It struck him that the men must have done this so they could say that Faith Ann had done the vandalism herself, the girl running amok while still in a fit of rage after murdering her own mother. It made sense to stack up as many pieces of evidence against her as possible. Framing someone was like painting a canvas-only talented artists knew precisely when to put the brush aside, before one more stroke diminished the painting. Tinnerino and his partner were certainly not artists.
In the hallway bathroom he surveyed the chaos and spotted the dog clippers. There was something else-something very interesting. On the floor beside the counter, on one of the white towels, were several long hairs. He pulled one of them off to inspect it. Smart kid. He folded the hairs into a towel and placed it in the cabinet under the sink. He inspected the plastic gap on the clippers and judged the length of her hair. He wondered if the other searchers had made the same discovery and prayed they hadn't. If he was right, the pictures of Faith Ann would not accurately reflect the child who was now running from them. It was a small thing, but it was an edge-it meant she was thinking like a survivor.
He took a quick look around the kitchen, dining and living rooms but found nothing useful. Winter went back out, locking the deadbolt behind him. Locking it took forty seconds. He wanted to see why the woman had gone under there.
Upon turning the corner, he spotted the movable wood lattice panel because it hadn't fully closed. Winter went the length of the house and found the concrete porch with its square opening. It was pitch-black inside, so he took out a disposable cigarette lighter he always carried in his pocket, thanks to not having one a year before when he had needed a source of light. He flicked it to life and, holding it inside, spotted the yellow poncho. Bracing himself, he slid inside the cool damp enclosure.
In the flickering light he saw there was something under the plastic. His heart fell, thinking Faith Ann's curled-up body might be concealed beneath it. He lifted the edge of the poncho and discovered a pillow. He studied the plastic shell that had contained a Walkman, looked at the shears and the pair of batteries remaining in the packaging. He thought about the empty cassette recorder in Kimberly Porter's office Manseur had mentioned to him. There was a tape… and Faith Ann has it.
He put the pillow to his face, caught the distinctive odor of stale perspiration, and thought he detected moisture. She had been there since Nicky saw her the night before, and he was sure she had cut her hair and flushed the toilet during the night and taken the pillow then. The woman who'd been under there hadn't found Faith Ann, because Clara Hughes would have noticed her being taken away. He didn't think Faith Ann would come back here. It saddened him to imagine the frightened child lying in the dark space listening to the tape recording of her mother's murder. Reliving it, because if Manseur was right she had witnessed it. He felt a heightened sense of urgency in finding her.
He was behind the other searchers-hundreds of cops and perhaps the killer, or killers. Perhaps one of those cops was also the killer. He was afraid that if the cops got to her before he did, she wouldn't be alive long enough for him to save her. Shaking something loose by the selective use of a heavy hand was his only hope to get ahead of the others, cutting down the timeline. He would talk to Jerry Bennett. If the cops learned that he was on their tails, maybe they'd make a mistake, and just maybe they'd think twice before harming Faith Ann. He didn't know what else he could do.
Only once before in his professional career had he been looking for someone in order to save her-Sean. He had succeeded, and against insurmountable odds. And the odds of success had certainly been a lot slimmer then. I will find Faith Ann, he vowed. And God help the bastard that harms one hair on her head.
50
Marta and Arturo sat in Jerry Bennett's office, waiting for him to join them. She wondered what the idiot thought he was accomplishing by making them wait-wasting their time when they were all that stood between him and a death sentence. He acted like it was just a day like any other. Marta didn't know whether he was in some fog of denial or just couldn't alter his normal patterns for fear that he would trigger some avalanche that would bury him. She was thinking about something she'd seen in a movie. She thought she would enjoy cutting him into small pieces, starting with his toes. She'd feed them to hungry pigs while he watched-his stupid eyes lit with fear and pain.
Marta studied Arturo's profile as he chewed his fingernails. She felt the familiar desire, the need to protect him-to cradle him to her breast and comfort him. She knew him as well as she knew herself, knew that he depended on her, perhaps even loved her as she loved him. Men were a different sort of creature-another species entirely.
She had taught him English. She had taught him her trade, but he didn't understand the nuances that would elevate him beyond being a plain-Jane killer. Arturo liked killing-almost too much, which wasn't the same thing as using it as a tool, a means to an end. She didn't know how she could teach him judgment, patience, or any of the thousand things that he needed to understand and be able to call upon to rise to the level she was on. He was loyal and as fierce as a jaguar, but he lacked the necessary instincts and the ability to see a much larger picture. He thought strategically, but only in the limited sense of a predator. For Arturo, the future was no further away than tomorrow. He was concerned with comfort, with showing off, with satisfying his passions. Unlike Marta, there was no fire burning in his soul that demanded feeding. He was beautiful and he was all hers.
The door swung open soundlessly and Jerry Bennett entered. He reminded Marta of a clown. The pancake makeup that she supposed he wore to give himself a tanned appearance had stained the collar of his shirt. He wasn't feminine, but he still made Marta think of an old whore who was dependent for her livelihood on the filtering effects of liquor, poor lighting, and makeup to keep her viable. At what must have been a young age, Marta's own mother had also resorted to those tricks to camouflage the effects of a hard life, abusive men, constant worry, and childbearing. She shuddered at the sudden memory of her mother lying dead on a dirt floor with a pool of her blood swelling out from under her head, her neck laid open by a man the law had not bothered to punish. She remembered the small bloody footprints where a frantic child, barely out of diapers, had paced around the room for hours before people had come in.
Before that day, her own life must have been hard, but she didn't remember it that way, because the orphan's dance that came after that had been so horrible.
“Well,” Bennett said, exhaling loudly, “where are we at, people?”
“We are at your office,” Marta said. “What I cannot tell you is why.”
The fire in Arturo's eyes burned her, almost as intensely as did Bennett's.
“ Why is because Mr. Estrada here made a mess of an assignment so uncomplicated that a retarded chimpanzee could have pulled it off. I want to ask you why you two professionals, if I can use that word with a straight face, haven't been able to locate one frightened child and retrieve my property.”
“We will find her,” Arturo said quickly. “Soon.”
“Mr. Bennett,” Marta said calmly, “if you have other professionals you can summon, perhaps you would like to do that before we go any further in this mess. It seems to me that if you had bothered to tell either of us that in the envelope we were to bring you, there were-besides the eight pictures you mentioned-negatives, Arturo would have checked to see that they were there. And Amber Lee would have come up with them. Since you failed to mention their existence, I don't think you should speak to Arturo so disrespectfully. I think you should be more considerate of the only people who can remedy your predicament. We will fix this problem, but insulting us is not acceptable. If I were you, I wouldn't do it again.” The icy quality in her tone was as infused with warning as the buzz from a rattlesnake.
“I may have… I believe I misspoke. It's just that I'm under so much pressure. Of course you are doing the best you can. The best anybody on earth could do. And I failed to mention the negatives because I wasn't t
hinking about them. I assumed they would be with the prints. Well, there it is,” he said, trying to smile. “So I am sorry if I insulted either of you, because that wasn't my intent. I mean, if you can't succeed, who can? The cops don't seem to be getting anywhere, and they're the cops, for Christ's sake…”
The ringing phone in Arturo's pocket ended Bennett's stammering. He opened it, stared at the caller I.D., and put it to his ear. “Go.”
As Arturo listened to what the caller was saying a smile appeared and started to grow. “Right now?” He turned his free thumb up and nodded. “Where? Just four or five minutes away.” He stood and pocketed the phone. “The kid's using the cell phone. The aquarium just down the river.”
“Remember my negatives!” Bennett called cheerfully, clapping his sweaty hands.
51
After the trouble in the projects, Faith Ann wandered the streets of the French Quarter, thinking hard. The sidewalks were now filled with pedestrians, and sometimes she had to slow to avoid running into tourists who had slowed to gawk at something they didn't see every day where they came from. She was still shaken up from her encounter with the gang, and her jaw hurt like hell. Eventually she found herself in Jackson Square in front of the cathedral, sitting around with older kids to look like she belonged, watching tourists and the performers.
Through the glass doors of every newspaper stand Faith Ann passed, Kimberly Porter stared out at her, reminding her of how important her mission was. Unless you succeed where I failed, Horace Pond will die. It's all up to you, Faith Ann. You can do it. You must…
She pulled the remaining bills from her jeans pocket and counted as she walked. Seventy-four dollars out of almost a thousand. Her escape had been expensive but worth every penny. She was starving, so she stopped in a fudge shop and bought a plastic sack of pralines for many times what they should have cost. She wolfed them down-the sweetness stinging the back of her throat.
She walked to the aquarium and stood near the entrance, watching people. She saw a mother and her daughter, hand in hand, vanish into the building. Taking off her backpack, Faith Ann found her mother's cell phone and dialed. When the familiar voice answered, “Hello?” she felt small and terrified and before she knew it she started crying.
“I… I… I. Rush…” she managed to say. “It's me, Faith Ann. Please… I need help.”
52
Winter and Adams took Winter's Stratus, and Nicky followed driving Adams's Chevrolet. They arrived outside the River Club and parked in the lot. Nicky stopped the Chevrolet thirty feet away from them.
“Okay, Nicky,” Winter said into his radio. “Adams and I'll rattle this buzzard's cage. I'll radio if we need you inside.”
As the pair walked off, Nicky's voice came over the radio. “Ten-four.”
Inside the foyer, the smiling hostess was bantering with a group of men, one of whom Winter recognized as the previous mayor of New Orleans, the son of another mayor long dead. As the local dignitaries were being led to a table, Winter and Adams waited for the hostess to return.
“Two?” she asked cheerfully. “Smoking or nonsmoking?”
Adams opened his badge case and showed it to her. “We need to speak to Mr. Bennett,” he said.
“I'll see if he's in,” she said, a pained smile freezing on her face. “Can I tell him what this is in reference to?”
“Shouldn't you see if he's in first?” Adams replied.
She lifted the telephone on the lectern and punched three digits. “Is the boss in?” she asked. After a short pause, she said, “There are two gentlemen to see Mr. Bennett. FBI agents.”
She listened and looked back up at Adams. “Might I say what this is in reference to?”
“We'll handle that,” Adams said flatly.
The hostess said, “Just go straight to the rear near the bathrooms. The iron gate will be open. His office is at the end.”
Winter and Adams walked toward the rear, skirting the dining tables. He caught sight of two people who fit Clara Hughes's description cut across the restaurant from the office area and exit through a side door. Winter keyed the radio. “Nicky, the couple in the Lincoln are exiting the far side of the building. Follow them.”
“I see them, and I'm so there,” Nicky's voice replied. “Leather lady and Stick climbed into a big bad black Lincoln, just like the neighbor lady said. ”
“Stick on them,” Winter said. “But don't get too close.”
Now they would find out who the couple were.
“Well, that's an interesting turn,” Adams said.
“Nicky, we're going in to see the guy. Radio silence unless there's an emergency.” Winter shut off his cell phone as they passed through the ornamental iron doors.
Jerry Bennett's secretary was a plump, orange-haired woman seated at a desk, blinking owlishly. Her face was as round as a pie tin, and her red lips were surrounded by thin lines, like metal fatigue cracks. Her irises were the color of mud, and her eyelids seemed to be trembling under the weight of green eyeshadow. “Can I help you?”
Adams flashed his badge. “Special Agent John Adams. Jerry Bennett, please.”
“He's expecting you,” she said. She got up, crossed to a tall, solid oak door, and held it open for them.
Jerry Bennett's office was spacious and elegantly modern. Illumination was provided by hidden light fixtures. The club owner approached the two men and extended his hand, which, since neither man moved to shake it, remained suspended before him until he lowered it and sat down behind the desk. The thick surface of the desk was granite, the edges rough as though something with very hard teeth had chewed on it.
“May I see your credentials?” he said, focusing first on Winter and then on Adams.
Adams held his ID inches from Bennett's eyes. Winter pulled out his badge case, and Bennett read it silently. If the presence of a marshal meant anything to him he didn't show it.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“We're looking into something, and a name came up that seems to be connected to you.”
“Please, sit,” Bennett said.
Adams and Winter sat in the two chairs across from the club owner. Adams opened a small notebook and stared at what Winter saw was a blank page. He took out a ballpoint, snapped its tip out, and positioned it over the page.
“Amber Lee,” Adams said after a few more seconds of silence.
“I didn't know that the FBI investigates murders.”
“Did I say we were investigating murders?”
Bennett reacted by shifting in his seat and smiling sickly. “No, I guess not.”
“That would be an NOPD matter,” Adams said. “Unless it somehow wasn't being handled legitimately.”
“Poor woman,” Bennett murmured.
“Yes,” Adams agreed. “Poor woman indeed.”
“Unfortunate, what happened,” Bennett said, lowering his eyes to the desktop.
“You filed charges against her,” Adams asked, snapping the ballpoint.
“I didn't want to. We go back a long way, Amber and I. At one time, we were very close. I've known… I knew her for over twenty years.”
“And yet she stole from you,” Adams said.
“That was…”
“Unfortunate?” Adams snapped the ballpoint on, made a note, clicked it off, and looked back up at Bennett.
Bennett nodded. “Very. I've thought about it a great deal. It's very painful, as you can imagine. Maybe she needed money and was embarrassed to ask. I can't understand it, because I paid her quite well.”
“How much?”
“I'm sorry?”
“How much did she steal?”
“I believe it was fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty even?”
“Yes.”
“Your bookkeeper caught it?”
“No, it was in my drawer.”
“Fifty thousand dollars… in cash?”
“Yes.” Bennett nodded.
Adams scribbled. Clicked the pen closed.
Bennett cleared his throat. “Of course, I had to file charges. My insurance requires I do that if they are going to pay on my loss-by-theft policy.”
“Insurance company?” Adams clicked the pen and poised it over the pad.
“I'm sorry?”
“You filed a claim. I need the name of the company and the claims agent. So I can check it. Routine procedure.”
“Well… I haven't filed a claim yet… I will. My insurance broker is Felix Argent at Argent Consolidated. I'm not sure which company he has that handles that coverage. He uses lots of underwriting companies.”
Click. “So, Felix Argent advised you to file charges.”
“A policeman did.”
“The policeman who investigated the theft? It was investigated?”
Bennett nodded. “Look, I knew she took it. It was in my safe, she was the only other one in here who had the combination, and she left and it was gone.” He held out his open hands. “I was actually advised to file charges by a policeman, a close friend of mine, who said I would need that to collect on that kind of policy. I'm not sure Felix and I have talked about it yet. I've been extremely busy.”
Scribble. Click. “And no doubt grieving,” Adams said.
Adams's delivery was so deadpan that he could have been reading the questions out of an instruction book. Winter didn't do anything other than watch in solemn silence. It was a technique like the way Adams clicked the pen to make Bennett nervous. A mysterious U.S. marshal and an annoying FBI agent.
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