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.”
51
Atlanta, Georgia
Sam Manelli had an hour before the guard came to pick up the cell phone he smuggled into Sam each night after midnight. Sam slipped it from under his pillow and dialed Johnny Russo, who would be waiting for the call. If the numbers on the bill were traced someday, who could prove who was at the pay phone, who had made the call? Sam smiled at the thought of Johnny standing by a pay phone outside a rural grocery store in Fantee, Louisiana, in his fancy suit, fighting off hungry mosquitoes.
“It's me,” Sam grunted. “What did the dentist say?”
“He pulled the tooth,” Russo answered, promptly. “X-ray pictures be at your guy's office in the morning so he can check them. You want the guy to bring the X-rays so you can see, too?”
“Of course not.”
“You be leaving there soon, I believe,” Johnny said.
“So, if I'm still here, I'll call same time tomorrow.”
Sam ended the call and pondered the information.
He was delighted that Devlin was dead and that the proof, by way of pictures of the corpses, was going to put his mind at ease. It had been expensive, but money well spent. He just couldn't believe that Johnny would even suggest that Bertran bring the pictures of a corpse to him in jail-he knew that Bertran would have refused. As much as he would have loved to see them, it was a stupid suggestion.
Sometimes he wondered about Johnny. In order for him to make it, he was going to have to think clearer and let his emotional side take a backseat to his business mind.
The simple fact was that times had changed, making crime on the scale Sam had known it almost impossible.
Sam had done his best to pass his understanding of business on to Johnny, he couldn't help but wonder sometimes if he had put his money on the wrong horse. Perhaps his fondness for Johnny's father, and now Johnny, had clouded his own judgment.
He was resolved to the fact that he had done his best and ultimately couldn't control what Johnny did or didn't do. All he had wanted to do was finish this one bit of business with Devlin and live the rest of his days running his legitimate businesses.
Sam lay back on the cot, closed his eyes, and thought about better times.
52
Washington, D.C.
Fred Archer rubbed his eyes, afraid he might fall asleep at the wheel. He hadn't had more than a catnap in the last forty hours, and now it was closing on midnight. He figured he could sleep at least five hours.
Upon arriving back in D.C. from Ward Field that afternoon, he had met with his director and the attorney general. The director had told the A.G. that he had every confidence Archer would get the Rook-Ward murders solved in a matter of days-that Archer was the only man who could get the evidence to charge Sam Manelli with new counts of conspiracy to commit murder. The attorney general had stressed the importance of putting it to bed immediately and insuring that Manelli's impending release was a very short one. Although neither his director nor the A.G. had said so, the meeting's purpose was to let Archer know that either he would accomplish their goal with all due haste or he would find himself in some dismal place like the Fargo office, wearing heated socks to discourage frostbite.
The long absences from his family, which Fred's job demanded, had taken the standard toll on his personal life. His wife, his three children, and even his dog had become strangers a long time before Fred's wife finally filed for divorce. In the first months after the divorce Fred had made an effort to visit his children, but they seemed to like it better when he didn't. Fred had stopped visiting altogether, which allowed him to work even longer hours than before-without the guilt his wife had always heaped on him.
He parked his Bucar, a silver Crown Victoria, a block from the brownstone where he rented a shabby studio apartment in the rear of the main house over a narrow garage. He parked in a loading zone-not caring if he got a citation this time.
He unlocked the gate and walked along the side of the house, his soles scratching the cement driveway. As he slid the key into the door to his apartment he heard the click of a cigarette lighter behind him. He had his hand on his duty weapon before he recognized the man whose face was illuminated by the flame. “Jesus, Fifteen!”
Half of the man's face was deeply burned. The man he knew only as Fifteen was a shadowy member of the espionage community. Fifteen was in his late forties and always dressed in loose-fitting outfits, which Archer figured covered a badly scarred body. He wore cotton gloves, an obvious wig, had a single eyebrow, and his nose looked as though it had been created by unskilled surgeons.
“Jumpy from the long hours?” Only half of his mouth moved when he spoke.
“Come in,” Archer said, cheerily.
Archer had first met Fifteen only after a dozen phone calls over a three-year span. He had given Archer golden evidence, which had allowed Fred to break eight high-profile cases, making him look like a brilliant investigator. It was after they had established a relationship that Archer had finally met the burned man. The fruits of their relationship had taken Archer from being an obscure agent in Seattle to a position on his director's speed dial and a coveted office in the Hoover Building. Archer carried a blue ID, which held a top secret access number, the same one as those given to deputy directors.
Fred was excited that Fifteen was carrying a nine-by-twelve manila envelope and suppressed an urge to snatch it away. For the sake of ceremony, Fred went straight to his kitchenette and poured two fingers of Glenlivet in two glasses, added ice, and, after putting in a drinking straw, set that glass of scotch on the coffee table before his guest. The good half of Fifteen's face smiled. “Thank you, Fred.”
Fred sat down in the chair opposite and tried his best to ignore the envelope in Fifteen's lap.
“Fred,” Fifteen said after he had taken a pensive sip of his scotch, “I have in my possession something I
