Inside (16 page)

A bead of sweat rolled from Eddie’s temple.

“Is Virgil worth your family,
sir?
” Wild Eyes whispered.

Tears streamed down Eddie’s cheeks. No. As much as he loved Virgil, he loved his wife and children more. And that was why he finally told them.

R
ick 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.

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.”