“My sister said Wallace spoke in a low voice and kept leaning close. She tried to say hi to him, but he practically ignored her. When she approached, they hurried out.”
“Wallace wouldn’t try to wine and dine a reporter with tacos.” She tried to make a joke of it, but John didn’t even crack a smile.
“Since that judge was murdered, there’ve been a lot of media hanging around. Maybe he was trying to head off another scathing article condemning us.”
If such an article condemned him, he’d probably receive harsher disciplinary action than he would otherwise. No doubt that played into his thoughts. “I’m sure it was nothing, John. Really. Investigative Services is still reviewing the incident. Lieutenant McCalley hasn’t decided yet how he’s going to react.”
“How do you know?”
She faced him. “Because he would’ve told me.”
His mouth rose up on one side. “You’ll put in a good word for me, right?”
This was the reason she didn’t fraternize with the C.O.s. She didn’t want personal relationships to interfere with her ability to be fair. “I’ll review the facts and make sure whatever action he takes is appropriate.”
John didn’t like her response. His smile faltered, but he covered it by acting as if he’d expect nothing more.
A few of the empty food containers were still on the table. More than eager to send him on his way, Peyton motioned toward them. “Get those, will you? I’ll wash them so you don’t have to take them home dirty.”
“Sure.” He walked out, but when he returned he brought only one dish—and her phone.
“Why—?” She didn’t get the question out before he handed it to her.
“It buzzed. So I grabbed it for you,” he explained.
She’d received a text message. From Wallace. Her iPhone gave a short hum by way of notification with every text and automatically displayed the message.
Anxiety pulled her nerves taut as she read what Wallace had sent. She’d just convinced John that nothing unusual was going on, and now he’d seen this:
Skinner’s angry. See if you can settle him down. That woman’s death was his fault, not mine. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t joined up in the first place.
That was easy for Wallace to say. His safety and well-being had never been at risk. Neither had he experienced the same kind of fear, physical pain and pressure Virgil had known—as a mere teenager. But Wallace’s reaction was beside the point. What concerned Peyton was the curiosity that lit John’s eyes.
“Something wrong?” he asked, obviously trying to gauge her expression.
He’d read the text, all right. He also knew it came from Wallace. Her iPhone clearly identified the sender.
“A mutual friend was in a…car accident in which the other driver was killed,” she said. “That’s tragic.”
“Truly.”
Her explanation wasn’t enough. He must have a million unanswered questions. How could the—fictional—driver believe it was Wallace’s fault? Why would he come to her to calm that person down? And what, exactly, had someone named Skinner joined?
John waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Thanks to his sister, he already knew far more than Peyton wanted him to. Slipping her phone into her purse so the same thing couldn’t happen again, she finished the dishes, thanked him for dinner and walked him to his truck with the excuse that she’d brought home a lot of work tonight.
Then she reclaimed her phone and sat in the living room, reading and rereading that message. Skinner couldn’t go inside Pelican Bay. This investigation was already starting to unravel.
14
A blanket of fog covered Highway 1, forcing Peyton to creep around the turns of the snakelike road hugging the rocky coastline. She couldn’t see the ocean to the right, or the towering redwoods to the left. Even when she rode the bumper of the car in front of her, she could barely discern its taillights. But she’d made herself wait until it was late enough that she could approach the motel without fear of being spotted and was relieved to finally be on her way—until she arrived. Once she’d parked around the corner and hurried to Virgil’s door on foot, she grew nervous because she had no idea how she’d be received.
“It’s me,” she murmured, following a brisk knock.
He opened the door, but he didn’t speak. Setting his knife on top of the TV—he’d come prepared in case she was someone else—he stepped back so she could enter.
The warmth of the room embraced her as she closed the door. The television was on, but Virgil wasn’t watching the kind of station most of the ex-cons she knew would pick. What with all the X-rated movies available on pay-per-view in this motel—she suspected that was part of the reason Rick Wallace preferred it—she thought a man in Virgil’s shoes would be taking in as much skin as possible. Pornography was expressly forbidden on the inside in any form, so it wasn’t as if he’d have another chance in the coming months. Instead, he was in the middle of a program about Egypt on the History Channel.
“I’m here to see if you’ll change your mind,” she said bluntly.
“About…”
Although he was dressed, she kept picturing him without his shirt as she’d seen him in her home last night. Her mind brought up other images, too, erotic images of them together, which made it strained and awkward to treat him as though he hadn’t had his mouth on her less than twenty-four hours ago. “Going inside Pelican Bay.”
He sank onto the bed and propped himself up on his elbows.
“No response?” she said.
“The fact that Laurel’s babysitter was shot gives me more reason to go in, not less, Peyton.”
She liked the way he said her name, the familiarity of it. “But you don’t understand. The people here… There’s not a lot going on this time of year. And thanks to the isolation, Crescent City’s like the typical small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially when that business has to do with the prison that supports us.”
“So?”
Why was he making her spell it out? “That means there’s less anonymity here than in some places. Folks notice the smallest details. Not only do they notice, they share every observation with others.”
Sitting up, he found the remote and muted the TV. “Someone’s said something to you?”