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.”
“And I shouldn't tell the other policemen?”
“I'm not advising you not to tell the police what they asked you to tell them. Unless there's some good reason, you should always help the legitimate authorities with official investigations. I'd just like to know. Maybe you could call me first, if you'd feel comfortable doing that. If not, I'll understand.”
She fixed Winter with her stare, then nodded slowly.
“I don't see why not. You are a policeman.” She smiled. “And you're a polite young man.”
“I always try to be, Ms. Hughes.”
“There is one thing…” she said. “Late last night, I woke up and-my bed's on this side, and after the rain it was so restful with the windows open. Well something woke me up, you know how it does sometimes when you hear something and you aren't sure about it. So I wasn't sure what woke me, but at the time I thought it was the sound of their toilet flushing.”
48
John Adams pulled up to the curb near the Monteleone Hotel, just inside the French Quarter.
“I'll be back with the radios in two minutes. Think you can keep the car from being stolen?” he said to Nicky before he climbed out.
“I reckon I can manage it,” he replied. “If you get lost in there, just fire that Glock three times in the air and I'll come get you.”
Nicky Green watched the FBI agent worm his way through the weekenders cluttering the sidewalk and vanish through the doors. The agent moved with a fluidity that added to Nicky's doubts that Adams was what he claimed to be. Nicky was sure that whatever Adams's purpose was, it wasn't what he had claimed. Adams had the eyes of a predator, not a cop. If Massey was as good as Nicky thought he was, he didn't believe Adams's story either. How had Adams gotten to town so fast, located them, and bugged the car?
Nicky decided that he needed to learn more about the man. After Adams had been gone for thirty seconds, Nicky climbed out, made his way into the hotel, and strolled to the bell captain's kiosk. The bell captain was middle-aged, dressed in a navy sport jacket with the hotel's logo over the pocket, starched white shirt, and striped tie. Telephone to his ear, he was jotting down notes. Nicky placed his hand on the desk and parted his fingers to reveal a one-hundred-dollar bill. The bell captain saw the bill but didn't acknowledge its presence.
“How may I help you, sir?” he said, hanging up the phone.
“A minute ago, a man named John Everett Adams came in here. You might have seen him. Gray suit. Five- ten, one-sixty-five. Crew cut.”
“I don't know the gentleman by sight, sir,” the bell captain said.
“Well, see, I'm hoping he's registered under John E. Adams.”
“He might be. And?”
A couple approached.
Nicky stepped aside.
The bell captain listened to their question about jazz clubs on Bourbon Street, which he answered by scribbling down the names of three he told them had good Dixieland. They left five dollars lighter.
Nicky returned to front and center. “Adams isn't exactly what he seems,” Nicky said.
