. 40-caliber Glock in his shoulder rig was a utilitarian choice-a thoroughly dependable, highly accurate all-weather weapon, more plastic than steel. Winter's SIG Sauer 220, in the same caliber, was more steel than plastic, and Winter preferred the thinner grip posture the German weapon offered. In the right hands, both guns would drive nails at twenty-five feet. Truthfully, Winter thought Glocks looked like toys hewn out of blocks of chocolate. Winter saw that instead of a handcuff pouch, which he always carried, Adams had two three-magazine carriers so he was a walking arsenal. The ankle holster carried an odd choice in a backup weapon. The quick-release holster held a folding knife with a composite handle.
Nicky Green had changed out of his formal Western attire. He was wearing black denim jeans, a knit shirt, and suede cowboy boots, and he had swapped the cowboy hat for a plain blue baseball cap. “I pass the audition?”
Adams glanced at him over the newspaper, folded it, and set it aside.
“That's better,” Adams said.
Winter took a seat on the couch. “Faith Ann doesn't have any close friends my son is aware of. He said her favorite places are Audubon Zoo, City Park, and the aquarium. Our best hope is she'll call him again. Sean is going to call me as soon as she does.”
Adams said, “If she's still alive.”
“She was alive last night,” Nicky pointed out.
“I'm going to assume she is,” Winter said.
“Well, we can't cover all of those places and hope she shows up,” Adams told them. “The cops searched her house, so I expect the detectives working this have her address books, phone logs, computer files, correspondence.”
“We need to get in that house too,” Nicky said. “Maybe they missed something.”
“I agree,” Adams said. “Got to start somewhere.”