Inside Out

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 amp; 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?”

“Yes,” Winter said.

Greg put the picture back in the duffel. “Martinez, take everything out of her bags and inspect the linings. Make sure every stitch is factory and feel for any differences under the lining anyway.”

He opened Mrs. Devlin's briefcase and lifted out her Apple laptop computer. “What have we here?” He turned it on and waited until it had booted up. He selected a document, opened it, and started to read. “Little woman writes poems. Proves my point. Poetry's a fantasy thing, right, Winter? Bet Mrs. Devlin's a real firebrand.”

“Is the poem any good?” Martinez asked.

“Poetry is personal. Like a diary,” Winter said.

“Here I was assuming that all a stone killer's wife thought about was if her detergent will get those stubborn bloodstains out of his white shirts,” Greg said.

“You think she knew?” Martinez wondered. “You think he told her? She doesn't seem like a killer's-wife type.”

“They never tell their wives,” Greg replied. “I never knew a criminal's wife who knew shit. Like getting fur coats delivered at two in the morning from the trunk of a car is just the way people shop. ‘Aw, babe, do you gotta hang that dead guy upside down in the shower? Can't you take him outside and drain him in the backyard?'”

Greg shut down the computer, removed the battery and peered inside the cavity. Satisfied, he put the laptop aside and searched the other articles in the briefcase. He opened each of the pens and pressed his fingertips over every inch of the case's interior lining. Then he went through Martinez's Samsonite suitcase equally as carefully. “Aw, Angela, what a boring suitcase. Not so much as a vibrator.”

“Not on a deputy marshal's salary. Batteries are expensive,” she said flatly.