Inside Out (4 page)

6

Concord, North Carolina Sunday

An hour before the sun rose Winter climbed from his bed, dropped to the floor, and did one hundred push-ups. Immediately afterward he locked his ankles under the bed's frame and did as many crunches. Over the course of a day he would try to do another two hundred of each to stay limber and maintain his muscle tone.

He put on shorts, a gray T-shirt, and his running shoes. On the way out, he unleashed Nemo from Rush's bed.

Winter and Nemo ran around to Union Street, picking out an even stride that would take them to the end of Union, to Highway 136, back the five miles to Corban Street, and home.

On his street Winter saw a figure leaning against the grill of a pickup truck. As he approached the man, Nemo started wagging his tail.

“Howdy, old pal,” the man said as he bent to stroke the dog's head.

“Hank,” Winter said. “What brings you all the way up here?”

“Lydia's coffee.”

Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Hank Trammel was Winter's boss. Trammel was exactly what most people would expect a U.S. marshal to look like. His preretirement paunch protruded over his belt, obscuring the big buckle—a Texas-size silver and turquoise oval. Test samples of paint in the weather-abuse simulators at the Dutch Boy laboratories didn't get the wear and tear Hank's skin had received as a child on a ranch exposed to wind-driven sand and scorching sun. His duty piece was a stag-handle 1911 Colt .45 cradled in an Austin holster designed by Brill and made by the El Paso Saddle Company in 1950 for a new Texas ranger named Trent Trammel, Hank's father. Hank's father and grandfather had both died by the gun.

“I wanted to congratulate you on the Tucker capture. Media's going to be all over it. They'll be after interviews.”

“They'll waste their time, because I'm not talking about it.” Winter never spoke to the media unless he was ordered to, but normally there was someone else involved who was happy to instead.

“You could have congratulated me tomorrow,” Winter said.

“There's this. Faxed to me yesterday morning.” Hank reached into his pocket and handed Winter a folded-up sheet of paper.

Winter read it, then offered it back. “I'm not interested.”

“I didn't see where it asked if you are interested.”

“Aw, come on, Hank. Why me?”

The chief deputy shrugged. “It's got to be a big deal. You see the signature.”

“Hank, the twentieth is Rush's birthday. That's next Sunday. It'll be the first one I've been here for in three years. I don't plan to disappoint him again. It means a lot. Why do they need me? I'm not WITSEC.”

“Maybe they figure you can give an account of yourself in a tight spot.”

Winter grimaced involuntarily.

“I like to believe that every once in a while the big guys know what they're doing,” Hank said. “They issued this, and I expect what they want is more important than what you want.”

“Doesn't make sense.”

“I couldn't agree more. There's a world of men a lot better qualified than you. Nice, even-tempered fellows who don't get edgy sitting in a cheesy motel room watching some criminal pace the carpet. I got a million other things I'd like to throw your lazy ass at, Massey, but I'm not being paid to run the Justice Department. John Katlin is.”

Winter took a shower while Hank sat in the kitchen and talked to Lydia. After he toweled off and slipped on his boxers, he picked up the orders and reread them. It was temporary assignment to Witness Security. He was to report to Spitfire Aviation at the Concord Regional Airport on Sunday at thirteen hundred hours to meet his transportation. The order was signed by John T. Katlin, attorney general of the United States, and countersigned by Richard Shapiro, chief U.S. marshal and director of the United States Marshals Service.

Winter was surprised. The Witness Security program, WITSEC, was a specialty. In his course of duties, he often transported prisoners, often kept them overnight in rooms or houses. If the USMS had been a medical discipline, Winter would have been a general practitioner who could operate in an emergency, whereas the WITSEC deputies were surgeons.

There were just two things left to do: pack his bag and say good-bye.

7

Charlotte, North Carolina

A twin-engine Cessna was waiting for Winter on the tarmac outside the fixed-base operation at the Concord Regional Airport. Since he wasn't booked on a commercial flight, Winter figured he was going to a remote safe house. The other option was that the destination was so secret, WITSEC wanted no paper or electronic trail left for anyone to follow. He figured he'd know soon enough.

Winter climbed aboard and set his duffel on an empty seat. The plane's cloth upholstery was worn, the carpet stained, and the exterior paintwork dull for a government-owned aircraft.

He settled in and stared out the window, but his mind was on his son's reaction to the news that he was leaving again. Rush had said he didn't mind, but Winter knew how disappointed the child was. He had promised that he would do his best to make it back for Rush's birthday. Lydia had maintained a cheery demeanor, but Winter knew she was upset, too. She had never understood why he wanted to be in law enforcement. She often said she thought he was a wonderful teacher, and she couldn't understand why he had left that field. But he just knew inside that he was made for something else, something that being a deputy offered him. He loved everything about the job, and he was good at it.

The Cessna turboprop maintained an easterly course for nearly an hour before the pilot landed at a military base, where aircraft crowded the tarmac. When the door of the plane opened, he could smell brine in the air.

A Humvee appeared, and a silent marine delivered him to a waiting Blackhawk ready for takeoff.

Winter handed his bag to the flight officer and climbed inside. Two women passengers, both in their midtwenties, were already seated together on a bench directly across from the sliding door. He took a seat next to them and belted himself in.

Due to the noisy engines, Winter merely nodded a greeting. The women nodded back, acknowledging his presence. Once cleared for takeoff, the helicopter lifted off, climbing rapidly.

The well-tanned woman seated closest to the rear of the compartment wore a soft cap with a long curved bill, a microfiber jacket, jeans, and cross-trainers. She looked Latin, and the freckles on her cheeks and nose gave her the aura of a tomboy. She wore her shoulder-length auburn hair tucked behind her ears.

Winter figured the Latina was a deputy marshal. For the time being, he tagged her “Freckles.” He glanced at the three suitcases behind the cargo net and matched her with the seriously scuffed, bright-blue hard-shell Samsonite. No doubt she traveled a lot, lived out of that suitcase.

The other woman's two leather suitcases had canvas outer shells to protect their expensive skins. She had money, taste, and a meticulous nature. She wore a wedding band.

“Married Woman's” hair was neatly pinned back. The angular black frames of her sunglasses were too heavy for her features, but the lenses were light enough so that her almond-shaped eyes were visible behind them. She wore slacks, a collared shirt, a glove-leather sports jacket, and matching boots. Nervously, her fingertips tapped the briefcase in her lap. An expensive gold wristwatch peeked out from under her cuff.

In other circumstances she could be an executive, or a curator at a major museum.

The Blackhawk flew a few miles out over the ocean before it banked hard to the north. When the engines changed pitch, Winter stared out between the pilot and copilot, and spotted an island isolated in an expanse of the Atlantic. The helicopter dropped to about three hundred feet over the water as it approached the sliver of land.

A line of pine trees bisected the island like a fence. On its western side there were several corrugated metal buildings with matching tin roofs. The entire installation was perched above a deepwater bay where a sport-fishing boat and a cigarette boat were tied to a floating dock. Twin radio towers loomed over a windowless concrete bunker on the edge of the cliff. Radar dishes were affixed to one of the towers. A basketball court was sandwiched between a barracks and what looked like an equipment shed. Two men, both wearing shorts, stopped their one-on-one and stared up at the approaching chopper. An asphalt switchback was cut into the sheer wall, joining the buildings and the dock below.

On the eastern side of the island, a single-story house with a wraparound porch faced the Atlantic. There was a water tank just south of the house. North of the house, he saw tennis courts and a covered swimming pool.

A hundred feet away, the beach sloped gently to the water line. Two lounge chairs had been arranged to take advantage of the shade cast by a bright-red umbrella. The chopper's descent halted the conversation of two casually dressed men seated on those chairs. Both raised their hands to shield their eyes from the billowing sand. As the helicopter landed, the umbrella lifted off the ground, flipped upside down, and scooted like a sled into the breaking surf.

After the Blackhawk touched down, and while the pilot kept the blades turning, the flight officer slipped back and opened the door. Manners dictated that Winter climb down onto the helipad and help the women. Married carried her briefcase and moved away, bending over as though the blades might dip six feet to hit her. The flight officer handed the bags down one at a time. Freckles took Married's two pieces of expensive luggage. Married held out her hands to take a bag from Freckles, but the cop shook her head, dismissing the offer. Winter took his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed Freckles's Samsonite case, and carried it to the women, who stood waiting at the walkway. He reached out to take one of the canvas-covered bags from Freckles.

“I can carry them,” she called out.

The larger of the two men on the beach had run after the umbrella. Both men wore semiautomatic pistols in high-rise hip holsters, with enough extra magazines in clip holders to produce sustained annihilating fire. The smaller man also had a “room broom” suspended by a shoulder sling. The stockless version of the Heckler & Koch's fully automatic MP5 looked like a pistol on steroids. As the helicopter became airborne, the two men waved at Freckles. “Hey, Martinez, welcome to paradise!” the smaller one yelled, as the Blackhawk lifted away.

“Who you kidding, Beck? Manhattan is paradise!” she yelled back, laughing throatily. She turned back to Winter as the Blackhawk vanished behind the trees.

Married, briefcase in hand, was heading for the house.

Freckles followed. “Thanks for carrying my stuff so I could carry hers. I'm Deputy Marshal Angela Martinez,” she told Winter.

“I'm Deputy Marshal Winter Massey. What's her story?”

“She's the package's wife. I've been with her since yesterday. Winter, hey, that name sounds familiar.”

“Consequences of loaning your name to a season.”

“Come again?”

“Never mind.”

Winter entered the foyer of the house just after Martinez. The sight that greeted him almost bowled him over. Life had given him two friends who were as good as family. One, Hank Trammel, was his boss; the other was standing in the foyer talking to the package's wife.

“You old dog,” Winter said.

“Winter Massey.” Greg Nations was a light-skinned African-American with a middleweight's build, a million-dollar smile, and intense eyes with irises the color of buckskin. “How's that little nephew of mine?” Greg's laugh was a resonating deep boom. He looked at Martinez and winked. “Winter and me were raised by the same she-wolf. We used to tussle for the hind teat.”

“Rush is great. I should have known you were behind this sudden, mysterious journey.”

“And how's your mama?”

“Lydia is Lydia.”

“You're that Massey?” Martinez exclaimed. “Of course! I knew you and Greg”—she caught herself—“Inspector Nations were friends.”

A voice interrupted the gleeful greeting. “Excuse me, might I please see my husband now?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Devlin,” Greg said, turning his attention back to the other woman. “This man and I go back a lot of years, and our paths don't often cross these days.” He reached out and took her briefcase. “I'll have to search this.”

Mrs. Devlin removed her glasses and folded them. She lowered her eyes and said in a low voice. “But they've all been searched, X-rayed and sniffed by two different dogs. And that was
after
I cleared customs. I just came back into the country yesterday. I haven't lost sight of them since.”

“Rule number one,” Greg told her. “Everything coming in is hand-searched. Martinez, assume the position.”

Martinez turned and put her hands up, and Greg ran his hands over her body and pinched the material of her clothes. He searched her thoroughly, making no apology for checking the contours of her breasts and pressing his fingers against her genitals.

Mrs. Devlin bit her bottom lip like a child accused of something she was innocent of.

Greg pointed to a door. “Martinez, take Mrs. Devlin into the bathroom there and search her, please.”

After the women left, Greg searched Winter, giving them a chance to catch up.

“We'll bring your bags to you,” Greg told Mrs. Devlin when she returned.

“I'd appreciate that.”

“Go right down the hallway, Mrs. Devlin. Your husband is behind the second door on the left. Martinez will be staying across the hall from you. If you need anything, just ask. You don't leave the house without an escort. You will be served meals in the dining room or in your room. Snacks, drinks anytime. We can go over the house rules later. Questions?”

Wordlessly, Mrs. Devlin turned. She hesitated at the door Greg had indicated, perhaps to compose herself before she entered the room.

The marshals walked through the arch and into an open living room.

“Who owns this place?” Martinez asked, looking around. The majority of the paintings were nautical in nature, depicting sailing ships firing cannons or caught in fierce storms. The furnishings looked expensive. The house had the feeling of being someone's home.

Greg said, “Welcome to Rook Island. Four hundred yards at its widest, a mite over a quarter mile long. House is eight thousand square feet of hand-built space, engineered to withstand a hurricane. The Navy maintains it as a vacation retreat for admirals, commanders, congressmen, and senators who have some impact on military appropriations. I'd doubt the whole shooting match cost much more than a Tomahawk missile.”

“What's the story on the package?” Winter asked as Greg led them through to the formal dining room. Greg set the suitcases on a gleaming table beneath a brass chandelier.

“He's a very big deal. Dylan Devlin is the latest mobster to turn state's evidence. His testimony can hang Sam Manelli.”

Winter whistled, impressed. “I heard Manelli was arrested on conspiracy to commit murder. But they've had that old razorback by the ear before and he's pulled away. I lived in New Orleans years ago. Manelli's an icon. He doesn't get physically close to anything illegal, never writes anything down, never makes a comment where it can be heard. He owns judges, senators, congressmen, local politicos, and cops. The newspaper did a poll years ago, and the majority of the population thought Manelli kept street crime down. His philanthropic gestures are continuously played up by the politicians who take his money. Only in a place as unconventional as New Orleans would Sam Manelli be a pop hero.”

Greg nodded, his face serious. “He's never spent a day in jail, because no witness has ever testified against him. Our Mr. Devlin flipped on Manelli after he performed a dozen hits for him. So Devlin's a much bigger deal to the Justice Department than Sammy the Bull ever was. He's a bit bruised up from a car crash.”

Something clicked in Winter's mind. “Wait, was he the guy who got rammed and had the two stiffs shoot out of his trunk in New Orleans a couple weeks back?”

“That's him,” Greg said.

“I missed the connection to Manelli,” Winter said.

“Because nobody made one. That connection is a well-guarded secret. I was told in no uncertain terms that we do not discuss Mr. Devlin's career as Sam Manelli's hired killer or ask him about anything he's done.”

“Ours is not to question why,” Martinez said.

Greg was searching Martinez's suitcase. Martinez opened Mrs. Devlin's luggage and carefully ran her hands through it, feeling for any hidden contraband.

“Anything interesting?” Greg asked her.

Martinez twisted the suitcase so the open top obstructed Greg's view. “That's none of your business, Inspector Nations, sir.”

“In my time I've seen it all. Feminine hygiene products, vibrators of every configuration and power level, diaphragms,
Hot Rod Mama In Leather
magazines. I could tell you stories that would curl your toes, Martinez.”

“Save it,” Martinez said. “You don't want to get me all excited when none of the men around here are my type.”

“What type is that?”

“Sane.”

Greg unzipped Winter's duffel, then pulled out a picture of Rush and Nemo. “I can't get over how much he has grown in a year.”

Martinez looked over at the picture. “That a Seeing-Eye harness on his dog?”