Inside Out

by John Ramsey Miller

  “How can you be so sure?” she demanded.

  “It's not his style, that's why. I know everything there is to know about Manelli. He'll have his driver pick you up because he can't risk doing that himself and because he'll figure the chances are good we've put you up to this. The driver will try to shake a tail, but we'll be right there. No matter what he does, we'll be on you. Isn't that right, Finch?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Finch agreed. “We have the latest electronic tracker. It's a fail-safe operation.”

  “This is messed up,” Sean said. She threw the headset onto the couch in disgust.

  “Do you really think we'd let Sam Manelli hurt you?”

  “I don't know if you would or not. Do I think you could stop him from doing it? Absolutely not. And if you truly think you can, you're a bigger putz than I already thought you were.”

  “You're going to be wired. First admission or threat, we roll in and pop him.”

  “As soon as his driver finds the wire or spots your people, he drives away. Then you can go home, because Manelli won't come within ten miles of me. If he thinks you're behind this, they'll search me before I meet with him.”

  “Think we aren't way ahead of that?” Archer left the room and came back carrying an Atlanta Braves baseball cap, which he handed to her. He pointed at the cloth-covered button in the top. “This contains a new generation position and communication bug. The transmission is not detectable by normal bug catchers. It will tell us where you are, and we can hear conversations at an unlimited distance, thanks to our nice satellite. And we'll make sure we know who goes into the lot.”

  She tried the cap on and looked in the mirror. “Lucky me. I'm on a winning team.”

  90

  Sam Manelli handed the cell phone to Russo and stared out through the grimy office window into a warehouse filled with vending machines.

  “It's a setup,” Sam announced.

  “You think so?” Russo asked, seeing a faint light at the end of a long tunnel. “That would sure explain a few things.”

  Sam's hooded eyes studied his protégé, then he nodded slowly. “Feds using her to get me. If she thinks I've been trying to kill her she's too smart to show up here all of a sudden. No telling what they told her. FBI birds probably got her backed in a corner on this Richmond thing she told you about.”

  “There was a big shoot-out in a hotel there. They could have staged that themselves to fool you.”

  “Well, that's possible. We don't have time to check it out, do we?”

  “What she told me is just what I told you. Word for word. Forget the meeting, then,” Russo said, seeing an opportunity to appear like he was acting out of concern for the older man. “Sam, what they got at this point? Nothing. Keep it that way. You stay away from her a few days or whatever. There'll be time when this is all cooled down to get her.” Russo knew Sam wasn't about to start taking his advice now. When it came to that bitch, he was beyond reason.

  Sam shook his head. “I'm gonna handle this right. This is one of those loose ends that could get all unraveled if I don't knot it up quick. I'm not gonna sit back and wait and see what's gonna happen. Something about this whole mess is all wrong. You can't get in touch with Herman, and I don't like that one bit. I go back a long time with Herman. I've given him a lot of money over the years, and maybe he's up to something—gone squirrely from plugged-up brain vessels or something. Maybe somebody killed him.”

  “Let me take some of the guys and handle it, Sam. I'll get her for you. Don't risk yourself this way. Far as they can prove, you're clean.”

  “I already decided.” Russo saw a new level of coldness behind Sam's eyes. “I want you out at the place in an hour and a half. We gonna have a long talk with her so you and me can get all this figured out.”

  Johnny shrugged. “You know what's best.”

  Manelli locked his hands behind his thick neck and studied Russo. “I'm puzzled about why that bird Dylan pulled this crap in the first place. It never did make sense. It's like that thing about an iceberg being mostly where you can't see it, but you still know it's down there.”

  “What can I say I haven't said a million times? Devlin fooled everybody. He totally checked out. I should know.”

  “Yeah,” Sam started, seemingly puzzled, “you checked him out personal and you gave him a clean bill. And always before that, you was so good at sniffin' out rats.”

  “I knew how important it was that he was the real deal, Sam. I want this straightened out as much as you do.”

  Under his shirt, sweat streamed down Russo's back. This was the suspicious Sam before him. Until he acted, it was impossible to know what was on his mind. Usually, the people that Sam decided were betraying him first learned of his suspicion in their last moments. Sometimes, depending on his mood, those last moments had been known to be hours. Age had only hardened the brickbat that served as his heart.

  “Well, at least take the radio Herman gave you with the fed frequencies on it.”

  Sam rose suddenly and Russo winced, thinking Sam was going to grab a steel pinball machine leg from a stack near the desk and pulverize him with it. Johnny had seen Sam do just that in this very room. Sam left without saying anything. Johnny's smile withered. He figured that, unless Herman's cutouts did this thing right, crabs could be dining on his eyes before dawn.

  A figure blocked the doorway and Russo flinched, afraid for a second that it was Sam back to finish him off. “Boss?” Spiro said.

  Relief filled Russo. “Spiro, Sam's gone?”

  “Yeah. They all gone. Everything cool?”

  “Close the door a minute.” Johnny lifted his cell phone and pressed the digits. There was a strange clicking sound which was the encrypting device on the other end, which scrambled the signal on both ends.

  “Johnny,” the familiar cutout's voice said. “Is everything clipping along?”

  “You were right, Lewis. She's here now,” Russo said, fighting the panic he felt. “He's picking her up in a hour.”

  “Good. Sam has the radio?”

  “Yeah. What should I do?”

  “Do exactly what you'd normally do. We're on top of this, like I told you.”

  “Sam figured the FBI is using her to get him. It's like he's psychic. I don't like it.”

  “Of course he did. Sam's a genius, Johnny. He'll get her and we'll get him and the FBI will clean it all up. That's all settled.”

  “If your guys had done what they were supposed to do, she would be history and we'd all be winners already.”

  “What's Sam's plan?”

  “All I know is he wants me at his lodge in like ninety minutes. You know where it is, right?”

  “We'll be there. Don't worry about it.”

  “You just make sure this time.”

  “Trust me on this.”

  “‘Trust me' is what Herman said. I still don't know why he didn't tell me Sean was alive. I found that out when she called me out of the blue. So if we're going to work together in the future, I got a bone to pick with him. Because there's not going to be anybody but me for you people to work with. Right?”

  “Herman has been retired because this didn't go as he'd planned. He messed up, not me.”

  Russo wanted to scream. Just as he was starting to relax, the world tilts off its axis. “Who's taking his place?” Russo was already thinking about an alliance with Herman's replacement, hoping for somebody younger, sharper. “I think him and me should meet after this is over.”

  “You'll love his replacement, Johnny.”

  “Just remember, Lewis. If you don't get this right, I'm dead. If the men think I might fail, they see any weakness, they'll turn on me like jackals.”

  “I'll see you in a little while. By the way, you might want to keep your head down when we come in. You make sure your guys don't start shooting at us, or we'll respond and you'll be recruiting their replacements for the next six months.”

  “Remember, none of my guys get whacked accidentally.”
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  “We'll be completely surgical. It's what we do.”

  Johnny felt better. Lewis was an amazing individual, and Johnny had no choice but to trust him as he had before. What Sam didn't know was that his bodyguards understood that their futures lay with Johnny—that Sam's rule was done. Sam was dying but, as strong as Sam was, that could take another couple of years, and Johnny wasn't nearly as patient a man as Sam was.

  91

  A chilled, steady rain kept pedestrians on both sides of Decatur Street moving rapidly and the vehicles rolling slowly. Jax had been a long-closed brewery complex when it was turned into a fanciful tourist mall—reminiscent of a medieval castle with flags flying from its sheltered parapets—with views of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter.

  Three FBI vehicles were parked facing the levee at the rear of the vast lot beside the complex. Archer's assault-suited FBI SWAT team sat in the step van waiting patiently, while the surveillance techs sat at portable consoles, anxious to field test their equipment.

  Archer, occupying the passenger seat of the black Crown Victoria, strummed his fingers nervously on the armrest. He had good reason to be nervous. Special Agent Finch sat stiffly behind the wheel. Every seven seconds the wipers would cycle, clearing their view of a concrete wall three feet from the grill. Like a sullen teenager, Sean Devlin sat slumped in the backseat with her arms locked across her chest. An unoccupied purple Dodge convertible waited next to the Ford. Finch jumped when Archer's radio squawked to life.

  “Big Chief, this is Eyes One. The covered wagon has left the barn, headed toward the lower forty. ETA is fifteen minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Archer said. “Okay, all teams, prepare to roll when the covered wagon starts back to the barn.”

  In a low voice, Finch translated the radio lingo for Sean. “The team watching Manelli's estate just told us that Manelli's car is on the way from there.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Devlin. Get ready. I have a team covering the garage. Manelli's driver is on his way, alone. Soon as you get in, make sure you keep noise coming so we always know. Remember that we are running tape.” Archer tilted the ball cap toward his mouth and whispered, “Ears, you getting this?”

  “That's a roger,” a voice said. “The signal is ten-ten.”

  Archer handed the cap to Sean. “Remember, you just get Manelli to admit being behind the hit on your husband. We need him to admit he ordered it—financed it. Conspired with others. That is all we need.”

  “I hope he's thoughtful enough to incriminate himself before he kills me.”

  “We will never be more than seconds away. Just get in your car and go. We'll be with you the whole time.”

  Finch said, “This will be over before you know it.”

  “I just hope it isn't over before you know it.” Sean straightened, and when she did she felt suddenly queasy.

  “I can't do it,” she said. “Not now.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” Archer growled.

  “I'm getting a headache,” she said, alarmed.

  “Don't you dare try and pull anything,” Archer threatened. “We're not changing the plan. I have people on you and if you try to make a run for it, they'll shoot you as a fleeing felon.”

  “Seriously, I'm getting a migraine,” she said. “Would that surprise you?”

  “Finch,” Archer snapped, “go into the van and get some aspirin over here, now!”

  “Aspirin?” Sean said. “I need something a lot stronger than that.”

  Archer snapped at her, “You'll take the aspirin and you will not get a headache! Do you understand me?”

  Sean took four tablets, praying they could stave off a migraine. Keeping her head perfectly level, she slipped the ball cap on gently, and climbed gingerly out of the Crown Vic. Oblivious to the rain, she slid carefully behind the wheel of the convertible. She eased the door closed, not daring slam it for fear of promoting the headache.

  Take two bullets in the head and call me in the morning.

  92

  Inside the USMS ordnance room, United States Chief Deputy Marshal Chet Long handed Hank and Winter a pair of vests to put on under their coats. He pointed to a box on the table. “There's two pairs of binoculars, a tactical radio with earphones. Your FBI pals have been using the encrypted tactical channel it's set on. We'll communicate with cell phones. What else?”

  “Manpower?” Winter asked as he inventoried the box.

  “Best I could do out of my office on this short notice is the pair I have watching the Windsor Court, and five others I've called back in. I have three more coming in off leave. Shapiro has a high-test, four-man team en route—be here in three hours. If we're lucky, this won't get under way until after they get in, and you'll have the specialists.”

  “That would be nice,” Winter said absently. He wasn't going to put his faith in what might make it, but in what he had.

  “There are a few locals, men with integrity I can trust in a pinch—damn few around not on Manelli's payroll one way or another. My brother-in-law's a highway patrol captain. He's agreed to put some of his men at our disposal, and he has started moving some additional units into the area. To make sure this doesn't leak out, the patrolmen won't know what exactly we're up to until the operation is well under way.”

  “I think this will go down soon,” Winter said. “Archer doesn't strike me as a patient man.”

  “We're looking at only another hour of daylight,” Chet said. “Guys, I'm not set up for major assaults at the moment. No heavy weapons—my MP-fives and most of my chest armor is in Lafayette with a Fugitive Recovery detail. I have a half a dozen ARs, and a few Mossy twelves.” He lifted two long guns from his cabinet and handed them to Hank. “Take an AR and a Mossberg. Two twenty-round mags for the carbine and thirty double-ought shells for the scattergun should be plenty. Oh, I put rounds for your Walther in there.”

  “Appreciate it,” Winter said.

  “I put the Manelli file material in the box. Afraid there's not much in there except for the layout of his house and office and a list of property he owns.”

  Chet's cell phone rang and he answered it, listened, and hung up. “Damn if you weren't right. My deputies say they're moving out of the Windsor Court.”

  “Let's go, Hank,” Winter said.

  “Nice to have time for planning,” Hank quipped.

  “The covered wagon has left the barn for the lower forty?” Hank Trammel said, snickering. “Sounds like that old boy got his code inspiration from watching John Wayne movies.”

  “Whatever works.”

  Winter watched the FBI vehicles parked across the Jax lot from them through binoculars. According to one of Chet's deputies there were two agents in a white Taurus sitting outside a parking garage one block off Canal Street—the city's main traffic artery and one of the four streets that enclosed the French Quarter.

  Winter was no stranger to the city, but as he was sitting in the Jeep, rain peppering the roof, he wasn't waxing nostalgic, or thinking about the city in any terms other than it being where Sean Devlin was located. The restaurants and shops, and every other place he knew and loved, were like so many cardboard boxes, facing streets he might need to navigate to keep her alive.

  “I wish we knew what the grand plan is,” Hank said. “Think Manelli's meeting her in the parking lot that team is watching? It seems too public a place for such a private man.”

  Winter punched in the speed dial number for Chet, who was monitoring the deputy watching the agents who were watching the parking garage. “Is there just one way into the garage?” Winter asked.

  “Yes,” Chet answered.

  “Sounds like Archer's people are watching Manelli's house or office. So ‘lower forty' should be the parking garage.”

  Chet said, “I can tell from how long it takes Manelli to get to the garage whether he's coming from his house. His office is six minutes away tops. House is at least fifteen minutes from there.”

  Winter rang off. He knew that the SWAT t
eam and the techs were in the step van and Archer, Finch, and Sean in the Crown Vic. “We'll stick with Sean,” he told Hank.

  “Nothing is going to happen without her,” Hank agreed.

  “Car door's opening.” Winter watched Finch climb out and enter the motor home. Seconds later he returned to the car and got behind the wheel. Winter put his binoculars on the female deputy marshal sitting in a minivan across the lot from the FBI vehicles. If the vehicles split up, she was supposed to stick with the van and Winter with whatever vehicle had Sean in it.

  Winter figured that the last thing the FBI was worried about was anyone trailing them. He'd decided that he wanted to remain in the best position he could manage to extricate her from any potentially disastrous situation.

  Winter had read through Chet's files on Sam Manelli to get to know Manelli better. They were of very little help, since they held only information the marshals would need to serve a federal warrant on the gangster. Manelli's bodyguards were private investigators licensed by the state to carry concealed firearms. Sam owned the security firm and had a sweet deal that allowed the firm to own twenty-five John Doe licenses and give them out without having to clear the guards through local law enforcement for a year. That arrangement alone showed how much political power Manelli had.

  “There's Sean,” Winter said, watching as she climbed from the Ford and slipped into the convertible parked beside Archer's Crown Victoria. She pulled off, leaving the step van and Archer sitting there. “She's heading for the garage.”

  “Covered wagon is entering the lower forty,” a new voice on the radio announced. Winter assumed it was one of the agents watching the parking garage.

  “Let me know when it pulls out with the cowgirl,” Archer's voice answered.

  “Keep her in sight, Hank.”

  Hank followed the convertible, allowing other vehicles to get between them.

  “He's meeting her in the lot, Winter,” Hank said. “I can beat her there and wait. We could even slip into the lot if you want to.”