The skinny leader tossed the hat onto Faith Ann's chest, held out his open hand. “I said five dollars for the hat. That other was for calling me a faggot, faggot. You lucky I don't put one between your eyes.” He put his hand inside his large shirt, suggesting he had a gun.
“What you got in the book bag, bee-otch?” the fat boy demanded.
“Nothing,” Faith Ann stammered.
“Give me some money, zoo boy.”
Faith Ann weighed her options. Nobody was going to rush up to help her, she couldn't fight them all, and she sure wasn't going to let them have the backpack because of what it contained.
“Okay,” she said, standing, with the hat clasped in her left hand. “I'll give you some money.”
The leader backed up, his bright eyes filled with anticipation.
Faith Ann faced the wall of boys, reached into her pocket and slipped her fingers around the wad of bills. She jerked her hand out, then tossed the currency that came out with it, where the breeze caught it and turned the wad into a fluttering cloud of bills. Faith Ann turned and ran.
“Come back here!” the leader hollered-like there was some chance of that happening.
Faith Ann didn't slow down until she was back across North Rampart Street and two blocks into the French Quarter. If Sister Ellen was in there, she was beyond Faith Ann's reach. Maybe she was at the prison telling Horace Pond that Jesus loved him.
47
Winter parked in front of the house next door to the Porter residence, a narrow wood-frame raised shotgun. He climbed from his car and noticed a woman peering out at him through the screen door of the next house over. Most of the houses in the uptown neighborhood were attractive, the yards well kept. The Porter house was light gray with dark gray shutters, a burgundy-painted concrete porch, and a glass-panel burgundy front door. A picket fence stretched across the front, but the fence running down either side of the lot was of hurricane wire. A freestanding cinder-block garage beside the house was painted the same gray as the house.
“Hello there,” he called cheerfully to the woman.
She opened the door and came out on the porch, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing to protect her cotton housedress. She was thin, probably in her late sixties, and wore her hair in a bun. She had a noticeable mustache.
“Can I help you, young man?”
He opened her gate and stepped into her yard, which unlike the Porters' was filled to bursting with raised flower beds, enough plants to fill a nursery. Dozens of flower pots cut the porch's usable sitting space down to the rocking chair she occupied.
“I'm U.S. Deputy Marshal Winter Massey. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“I expect you want to ask about Mrs. Porter,” she replied, shaking her head. “Nice lady. Her daughter is a sweet girl. Y'all find her yet?”
“When did you see her last?”
“I saw them both a couple of days ago. I always speak to them, and they are friendly enough, but they kind of stay to themselves. Faith Ann is sweet and very smart. Most kids her age aren't nearly as nice or able to have conversations with adults. I sure hope she's okay. It's just horrible what happened. I told the other police that I'd call if I saw her.”
Winter said, “I'm a friend of Kimberly's sister and her husband, and Faith Ann is a close friend of my son's. I'm trying to find her on my own.”
“Are you sure… Are you really a policeman?”
“I'm a United States marshal.”
“Could you show me?”
He came up to the porch and handed her up his badge and I.D.
“Thought you might be a reporter. Several been by to ask me a lot of questions too, but I couldn't help them. Truth is, I only made small talk with the Porters over the fence, how neighbors do. I gave her a recipe here and there. Faith Ann was the one who generally cooked, because her mama wasn't interested in it. I know Mrs. Porter worshipped that girl and vice versa.” She smiled. “They would sit on the porch and talk and laugh and went almost everywhere together. Close, don't you see. Like best friends. They liked keeping their own company.”
The woman handed Winter back his badge case. “I'm Clara Hughes.”
“Nice to meet you. So, how many policemen searched the house?”
“Let me think… First, yesterday morning, the regular police came in a police car, but they didn't go in. They just walked around looking in windows. I thought that was odd, but it wasn't any of my business. I didn't know what it was about then. After a while, the man officer got in his car and he must have parked it somewhere else, because he walked back around the corner from Marengo Street, and those two sort of watched over the place.
“Later on two police detectives came, and the uniformed police left. Then the detectives went inside, and this other pair pulled up in a big Lincoln Continental and they went in too. The second bunch left after maybe forty-five minutes. They took a shopping bag with them. The two detectives stayed longer. I heard all kinds of racket in there like they were breaking things. I wasn't trying to listen, you understand. My windows were open to catch the breeze.”
“They were probably other detectives,” Winter said, making a mental note to ask Manseur about the couple in the Lincoln.
“They weren't dressed in suits like the other two. The young man was very handsome with his hair combed straight back like a movie star. Not tall as you, sort of thin, and he had a long black coat on. She was dressed up kind of fancy.”
“She? Fancy how?”
“Sort of, I don't know… almost like fashion models.”
“Glamorous?”
Clara nodded. “She was shorter, and she had black hair in a ponytail. The cap, boots, jacket, and the tightest pants you ever saw, all black leather. My husband would have said she got poured into her outfit. I've never seen police wearing any outfits like that. That pair came two times. The last time, he went inside by the front door, she went to the back. And they both came out around from out back. What was funny was, the woman crawled right under the house. Now, why, I thought, would somebody all dressed up like that get under a house with all that dirt and who knows what else? Anyway she came back out in a few minutes and then they left in their big black car.”
“When was the second visit?”
“Early this morning.”
“Did they talk to you?”
“I didn't talk to anybody but two detectives. The big one gave me a card with his name and number on it.”
“Could I see the card?”
The woman went inside and returned with a business card. The name on it was Detective Anthony Brian Tinnerino, NOPD. There was an extra number added in ink.
“That's his private number,” she said. “Said to call anytime night or day. I didn't like that man one little bit.”
“You didn't?”
“He was a condescending jerk. Surly. Maybe that's police detective nature or something. You'd think they would be nicer to people they want help from.”
“You'd think so.”
“Catch more flies with honey. You'd think a policeman would know that.”
“Seems like it,” Winter agreed.
“Didn't make me want to help them at all. It's no wonder they don't solve more crimes than they do. If you call them, sometimes they don't even come unless it's a big house on St. Charles Avenue. Then they sure come running-you bet they do.”
“Clara, if I give you my phone number, could you call me if you see Faith Ann? I'll help her. I'll make sure they don't pull anything on her after all she's been through.”
“Like make me think that sweet little girl could have hurt her mama? He didn't come right out and say it, but that was what he wanted me to believe. Like that could be true, or something. That big one told me not to talk to her or anything-just call him and he'd take it from there.”
“I just think somebody who cares about Faith Ann should know what the police know. In case she needs anything.”