119: Frank Poole stepped out of the interview room for the umpteenth time and leaned against the wall in the hallway. If he didn’t think he’d break his hand, he’d probably punch the cinder block.
“That guy is not gonna talk,” Direnzo said. “I’d offer to take a run at him if I thought it would help, but I’ve seen enough guys like that. You’ve got a double whammy—as a guard, he knows the routine better than most, and he won’t crack. He knows you’re only allowed to push so far.”
“Did our team find anything at his apartment?”
The captain shook his head. “The man lives in a shoebox, and I use the term lives loosely. No pictures on the wall, no television, no furniture other than a folding table and chair in the kitchen and a mattress on the bedroom floor. My guys said they caught him packing, but I get the impression he was already packed. I don’t think he ever unpacked. Nola was a temporary stop for him. He got that woman out this morning, his work here is done. He was moving on.”
“What about Stateville?”
“Warden Vina has been chasing the Stateville warden all afternoon. No luck yet. The guy is either very busy or ducking his calls.” Direnzo clucked his tongue. “I’ve been at this for going on twenty-five years now. I’m suspicious of everyone, so feel free to completely ignore me, but my gut says that with your boss calling, my boss calling, and who knows who else calling, the Stateville warden is scrambling to clean house internally. Unless someone drops in, I don’t think anyone will hear from him until he’s got his shit together and a nice, plausible story in place for whatever Weidner did over there.”
Libby McInley.
Direnzo turned to the one-way window. Weidner’s expression had only tightened in the past few hours, resolved. “Here’s problem number two—he asked for a lawyer more than two hours ago. Even by New Orleans standards, you’re pushing more than one limit there. Technically, neither of us should be talking to him anymore.”
“You said you called her, right?”
“Yeah, no answer, though. Straight to voice mail on her cell and office numbers.”
“How about Jane Doe?”
“We let her be, just like you asked. She hasn’t left the general vicinity of Werner’s office. The tracker in her ankle monitor has her across the street in an alley. There’s some abandoned buildings over there, not much to look at. She’s waiting for something or someone for sure. New Orleans PD has undercover cars at all the egress points. They’re keeping a safe distance, monitoring all traffic in and out. We’re thinking she’ll cut the monitor off when her ride shows up. She won’t get far.”
“No sign of Porter?”
“Nothing yet. Looks like he left her there. Must’ve gone with Werner somewhere and hasn’t come back. Or Werner is inside and taking a page from the Stateville warden and ignoring her phone. No way to know for sure. She lives in an apartment upstairs. She could hole up for days without a reason to come out.”
When Poole had updated SAIC Hurless, his supervisor had felt Porter busted the woman out and Bishop was coming for her. Most likely they were set to meet in that alley. The lawyer wouldn’t risk an exchange in her office. Outside her office, she could claim some kind of deniability. Poole didn’t understand why she involved herself at all. Why risk her license? Her livelihood? Possibly, even her freedom.
Of course, all Hurless’s suspicions were based on his theory that Sam Porter was working with Bishop, but that still didn’t feel right to Poole. He tried to believe it, tried to make the theory work, but something didn’t fit.
Hurless had left strict instructions—watch for Porter, use Bishop’s mother as bait. Monitor the area, close in when Bishop was spotted. Until then, hang back.
Poole was spinning wheels. He had nothing else. “Can you give me a ride out there?”