65: “What does it mean? Is that where she’s from?” Sarah Werner asked.
They were in line at the lockers, waiting their turn to check out of the prison.
“You can’t go,” Porter said flatly.
Sarah frowned at him. “I didn’t say I wanted to go. If I did want to, I would.”
“There’s something brewing behind those eyes of yours, and I don’t like it.”
“She’s my client. I have just as much a right to go as you do. Whatever is there may give me some insight into this case, something I can use to help her.”
“Whatever is there is part of the ongoing 4MK investigation.”
“I want to read that diary too.”
“That’s evidence.”
Sarah smirked. “Evidence that is not tagged and you are carrying on your person without gloves or any regard for chain of custody.”
They reached the front of the line. Porter slipped the key into his locker, opened the small door, and retrieved the contents: his belt, shoelaces, wallet, a disposable cell phone, and a knife—a Ranger Buck knife with collapsing blade.
Bishop’s knife.
“Do you want to grab a late lunch?” Sarah asked.
Porter shoved the various items into his pockets and relaced his shoes. “I need to get to the airport.”
“We need to talk about this. You can book your flight from the restaurant.” She tilted her head to the side, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “You can’t run off on an empty stomach, and I don’t think TSA will let you pass once they hear you didn’t try any genuine Creole cooking during your visit to the Big Easy.”
“You’re a hard girl to say no to,” Porter said, the weight of the knife pressing against his thigh.
Thirty minutes later they sat at a small table in the corner at Dooky Chase’s on the corner of Orleans Avenue and Miro Street. Porter had three plates in front of him—one with shrimp and lima beans, another with cheesy potatoes, and the third holding a sandwich.
There was a direct flight from New Orleans to Greenville, South Carolina, leaving in a little less than two hours. He’d have to rent a car and drive from there to Simpsonville, about twenty minutes away.
“When exactly was the last time you ate?” Sarah asked, staring at the food in front of him. She had a bowl of gumbo and sipped from a tall iced tea.
Porter had to think about that for a second. “Candy bar yesterday, I think.” He looked down at his plates, his eyes jumping between the various offerings. “Poor boy or shrimp, poor boy or shrimp, poor boy or shrimp . . .”
“It’s po’ boy, not poor boy. You’re gonna get shunned by the locals before you take your second trip to the buffet.”
Porter dug into the shrimp and followed with a forkful of the cheesy potatoes. His eyes lit up. “This is amazing.”
“Leah Chase has been cooking here for seventy years. She’s in her nineties now. Still has the best fare in the city,” Sarah told him. “I’ve seen Ray Charles in here. Martin Luther King, Jr., used to stop by whenever he was in town. Barack Obama is even a fan. You gotta try this gumbo.”
She held a spoonful out to him. Porter hesitated for a second, a flash of Heather feeding him passing through his mind—their anniversary two years ago at Carl’s Steakhouse.
“Sam?”
Porter snapped back, took the spoon, and tried the gumbo. Delicious.
“Are you okay? I lost you there for a second.”
The sun streamed in from a window beside their table, the rays glinting in Sarah’s eyes. The thumb of Porter’s left hand passed over the surface of his wedding band. He flexed his fingers, moved his hand to his lap.
“We had a secondary development back at the prison,” he said, digging back into the potatoes. “I’ve been on the fence about telling you, but I think you should know.”
“What?”
He reached into his left pocket, pulled out the burner cell phone, and set it on the table. Then he reached into his right pocket, extracted the knife, and placed it beside the phone. “I didn’t have a knife or a phone with me when I arrived at the prison. Someone put these in my locker while we were talking to your client.”
Sarah’s eyes went wide. “We should go back, tell the warden.”
Porter shook his head. “That would be a bad idea. He would probably confiscate the phone, start some kind of investigation. He arrests whoever did it, and I lose an avenue of contact with Bishop.” He flicked the knife with his finger, the blade spinning on the table. “Bishop mentioned a knife like this in his journal. This might be the same one.”
“You think Bishop gave you those things?”
“Not personally, but someone working with him, yeah.” Porter looked down at the display. The phone was switched on and fully charged.
“Can I see it?”
Porter handed it to her.
Sarah scrolled through the various menus. “It’s not a smartphone. The call log is empty, no stored contacts, no text messages. I don’t think it’s been used before.” She gave the phone back to him. “So now what? We wait for him to call?”
Porter bit into his sandwich. “Now you go back to your office, and I head to the airport.”
“Do you really think I’m going to let you do this on your own?”
“I don’t recall extending an invitation.”
“She’s my client. I deserve to know where this leads.”
“I’ll call you.”
“From your burner phone?” She leaned across the table. “How many cops travel on official business without a gun or a phone of their own? How about you show me your badge? All I’ve seen are business cards. You could have made those down at the QuickCopy.”
“Lower your voice.”
She did lower her voice, and yet it cut him harder than when she shouted. “How do I know you’re not some kind of psycho pretending to be a cop?”
“Let me see your phone,” Sam said calmly.
“Why?”
“Sarah, please.”
She drew in a deep breath, then pulled her iPhone from her purse and handed it to him.
Porter opened a web browser and typed in his own name. Dozens of articles came up, along with several pictures not only of him but of Anson Bishop and a few of 4MK’s victims. He handed it back to her.
Sarah glanced down at the display, scanned the headlines, then shut the phone off. “You need to level with me, Sam. You can trust me. I want to help you.”
So he did.
He told her everything.