was bandaged.
As soon as Winter got a close look at the killer, he was sure that Dylan's smile, carrot-colored hair, and pale green eyes made him seem harmless to his victims until it was way too late. Dylan Devlin looked about as dangerous as a week-old puppy. Mrs. Devlin had changed into something casual. She didn't look directly at the deputies, keeping her eyes fixed on the bedspread. She didn't seem exactly displeased that the marshals had interrupted them, but their presence seemingly held no interest for her.
“This is the first face-to-face we've had in eighteen days. Lots to catch up on,” Devlin told them.
“I can imagine,” Greg replied. “I wanted to take a second to introduce you to the new additions to the detail, Deputies Massey and Martinez.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” Dylan said, “and welcome aboard.”
He focused on each deputy in turn.
“We'll let you and Mrs. Devlin get back to your discussion,” Greg said.
“Call her Sean. My wife is far too young and lovely to be referred to as
Mrs.
And, please, call me Dylan. I insist.”
Sean Devlin nodded absently. She turned her gaze for the first time and met Winter's eyes for a fleeting moment, her honey-colored eyes communicating nothing at all.
Party's over, lady,
Winter thought.
And here's the bill.
After they left the Devlins' bedroom and were back in the living room Greg turned once more to Winter and Martinez. “Always keep in mind that Dylan Devlin is a professional—a psychopath who can listen to Mozart while dismembering a body in a bathtub and eating potato chips. A badly sprained ankle and some busted ribs have slowed him down, but he'll be mobile soon enough. There's always a possibility he might decide that life on the run is preferable to showing up in court and exposing himself to the possibility that another stone killer like himself will take him out.”
“So Mrs. Devlin is here as an anchor,” Winter said.
Greg shrugged. “The A.G. wants him to be content.”
“Ain't domestic bliss wonderful,” Martinez said.
Winter realized suddenly what being in Devlin's room reminded him of. The reptile house at the Audubon Zoo.
12
There was very little talk during dinner, because the food was too good. Jet ladled rich, dark gumbo into deep bowls half-filled with steamed rice. There were loaves of broiled-to-a-crunch French bread, the center wet with garlic butter, and a salad that had a distinctive citrus twang. Compliments flew from the deputies.
A large black cat rubbed against Winter's leg. It peered up at him with fluid golden eyes and tilted his head, requesting a crumb from the table.
“Midnight!” Jet roared as she swooped up the animal in a well-practiced motion. “Let these people eat in peace.”
She crossed the room and thrust the feline out the back door. The cat stood on the porch and stared in through the screen. “That cat's always messin' with something. Midnight's not much company, but some's better than none. I could say the same thing about my last husband,” Jet added.
After the meal was over, Greg helped Jet clear the plates. Then he sat back down and got serious. “What we do here is about prevention, about keeping someone safe from being a target. That's WITSEC. Winter here is accustomed to staying in motion, handing out summonses, escorting prisoners hither and yon, and hunting down fugitives. Two different worlds.”
“I hope you don't get bored, Winter,” Forsythe said, a sharpness to his voice.
“I'm sure I won't find this boring.”
“Tampa.” Dixon shook his head. “Most thrilling fifteen seconds ever filmed. Three methed-up hit men firing Uzis. And—”
“Look,” Winter interrupted. “Tampa was a long time ago. I'd really rather—”
“Want to know all there is to know about Winter?” Greg cut in. “No better friend and no worse enemy. What more does any of us here need to know?”
Jet passed them, carrying a bowl through the swinging door into the
As soon as Winter got a close look at the killer, he was sure that Dylan's smile, carrot-colored hair, and pale green eyes made him seem harmless to his victims until it was way too late. Dylan Devlin looked about as dangerous as a week-old puppy. Mrs. Devlin had changed into something casual. She didn't look directly at the deputies, keeping her eyes fixed on the bedspread. She didn't seem exactly displeased that the marshals had interrupted them, but their presence seemingly held no interest for her.
“This is the first face-to-face we've had in eighteen days. Lots to catch up on,” Devlin told them.
“I can imagine,” Greg replied. “I wanted to take a second to introduce you to the new additions to the detail, Deputies Massey and Martinez.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” Dylan said, “and welcome aboard.”
He focused on each deputy in turn.
“We'll let you and Mrs. Devlin get back to your discussion,” Greg said.
“Call her Sean. My wife is far too young and lovely to be referred to as
Mrs.
And, please, call me Dylan. I insist.”
Sean Devlin nodded absently. She turned her gaze for the first time and met Winter's eyes for a fleeting moment, her honey-colored eyes communicating nothing at all.
Party's over, lady,
Winter thought.
And here's the bill.
After they left the Devlins' bedroom and were back in the living room Greg turned once more to Winter and Martinez. “Always keep in mind that Dylan Devlin is a professional—a psychopath who can listen to Mozart while dismembering a body in a bathtub and eating potato chips. A badly sprained ankle and some busted ribs have slowed him down, but he'll be mobile soon enough. There's always a possibility he might decide that life on the run is preferable to showing up in court and exposing himself to the possibility that another stone killer like himself will take him out.”
“So Mrs. Devlin is here as an anchor,” Winter said.
Greg shrugged. “The A.G. wants him to be content.”
“Ain't domestic bliss wonderful,” Martinez said.
Winter realized suddenly what being in Devlin's room reminded him of. The reptile house at the Audubon Zoo.
12
There was very little talk during dinner, because the food was too good. Jet ladled rich, dark gumbo into deep bowls half-filled with steamed rice. There were loaves of broiled-to-a-crunch French bread, the center wet with garlic butter, and a salad that had a distinctive citrus twang. Compliments flew from the deputies.
A large black cat rubbed against Winter's leg. It peered up at him with fluid golden eyes and tilted his head, requesting a crumb from the table.
“Midnight!” Jet roared as she swooped up the animal in a well-practiced motion. “Let these people eat in peace.”
She crossed the room and thrust the feline out the back door. The cat stood on the porch and stared in through the screen. “That cat's always messin' with something. Midnight's not much company, but some's better than none. I could say the same thing about my last husband,” Jet added.
After the meal was over, Greg helped Jet clear the plates. Then he sat back down and got serious. “What we do here is about prevention, about keeping someone safe from being a target. That's WITSEC. Winter here is accustomed to staying in motion, handing out summonses, escorting prisoners hither and yon, and hunting down fugitives. Two different worlds.”
“I hope you don't get bored, Winter,” Forsythe said, a sharpness to his voice.
“I'm sure I won't find this boring.”
“Tampa.” Dixon shook his head. “Most thrilling fifteen seconds ever filmed. Three methed-up hit men firing Uzis. And—”
“Look,” Winter interrupted. “Tampa was a long time ago. I'd really rather—”
“Want to know all there is to know about Winter?” Greg cut in. “No better friend and no worse enemy. What more does any of us here need to know?”
Jet passed them, carrying a bowl through the swinging door into the
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