“I've been helping her with two of her capital cases. I knew her sort of well. We weren't friends or anything like that.”
“You weren't friends?”
“She was sort of all business.”
“Husband? Boyfriend?”
“I only know they lived alone.”
“What can you tell me about her daughter?”
“Faith Ann? She's smart as a whip. Doesn't talk much. I've only been around her up here a few times. She's kind of quiet. Shy, I guess.”
“She and her mother get along all right?”
“They were super close. Kimberly always treated Faith Ann like an adult. She's way beyond kids her age in lots of ways. She can talk to you about most subjects.”
“Did you know the other woman,” Manseur asked, “Amber Lee? Could she have been a client?”
Napoleon shook his head. “Kimberly only does-did appeals on capital cases, so she wasn't a client. I guess she was either related to an inmate, or…”
“Or?” Manseur saw something change in the boy's eyes.
“She could have been the one who has been calling the office.”
“Calling about?”
“A woman has been calling to talk to Kimberly. Wouldn't give her name. Kimberly mentioned she claimed she had evidence that one of the inmates on The Row was innocent and that she had conclusive proof of who was guilty. Kimberly said she thought the woman wanted money for whatever she had. Nuts come out of the woodwork any time a case is in the news or an execution date is coming up. Far as I know, her last call was Wednesday. I left early yesterday, so she might have called back.”
“I didn't see a computer in the office.” Manseur made a note to request a list of the dead lawyer's incoming and outgoing calls for the past thirty days.
“Kimberly had a laptop. She carried it back and forth from home. There's a printer both places. She was sort of frugal-minded. Drove an old car, wore the same clothes. But she was the best. She saw things that are invisible to most lawyers. She could have made big bucks. But Kimberly believed in justice, not money. You know what I'm saying?”
“Yes,” Manseur said, closing his murder book. “I am intimately familiar with the syndrome.”
8
Marta Ruiz felt as if she was standing between heaven and hell as ten high-pressure nozzles-five each on opposing walls-assailed her. She stood naked in the center of the stone-tiled shower stall as cold water stung the front of her body and hot scorched her backside. Her mind was far away, her thoughts as unfocused as the eyes of a newborn. Unless she was in a completely safe place, as she was now, Marta could ill afford the luxury of letting her mind wander. In her line of work, safe places were rare. The house, which she shared with Arturo, was located in the woods north of Lake Pontchartrain miles outside Covington, Louisiana.
Marta turned off the jets and dried off using a thick towel. She stood before the full-length mirror and studied the most important weapon she owned-her chiseled and finely tuned body. The first and most important rule in her line of work was to stay in fighting trim. When she wasn't on a job she spent several hours a day in her well- equipped gym, working out on the Nautilus machines to maintain her strength. Her five-foot-five-inch frame was as close to perfection as diet and exercise could make it. She maintained a balance in her muscle structure because being too bulked would slow her and limit her range of movement, while having too little muscle would cost her strength and stamina. She swam laps in the pool behind the house, ran ten miles a day, practiced gymnastic exercises to give her stamina, balance, and strength. She kept up her proficiency with a wide variety of weapons. She could slow her heartbeat and hold her breath for over three minutes. She maintained her peak condition-pushed herself because her clients paid a lot of money for perfection.
Part of her regimen included training in absolute darkness, using the sounds and scents of her adversaries for orientation. Her sparring partner was a sixteen-year-old neighbor boy who lived a half mile up a dirt trail that ran along the Tchefuncte River. On those days the boy came, Marta wore a blindfold and went weaponless, while he used a bamboo sword and tried to hit her as many times as he could before she disarmed him. She would pay him five dollars for every blow he delivered until she took the sword away. He had never made more than five dollars, but he kept trying harder, which she appreciated. Like a blind person, each time she played the game her hearing and other senses took the place of her sight.
She smiled at her mirror image. At twenty-nine she could still pass for a teenager. If she wore her hair short it would be easier to take care of, but she loved her long hair and so did men, which gave her an edge more important than an ability to disguise herself. She studied her face and how her hazel eyes, heavy black eyebrows, high cheekbones, strong chin, and full lips worked together.
Marta put on a plush robe, wrapped her hair in a towel, and went into the bedroom humming. Hard hands grabbed her from behind. The intruder locked his forearm tight around her middle, and pressed a blade against her throat. His body odor assailed her nostrils, but under that there was a very familiar scent.
Marta grabbed his wrist, pressed her fingers against the back of his hand, and disarmed him. Effortlessly, she now held his trademark switchblade to his throat.
“Poor baby,” she crooned teasingly. “Did the little girl get the better of you?”
“Okay, I give up,” he said.
She kissed him full on the lips, both cheeks, and on his smooth forehead before handing back his knife.
“You have been sweating, Arturo,” she said.
“It was a long morning.”
She stood, pulled him to his feet, and embraced him. “Come and take a shower, Arturo. We can spend a few minutes talking. I've hardly seen you all week.”
Marta led him into the bathroom, and while he took off his clothes she set the water to cascade from the overhead nozzles.
“How did you do that?” he asked, perplexed.
“I read the instructions. They are in the-”
“The contractor should come show me again. I wasn't paying attention to him before.”
“I'll show you,” she told him.
While he stood under the water soaping himself and singing, Marta picked up his soiled clothes and dropped them into the hamper. She would wash and dry them later, as she always did. As he lathered his body she sat on the deep stone counter with her legs crossed and admired him. He was the only man she had ever loved-ever cared about at all. “Are you hungry?”
“No. Just tired.”
“I'll cook you something. I've got some of the wine you like and I picked up some prime steaks.”
“I got a triple this morning,” he said.
She shrugged. “So did I. That prick Cecil Mahoney and two of his little geckos. I just pinched off their teensy little heads.”
“I didn't think that pig was telling the truth, but Bennett did. Mahoney was insane. Anyway, I found Amber and got back the envelope. And I brought your fee. Bennett was pleased by your triple, even if it wasn't the right triple.”
“I'm happy he was pleased,” she said sarcastically.
“He invited me to bring you to his club tonight, but I told him you are a simple girl who doesn't care for noisy places.”
“What I don't care for is bad food, boom-boom music, watered-down drinks, sweaty people, and flashing lights. And I especially don't care for your boss. He should work in a circus.”
“He pays me good money and I have complete protection, which doesn't exactly hurt you.”
“I handle my own protection. And I prefer working for different clients and taking the assignments I want to
