The Pontchartrain Hotel had stood at 2031 St. Charles Avenue, with its right shoulder against Josephine Street, since 1927. A large canvas awning extended from the front alcove out over the sidewalk to protect guests from being inconvenienced by weather.
Winter drove the rental sedan with Nicky's fire-engine red 1965 Cadillac convertible following behind. He and Nicky parked on St. Charles, a block down from the hotel. Winter carried his duffel by its shoulder strap. Nobody noticed him because Nicky Green's outfit effectively made his companion invisible. As they approached the desk, the clerk stopped what he was doing and stared at Nicky.
“Winter Massey,” Winter said.
“Yes, Mr. Massey,” the clerk said to Nicky. “Your suite is waiting.”
“ He's Massey.” Nicky inclined his head toward Winter.
The clerk's face reddened, and he reached down for the electronic key. “Mr. Massey. Everything is in order,” he said, meaning that Sean had handled everything with her typical efficiency.
The clerk signaled the bellboy, but Winter shook his head and took the key folder. “I think between Mr. Green and myself, we can find the room without assistance.”
“Nice hotel,” Nicky remarked as they entered the elevator.
“My wife picked it,” Winter said truthfully.
Winter's suite had once been a luxurious apartment containing 1,200 square feet of space furnished with antiques. Other than the obligatory placard in a brass frame on the inside of the door, there was nothing to indicate it was a hotel suite. Beyond the living room there was a dining room and, beyond it, the kitchen. To the left was a hallway where the bedrooms would be located.
Winter took his bag with him into the hallway. After looking into all three bedrooms, he entered the largest of them, threw his duffel on the four-poster bed, and excused himself for a bathroom stop.
“This spread is pert' near big as my whole dad-blasted house,” Nicky said when Winter came into the living room.
Winter spotted a folded Times-Picayune on the coffee table. The headline read: “Death Row Attorney Murdered.” Winter lifted it and looked at the picture of Kimberly Porter, who bore a resemblance to her older sister, Millie. He had met Kimberly only once, when she had driven her daughter to North Carolina. Faith Ann had visited the Trammels for a month every summer since Winter had been in Charlotte. He scanned the story, which contained very little useful information. The word ironic was used five times to describe the murder. The reporter was implying that her killer had probably canceled out his best chance to avoid getting a “hot shot” compliments of the state.
The second victim, Amber Lee, was referred to as a client. The story mentioned that Ms. Lee, a nightclub worker, had been the subject of a warrant for embezzlement. It implied that Ms. Lee was in the office for legal representation. The police obviously hadn't given the media enough information to allow them to craft a real story, so they filled the space with unrelated table scraps.
There was a much smaller picture of Faith Ann on the lower section of the front page. The caption below it said the police were asking for help in locating the murdered woman's missing daughter. The copy stated that the twelve-year-old was “being sought for questioning” and for anybody who spotted her to immediately call the detective bureau. It gave a telephone number.
“Faith Ann is a suspect,” Winter said.
“When I mentioned that Kimberly Porter was the Trammels' next of kin, the news hit Detective Manseur like a slaughterhouse sledgehammer. Manseur didn't say so, but he recognized your name when I said I'd best call you, since you and Hank are such close friends.”
“What exactly did Manseur tell you?”
“Not much really. He said just enough to get me to thinking. I called somebody with local P.D. knowledge and they told me Manseur is a top investigator with NOPD. He don't look like much-reminds me of that old cartoon dog cop, Droopy, with the hangy-down face, and he talks real slow-but that old dog always gets the bad guy. The two detectives that were assigned to it aren't guys with Manseur's reputation.”
“Did he say Faith Ann was a suspect?”
“Manseur's a pro. He didn't come out and say much of anything. While he was sort of vague about Faith Ann, he said if I saw her, I should call him first. I learned that he was the primary on the Porter double homicide, but he was pulled off it by his chief, a fellow named Harvey Suggs. Suggs is an ex-marine, beat cop who worked his way up. Made it through when they did that big corrupt-cop cleanup a few years back. Lots of high-profile cases under his belt. He might give you the facts.”
“Most cops won't give up anything to a federal officer they don't have to, especially one without any standing. I'll talk to Manseur first. You have his number?”
Nicky took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Winter.
Winter dialed the number and got forwarded directly to Manseur's voice mail. He left Manseur the name of the hotel, the room number, and his cell phone number as well.
“We hadn't talked about it yet,” Nicky told Winter, “but I sure want to help you get to the bottom of this mess. I'm just a civilian snoop, and I know all about how good you are from Hank, but I can give a decent account for myself at investigating, and I'm a fair hand at knocking the stuffing out of people if they ask for it. I'll do whatever it takes to help you find Faith Ann and track down who ran down Hank and Millie. And if you won't, I expect we'll be stepping all over each other on account of I ain't about to let the bushwhacking bastard get away with it.”
“Where're you staying?” Winter asked.
“Well, I was at the Columns till this morning, but I have to find a new place on account of I was only registered until noon today and they rented the room out from under me. I need to get checked into a new place.”
“Unless you require more than two bedrooms, pick one of the two I'm not parked in.”
“It makes sense for us to bunk together.”
Winter rubbed his hands together. “Then let's get started.”
“There's something I should mention,” Nicky said, pointing to the paper. “Earlier at the hospital, I was looking at that picture of that little girl. I thought that maybe she looks familiar because she reminds me of Millie. I mean, I was real upset last night, but I'm thinking that maybe I saw Faith Ann there, at the scene. If it was her, she was standing around in the crowd wearing a yellow raincoat. She looked upset and, if it really was her, she had a good reason to be that way. But far as I know she didn't talk to the cops. Not while I was there, anyhow. I was thinking that, if it was the kid, why didn't she say so?”
“Why would she have been there?”
“I'm not saying it was her,” Nicky said. “That photo just looks like that child I saw. Maybe. I'm not sure.”
32
Faith Ann's favorite day of the week had always been Saturday, because it was a day she always spent with her mother doing pretty much what she liked. Either they went to a movie, the museum, a concert, or just walked around in the French Quarter dropping into galleries and shops. They had family passes for Audubon Zoo and the Aquarium of the Americas on the Mississippi River. Today would be the first different Saturday.
Faith Ann used the small Mag-Lite, as she needed it to see in the dark bunker beneath her home. She used the kitchen shears to free the Walkman from its plastic cocoon. She put in the batteries and slipped on the earplug-style phones. She put in her tape, rewound it, and pressed Play. The sound of her mother's voice coming through the earphones filled her with a deep, painful sadness. As the tape played, however, that emptiness changed into anger that she directed at the Spanish policeman who had killed her mother. After the tape ended, she turned off the player and took off the earphones. Without the earphones, the player just fit inside the sandwich bag. She laid out the poncho on the dirt and lay down in the darkness with her head resting on her pillow. She scrunched herself up into a fetal curl, buried her hands in the pouch of her sweatshirt, and stared into the shadows.
An image of Horace Pond formed in her mind. In a way, although he hadn't done the murders he was
