Inside (3 page)

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Wallace jingled his change. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But my job’s on the line and—”

Virgil broke in with an incredulous laugh. “You’re worried about your
job?
I have a lot more at risk than that, so stop whining. It’s this simple—you take care of Laurel, I’ll do my part.”

“A U.S. marshal will arrive at her door on Monday.”

“Does she know that?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I want to tell her.”

“You can’t contact her. And
we’re
not going to advise her, either.” He held up a hand before Virgil could protest. “We don’t want her to do or say anything that might tip off your
friends,
do we?”

Friends… The Crew had once been his friends. Now they were his greatest enemy. Good thing there weren’t any Crew members at Pelican Bay. Of course, if there were, he wouldn’t be doing this. As with most gangs, they were connected to a specific region—mostly L.A., with an offshoot in Arizona. “What if Monday’s not soon enough?”

With a sigh, Wallace shook his head. “Fine. I’ll leave
first thing in the morning, get her moved and be back on Tuesday to effect your ‘transfer.’”

Three whole days of freedom. It wasn’t a lot. Especially when he had to lie low and make sure he wasn’t noticed. But it was something. Simeon couldn’t wait.

Ducking into the restaurant to keep his suit from getting wet, Wallace turned to see why he hadn’t followed. But there was no one in their immediate vicinity, so as far as Virgil was concerned, Wallace could wait all day. He’d go in when he was good and ready. For now, all he wanted was to stand in the rain.

Removing the bogus glasses, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and let the drops fall on his face.

Whenever staff who worked for the department came to Crescent City, they stayed at a garden-style motel of twenty-four rooms called the Redwood Inn. Peyton knew this because she’d gone out to dinner with Wallace and various others three times in the past and had driven them back to the motel twice when they’d had too much to drink. She’d even had a room there herself when she’d been sent to interview for her current position. She assumed that was where she’d find Bennett. Habits were tough to break.

“Hey, look who it is!” Michelle Thomas, who managed the inn, smiled brightly when Peyton walked into the lobby. Peyton had first met Michelle, who was three years younger, six months ago when she’d stayed here. They’d been friends ever since. Together with two other women, divorcées like Michelle, they got together every week, usually for dinner. Once in a while, on special occasions, they drove to Sacramento or San Francisco to go dancing.

“What are you doing here?” Michelle wanted to know. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Looking for Rick Wallace from the Department of Corrections. Has he checked in?”

No doubt Michelle was well aware that she had a couple of guests from the CDCR. The rooms were on a master account. “Yeah, earlier this afternoon. He rented two rooms, fifteen and sixteen. I saw him go into sixteen, if you want to knock. But I don’t think he’s there. He and whoever he’s with—some guy who waited in the car—left shortly after they got here, and—” she walked over to study the parking lot through the front door “—I don’t see his car.”

“They might’ve gone out to eat.”

“That’d be my guess, too. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll call him later. I just…I need to use the restroom. Then I’ll be on my way.” She headed down the hall that went past the closet where the maids returned their towel carts and hung their smocks. Peyton had visited Michelle here often enough to know the motel routine. But she’d never dreamed that knowledge would come in handy. “We still on for dinner tomorrow night?” she called back.

“Far as I know,” Michelle replied. “Have you talked to Jodie or Kim?”

“Not yet. Why don’t you give them a call?”

There wasn’t another soul in the lobby, so Peyton knew Michelle wouldn’t hesitate to make a personal call, even though she was on duty. She had the run of the place; she’d been working here for a decade and would probably still be here in another decade. Her ex-husband, a corrections officer at the prison, lived a block to the north. As much as Michelle craved the big city,
with its greater possibilities for love and employment, she didn’t want to take her kids from their father.

Peyton stood inside the bathroom until she could hear Michelle on the phone. Then she cracked open the door and waited until her friend moved out of sight before slipping into the maid’s closet, where she helped herself to one of the master keys clipped to a smock. As she dropped it in her purse, she peered out to make sure Michelle wasn’t watching for her and reentered the lobby as soon as her friend turned in the other direction.

“Everybody coming for dinner tomorrow?” she asked.

Deeply engrossed in conversation, Michelle looked up and motioned for her to be quiet. “That’s okay. If you can’t make it, you can join us next week.”

“Who is it?” Peyton mouthed.

“Jodie,” Michelle mouthed back.

Knowing Wallace and Bennett could return any minute, Peyton hurried to the door. “I’m dying to get out of these heels. Call me later and let me know what’s going on,” she said, and hustled out.

After driving around the block, Peyton parked, turned off her phone and locked it and her purse, everything except the card key, in her trunk. Then she went back to the motel.

As she ducked into a small alcove where she couldn’t be seen from the parking lot or the lobby, she had to ask herself if she was really going through with this. So far, she hadn’t done anything too daring. Michelle trusted her, so taking the key had been easy. Putting it back would be just as easy. But the risk escalated from here….

What if she got caught?

Hoping to slow her galloping heart, Peyton pressed
a hand to her chest and closed her eyes.
Think! Are you crazy?

No.
She was determined not to be used. And that meant she had to know who Bennett was and why he was lying. If she did get caught in his room, she’d simply go on the offensive, tell Rick what she’d learned by calling Department 6. Best-case scenario, he’d believe she was acting to protect the warden, the staff and the inmates at Pelican Bay, as well as the CDCR. Worse case, he’d call the cops and have her arrested for breaking and entering.

But she couldn’t imagine he’d want the publicity involved in such a scandal, not when he was trying to launch a top-secret investigation. Chances were greater that he wouldn’t do anything—especially because she was only trying to find out what he should’ve told her from the beginning.

Anyway, she wouldn’t get caught. The maids were gone for the day, Michelle was likely still on the phone, there was no one in the parking lot and it was raining. Who’d see her? All she had to do was move fast.

Using her hand to shelter her face, she walked the short distance during which she’d be visible from the street as confidently as if she was approaching her own room. It seemed to take longer than it should have, but she was fine until she reached number fifteen. Then the key card she’d taken from the maid’s closet wouldn’t work.

Alarm poured through her as she swiped it again. Fortunately, this time she heard the tumbler fall.

Thank God,
she breathed, and stepped inside.

The drapes, pulled closed, shut out what was left of the evening light, making the darkness, which smelled faintly of cologne or shampoo, crowd in on her. The
scent was appealing but foreign enough to unnerve her. After scrambling to turn on the light, she saw that the beds were, for the most part, untouched. A bedraggled-looking duffel bag sat on the carpet. Stepping over it, she went to make sure the bathroom was empty.

It was. She saw a shaving kit on the sink—the source of the smell. The ironing board was out, too, suggesting Simeon had ironed his blue shirt, his dark slacks or both. He’d probably shaved, as well, and brushed his teeth. A tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush resided on the small ledge above the sink.

“At least you have good hygiene.” Talking to herself kept her nerves under control, but now that she was inside, she was once again filled with purpose. If there was anything here to help her figure out what was going on, she’d find it. Then she’d get the hell out….

Kneeling beside his bag, she removed a stack of clothing, all neatly folded and smelling like the shaving lotion in the bathroom. At the bottom, she discovered several letters. Addressed to ADX Florence, a federal penitentiary in a remote, unincorporated part of Fremont County, Colorado, the envelopes bore the name Virgil Skinner, but they had the prisoner ID number she’d seen tattooed on Bennett’s arm—99972-506. At least, she assumed it was the same number, since it started with 9997.

So did this mean Simeon Bennett
wasn’t
his real name? That was her guess. And the letters weren’t dated a decade earlier. The one she held in her hand had been sent a month ago.

“What the heck?” Opening the first envelope, she took out a picture of a beautiful woman with long blond hair and eyes that appeared to be as blue as Bennett’s…or Skinner’s. Kneeling in some sort of park, she had an
arm around two children—a girl who looked about three and a boy of maybe five. There was no writing on the back identifying the subjects, but a date stamp on the front indicated it had been taken recently.

Curious to learn who the woman was and what she meant to Bennett/Skinner—could she be his wife?— Peyton began to read.

Virgil?
Who was Virgil? Judging by the prisoner number, Virgil had to be Simeon. But, if so, this letter proved he hadn’t gotten out of prison nearly as long ago as she’d been told at the library.

Did Wallace know? He had to, didn’t he? So why would he pretend it’d been ten years since Bennett’s release? And what else had they lied about—besides Bennett’s name and what he’d been doing?

There were other letters from the same person who, according to the return address, lived in Colorado. Toward the bottom of the stack, Peyton found letters from another woman living in Los Angeles. She guessed it was his mother, but couldn’t tell for sure. The letters hadn’t been opened and she couldn’t open them without making it obvious that someone had been through his bag.

Voices, coming from outside the door, interrupted her search.

“No need to wake me before you go.”

That was Bennett. Skinner. Wallace answered from farther away. She couldn’t tell what he said. She was too busy shoving as much as she could back into the bag to concentrate on listening.

Then she heard the key in the lock.

Shit! Now what?
She couldn’t get under the bed. There wasn’t enough space.

Looking for another alternative, she darted around the ironing board toward the bathroom. But as she glanced back to see if he was opening the door, she spotted one
of the letters lying on the carpet. It must’ve fallen in her rush to replace everything.

Knowing she had to grab it, that there wasn’t a chance he’d miss something so out of place, she dashed back….

H
aving been out of prison for less than a week, Virgil hadn’t quit looking over his shoulder, marking the exits in a room, remaining aware of the people around him. He
couldn’t
stop, not if he wanted to stay alive. As soon as the leadership of The Crew figured out that he’d switched sides, they’d send a couple of foot soldiers to kill him. So he’d started putting a piece of dental floss in motel doors if he planned to return.

Wallace had laughed when he saw him do it. He’d said, “They couldn’t have tracked you all the way up here. Not yet.” That had to be why the government wasn’t in any big hurry to take Laurel into custody. They didn’t understand how quickly The Crew might react, how fast they’d go after anyone connected to Virgil, anyone he loved, if they couldn’t reach him.

Virgil never assumed he’d be safe. If he died, there’d be no one to protect his sister. His service to the department was all he had to trade on her behalf. And right now he was damn glad he’d gone to the trouble of using that floss—because it was gone.

Someone had been in his room.

Maybe the management had sent over a maintenance man to fix a leaky faucet or running toilet. Or a maid
had checked to make sure he had his full complement of towels. It
could
be either of those things—but didn’t
have
to be.

He considered making Wallace aware that there might be trouble. But the associate director’s TV was already blaring. He didn’t carry a gun and was probably worthless in a fight. And Simeon didn’t want him to know he had a weapon.

Setting his bag of groceries on the ground, he clutched the steak knife he’d stolen from the restaurant in his left hand. Fortunately, he was ambidextrous enough that he often fought with his left just to throw his opponent, who was more often right-handed, off balance. It wasn’t much, especially if he was facing two or three people, but today his experience and prison tactics were all he had.

Fully expecting a bullet to come whizzing out from the interior, he ducked as he threw open the door. But nothing happened. When the door merely shut, he didn’t know what to think. Especially because that floss hadn’t just slipped to the ground; whoever had gone into his room had tracked it inside. In the split second the door had swung wide, he’d spotted it lying on the carpet.

Not only that, the light was on, even though Virgil had turned it off.

He couldn’t imagine a maid would be that sloppy. But a maintenance man? Maybe.

Propping the door open with his groceries so he could get out fast if he had to, he crept inside. If someone was waiting for him, he couldn’t see who. Or where. The chair was tucked under the desk. There was no space under the beds. And only a very skinny man would be able to conceal himself in such a tiny closet. The door
of that closet stood open, anyway, from when he’d taken out the ironing board.

Whoever it was had to be in the bathroom.

Pressing his back to the wall so his reflection wouldn’t be visible in the mirror, he listened for movement and heard…nothing. Then, just as he was about to step inside, he caught a slight rustling.

The shower curtain…

His intruder was in the tub.

Peyton’s chest seized the second Virgil threw back the shower curtain and hauled her toward him. She twisted her ankle struggling to stay on her feet despite her high heels, but the scream that built in her throat never escaped. He had her on the carpet outside the bathroom with a knife to her throat so fast she could barely whimper.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?”
he growled, pinning her beneath him.

Snippets of the many nightmares she’d had since starting work in corrections flashed through her mind as she stared helplessly up at him. He’d just been released from ADX Florence, could be as dangerous as anyone at Pelican Bay. She halfway expected him to slit her throat, but he cursed and threw the knife to one side instead.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” he asked again, only this time, in many ways, it was a different question. There wasn’t an edge of menace in his voice anymore. He was irritated and angry, yes, but she no longer felt that her life was in danger. He got up and backed toward the wall, but once he realized she didn’t have the strength to stand, he came forward again and offered to help her.

Shaking too badly to reach up, Peyton waved him off. She doubted she could put any weight on her ankle even if she could get to her feet. “I was…” She managed to shove herself into a sitting position and almost finished with,
I was sure you were going to kill me.
That was all she could think, over and over, as if she’d hit her head instead of her shin when he’d dragged her from the tub. But why repeat the obvious?

In an effort to make sure she didn’t, she closed her eyes and kept her mouth shut, too.

“Um, don’t freak out, but…you’ve got a little cut,” he said.

Peyton wiped the moisture from her neck and stared down at the red on her fingertips—blood. “Who are you?” she whispered. “Who are you
really?
”

He didn’t answer. He went to get a washcloth, then bent down next to her so he could press it against her injury.

The scent of his aftershave filled her nostrils, much stronger now that he was so close. And the beauty of his eyes was even more riveting. “Why are you in Crescent City?” she asked, taking the washcloth so he could let go.

He went into the bathroom and came out holding the letter she’d tried to retrieve.

“If you’ve read my mail, you know.”

Propping herself against the wall for support, she tried to decipher what was going on. “Virgil Skinner? That’s your real name?”

He walked over and pulled the groceries inside so the door could close. “Yes.”

As she’d guessed. “Are you…on parole?”

“Sort of,” he admitted.

Sort of
wasn’t enough. “After sixteen years in cor
rections, I’ve never heard of anyone being ‘sort of’ on parole.”

“I was exonerated in my stepfather’s killing.”

Take another deep breath.
“But…they have something else on you.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“What I did on the inside.”

Oh, hell…
“Are we talking murder?”

When he didn’t respond, she knew she’d guessed correctly and the thought of that made her queasy. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Bitterness oozed through those three small words, but he didn’t attempt to justify or explain his actions. He acted as if it would be futile to even try, that she wouldn’t believe him no matter what.

He was seasoned, all right.

Pulling the washcloth away, she studied the size of the red streak to determine how badly she’d been cut. Her injury wasn’t life-threatening, but it stung. “How long were you really in?”

He guided the cloth back to her neck. “Fourteen years.”

A lot more than six…. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

Four years younger than she was. “That means you went in when you were…eighteen.”

“Like I told you before.”

“So it wasn’t
all
lies.”

“Not all of it.”

He’d spent nearly half his life in prison. The tragedy of that didn’t escape her. Neither did the fact that he’d gone in as an innocent young man, wrongly accused,
and been shaped into a killer. How was that for proof that the penal system wasn’t working?

Her skirt had bunched up around her thighs. She smoothed it down, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why did Wallace say you worked for Department 6?”

“He used them on another investigation, and he knew they were mostly retired military with some trained civilians. He figured it would make a believable background. I certainly don’t look like a regular cop.”

“No.” She had to clear her throat to boost the volume of her voice. “But…I still don’t understand. Why all the lies?”

His thigh muscles contracted as he crouched in front of her. He had so much physical strength—but that wasn’t the only thing that made him intimidating. Anger, determination, even resentment, rolled off him like sweat. And, come Tuesday, she was going to be responsible for his safety and the safety of those she put him in contact with….

He was answering her question. Yanking her gaze from his thighs, she struggled to pay closer attention.

“We’re trying to protect the only family I have left.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t claim her.”

“Then your sister.”

He chucked the envelope onto the desk. “Yes.”

“Why? What do you need to protect her from?”

“From the gang I joined when I was inside. When they realize I’m walking away, they’re going to make sure I pay, and if they can’t get to me, they’ll kill her, maybe even her children.”

“So you’re debriefing.” Debriefing meant disassociat
ing and divulging everything he knew about the gang to which he’d belonged. It also meant agreeing to testify.

“Not exactly. I have nothing to say about The Crew. I’m merely trading my services for a new identity—for myself and my sister.”

“You’re using what you learned about gangs by being a member of one to infiltrate the Hells Fury?” Where he had no loyalties.

“Basically.”

She searched for the knife he’d held to her throat and saw it lying in the corner of the room. “But…Wallace doesn’t trust me? Or Fischer? He felt he couldn’t confide in us?”

“Trust entails a certain amount of…risk. I don’t take risks. Unless I have to,” he added begrudgingly.

“So you insisted on a new identity.”

“That’s right.”

Apparently they cared so much about his request, and felt so beholden to him for endangering his life, they’d slapped together a “résumé” that hadn’t even fooled her. Nice of them… “So what makes you think you can be successful?”

“The Crew isn’t that different than the Hells Fury. I can get in.”

Peyton’s head was starting to hurt as badly as her ankle. It was the stress. And she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Sometimes she just got too busy. “Prison gangs are racially based. Does that mean you’re a supremacist, a
racist?
”

“I’m a
survivalist.
” The wryness in his voice told her as much as his words that it’d been a practical decision. Joining a gang often had nothing to do with believing in the ideology. It was about having protection when you needed it, about living to see the next day in
a racially charged environment where survival would be nearly impossible without allies. In prison, you either conquered or were conquered.

She knew which side a man like Virgil would choose to be on. He’d conquer or die trying.

He, more than anyone, would know the stakes involved in what they had planned. And yet he was going back inside—as an informant. He couldn’t possibly put himself in a more untenable position.

Then Peyton remembered the letters she’d found in his bag and the suspicion his sister had conveyed about being watched and everything became a little clearer. The Department of Corrections had found a man they could bend to their will because he had someone he hoped to protect. If he managed to gather the information necessary to bring down the Hells Fury, he and his sister would get new identities—for real—which would also give him a clean slate. Apparently they hadn’t charged him for whatever he’d done on the inside. Maybe they couldn’t; maybe they didn’t have the evidence they needed for a conviction. But they were still holding it over his head.

And if he didn’t succeed? What would it matter? He wasn’t a police officer with a family and a community behind him who’d demand action and answers in response to his murder. He was just another gangbanger, and they could prove it. That made him expendable.

“You can’t get what you want by informing on The Crew?”

“No. I won’t give up any member of The Crew.”

“You still feel certain…loyalties?”

“I honor my word. It’s that simple.”

“How do you know you won’t find friends—people you won’t want to rat out—in the Hells Fury?”

“Because I don’t need a friend. What I need is a fresh start.”

“So you’re working against the Hells Fury instead as…some kind of compromise?”

“Exactly. From the way they’re growing, and the control they’re exerting, they’re just as big a threat as The Crew. And I haven’t given
them
my word—on anything. They’re fair game.”

So…he’d be a fraudulent gang member—a “buster”—when it came to the Hells Fury. But that was just as dangerous as snitching on his own gang. Maybe more dangerous because he’d be locked up with the men on whom he was informing and they’d feel very little loyalty to one so new.

Peyton cringed at the memory of what the Hells Fury had done to Edward Garraza, the last brother they’d suspected of turning “traitor.” A corrections officer had found him in the laundry with his toes and fingers cut off and his eyes plucked out.

“That can be hazardous to your health,” she said.

His eyebrows slid up. “Since when did anybody care about that?”

He knew the score. That was partly what bothered her about Virgil Skinner. Keen intelligence showed in his eyes, in his bearing. At a minimum, he was smarter than the average gang member, many of whom had little or no education. He’d likely been swept up by events he couldn’t control, and they’d carried him fourteen years down a path he never would’ve chosen. Which hardly seemed fair. No more so than being forced to make the sacrifice he was now making as a result.

Peyton climbed carefully to her feet. Her ankle hurt, but she hadn’t twisted it so badly that she couldn’t
stand. It would be fine in a few days. “Why were you incarcerated in a federal institution?”

“Because I was prosecuted federally.” He grimaced. “Tougher sentencing laws. Otherwise, maybe I would’ve met you sooner, since I’m from L.A.”

The return address on the letter from his sister had indicated Colorado Springs. “But your sister’s in Colorado?”

“That’s right. She left L.A. to be able to visit me on a regular basis.”

“She sounds nice. I hope the government’s putting her in the Witness Protection Program immediately.” Because he was right. If he left The Crew, they’d put out a hit and “torpedo”—send someone to shoot—his loved ones. The fact that they were watching Laurel so overtly meant they were trying to scare her—and keep Virgil mindful of his allegiances and his duty to support them in their criminal activities. Those could include murdering someone, charging taxes for drug deals going down on what they considered
their
turf or robbing a bank.