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.