“Let me see what I can do. You have there Sam Manelli's connection to the killers-picture-perfect proof that he hired them to do what they did. His Russian pals made them available to him and that evidence will be forthcoming”
“The A.G. expects me to close this yesterday,” Archer said, belaboring the irony of the statement.
“No problem.” Fifteen reached into his jacket and handed Archer a folded search warrant. “Judge Paul Horn issued this. Have a team of FBI agents in New Orleans serve it. It will yield proof that the killers were working for Manelli.”
“Enough to convict him?”
“Enough proof for the world, if not enough to actually convict him. That, you and I will take care of shortly.”
“I don't know what to say,” Archer replied, as he read the warrant.
“One hand washes the other, Fred. Is there anything else?”
“Just one more thing. We have to figure out how Manelli's hitters found out where Devlin was. I'm sure there was someone on the inside of WITSEC, probably inside the detail.”
“Obviously, there was an inside person,” Fifteen told Archer. “Someone in WITSEC got the intelligence out. You'll need proof of that. So, of all the likely candidates, whom do you most suspect?”
“The supervising deputy, WITSEC inspector Gregory Nations, is the most logical.”
“Let me see what I can scrounge up. If he was linked to Sam Manelli, I will get you evidence of it, financial records of payoffs for motive-he had ample opportunity. Is Sunday night soon enough?”
“Of course,” Fred said, his excitement barely under control.
“In return for assisting you in putting this disaster to bed, I may need a few small favors from you… when the time is right.”
“What sort of favors?”
“Nothing at all, really. In order to help you effectively, I need to stay involved.”
“Involved?”
“You'll need to keep me in your loop.”
Archer was taken aback. Fifteen had never requested such a thing and if Archer was caught at it, he would be dead in the water. This changed the face of their relationship to what was technically espionage. “Well,” Archer said, swallowing hard. “I don't know how I can do that.”
Fifteen reached down and picked up the envelope and its contents. “If you can't, I'll understand, Fred. But of course, someone else might end up with the case who does know. I'm sure you can function just as well in the future without my help. It's your decision.”
It was a decision Fred Archer had no trouble making.
53
Washington, D.C.
Saturday
Sean awoke at eight A.M. without receiving the wake-up call she had requested for seven-thirty. Based on what she had seen of the place, she had no trouble believing that the management hoped she would sleep past the ten A.M. checkout time so they could charge her for a second night. The room stank of stale smoke, the carpeting was stained and the curtains frayed. As far as she could tell, the sheets were clean.
She showered under a weak stream of lukewarm water with a minuscule bar of soap and dried herself with a thin towel hardly larger than the washcloth. She rinsed her mouth with tap water and used her fingertip to clean her teeth. She studied the dark bruise on her lip as she ran her fingers through her wet hair.
Now able to think with a clear head, she felt relieved her life was back under her control. She started a mental list of the things she needed to accomplish in the next few hours.
She slipped into her stale clothes, opened the telephone book, and looked for the places most likely to help her with her next step. She found a likely candidate, memorized the address, pulled on her leather coat, slipped her purse into her briefcase, and left. She had eluded the marshals and, at least for the moment, she had what mattered most-her life. Now all she had to do was keep it. She asked the desk clerk to call her a cab.
The sign on the building read, URBAN WARFARE. Below those words, smaller print added, FASHIONS FOR THE BATTLE OF LIFE. Sean studied the mannequins in the windows and decided that they looked as though they had been brought in off an active battlefield. She felt exhilarated as she contemplated the leather and the T-shirts brandishing insults intended to pass for social statements. Satisfied she would find what she was looking for, she walked inside.
The saleswoman peered at her from behind a glass counter. She had luminous white skin, jet-black clothes to match her hair and lipstick, and an extremely large hoop that seemed to run through her septum. Her hair looked like it belonged on a doll found in a landfill. She was wearing dark-framed reading glasses.
“Yeah?” When the woman spoke, a stud in her tongue sparkled.
“I need a new wardrobe.”
“No offense, but you're more the Junior League type. My stuff is a bit more cutting-edge, don't you think?” The clerk's raspy voice sounded like it had been tuned by twenty years of cigarette smoke and liquor.
“I need a change.”
“You think I don't know who you are?”
Sean was stunned. She had assumed it was too soon for Manelli's network to be looking for her.
The woman came from around the counter. “Judging by the lip, you gotta change your look and then run like hell.”
The clerk had her pegged for a battered wife on the run. Perfect.
“What appeals to you?”
Sean looked at the tag on a pair of jeans. “You take Visa, MasterCard?”
“I have to take plastic, but I hate the shit. Costs me three points. I always prefer cash.”
“These clothes are sort of expensive.”
“Quality costs. Some of these are originals. I get famous people in here, you know. Johnny Depp shops here-anyway, he did once. I got an autographed picture he sent me around here somewhere. People are funny. Something's cheap, they stick up their noses, if it's real expensive they'll stick up a bank to get it. My name's Hoover. I own the place.” She glanced at Sean's wrist. “Nice watch. Could I see it?”
Sean promptly removed the watch and handed it over.
Hoover studied the watch. “Real?”
“A gift from my husband.”
“Fakes are so good now. This one's real, it goes for what, four grand?”
“Twelve,” Sean said coolly.
“How do you know it's not a copy? Guy who hits you, sweet pea, could be a liar, too.”
“I had the band shortened myself at Cartier and it's been on my wrist ever since. If it was a fake, they'd have told me.”
Hoover raised her brows. “Tell you what. Let's get you outfitted up and we'll discuss payment options.”
Sean fixed her eyes on Hoover's. “Here's the deal. I need a few changes of clothes, the trimmings, something to carry them in, hair and makeup to fit.”
“Sergio next door is a great hairdresser.” Hoover extended her arms out, cocked her hip in a pose that reminded Sean of a model on a revolving stage posing in front of a new automobile. “He does mine.”
“Perfect.”
Hoover studied Sean carefully, then she nodded. “Let's get started, angel. We'll stick to basic black. You got a great body for my clothes.”
Sean had no problem with black. She was, after all, a widow.
Sean only knew that she was the person staring back at her from the mirror because she had been in on the transformation process. Two hours had passed since she entered the store. Now Hoover and Sergio stood at the counter evaluating their creation.
“You look eighteen!” Sergio cried. “Could be my best work.”
“Yep, a true work of art, sweetie. Now, get the hell out.” Hoover waved a hand in the air, dismissing him. “We'll settle later.”
Sergio blew them a kiss from the front door and was gone.
Hoover folded the clothes they had chosen into a new nylon duffel bag. Sean put her computer and her purse into a small backpack and set her empty leather briefcase on the counter. “My financial situation is this: What cash I have, I'll need for my relocation.”