Suggs nodded. “And here, fourteen months back… Well, you know all about that one.”
“He still out of North Carolina, you think?” Manseur took the casebook from his pocket and made a show of turning pages slowly as though he was reading through his notes. “Jesus,” he said, tapping a page with a fingertip, “sure is. Winter Massey. I can't believe I didn't put it together.”
“After you speak to Massey, I want to be filled in on his plans. If that marshal goes off on some sort of vendetta and creates any sort of havoc… I won't stand for that. You warn him about that. Be firm.”
“I'll sound him out. Maybe he knows who might still want to pay Hank Trammel back for all that…”
“Unpleasantness,” Suggs said, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. “Just keep me in the loop, Manseur. Whatever you get, pass on to me. If you talk to Massey or the missing sister, I want to know what they say ASAP.”
“Soon as I talk to them. Frankly, Chief, I have some other cases that I need to check in on. I thought this one was in limbo at the moment. I've been running without sleep.”
“Do what you can. Being Saturday and all, Monday should be when you can get your teeth into this one. Okay, no biggie. Just keep me in the loop and if you need anything, just ask. We have to wrap this one up. Big brother looking over our shoulders and all that happy crap.”
“I will,” Manseur said, standing. “How's the Porter/Lee case coming?”
“Tinnerino and Doyle are working it from several angles. They're getting closer to the girl.”
“Someone told me the BOLO said she's armed and dangerous.”
“We have reason to believe that is the case.”
“But you have the murder weapon.”
“She could have another weapon. It's extremely possible she had help. Maybe an older boyfriend. You're familiar with the Charlie Starkweather case from the fifties.”
“So you think some Starkweather-type boyfriend might have given the kid another gun?”
“That's what Tinnerino thinks.”
“Was the silencer found with the gun?”
“Silencer?” Suggs's eyes opened wide. “Who said anything about a silencer?”
“The M.E. on the Rover stiff mentioned the Porter and Lee wounds had strands of steel wool in them. Naturally I assumed it was from a silencer, since steel wool is commonly packed inside the baffle sleeve to absorb sound. The gun that killed Porter and Lee was a. 380 automatic, wasn't it?”
“A Taurus.”
Manseur knew they'd have the serial number, which would make it difficult for anybody to swap the weapon with another, nonthreaded piece. Ballistics had matched the gun to the bullets. “Must have been evidence that a noise suppressor was attached to it. I bet the inside of the barrel is threaded.”
“I'll look into it,” Suggs said.
Manseur stood. “I'm sure Tinnerino and Doyle know how unusual it is for a twelve-year-old to have access to that sort of equipment. I'd love to know who the girl's accomplice is. I'm betting you'll find out he's a professional.”
Manseur walked from the room, wondering if he should have dropped that silencer information on Suggs just yet. At least Suggs was on notice that he'd have to be very careful about what happened from that point out. It would give his chief something else to occupy himself with. The more pressure that was put on Suggs and his detectives, the freer Manseur would be to work under their radar.
46
The knowledge that Horace Pond's time was growing shorter by the second propelled Faith Ann Porter's steps. It was early afternoon when she crossed North Rampart Street and made her way up the sidewalk beside the brick wall that protected Saint Louis Number One, the most famous cemetery in the country after Arlington, from unauthorized visitors. Faith Ann had visited voodoo priestess Marie Lebeau's tomb in there.
She turned the corner and strode down the street that separated the Iberville housing projects from the cemetery. Her mother's friend, Sister Ellen Proctor, lived in a unit in the projects her Catholic order kept there for the sister's ministry to help the underprivileged. If anybody could help her now, the world-famous Sister Ellen could.
She didn't know which building Sister Ellen Proctor lived in. She had been there twice with her mother to pick up the anti-capital punishment nun, who was the spiritual adviser to several Death Row residents and wrote books on how bad the death penalty was. On both occasions, the nun had been waiting on the sidewalk for them to pick her up. Both times there had been people waiting there with her. Even though she was white, Sister Ellen liked living there instead of in a convent, and she'd told Kimberly that she wasn't in any danger in the all-minority projects. Kimberly had told Faith Ann that the people in the place loved the nun and protected her. Some of the automobiles parked on the street looked nice, while others like they belonged in a junkyard.
The two-story brick buildings stood lined up on land that was mostly bare dirt divided by sidewalks with a few shade trees scattered around. Some of the units had sheets of weathered plywood covering their doors and windows. On several of the concrete porches and around the buildings, people congregated, enjoying the autumn sunshine. Some were already drinking beer, while others seemed to be outside to keep an eye on the children, who were playing noisily.
As Faith Ann crossed the street, she was aware that people were watching her, as if trying to decide whether she might represent a threat. Faith Ann had assumed that since Sister Ellen was a resident and accepted as a friend of the community, that she would be too. As she approached a group of teenagers however she learned she was wrong.
A skinny boy of perhaps sixteen, whose crisp jersey and new denims would have fit someone twice his size, turned from his friends and faced her head-on. His reddish hair was in dreadlocks, his skin was almost as light as her own, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. His eyes reflected an arrogant surliness. And his front teeth were veneered in gold.
“You looking for something, zoo boy? You looking for a hookup?”
“Yes,” Faith Ann replied, stopping five feet short of the red-haired teenager.
“What it is? Chronic? Somethin' lil' heavier?”
“I'm looking for Sister Ellen.”
“Never heard of her. Y'all know no sistah name of Ellen?”
The others exchanged looks; the fattest one giggled nervously.
“You packin' any presidents?” the leader asked her.
“Yeah,” the heavyset boy joined in. “What you gone buy rock with?”
“Rock?” Faith Ann really wanted to turn and run, but another sullen boy moved up behind her.
“You lookin' to score, or what?”
“I'm looking for Sister Ellen Proctor, the nun. She lives here.”
“White lady?”
Faith Ann nodded.
“Sheeeeet. This look like a place for white nuns?”
“Maybe he thinks this is a Catholic school.” The fat boy stepped closer.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Faith Ann said, feeling scared.
“Maybe you got the wrong projects.” The leader held out his hand. “Let me hold your lid for a second.”
Before Faith Ann could respond, he jerked off her cap and was studying it.
“How much you give for this here?” the red-haired leader asked her.
“Twelve dollars.”
“I'll sell it back to you for five.”
“That's a good deal,” the fat boy piped up. “Cute-ass hat like that gots to be worth twenty.”
“Keep it,” Faith Ann managed to say.
“I don't want no zoo hat. Zoo hats for faggots. I look like a fag to you?”
“He called you a faggot,” another boy jeered. “You gone let him do that?”
The blow came out of nowhere, and Faith Ann was surprised to find herself sitting on her butt, looking up at the boys, the one in dreads smiling malevolently, showing her his fist. “You fall down, zoo boy?” Faith Ann felt the numbness where the sharp knuckles had connected with her cheekbone. She had never before been punched in the face and she was scared.