An hour after breakfast, a Navy-version Hughes 500 landed and deposited Avery Whitehead and his assistant.
Whitehead struck Winter as being one more arrogant prick in an expensive suit who felt condescension was a God-given right.
Greg led them into the dining room, where he searched them and their briefcases. Afterward, Whitehead set up at the table like a grand inquisitor, his assistant at his right elbow. When Dylan Devlin entered the room, he sat across the table from the prosecutor. Winter and Dixon followed Greg out, leaving the three men alone.
Forty minutes after Whitehead's arrival, Sean came outside, sat down in a chair four feet from Winter's, and opened her laptop. Within a few seconds she was totally immersed in what she was doing. With her hands on the keyboard and her eyes closed, she seemed to contemplate, then type. Then she read what she'd typed and repeated the process. Winter watched her fingers, thinking how beautiful her hands were. There wasn't anything about Sean's appearance that wasn't pleasing to the eye.
When Jet's cat sauntered around the corner of the house and rubbed against Sean's ankle, she set the computer on the side table and lifted Midnight onto her lap. She reached into her pocket for a small plastic bag, took out a piece of bacon, and offered it to the cat, who sniffed it before turning his head away.
Winter could see enough of the computer screen to make out the form of what was there. Sean caught him staring and turned it toward her.
“I like poetry,” he said.
“Do they teach poetry at police school?”
“You know the shortest poem in the history of literature?”
“No.” Her eyebrows rose.
“Fleas. Adam had 'em.”
She struggled not to smile. “You memorized all that? It's hardly ‘The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.'”
Winter was fully twenty lines into that poem before she interrupted him. “You learned Coleridge in high school? That's like Frost-hardly Ginsberg.”
Winter began reciting “Howl.”
“Okay, now I feel foolish.” She cocked her head. “And you have me convinced that you aren't entirely one-dimensional. Tell me how you got interested in poetry.”
“Before I went to police school I got a degree in American lit. I taught high school for four years before I decided police work was safer.”
She studied him for a moment, then turned the laptop toward him so he could read it. “Okay, critique this.”
Winter was sorry he had asked, figuring he would have to lie politely-until he started to read it. The lines contained powerful images. Winter wasn't easily impressed, but with amazing clarity, Sean had captured a child's relationship with a distant father. It struck a chord with Winter, and not just because of his own experience.
“It's very good,” he told her after he had read it through a second time.
“That an honest assessment?” she asked suspiciously.
“Yes, it is. I'd like to read more. I really would. You have a gift.”
She smiled. “Maybe I can print them out for you when I get to a printer.”
“Maybe you can publish under your new name,” he said.
She looked at him quizzically. “You mean under a pseudonym?”
“You'll get new identities after Dylan testifies and has served whatever time he ends up getting.”
She turned off the computer and closed the top with a snap. “That may be what they told you, but it isn't like that. Why would we need new names?”
It was his turn to be confused. “He wouldn't live long using Devlin.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked angrily.
He had never before seen her eyes filled with fire, and he had no idea why she was getting so upset with him for stating the obvious.
“A standard requirement in witness security dictates that you can't have any contact with anyone you knew before you joined the program. You'll get new identities and move to a new place to start over. That's just how it works,” he told her.
She smiled as though Winter was some poor, addled idiot who had just declared that candy bars had souls.
“You're quite mistaken, we'll be perfectly fine after he testifies.”
“Mrs. Devlin, when a man commits twelve murders for profit and testifies against the man who hired him to do them, a name change and a rural Argentine address wouldn't hurt. The world is getting to be a smaller place every day.”
“Murder? You said twelve murders?” Her hands trembled as she moved the cat to the floor gently, then picked up her laptop. She walked inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.
Winter followed as she strode into the dining room and pulled the door shut behind her. Was it possible that Sean imagined that her husband could testify against Sam Manelli and then go back to their previous lives as though nothing had happened? He took a seat in the living room and picked up a golf magazine.
Voices filtered through the closed dining room door-rising and falling-building in intensity. Winter couldn't make out what they were saying.
No more than a minute from the time she went in, Sean stormed out and strode down the hall to her bedroom. Thirty seconds later, Dylan followed her, shooting Winter a nasty look.
Winter stood. He could see Whitehead and his assistant in the dining room with their heads close together, talking in low tones, like conspirators. He could hear the Devlins' angry voices coming from their bedroom.
Greg hurried into the dining room. When he came back out, he said to Winter, “Tell the pilot to start his engine. They're done.”
Five minutes later, the helicopter rose and disappeared over the trees, taking Whitehead and his assistant with it.
Winter walked back into the house. Dylan was now yelling at Sean, and she was giving it right back to him. Greg stood listening in the hallway, hands on his hips.
“What started it?” Winter asked him.
“Whitehead told me you did,” Greg answered.
“I made a comment to her about their getting new names after the trial, and I think it was the first Mrs. Devlin had heard of it. It was like she didn't know why they're here. That's not possible, is it? Think maybe she thought this was summer camp for psychopathic husbands?”
Greg shook his head. “The prosecutor is not pleased that she's upset. If she's upset, Dylan's upset, and he wants Devlin as calm as possible. Whitehead said that I obviously didn't make it clear enough to the team that there were to be no conversations about the behavior that put Devlin here.”
“I didn't with him. You didn't say not to discuss that with his wife. You don't mean to tell me that nobody told her what he did?”
“Maybe we should start thinking about that security business real soon. Whitehead strongly hinted that he might mention his displeasure with both of us to the A.G.”
The cat broke from the kitchen and made a run for the front of the house, territory Jet had banished him from entering.
The animal sat beside Winter, stared down the hall, and seemed to be listening to the Devlins' argument.
“Just be glad you're a cat,” Winter said, wishing he hadn't spoken to Sean Devlin at all.
19
In the late afternoon, Winter took a longer than normal run, showered, and then napped until dinner. Beck, Martinez, Forsythe, Dixon, and Greg were gathered around the kitchen table. Martinez frowned at Winter when he joined them.
“Thanks a lot,” she said sourly.
“You're welcome,” Winter replied. “What was it I did for you?”
“While you slept,” Greg said, “the safe-house politic changed dramatically, as did the living arrangements.”
“I lost my bed,” Martinez said sullenly.
“You can share mine,” Beck offered.
“Screw you, Beck,” she snapped. “And I don't mean that in a good way.”
“Mr. D. failed in an all-out attempt to bring his rebellious wife back under his control using his extensive persuasive powers. Mrs. D. packed up and moved into the suite with Martinez,
taking the bedroom,” Greg told Winter.
“Exactly,” Martinez said. “And that bed was heavenly.”
“Into every cow pasture some rain must fall,” Winter mused.
“Does anyone aside from Mr. D. give a damn if Mrs. D. moved out? I think it shows that there is hope for her yet,” Dixon said.
“Bear, nobody has any desire to see Sean reunited with her creepy racist bastard husband,” Martinez said. Jet entered from the dining room carrying a tray of food. “She's not hungry,” the cook informed the deputies. “She's mad as hell. I don't know what all that man said to her, but it must have been a lulu.”
Winter's shift had him walking the house's perimeter. He stood and watched Sean Devlin's figure as she moved back and forth behind the panes of her window. He thought about the poem she had shared with him and felt sorry that he had stirred up so much trouble-that he was responsible for bringing more unhappiness to this woman who seemed so refined and gentle for a psychopath's wife.
She didn't seem like just another criminal's wife who had made her bed for a large fee.
If she didn't want to stay with Devlin, that was good. The Devlins wouldn't be the first couple split by the reality of WITSEC. A lot of witnesses' wives, accustomed to living the high life, failed to see the allure of working in small-town Arizona, forever cut off from friends and family. Life in a trailer, driving a rusted-out station wagon, could put a real damper on marital bliss. In this case, he didn't think a loss of status was what troubled Sean Devlin.
Winter believed that the marshals service had owed Sean the real story before they deposited her on the island to pacify Dylan. Winter didn't give a tap-dancing damn who was pissed off because she had learned the truth.
The only problem was the potential negative impact on Greg's WITSEC career, maybe a black mark in Winter's file. It wasn't like he cared if he ever joined another WITSEC detail. He wanted nothing more than to go back home to his family and his nice, comfortable USMS satellite office.
20
Ward Field, Virginia
The King Air 300 sat in the center of the cavernous hangar illuminated by a bank of quartz lights. Herman Hoffman surveyed the work in progress while the six members of his assault team stood nearby watching him. Even though he was worn out from the flight to the staging area, Herman took several minutes to study the craft's modifications, inspecting how the tubes and wires had been expertly rerouted. This was the level of craftsmanship he expected from his people, but he admired how rapidly they could accomplish their tasks and maintain the quality. When the trapdoor was closed, the belly of the plane would appear to be normal, but it would have a lot in common with military bombers.
“Perfection,” he declared, clapping his hands together. The compliment was met with smiles. It was the first thing he had said since he walked into the hangar twenty minutes earlier. “As always.”
He moved over to a line of folding tables and reviewed the hardware. As he passed the assembled articles, he touched and straightened here and there-a fastidious shopkeeper inspecting his merchandise in preparation for opening the doors to customers.
He ran his finger along a kilo block of Semtex. Moving to the next table, he hoisted up one of the sleek MP5-SD machine guns, admiring the balance, the noise suppressor. He selected a magazine from a stack of forty and pressed it into the opening, drew the bolt back, and released it. He flipped the safety off and set the selector switch to automatic. Using the laser-aiming device, he pointed the weapon at a fifty-gallon barrel, positioning the red dot on the target someone had taped to it. When he squeezed the trigger there was a sound very much like quails taking wing, accompanied by the tinkling of the empty brass shell casings as they landed on the concrete floor. Sand poured to the floor from the holes in the drum.
Herman handed the weapon to Ralph as though he was his caddy. “Please, carry on,” Herman said, cheerfully.
Within seconds the hangar was filled with the sound of his men at work, which to Herman's ears was as comforting as classical music.
21
Atlanta, Georgia
Sam Manelli had the patience of a python coiled in the shade. He sat on the edge of his mattress with his feet on the floor of his cell. It was cool enough that he had been tempted to drape the wool blanket over his shoulders, but he couldn't let anyone think of him as weak.
Sam had no regrets. Everything he had ever done was necessary to build and maintain his business interests. He had successfully defended his world from any and all comers, and he hadn't done it by showing compassion.
So much for his golden years of rest and relaxation. He had never been as focused on anything as he was on erasing Dylan Devlin from the face of the earth. The 3 million dollars Herman Hoffman had requested for taking Devlin out was chump change considering what was at stake. Sam would have given far more, and gladly. Devlin could steal from him the one thing Sam Manelli valued more than anything-his freedom.
Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps and braced himself. A young guard with a blond crew cut stopped at the door and peered inside at him. Sam stared back, keeping his expression neutral. The guard took his hand out of his pocket and held out a small black object. Sam slipped from the bed, crossed to the bars, and took it.
“This is yours from midnight until two A.M.,” the guard said in a whisper, even though the cells on either side of Sam were unoccupied. “It's totally safe to use.”
Sam nodded. The guard walked away.
He sat on the cot, punched in the numbers, and pushed SEND. After two rings a familiar voice answered.
“It's me,” Sam said in a low voice. “You sure this thing's clean?”
“Squeaky,” Russo said. Sam didn't believe any electronic conversation was safe. He'd been speaking face-to-face and in code for so long he didn't know how to say anything incriminating.
“So, how's things?”
“I had a red thing leak dye in the washer ruined the gowns,” said Johnny.
Sam's heart sped up. Someone was stealing. “Red thing leaking dye” was the code for red ink-someone skimming. Gown was high-dollar prostitution.
“I'm gonna bleach it out tonight.”
“Is the old man cleaning the pool?” He was referring to Herman Hoffman.
“His boys are handling it. Soon as I know how it looks I'll let you know.”
“Good.”
“Can't wait to see you back home.”
“You and me both,” Sam replied grimly. He pressed the END button.
Johnny Russo was family by his marriage to Sam's niece, but Sam had known Johnny for all of the young man's thirty-nine years. He had stood as Johnny's godfather, and even though he wasn't a religious man, had taken that responsibility to heart. Johnny's father, Richie Russo, had been Sam's chief enforcer, a man he had been close to since his childhood. Richie had died in a warehouse fire when Johnny was ten. From that day on, Sam had sent Richie Russo's wife a nice monthly check and called it a pension. It was just a necessary business expense. He had genuinely cared about Richie, but Johnny had not made it into the son-he-never-had category.
When Johnny was fourteen, Sam had hired him to work at one of his amusement companies, beginning with odd jobs and granting him more responsibility as he grew older. Johnny had been a polite kid, a hard worker who never made the same mistake twice. Always smiling, always ready to show Sam that he wanted to learn more. Sam's father had trusted only Italians, but Sam had discovered that limited business. Sam had ways of determining who was trustworthy, who would keep the necessary secrets and remain loyal. “Family” was a relative term, and ethnic lineage didn't ensure omerta. Sam had a system of rewards and punishment, both of which had to remain certainties in an uncertain world.
Johnny ran the rackets effectively, but Sam had stayed on top of the business, making sure things ran smoothly under Johnny's care. The trust Sam had in the young man hadn't come easy. He had set a hundred traps over the years, hoping he wouldn't catch Johnny taking advantage of him
, and, to his amazement and delight, he never had. Sam had rewarded Johnny by degrees, turning over more and more of his crime enterprise to his protege, until he was competent enough to handle the day-to-day demands. From the start, Johnny had handled Sam's business and dealt with Sam's enemies like they were his own. Sometimes Johnny could get carried away with the violence, but a man's reputation was what kept people in line.
Sam paid millions each year to the people who would otherwise arrest him and to those who knew when there was an imminent threat from law enforcement. The feds had never found enough evidence on Sam to secure an indictment, and the locals feared losing his largess. The authorities had snagged members of his upper-level management over the years, but between lawyers, friendly judges, missing evidence, witnesses with failing memories, and bribed or frightened jurors, most walked away relatively unscathed. Those who went to jail did easy time, and Sam saw to it that their families never went hungry.
Two years back, Sam had completely turned over the day-to-day operations to Russo, advising him when things started to slip. He knew that, regardless of who was in charge, the business would never be what it had been in his day. But there would be plenty to go around if Johnny could hold off the ethnic gangs and freelance criminals. As long as Sam was the gold backing Johnny's promises, Russo was relatively safe. But alliances like the one with Herman Hoffman that Sam, and his father before him, had forged would end with Sam's passing, and it would be up to Johnny to cut new deals and make his own allies in order to hold on to the rackets.
What nobody except Sam and Johnny knew was that two years before, a doctor had discovered that Sam had cancer in a place nobody should get cancer. It had been growing for a while, and taking it out was impossible. The doctor, a man Sam owned, had explained it in simple terms. The cancer was growing slowly, but with insidious intent. He told Sam that he might live longer with radiation, but he would be bald and feel awful. That was impossible because as soon as Sam's enemies saw him deteriorating, they'd run in and gobble up his empire faster than Johnny could deal with them. Such was the way of nature. Survival would be Johnny's problem alone and he would have to sink or swim. Sam wasn't afraid to die, but the old gangster drew a line at dying in a cage like a rat somebody forgot to feed.
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