Inside

17

Rick sat in his car on the shoulder of Interstate 5 near the Sacramento airport. Farmland stretched for miles on either side, but he could see the cityscape in the distance with its handful of high rises. It probably wasn’t safe to remain where he was, not with the Monday morning commuters whizzing past, but he wasn’t in the mood to return home or go to work. He’d gone home after he got off the plane, but fled the house when he and Mercedes got into a fight. From there, he’d driven almost to Redding before turning around. And now this. He’d just received a call from a detective in Colorado who said he’d been assigned to a shooting. The victim of that shooting, a corrections officer from ADX by the name of Eddie Glover, wanted to speak with him.

The conversation hadn’t been easy to understand, which was why Rick had pulled over—so he could concentrate without having to worry about navigating. Glover had been shot in the chest an hour ago. The bullet had punctured his lung, but he’d managed to use his cell phone to call for help. Now he was in a hospital, ready to be sedated for surgery, but he’d refused to let the doctors treat him until he spoke to Rick.

How Glover knew him, Rick couldn’t figure out, until the detective put him on the line. Then Glover had mumbled that someone named Thompson and The Crew had found out Virgil was working for the CDCR.

Why Skinner had confided in Glover, Rick didn’t know. Glover couldn’t say much so he didn’t ask him. It didn’t matter, anyway. What did matter was that the whole operation had been compromised.

What the hell was he going to do? Twisting the rearview mirror so he could look into his own eyes, Rick glared at himself. He’d had such big plans for this investigation, such high expectations.

Hard to believe it was over before it had even begun….

Or was it? Did he have to pull Skinner and turn him back over to the feds?

It wasn’t hard to guess what Peyton would say. She’d never liked the idea of putting Skinner in Pelican Bay, had harped on about the danger from the first. She’d think this latest news was the proverbial last straw. But Rick wasn’t so sure. Just because The Crew realized Virgil was working for the department didn’t mean they knew he was going to Pelican Bay. Rick had asked Glover that exact question several times.

Did you mention Pelican Bay?

A rattle, a gasp and then, “No.”

You’re sure? Mr. Glover, you’re sure?

Another gasp. “Yes.”

A man who’d gone to that much trouble to reach him wouldn’t get the answer to such an important question wrong.

The detective who came on the phone after had explained a bit more fully. He’d said that from the moment he reached Glover, Glover had been trying to tell him that The Crew knew Virgil was doing some informant work in California. He claimed he hadn’t mentioned where, that he’d convinced the men who’d shot him that he didn’t know, which was why they’d pulled the trigger. They were frustrated about not getting more.

The detective also told him that Glover insisted The Crew had a very strong network in California, and that it wouldn’t take them long to track Virgil down, but Rick wasn’t confident of that. Virgil wasn’t using his real name. And there were a lot of prisons in California. It could take The Crew a long time to find their buddy. Perhaps they’d never find him. It wasn’t as if they were well-educated or sophisticated. They were a bunch of two-bit losers who’d rape their own mothers for a six-pack of beer.

So why panic? He didn’t want to give up too soon. There’d been an element of risk involved in this investigation from the beginning, and everyone understood that. As far as Rick was concerned, the level of risk hadn’t changed all that much. Skinner could handle himself. He wouldn’t get hurt. Cons like him, they were survivors.

And if Skinner did get hurt…well, Rick couldn’t say he’d be too upset. Not after Peyton’s call.

I’ve had an inappropriate relationship with him….

Does inappropriate mean what I think it means?

Yes.

Just the thought of the two of them together made him shake his head in disbelief. Where did Virgil get off thinking he could show up with all his tats and prison swagger and jump into bed with the woman Rick had been dreaming about for months? Virgil was a lowlife. Rick couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to overcome Peyton’s resistance. There had to be something about him, something she liked. She’d never shown any interest in Rick.

But she might have. If he wasn’t married…

Leaning back against the headrest, he thought about the promises he’d given his wife to get counseling. After the argument this morning, which had nearly turned to blows, he knew that was never going to work. Not in a million years. It was too late. He didn’t dream about Mercedes anymore. He didn’t think of her at all, at least not when he was away from her. And if they made love? She became Peyton….

Maybe he’d needed a shocking event like this to wake him up and make him realize his marriage was over. If not for Mercedes, he could move on and be with someone who did turn him on, someone like Peyton.

The flash of lights reflecting off his mirror startled him. Sitting up, he checked to see where those lights were coming from and found a black-and-white tucked behind his vehicle. A highway patrolman was running his license plate. A few seconds later, he used a loudspeaker to ask Rick to get out of the car.

Feeling a little self-conscious about his appearance, Rick located his driver’s license and registration and stepped outside. He’d thrown on some sweats when he stormed out of the house and hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. That plus having minimal sleep in the past twenty-four hours, and he knew he looked like hell.

“Why are you here?” the officer demanded.

Had Rick been wearing his suit, ready for the day, he might’ve played on his position within the CDCR. But, as it was, he didn’t want to mention where he worked, so he simply handed over his license. “Drowsy driving kills, right? I was sleepy so I pulled over.”

“You been drinking?”

God, he must look worse than he’d thought. “At nine o’clock on a Monday morning? Do I act like I’m drunk? Do you smell alcohol?”

Apparently his irritation was convincing because the cop didn’t ask for a sobriety test. He angled his head to peer inside the car and, when he didn’t spot anything suspicious, said, “This isn’t a good place to rest, Mr. Wallace. The cars that come past here are going too fast. One swerve and it could all be over.”

So it was safer having him get out of the car to stand on the shoulder?

“I suggest you pull off at the next exit.” He studied Rick’s license. “You only live five or ten minutes away.”

Rick’s proximity to the airport and his comment about being too tired to drive had obviously led the officer to believe he’d been traveling all night. “I didn’t say I was from out of town. I said I was tired. I was resting my eyes for a few seconds, that’s all.”

“Right. I see that all the time.”

Rick didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but said nothing as the officer returned his license.

“Tired or not, like I said, this isn’t an appropriate place to stop. You’d better move on.”

Or he’d cite him for endangering other motorists or some such infraction. Rick was sure the cop could come up with a reason if he really wanted to. “Will do.”

The crunch of the patrolman’s boots receded as he walked to his car. Then a semi passed, blasting them both with damp, cold air. “What a crappy day,” Rick grumbled, but he got in and started the engine, clicked on his turn signal and merged into traffic at the first opportunity. There was no reason to linger. He’d already made his decision.

He wouldn’t dismantle the investigation.

He wouldn’t tell Peyton about Eddie Glover, either.

It was a hell of a night. Peyton tossed and turned, drifted into unfriendly dreams and startled into wakefulness again and again. And when it was time to get up, a hot shower couldn’t ease the tension that’d ruined her sleep. She stood beneath the spray longer than she should have, allowing her mind to wander back to her last encounter with Virgil at the motel.

She had such mixed emotions about that incident, and him. He’d been more forceful than anyone she’d ever been with, but she’d encouraged his aggression. The thrill of being able to evoke such a visceral response in a man who thought he was too jaded to need anyone had been very stimulating.

So she wasn’t upset about the sex. It was his rejection afterward.

But what did she expect from him? She hoped to marry someday and start a family, but a man in Virgil’s situation wasn’t husband material, especially for a chief deputy warden.

Virgil wasn’t her only concern. Her confession to Rick Wallace weighed just as heavy. Now that she had some distance on it and wasn’t quite as desperate to drive a permanent wedge between her and Virgil, she felt remorse for telling him what she had. But if she wanted to be different from the men she locked up, she needed to be honest. And the warden probably would’ve written her up or relieved her of duty, so…it could’ve been worse.

Based on your conduct I’m issuing you a letter of reprimand….

With such a large staff, all working in a high-stress environment, she’d signed her share of letters like that since becoming chief deputy. She might have to sign another one today. When she got out of the shower, she checked her day planner and realized that she had a meeting with Lieutenant McCalley of the Investigative Services Unit this morning. They were supposed to come to a decision regarding John’s conduct.

A glance at the clock told her she should quit dawdling and get ready.

She put on her suit and chose a pair of flats—her ankle wasn’t quite healed—but by then she was afraid she’d be late. If she was, it would be the first time since starting at Pelican Bay. Somehow meeting Virgil had thrown her whole world off-kilter….

She needed to get back in control. Besides her usual workload, she had to make arrangements for his arrival at the prison tomorrow.

After rushing through a cup of coffee and a bagel, she flew out the door in such a hurry she almost didn’t see the flower lying on her picnic table. As it was, she caught barely a glimpse of pink petals and was halfway down the stairs before realizing it didn’t belong. Turning back despite the pressure she felt to keep going, she crossed the deck and was soon staring down at a perfect long-stemmed rose.

Where could this have come from? she wondered. It wasn’t even summer. Someone had purchased it from a florist, a grocery store or maybe a gas station, and that person had brought it here. There weren’t any roses growing in the forest surrounding her house.

She looked over the railing to see if she could spot anyone leaving. But she appeared to be alone. Whoever had brought this had done so earlier.

She thought that was it—all she was going to find— until she noticed a white card that’d blown off the table. Hoping it would explain what the flower was for, she bent to retrieve it from the floor of the deck.

The sender hadn’t signed his name. But he didn’t need to. There were only two words written in a man’s blocky print: I’m sorry.

Peyton hadn’t been nervous about meeting with an inmate in years. She’d grown too accustomed to working in a prison for that. Even the most dangerous convicts typically treated her with respect. She got the impression the majority of the men liked her. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe they enjoyed seeing a woman dressed in something besides a uniform.

According to one study on the impact of females working in all-male prisons, the inmates behaved better when women were present. Women symbolized gentleness and caring, providing a counterbalance to the harsh realities of prison life. And that was how it’d worked since she’d come to Pelican Bay. To some degree she helped offset Warden Fischer’s hard-ass image. It was the “good cop, bad cop” routine, and it worked quite well. She gave the men hope that their difficulties, fears and complaints might reach a sympathetic ear. And often they did. She was certainly more sympathetic than Fischer.

But this was no normal meeting. She’d sent for Buzz Criven. She knew it would take a while for Sergeant Hostetler to bring him to the conference room she was using—unlike her office, it was inside the prison—but she couldn’t sit still while she waited. Lieutenant McCalley of the ISU had just left. After reviewing the medical report and the testimony of the men involved, as well as various witnesses, they’d arrived at a conclusion on the incident with Sergeant Hutchinson. She wasn’t looking forward to sharing that conclusion with anyone, least of all him. Based on what he’d said after dinner last night, she knew he didn’t feel he’d done anything wrong. But he’d overstepped his bounds and had to be disciplined, or she wouldn’t be doing her job.

She’d deal with that later, once she’d talked to Buzz. It was only eleven; she’d have time.

Getting to her feet, Peyton walked over to pour herself a fresh cup of coffee. She didn’t need any more caffeine, but holding the cup would keep her hands busy and camouflage her anxiety. The last thing she wanted was to let on—to Buzz or Sergeant Hostetler—that this interview was a test.

The knock, which came sooner than she’d expected, startled her. “Peyton?”

It wasn’t Buzz; it was the warden. Somehow, he’d tracked her down. “Come in,” she called.

Fischer stepped into the room. Careful to close the door behind him, he lowered his voice. “I wanted to confirm that everything’s going as planned for…Wallace’s project.”

Obviously he was being cautious in case anyone was within earshot.

“I’m still working on it,” she said. “But don’t worry. We’ll be ready.” Hopefully Buzz would be the right man. If not, she’d have to find someone else.

Pivoting, she returned to the head of the table. “Why, have you spoken to Wallace?”

“He called this morning to say he’s taken care of that other business he had to attend to. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

She hoped that nothing on her face revealed her personal interest in this situation. “Great. Glad to hear it,” she said, but as far as she was concerned, Wallace hadn’t taken care of that other business at all. A woman had been shot and killed. Trinity Woods was dead because he hadn’t taken Virgil’s warnings seriously enough—although she had to concede that maybe it wasn’t entirely fair to blame Wallace. The Crew had no reason to murder the babysitter. They’d done it to make a statement, which was taking the situation further than she’d expected it to go, too. She was just angry at Rick because she’d called him herself this morning, twice, and he hadn’t bothered to respond. He knew it would leave her worrying about what she’d revealed, yet he’d contacted Fischer instead.

Did that mean he was more upset with her than she thought? It was a pretty safe guess. But there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She considered telling the warden what she’d told Rick, but decided it was too late. Since she couldn’t convince the associate director to call off the investigation, it wouldn’t be wise to make any more of an issue of it. That would only leave Virgil friendless in an environment she could help him navigate.

For better or worse, she was suddenly committed to secrecy. And celibacy.

“There’s just one thing,” Fischer said.

Setting her cup on the table, she waited for the warden to continue.

“You haven’t said anything about this to anyone, have you?”

The gravity of his tone caused a trickle of fear. “You mean what we discussed at the library?”

“Yes.”

“Of course not, why?”

He thought for a minute, then shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“You think word of it has gotten out?”

“A couple of the C.O.s have mentioned that there’s added tension in gen pop. I’m wondering why.”

It could be anything; it didn’t have to be word that the CDCR was trying to infiltrate the Hells Fury. So why had Fischer’s mind gone in that direction? What wasn’t he saying? “That’s all you heard?”

“That’s it.” He shrugged. But he’d gone to the trouble of finding her to verify that she’d kept her mouth shut. He could’ve called her later, at her office. Was it because he wanted to see her face when she answered?

“Did you check with Frank Rosenburg and Joseph Perry?” she asked. “I did.”

“And?”

“They claim they haven’t breathed a word to anyone.”

Was that true? Shit! This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. “And you believe them?”

“Of course. Just like I believe you.”

She didn’t have the chance to say more. Sergeant Hostetler had arrived with Buzz.

Nodding a quick goodbye, Fischer opened the door for them and slipped out as they came in.

Peyton was tempted to tell Hostetler that she could handle the interview alone. She was interested in more than a few cursory answers on top of what she could read in Buzz’s C-file, and she figured he’d be more likely to open up if Hostetler wasn’t standing guard at the back of the room. But she couldn’t act out of the ordinary. He’d be able to tell something was different and so would the staff.

“I have a problem,” she announced.

Buzz glanced over his shoulder as if he thought she had to be talking to Hostetler.

Peyton walked around the large table. “That was meant for you.”

Because of food allergies and irritable bowel syndrome, Buzz had trouble gaining weight. His hollow eyes indicated that today wasn’t one of his better days. But his illness didn’t make him safe. He had a restless nature that made her fear he might be too unpredictable for her purposes. With tattoos covering his bald head, even part of his face, he looked as hardened as he probably was.

How would he react if she put Virgil in his cell?

He was smaller than Virgil. That, she liked. She wanted Virgil to be able to win if his cell mate ever attacked him. Of course, she thought Virgil could handle most men, as long as he knew what was coming. But there wasn’t much anyone could do to avoid getting shanked while sleeping.

“I’m sorry to hear you have a problem, Chief Deputy,” he said. “I really am, but there’s nothin’ I can do to help you.”

She arched her eyebrows. “You don’t even know what’s wrong. Why don’t you sit down so I can explain it to you?”

He did as she asked but bounced his knee as if he could hardly stand to be in the same room with her. “No offense, but I’d rather not get involved. I can’t do you any favors, you hear what I’m sayin’? I’m gettin’ out soon. I wanna serve my time and go. You understand.”

Despite his gang ties, he hadn’t been much of a behavioral concern in the past several years. His desire to sidestep her and stay out of trouble made her think he might actually work. It wasn’t like she had a lot of men to choose from that she considered safe. Everyone in Pelican Bay was there for a reason.

“Of course I understand.”

He relaxed slightly—until she continued to speak and he realized she wasn’t about to back off.

“But that still leaves me with a problem.”

Adjusting his position, he squinted at her. “What do you want from me?”

Peyton sat on the edge of the table. “There’s some sort of unrest in gen pop. It’s subtle, but…you know why I’d be concerned about that, right?”

“Of course. It’s your job to keep things under control.”

“That’s one way to put it. Another is that I don’t like it when people get hurt. So I’m hoping you can tell me what’s making everyone so…uptight.” This wasn’t the approach she’d planned to use. She’d been thinking of telling him that someone claimed he was making threats of bodily harm. But the warden’s visit, and what he’d said during that visit, had created an opportunity to put Virgil in Buzz’s cell, and make Buzz believe it was his fault.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout,” he complained. “There’s nothin’ happenin’ in gen pop. If there was, I’d know about it.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

Realizing that he hadn’t made it any easier to maintain a low profile with that comment, he flushed. “There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“So why are you nervous?”

He wiped his palms on his jeans. “If you were me, you’d be nervous, too. Meeting with you isn’t good. I don’t want trouble.”

“I don’t want trouble, either. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

“But helpin’ you is trouble. I ain’t no rat, Chief Deputy. If you think that, you got me mixed up with someone else. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

“Letting me know what’s going on in gen pop is ratting someone out?” She rose to her feet. “Now I’m really worried.”

The teardrop tattoo on his cheek stretched and shrank as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Only twenty-eight, he was too young to have spent as many years in prison as he had. “I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying?”

“The guys are jittery, that’s all. You know…it’s the fog, the cold. Winter ain’t the best time to be in the joint.”

“So you won’t tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you anything. One wrong word and they’ll call me a snitch. That’s a death sentence. You know it as well as I do.”

“Fine. If you won’t do me one small favor, I won’t do you any favors, either.”

The knee that’d been bouncing stopped, and his eyes sharpened. “What?”

“Transfers are coming in tomorrow afternoon.”

He shook his head vigorously. “That’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

“Now it does. There’s a man who’ll be joining us, someone the good folks at Corcoran are tired of dealing with.”

“Behavioral?”

“Yes.”

Buzz jumped up. “Don’t tell me—”

“He’ll be your new cellie.”

“Ah, man, no! I don’t want a new cellie. I’m good the way I am. I have one month left, one month! What am I gonna do with some badass causin’ me grief?”

Hostetler growled for Buzz to calm down, but Peyton waved the sergeant back.

“He’ll need someone who’s capable of setting a good example, someone who can show him how to stay out of trouble. You’re the perfect candidate.”

“Just put him in the SHU.”

“If he doesn’t behave, that’s exactly where he’ll go. But we’re going to give him a chance to be a stand-up guy. You know how it works in here.”

“That’s the problem,” he grumbled. “I know how it works.”

“We could make a deal, if you’d like….” She let her voice trail off, and he shook his head again. “No way.”

“Fine. Then you’ll meet your new cell mate tomorrow.”

He muttered some profanity under his breath, but Peyton didn’t react because she couldn’t really hear it. Then Sergeant Hostetler came forward to lead him out.

Once they were gone, Peyton returned to her seat, cautiously hopeful. She’d found Virgil a Hells Fury cell mate she felt somewhat comfortable with, and she’d set up a context for his insertion into the prison. If she’d pegged Buzz accurately, he’d complain to high heaven—everyone would be expecting Virgil when he showed up.

A moment later, a C.O. by the name of Gibbs appeared in the doorway. “We got a challenge coming in, huh?”

How had he heard? The door had been shut. He’d probably tried to listen in. But…maybe not. Life at the prison had a certain rhythm and the slightest change put everyone on notice.

“That’s the latest.” She smiled as if it was business as usual. But she had no idea how they’d pull off what they were attempting to do. Especially now. The warden had spooked her with his talk of changes in gen pop. If the inmates had been tipped off, they’d be more watchful than ever. And that kind of tension could lead to anything….