Inside Out

  Hank pushed the photocopy toward Winter, spinning it around so he could read it. He pointed to the balance.

  “Four hundred thousand dollars was deposited by wire before Nations arrived on Rook,” Hank said. “His cell phone records show that he called the bank the day that transfer was made. He's had this account for two years. He opened it with a ten-dollar deposit and, over its life, the amount of wire transfer deposits has ranged from twenty thousand to fifty thousand dollars. Eleven days ago, four hundred thousand was wired into it from a Swiss bank.”

  “Come on, Hank. What proof do they have that this is Greg's account, that he had any knowledge of it?” The notion that Greg had that kind of money was ludicrous.

  Hank pushed over the second sheet from the folder—the paperwork to open the account. Winter recognized the scribbled signature as Greg's, unless it was a superb forgery. He felt nauseous.

  “Anybody can put anybody's signature on a document. This is a photocopy.”

  “The FBI found the originals hidden in his house when they searched it over the weekend.”

  “So they say.”

  “They say Greg knew Sam Manelli.”

  Hank showed Winter a grainy picture of Greg talking to Sam Manelli. It looked like a surveillance shot taken from a distance.

  “We meet criminals all the time,” Winter said. “Besides, pictures can be faked.”

  “I'm not saying it's true,” Hank told Winter. “But Greg specifically asked for you to be attached to this operation.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “How often before this had he asked for you on a WITSEC operation?”

  Hank already knew the answer.

  “Shapiro has to consider that maybe Greg didn't expect any of his men to be killed. Maybe he was double-crossed. Maybe they were supposed to shoot Devlin from a distance.”

  Even though Winter realized Hank was just passing the information along, he felt like he was being tortured. “If Greg was dirty, he would never have brought me into it.”

  “Did Greg tell you about his military experience?”

  “He trained Special Forces.”

  “Winter, according to the FBI, Greg trained people in special weapons, effective and unorthodox killing, and interrogation techniques. He tell you that? Did he tell you he started with military intelligence, worked directly with the CIA? He guarded defectors.”

  “No, he didn't. What about the dead UNSUBs on Rook?” Winter offered. “They were obviously soldiers. The armed forces fingerprint and take blood for DNA. Those dead men won't lead to Greg.”

  “Those four killers were soldiers. The FBI matched their prints.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Winter, according to the Bureau they were Russians—ex-shock troops. You know what happened after the wall fell—Russia couldn't even afford to fix their equipment or feed their soldiers. A lot of them hired themselves out to the Russian mob as freelance killers out of necessity. The four you killed on Rook Island arrived in this country after Manelli was arrested.”

  “They weren't Russian soldiers, Hank. One of them had a distinctly Southern accent. I'll tell you what this is. The FBI is lying, or being fooled. And you can tell Shapiro to tell the Bureau that no matter what they come up with, they can't convince me that Greg sold out a witness.”

  “Have you thought about . . .” Hank started, then reconsidered. “Winter, what if it's true? What if they're right? What if Greg did take money from someone like Manelli for doing a small favor? Someone could use that to blackmail him and make him do something much worse.”

  “Not Greg,” Winter said, resolute in his conviction that Greg was being made a patsy in this investigation.

  “Nearly a half million dollars . . .”

  “Hank, once when we were in Georgia leaving Glynco, he turned around and drove back ten miles because he found out a clerk had given him change for a twenty instead of the ten he had given her. We were looking at missing a flight because of it. That's the kind of man Greg was.”

  “We're not talking about ten dollars. It isn't like you to ignore evidence because it doesn't fit what you think is true.”

  “What I think is that somebody is framing him. Maybe it's the FBI.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they have to explain how this all happened. They have to make people think they're on top of everything, which is as far from the truth as it gets. Think what solving this is worth to careers, what not solving it will cost them. It wouldn't be the first time they put a spin on something to suit their purposes.”

  “This is more than public relations. You just got through saying that Greg didn't tell you the truth about his military service.”

  Winter was dumbfounded. “I never asked, and it doesn't matter.”

  “You know, it isn't smart to be behind a bull when you know he's gonna sit down. There are bound to be some complicated politics in all of this.”

  “What are you saying, Hank?”

  “Greg didn't have a family to get hurt. You do. If you're right, this is a done deal. You don't understand the politics at work here well enough to know when to get out of the way. Fight the Bureau and the A.G. on this and they might make room for you in the same fire they're looking to roast Nations' reputation over.”

  Winter wasn't so naive he doubted that could come to pass.

  Hank said, “Sometimes a situation comes along where somebody gets sacrificed. Maybe holding up one bad apple would be a way to save the USMS and maintain the credibility of the entire witness security side. You can see what's a stake for the USMS, Justice, and the FBI.”

  “If Greg didn't do it, then somebody else did. If they stop looking at Greg, then whoever's responsible might do the same thing again,” Winter said.

  Hank scowled and placed his hands on the file. “Winter, all I know is what Shapiro wanted you to know.”

  “Does he believe what the FBI told him?”

  “He told me that he thinks the speed at which everything was put to rest is unusual. The Russian military cooperated immediately here; even though identifying those men as theirs makes them look bad and has the potential to create an embarrassing incident when our relationship is delicate. There's a chance they wanted to cooperate with us, since it means clamping down on their Mafia.”

  Winter shook his head. “Bull.”

  “I'm your friend, Winter. The truth is that there's nothing you can do.”

  “What, we all just let this run its course?”

  Hank shrugged and put the pages back inside the folder. “The only reason I know about what happened on Rook and Ward Field is because Shapiro thought I needed to know. There's one other thing he asked me to tell you. Sean Devlin slipped away from the marshals who were watching her.”

  “I'm sure she had a reason,” his calm tone belying the stab of terror he experienced on hearing the news.

  “He didn't say.”

  “Is he sure she wasn't grabbed by Manelli's people?” Winter tried to keep his voice even, despite his mounting sense that Sean was in grave danger.

  “She slipped surveillance on purpose. She pulled some kind of a ruse with two rooms.”

  “Is he going to search for her?”

  “I think he's looking for her. I'm sorry about all of this, Winter. You know that.”

  “So am I, Hank,” Winter said, standing. “So am I.”

  When Winter climbed into his Explorer and slammed the door, two men in a Chrysler sedan three blocks away knew it because a light on the computer screen between them began blinking. The driver waited beside the curb and didn't move into traffic until the Explorer exited the garage and the driver saw it coming toward them.

  “You got audio?” the driver asked the second man.

  The man with the earphone in place nodded and held a thumb up. “He's growling.”

  “Growling, as in like a dog?”

  “Yep.”

  59

  Rush Massey was at the computer with his fingers on the keyboar
d. As he typed, a pleasant electronic voice spoke the words.

  DEAR SIRS COMMA IT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION THAT YOUR BREAKFAST FRUIT BARS CAN CAUSE FIRES IN TOASTERS PERIOD AS AN UNSIGHTED PERSON I BELIEVE I HAVE ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT FLAMING DEATH RESULTING FROM MY DEEP AFFECTION FOR YOUR TASTY BREAKFAST PASTRIES PERIOD I HAVE SOME IDEAS FOR FIRE-RETARDANT FOODS PERIOD

  Rush heard a snort from behind him. He hadn't smelled Mrs. Holland's perfume and was unaware that the principal had snuck up behind him.

  “Rush, you could be a comedy writer.”

  “I'm going to be a federal judge so I can sentence the men my daddy catches. And when you're a judge, the blinder the better. Like when you're an umpire.”

  Mrs. Holland chuckled and placed her hand on Rush's shoulder affectionately. “Your father is out in the hall waiting to see you.”

  Winter led Rush into the auditorium and took seats close to the entrance. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Okay.” His son's face remained emotionless. Rush was preparing himself mentally for virtually anything.

  “What I am going to tell you is a classified secret, so I have to ask you to keep it between the two of us.”

  Rush crossed his heart.

  “You know the USMS airplane that crashed Thursday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right.” God give me the strength to do this. “Those WITSEC marshals were taking a witness to Washington to testify.”

  “WITSEC like Uncle Greg?”

  “Greg was . . .” Winter's voice broke. He hadn't felt the emotion coming. “On that flight.”

  Rush was silent as he absorbed the information.

  “He's in heaven, right?”

  “I'm sure he is.”

  “Then Mama will have somebody for company that's her friend.” Rush smiled. “So we should be glad about that.”

  “Greg loved you. He was so proud of how grown-up you are. He said so the other day. Here's the thing,” Winter said. “The plane didn't accidentally crash. It was hijacked and blown up by some men who didn't want the witness to testify. The men who did it got away. That's the biggest secret.”

  Rush contemplated the direction the conversation was taking. “Are you going to go catch them?”

  “The FBI is supposed to do that. They are trying to blame Greg to explain how the bad men found the witness.”

  “It's not fair, to blame someone who can't defend himself. And Uncle Greg wouldn't do anything wrong on purpose.”

  “I agree. The FBI has some evidence they say proves Greg did what they say he did. I know it's a lie, but it looks like they might make it stick.”

  “You can't stop them?”

  “There's nothing I can do. Sometimes, no matter how bad we want to, we just can't set things right.”

  “Why don't you try—tell the FBI that Greg was good? Go get some evidence.” Rush seemed confused.

  “I'm not an investigator. I just wanted to tell you that even if people say it's true, we know it isn't. We know Greg was a good guy.”

  “Yeah, sure. What else?”

  “That's all I had to tell you. And that I love you more than anything on earth.”

  Winter hugged his son to him.

  “I'm sorry you feel so sad, Daddy.”

  Rush reached into his pocket and handed Winter a folded red bandana, one of Eleanor's cotton handkerchiefs. “I want you to take this one.”

  “That's yours.”

  “It'll make you feel less sad, like it does me.”

  60

  Richmond, Virginia

  Wire Dog found a space and parked his cab a block from the Second National Bank of Eastern Virginia. Sean walked to the bank's entrance and strolled inside. When it was her turn, she handed the young teller a one hundred–dollar bill.

  “Could I have that in tens and fives?”

  The teller reached into her drawer and swiftly counted out ten fives and five tens.

  Sean asked, “Is Paul Gillman still with the bank?”

  “Mr. Gillman's our president.”

  “Is he in today?”

  “I think so.” The teller looked up and across the lobby. “There he is.”

  Sean turned. She saw Paul Gillman standing in an office door holding some papers. Paul had gained a few pounds in the five years since she had seen him, the blond hair was thinner on top, and he looked as though he didn't smile as much as he once had. Tucking her money into her purse, she started across the lobby, and her old friend from college looked straight at her, or through her, then turned and went back to his desk. She stopped at a kiosk, scribbled a note on a deposit slip, and crossed to Gillman's secretary.

  “Excuse me. I'm an old friend of Paul's. I know he's busy, but could you give this to him?”

  The secretary stared at Sean with a look teetering between hostility and curiosity. Sean suddenly realized how alien she must look to the middle-aged woman who spent her days focusing on numbers. It amused and excited Sean to see how people responded to superficial differences between themselves and others. Had Sean Devlin, instead of Sally McSorley, appeared in the bank, the secretary would have been tripping over herself to accommodate her.

  The secretary took the note reluctantly and went into his office.

  Paul Gillman beat his secretary out of the room. Looking right past Sean, he scanned the lobby with a hopeful look on his face.

  “Paul,” Sean said. “Here.”

  The banker turned and stared at her. “Sean?” he stared in disbelief.

  “Who else?”

  He grinned with delight. “God, you look like Billy Idol!” He hugged her and actually lifted her off the floor.

  The secretary stared down at her desk and shuffled some papers.

  “What brings you to Richmond?” Paul remarked, finally setting Sean back down.

  “Business.”

  “How's Olivia?”

  “Mother passed away.”

  “Sorry. I really liked her.”

  Sean smiled. “She liked you, too.”

  “How long will you be in town?”

  “I'm on the ground for three hours and I thought I'd say hello, take care of a loose end.”

  “Come into the office.”

  “The presidential office.”

  “What's with you and the getup?” he demanded as she settled into a leather chair. “What happened to Sean Marks, the little debutante?”

  “I married this guy a while back. I was crazy about him. He's a federal agent whose temper is legendary.” She touched her bruised lip and grimaced.

  “Son of a bitch. Aw, Sean, I'm sorry. What can I do?”

  “I need to get something from my lockbox.”

  “Of course.” He reached into his desk and sifted through the contents until he found an envelope with SEAN MARKS typed on it and an address over a year out of date. “I labeled it so you'd get it back if the sky fell on me or something. You never know.”

  “The address is no good,” she admitted. “Guess I haven't been much of a friend, not staying in touch.”

  “You always were mysterious, Sean. But this punk thing is quite a departure from your old look.”

  He handed her the envelope, which she opened and removed the key. “You and Ally still happily married?” she asked.

  “Well, I am as happy as a man with three little boys running amok all over the house can be. Everything is great. But I'd throw it all away and do something insane if you only crooked your little finger.”

  Sean smiled warmly at her old friend. “I envy you.”

  Before they entered the vault, Paul asked Sean to sign her name on an index card. She had signed it once before, five years earlier, so the signature could be verified. The signature above was looser, from a less stressful time. He located the box, inserted his and then her key, opened the door, pulled out the box, and carried it to a cubicle. “Take as long as you want. I'll be right outside.”

  She opened the box, which she had in case of an emerge
ncy. At the time it had seemed silly, but her mother had insisted. Olivia Marks had subscribed to the belief that everyone should have mad money, a secret stash in a safe place to draw on. Olivia Marks had been a woman who had lived her entire adult life in quiet terror.

  No one but Paul knew Sean had the lockbox, and she alone knew what was inside it. Paul had never asked about its contents. She had made few very close friends—had rarely let anyone get close emotionally. She listened carefully, patiently, but she rarely volunteered information. She evaded. If pressed, she lied. And she lied with an ease that prevented her friends from being certain they ever really knew her. Sean had been raised to be a survivor. There had been a price and she had paid it. For the first time in her life she was glad she had.

  There were only two objects inside the box. She lifted out the stack of fifty hundred-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. The second object was a passport in the name of Sally McSorley. She reached into the bottom of her jacket pocket and took out the wedding band Dylan had given her fourteen months before, whose design matched the one Dylan had worn. She felt a surge of relief as she dropped it into the box and closed the lid.

  While she had been inside the cubicle, Paul had straightened his tie and carefully combed his hair. She felt a pang of guilt. As she handed him the box, she caught the scent of breath spray. All of her life, she had been an actor. Affecting and manipulating men had been an effortless exercise, but she had never before consciously manipulated people who cared about her.

  “Can't you lay over and have dinner with us tonight? Ally would sure love to see you. You could meet our children: the Grub, Splashy-cat and Goop-slinger.”

  Sean laughed. “I wish I could, Paul, but I have an appointment with an attorney in California,” she lied. “Next trip through, we can all get together and I can finally meet those boys of yours, whose given names, I am sure, aren't what you said.”

  “Jacob, Stephen, and Murray. They'd like you a lot, Sean. You know, if there's ever anything you need, you can ask me. I really mean it.”

  She smiled sincerely at her friend. There was one thing. “I don't think anybody could possibly show up here, but if anyone asks after me . . .”