Inside Out (21 page)

48

Atlanta, Georgia

Sam Manelli took his meals alone in his cell. The Justice Department wanted to make sure he didn't have any contact with other inmates, or anyone except his lawyers, who they couldn't bar from the prison. They needn't have worried. No one in the population would have dared approach him without Sam's first instigating that contact. If he had been sentenced to life without parole, perhaps he might have been in real danger. Even Al Capone, once he was in prison, became just a middle-aged mop-pusher who was physically assaulted by more powerful inmates. Only if Manelli was cut off completely from his organization, his money, and his political influence would he be in danger, and everyone knew it.

Occasionally, when Sam was being escorted to the dayroom or the yard to meet one of his high-dollar lawyers, a mob-connected inmate in the prison hallway would meet Sam's eye and nod. Sam might, depending on his mood and who made the gesture, acknowledge this with a lowered chin. Or he might ignore it. Word in the facility was that the feds were inclined to turn their backs and allow Manelli to fall victim to foul play. Inmates knew better: No reward outweighed the hell awaiting the man who lifted a hand against Sam Manelli.

The young guard carrying the tray containing Sam's dinner arrived on the other side of the bars. His appearance distracted Sam from his thoughts, which, these days, centered solely on the murder of Dylan Devlin. Sam was wondering when Dylan would be dead, how he would die, what he would think in his dying moments when he knew Sam had gotten to him. The gangster would have paid any amount to have the rat bastard handed over to him. He daydreamed constantly about the most painful way for Devlin to die. The challenge for Sam was to keep from allowing his temper to cause him to kill what he could keep alive but in amazing pain for days, weeks, even years.

“Hello,” Sam said. He even managed a smile for the guard. He didn't have to be nice to the kid, but what the hell did being friendly hurt?

The guard returned the greeting cordially and slid the tray halfway through the slot in the bars. He was set to receive the second half of twenty-five thousand dollars in cash the day Sam was released. Johnny Russo had, at Sam's instruction, been generous with Sam's money. It was easy to make sure that the men Johnny passed it to were in positions to help.

Sam's father had taught him well, rules Sam had never broken, rules that had always before kept him out of jail. Make the right friends. Buy people who can help you. Information is life, ignorance is death. Never write anything you don't want some D.A. showing a jury. Don't be stingy. Never waste money. Use threats only as a last resort. Never go back on your word. Never apologize, never cry or show any sign of weakness. If you say you'll do a thing, do it, no matter the cost. Never trust anyone but yourself. Assume everybody steals. Know when to make an example of a thief, when to overlook theft. Pay your people right, but not too much, because that is weakness. People who owe you hate you. A friend will kill you faster than an enemy will. Mercy breeds contempt, so never show any.

Sam knew all of the Manelli Rules. Hundreds of them—all passed down from mouth to ear. The one that made the deepest impression on him was when his father said, “Sammy, I love you more than anything I ever loved. Way more than I can say. But if someone thinks they can make me do something by threatening you or your mama, I tell you this for true. I gonna tell them, Go on and kill my wife, kill my sweet baby. 'Cause you are gonna be dead after a long time in pain you ain't gonna believe.”

“What if they give us back?” young Sam had asked. “You just forget what they did?”

“Of course, I'd take you back, but I'd still do to them what I said. The most important rule, Sammy, is never let love make you break any rule you have to live by.”

Then, in his old office on Magazine Street, Dominick Manelli had placed his massive hands on Sam's ten-year-old cheeks and kissed him full on his mouth. All those decades later, sitting in a cell in Atlanta, Sam could still close his eyes and feel his father's stiff afternoon whiskers. Sam could also remember the look on his father's face when, years later, just before he died, Dominick had summoned him close and whispered through his last gasps, “Sammy, listen. I want you to give the archdiocese two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In my name. Tell the priests they can pray me into heaven for it.”

Sam had replied, “You crazy, Papa? Nothing the priests can pray will keep you out of hell.” Sam thought he'd seen a smile flicker in his dying father's eyes. Dominick had waited until the last seconds of his life to offer God money that he knew was now his son's. Dominick could have made the contribution himself when he was in control. The old man could tell Saint Peter that he had asked Sam to donate to charity in his name, so if he didn't, it sure wasn't Dominick's fault. Even in death, Dominick Manelli had an angle to work.

Sam took his tray from the guard and set it on the table. He opened the stainless-steel lid and admired the meal. The plate held a filet medium rare, scrambled eggs, baked garlic, and a slice of toasted French bread lathered with butter before it was broiled. There was a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a thermos of very strong coffee.

Sam bowed his head and said a brief prayer. He ate slowly, saving the filet for last, chewing every small piece he placed into his mouth exactly thirty-seven times.

The last thing Sam Manelli wanted to do was to choke to death.

49

Concord, North Carolina

Winter had almost fallen asleep lying in a lukewarm bath, a wet washcloth covering his eyes. The loudest sound in the world right then was the rhythm of the drops from the faucet as each hit the surface of the soapy water. A tapping at the door brought him around.

“Winter?”

“What, Mama?”

“Don't fall asleep in the tub.”

“I won't,” he said, smiling to himself.

“Hank is stopping by the school to pick up Rush on his way here.”

Winter smiled. “So Hank is coming up.”

“Well, that's what I said.”

He heard her close the bedroom door, then reopen it.

“You forget something?” Winter called, his eyes still shut behind the washcloth.

“Wash behind your ears.”

Winter let the water drain before he stood and took a hot shower. He was dressing when he heard a car pull into the driveway. Seconds later the back door opened and Lydia called out a welcome. Winter listened to Nemo's barks, Hank's booming voice, and his son's words, filtering through it all like notes from a flute. He slipped into loafers and hurried to the kitchen.

“Is it cool for twelve-year-olds to give their father a hug?”

Rush immediately put a clench hold around Winter's middle, while Nemo stood on his hind legs, put his forepaws on Winter's back, and licked any skin within reach of his long tongue. “I'm not twelve
yet
,” he squealed.

“Nemo, get down!” Lydia said.

“This is some homecoming.” Winter turned his gaze to Hank.

“Chief marshal called me to say you were heading home.”

Lydia's face reflected an insatiable curiosity, but she didn't ask any questions. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Y'all get out of my way. Go on out to the living room.”

“I knew you'd make it home for my birthday,” Rush told Winter. “Gram said you probably couldn't, but I knew you wouldn't go back on your word.”

It took all of Winter's resolve not to burst into tears.

After dinner they sat out on the front porch. Winter and Rush were on the swing, Hank Trammel and Lydia sat in rocking chairs.

“Where were you, Daddy?” Rush asked.

“Not sure, exactly.”

“Doing what?”

“I did some sitting around on a porch sort of like this. I ate, I slept, I ran, did push-ups and sit-ups. Ate more. Slept some more. Sat, talked. Listened.” He battled back memories of the dead WITSEC crew and the treacherous flight across Rook Island.

“Didn't hunt down any bad guys and arrest 'em?”

“Didn't make a single arrest the whole time I was gone. I'll have to make two arrests next trip out.”

“Bet you will, too!” Rush exclaimed.

Winter usually told the boy what he had been up to, sparing him the hard-core details. He liked for Rush to believe that being a deputy marshal was no more dangerous than strolling through Walt Disney World, which was mostly the case.

“Rush,” Lydia said, stretching. “Let's get you to bed. Let the old men jabber.” After only a mild protest, Rush kissed Winter and went inside, Nemo trailing behind.

“Not all night, y'all,” Lydia cautioned the two men.

As soon as Lydia was safely inside, Trammel pulled a flask from his coat pocket and poured a couple of ounces into his glass. “Chill in the air,” he offered as an explanation. There was a silence while Trammel savored the golden liquid. “Whiskey's a lot like pussy.”

“I know, Hank. The worst you ever had was wonderful. Sort of like comparing apples to house slippers.”

“You think? They're both sure as hell a great comfort. You want a sip?”

“No thank you.”

“Shapiro told me what happened.”

“He did?” That was a surprise.

“Yeah, he thought you ought to have somebody to talk to, if you were of a mind to.”

“Not much to say about it. Nothing I can change by talking. I'm fine.”

“You did your job. You got nothing to regret.”

“My luck is going to run out one of these days, and where'll that leave Rush? We both know I could end up like Greg. I think I should consider a career change.”

“I 'spect Miss Eleanor would pitch a fit if you show up in heaven too soon.”

“She'd kick my ass,” Winter agreed.

“It's getting ready to rain,” he said, screwing the lid on the flask. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“I know.”

“I'm real sorry about Greg. Wish I'd known him better. Any people?”

“No family. His mother abandoned him. He was raised by his grandmother. She's dead. Nobody closer than me, far as I know.”

“You going to tell Rush?”

“I shouldn't until they release the names.” Winter knew that he wasn't up to that yet. It just didn't seem right for someone so young to have been through so much suffering, to have lost so much.

“I doubt it'll be a secret for long, media being the way it is.”

Winter walked Hank out to his car and stood in the driveway watching him drive away.

After he locked the back door, Winter went to his room and lay in bed, tired but unable to sleep. The rain started to fall in torrents. Thunder crashed and the sky lit as though artillery shells were being lobbed. Winter's door opened slowly and he turned and stared at the shapes framed in the doorway.

“What's up, Rush?”

“Aw, Nemo's scared. You can't reason with him when he's like this.”

“I imagine I can bunk down a good deputy and his sidekick.”

Winter knew the dog could sleep on an operating rifle range. Rush wasn't going to admit his fear of lightning. From the time he was an infant he had never stayed in a room alone during a storm. Not being able to see the flashes made it worse because there was no warning of any kind for him before the crashing booms.

Winter threw the covers back for Rush. Nemo curled up on the floor. Father and son lay shoulder to shoulder listening to the storm rage outside.

50

USMS headquarters Arlington, Virginia

It was dark outside. Sean tried not to yawn, but she did anyway. Richard Shapiro's office was one enormous space divided into three areas. In the five hours she had been there, she had read through a stack of magazines, eaten a ham sandwich, and drank more coffee than she usually did in a month.

The chief marshal's conference room was enclosed by a wall of soundproof glass. Through it, Sean could see Shapiro railing at his men like a basketball coach. She'd seen and heard enough to know that the marshals had been shut out of the investigation into the murders. And nobody at 600 Army Navy Drive was at all pleased about having to wait for the FBI to share the information it was compiling. Sean had seen Shapiro on the phone, his face so red she was sure he would blow an artery. For the past hour his staff had been in the glass room and she had watched them like fish in an aquarium.

Bored, she went into her briefcase, took out her computer, and turned it on. She opened the nasty note Dylan had sent her. She closed the document and, dragging it into the garbage deleted it. If only she could only erase memories as easily as she had Dylan's final message to her.

She was beyond ready to leave. She looked up and waved at the marshals behind the glass wall. One saw her and spoke to Shapiro, who looked wearily out at her. She waved good-bye to him.

He said something to his men and they all seemed to relax.

Richard Shapiro came out and sat near her on the couch. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'm tired,” she said, thinking how stress might trigger a migraine.

“Listen, Mrs. Devlin. We want to do everything we can to help you through this. I have a few thoughts.”

“Can we discuss it later? As I said, I'm quite tired.”

“Sure. You don't have to make any decisions right away. I think we can give you the equity in your house.”

Sean made her voice firm. “I'm not your witness. I am not changing my name, and I want my belongings put back in
my
house, which did not belong to my late husband.”

“Let's discuss all of that tomorrow, okay? We'll get you a death certificate so you can get to your husband's bank accounts, which as his widow, you are entitled to.”

“Do you seriously think I would take money he made murdering people?”

“I assumed you could use it.”

“I don't need it and I'd sweep streets before I accept one cent of that blood money.”

“We intend to compensate you for what you went through.”

“Do that. Figure out what keeping my husband's killings a secret from me, and what I have been through in the past few days is worth. In the meantime, I want to go to a hotel and sleep.”

“I'll have a couple of deputies—”

“No! No more deputies, no guns, no protection. If you want my cooperation, I demand some consideration. I am not testifying against anyone. I will not agree to be watched over or followed. I do not want the United States Marshals Service knowing where I am. If no one here knows where I am or what I'm doing, nobody can tell anybody anything.” Sean was reaching the absolute limit she could take. She had to get away.

“I'm sorry you feel that way.”

“Tell me the truth. Do I have to accept your protection?”

“No, I can't force you to. You can decline it, but I can't emphasize strongly enough how dangerous that might be. Mrs. Devlin, please—”

“I am officially declining protection of any kind. Do I need to sign anything for that?” she said briskly.

Shapiro's eyes hardened. “We can't force our protection, but the FBI can decide that you are crucial to the investigation, declare you a material witness, and take you into custody. Obviously, I'd hate to see that happen, even if it was for your own safety.”

“I suppose if the FBI decides to do that, there's nothing I can do to prevent it,” she replied. “I'd be happy to relive that night over and over, if you'll treat me like a friend and not a prisoner. You can start by calling me a cab. I will return first thing tomorrow if you like.”

“Very well. I accept that you have declined our protection and I will see you first thing in the morning. Fact is, we have a hotel suite reserved for you.”

“I'll stay in the suite if you'll give me your word you won't have deputies hanging around. I've had it with being spied on.”

Shapiro stood and nodded decisively. “I'll call you a cab.”

Shapiro strode into the conference room and conferred with his assistant. He went to his desk, pulled open a drawer, then returned with a cell phone, which he handed to her.

“If you need anything at all, just press star eighty-one to reach me. I can have people outside your room in minutes.”

Sean nodded and slipped the phone into her coat pocket. She knew that, despite giving his word, Shapiro wasn't about to let her leave his office without having her followed and watched over. Now, that was something she couldn't allow.

At the hotel, the cabdriver popped the trunk and set her suitcases on the carpeted stoop. She tipped him, as well as the doorman who carried her suitcases into the hotel lobby and placed them before the counter.

“Sean Devlin,” she told the clerk.

The clerk typed in her name into the computer and watched the screen. “You'll be in . . .” She penned the room number—1299—inside the little folder.

Sean slipped her Visa card onto the desk.

“That's not necessary,” the woman said. “It's been taken care of.”

Sean left the credit card where it was. “I'd like another room for my mother, who is arriving later this evening.”

“Your suite has two bedrooms with private baths.”

“A single on a lower floor. My mother has a fear of fire, so nothing higher than an extension ladder can reach,” Sean said firmly.

The clerk typed again, then ran Sean's card. She placed an electronic room key into a folder and wrote
321
inside it.

Sean turned and saw that the cab that had delivered her was now parked across the street.
Those bastards!
She was angry that Shapiro had lied to her but also relieved that his action had released her from her word.

A bellboy pulled the cart holding Sean's suitcases into the elevator and pressed twelve. Sean reached into her coat pocket, took out Shapiro's cell phone, and slid it between her suitcases on the cart. She pressed three and the elevator stopped there.

Using her foot to keep the elevator door open, she handed the bellboy the key card for 1299 and fished a ten dollar bill from her purse. Taking her briefcase from the cart, Sean handed the bill to the bellboy and smiled. “Take my bags on up, please. I'm going to check out my other room first.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She waited for the elevator door to close before she made her way quickly to the stairs, carrying her briefcase and her purse. She found the back entrance to the hotel and exited close behind an elderly couple so she would appear to be with them. She saw two men sitting in a Crown Victoria parked near the driveway, but neither looked at her as she passed, still sticking close to the old couple. As the couple stopped at a Lexus, Sean kept walking. Two blocks farther she saw a cab approaching and hailed it.

The driver was obese. His face showed his disappointing effort to grow a beard, and he studied her with dull, lazy eyes. She climbed in and was instantly repulsed by the interior, which smelled as though someone had recently boiled cabbage in it.

“I want a cheap hotel. One that rents rooms by the hour. Water beds and X-rated films are fine.”

She saw his now curious eyes appraise her in the mirror. She glanced at his identification card. “And, Warren—one suggestive proposition out of you, you'll lose a nice tip.”

“Lady, I know just the place,” he said. “You'll love it.”