“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.
8
Rook Island, North Carolina
Sean left the bathroom feeling violated. She couldn't look the young deputy who had strip searched her in the eyes. She had persisted in trying to find out what the hell was going on-where Dylan was and why she was being held against her will. If she heard: Ma'am, your husband is fine. You'll be seeing him very soon. I wish I could tell you more. He will explain everything when you see him one more time, she'd lose her mind.
After Inspector Nations directed her to Dylan's room, she had to fight the urge to run weeping to him.
Now she was close to seeing Dylan, to understanding what this was all about. She paused at the door and took a deep breath to compose herself before she tapped at it.
Her heart leaped when she heard his voice call out, “If you ain't my young, brilliant, beautiful wife, don't you dare come through that door!”
Sean smiled and opened the door. Dylan was propped up against a stack of pillows on the bed, wearing a blue robe. She saw crutches leaning against the wall, bandages around his chest where the robe fell open. She rushed to his open arms and hugged him, careful not to hurt him by squeezing too hard.
Their kiss was wonderful; she drank in the scent of him, the familiar touch, which erased the memory of being humiliated by the search two minutes earlier. Dylan broke the kiss and held her face in his hands as he studied her, his million-dollar smile warming her heart.
He drew her in and kissed her again and now she felt the familiar hunger in his kiss. She knew where this was leading.
“Close the door,” he whispered urgently. “Lock it.”
“Dylan, first tell me what the hell is going on. I was grabbed at the airport and nobody will tell me anything. What in God's name has happened? What do they think you did? Why are we here?”
He held her close and kissed her gently. “It's very simple, kitten. We are together again. You go over there and throw that lock and come back here and I'm going to let you-”
“Tell me first.”
He kissed her cheeks, her nose, and gently nibbled her lips. “And come get into this bed and…”
God, after spending a day surrounded by grim-faced marshals, it was comforting being with him. “Please, Dylan.” Her pent-up fear and resolve to know what had happened was dissipating. “Dylan.” She felt herself sliding into a warm place as his familiar hands moved over her body. “You don't understand what I've been…”
He pressed a fingertip to her lips. “Please, Sean. Let's not spoil this with words.”
“But I…”
He put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Lock that door and come back here and I will tell you absolutely everything. Word of honor.. after we say hello.”
9
Leaving Mrs. Devlin's things in the dining room, the marshals passed the security room and the closed door to the Devlins' room. Greg showed Martinez the front suite of three rooms, their windows facing the ocean. The
