John Miller - Inside Out

…”

“I'll say I haven't seen Sean Marks in five years. I'll just date today's signature on the card for a week after you rented the box. I'm a banker, but I've always been terrible with numbers. Don't be a stranger, okay? We care about you.”

“Thank you, Paul. You can't imagine how much your friendship means to me.”

What was life without friends, family? Without those connections strengthened by shared experience, life became mere survival. She was abruptly conscious of the weight of the pistol in her jacket pocket, a heavy reminder of the fact that she would never again be the girl Paul Gillman once knew.

Wire Dog jerked awake when she opened the cab door. Sean had called him for a number of reasons. He was a perfect addition to her disguise, and she didn't want to have her face seen by other cabdrivers. Wire Dog didn't strike her as someone connected to illegal activities-a real consideration when it came to cabbies. Every dark enterprise inevitably had some connecting point to organized crime, to the network Sam Manelli manipulated from his nest in New Orleans.

When Wire Dog pulled up outside the Hotel Grand, Sean handed him the fare with a ten dollar tip added, despite his unconvincing protest that it was excessive.

“I'm glad you called,” he told her. “You wouldn't want to go hear some music sometime, would you?”

“Too much work to do,” she said.

“Work your fingers to the bone, and know what you get?” he asked.

“No.”

“Bony fingers.”

She laughed.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Johnny Russo took a handful of quarters from his pocket and poured them onto the steel shelf inside one of the few remaining phone booths in America with a door, or so it seemed. At the curb, Spiro stood leaning against the Lincoln's grill, his massive arms crossed over his chest.

Reading from a business card he held against the closed wallet in his hand, Johnny dropped a quarter in the slot and punched in the penciled phone number. He was phoning the Kurtz of Kurtz, Walker, Koinberg, Rustin, Winklin amp; Associates, Sam Manelli's high-profile criminal attorney.

Johnny Russo deposited the number of coins required for the first three minutes. He hoped he could be done in two. He really hated lawyers, and Kurtz, famous or not, was a strutting fag-or would be, given half a chance.

The phone was answered immediately. “Kurtz,” the lawyer said. The sound of dinnerware and conversations placed the attorney in a restaurant.

“It's Johnny.”

“Johnny?”

“Sam's guy.”

“Sam's guy?”

Johnny raised his voice slightly. “Sam from New Orleans.” He wondered why the lawyer wanted to act as though he had fifty more important Sams to sort through before he arrived at Sam Manelli, a mobster who'd bought the fancy-ass meal the fag and his pals were eating.

“I'm in the middle of something,” Kurtz said pompously. “Is this important?”

“Would I be calling you to see what you're eating for dinner? I got some important hypothetical questions.”

“Shoot.” Kurtz sounded a little impatient, a tone he would never use with Sam, Johnny knew.

“Suppose somebody's lawyer dropped dead-choked on a candy bar or something. Say that by some chance, in this hypothetical scenario, the lawyer had in his possession, at the time of his death, pictures that were proof that the witness against his client was killed in a plane crash with marshals and one prosecutor, say from a New Orleans federal district. Hypothetically speaking.”

Kurtz was silent for a few seconds. Johnny was sure the lawyer had assumed the story was going to be a threat and was relieved it was another lawyer who was dead.

“There would be nothing to prove that this man's client ever saw them?”

“Not a shred.”

“Then if nothing physically linked this evidence to the dead man's client-only to the lawyer-it would more than likely be worthless in court.”

“With no witness left against his client, would that mean the case would be dropped or whatever?”

Johnny heard ice tinkle. “The case against this guy's client would be dropped and the defendant would be released as soon as the lawyers could get to the judge. With the right prodding from the right attorney, this theoretical defendant of yours would be released before the sun goes down tomorrow.”

“That was gonna be my next question,” Johnny said.

“What else could it be?” Kurtz said snottily.

The lawyer hung up, leaving Johnny Russo with a full minute still paid for.

“Ya puke. My next question coulda been ‘How long would it take me to have your head in a bucket?'” Russo gathered the scattered quarters and dropped them back in his pocket. He would have great news for Sam when he called at two A.M.

Concord, North Carolina

Winter didn't like to carry the heavy SIG Sauer in the shoulder rig unless he was on the job. Standing before his gun safe, Winter removed a compact semiautomatic. Eleanor's father had given Winter the World War II vintage 7.65 Walther PP as a gift when he had graduated from Glynco. He had purchased it from a dealer who specialized in collectable weapons. It was lightweight, lethal, and accurate enough at combat distances. He only had one seven-shot magazine for it, but it was comfortable to carry in his pocket. He lifted out the box of ammunition and fed the magazine, reassured by the stiffness in the hidden spring. The flying eagle and swastika on the pristine piece identified it as a German officer's weapon, which had received light use during World War II.

Since he had left Rush, he'd been thinking about Greg and what Hank had told him. He had also found himself thinking about Sean Devlin. He suppressed a cloud of guilt for thinking of another woman while he was in the bedroom he had shared with his late wife, even though he knew Eleanor wouldn't mind. God, he would give anything for Sean to pop up to collect the meal she'd mentioned. Given the danger he feared she was in, he knew the possibility wasn't likely.

The other person who had recently mentioned having a drink with him someday-Fletcher Reed-reminded Winter of something he wanted to ask the lieutenant commander. He dialed information and called the shore patrol office at the Cherry Point base. A woman told Winter that Reed had returned to the Norfolk Naval Base, where he was stationed, and gave Winter the phone number. When he called it, a security officer asked for Winter's number and said he would notify Reed and have him return the call.

It took less than ten minutes for the phone to ring. Before the caller spoke, Winter clearly heard vehicles in the background.

“Got your message,” Reed said flatly.

“You get shipped out, or what?”

“I was on temporary duty at Cherry Point evaluating the patrolmen. Now I'm ass deep in petty crap and paper. It's the Navy. What can I say?”

“I need your help with something.”

“You need my help?” He laughed. “Unless you spotted a drunken sailor spoiling for a fight, I doubt I can offer much assistance.”

“Hear me out?”

“I'm listening.” Winter heard a lighter and imagined a cigar in Reed's mouth.

“What do you know about our flight that went in Thursday night at Ward Field?”

“I just heard it crashed,” Reed said. “Catastrophic failure or something, botched emergency landing. You said Ward Field?”

“Abandoned military base inland. What I am going to tell you is classified.”

Reed chortled. “Of course it is.”

“It needs to stay strictly between us.”

“Cross my heart.”

“You know anything about two bodies found Thursday night at Cherry Point?”

“The FBI was already on it by the time I got back. I haven't heard any more about it.”