Inside

“I’ll do anything I can.”

“Tell Virgil I love him. I—I didn’t tell him on the phone when we talked. I…couldn’t.”

“I can do that. Sure.”

“And…can I call you again? Just to check in and make sure everything’s fine?”

“Of course. Call whenever you feel you need to.”

“Thank you,” she said, and they hung up, but Peyton didn’t immediately go to her office. She leaned against the sink and tried to imagine what would make Rick Wallace tell Laurel where Virgil was.

“Wow, you’re working late again?”

Shelley stood in the doorway. Peyton smiled as pleasantly as possible but she resented the interruption. “I won’t be here much longer.” She’d just found some fabulous information online about The Crew. A cop in Los Angeles had posted a website dedicated to L.A. gangs, their signs, colors, philosophy, known leaders, even a bit of their history, and he’d included a whole page on The Crew.

“Okay, well, I’m heading out,” Shelley said. “But before I do, I thought I’d see if you wanted to deal with this.”

“With what?” Peyton asked.

Shelley walked in and plopped a stack of messages on her desk.

Peyton shoved away from her computer. “What’re those?”

“They’re all from the same guy. Rosalee delivered them to me before she left for the night. She said he’s been trying to reach the warden all day long.”

Rosalee was the warden’s assistant. “And Fischer wouldn’t talk to him?”

“He’s been too busy. And let’s face it. This guy’s probably a family member of one of the cons, all in a tiff about how we’re violating his constitutional rights by not serving enough pudding for dessert.” She laughed. “But he said it was urgent and he was so insistent, Rosalee asked me to see if you’d be willing to talk to him the next time he calls.”

Peyton wasn’t particularly interested. She had too much going on already. Virgil and his safety took precedence over everything else. But Shelley’s comment about talking to this guy the next time he called struck her as odd and made her look through the messages. There were at least ten slips in the stack, but not one included a telephone number.

“He wouldn’t leave his contact information?”

“Said he doesn’t have a phone. He’s calling from pay phones.” She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that pathetic? He’s probably on drugs. Everyone has a phone these days.”

If he was on drugs, wouldn’t he have given up after two or three attempts? Peyton glanced at the times the calls had come in. Almost once an hour all day long. That was too regular, too consistent, for someone who was high and not thinking straight. “Did he say what it was about?”

“No. Wouldn’t give her any idea. What a nutcase, huh?”

“Rex McCready.” Peyton read the name aloud. She didn’t recognize it. Or…did she?

Swiveling back to her computer, she scanned the webpage she’d just pulled up and, about two-thirds of the way down, spotted the name—Rex “Pretty Boy” McCready. Pretty Boy. The man who’d saved Laurel and her children. The name must’ve registered even though she’d barely had time to skim over what she’d found before Shelley interrupted.

Holy hell… What did he need? Why was he so determined to get hold of the warden?

He wouldn’t have called unless he had a good reason. He was a wanted man.

He obviously knew Virgil was here. Why else would he call? And if he knew Virgil’s whereabouts, so did The Crew. Was that what he was trying to tell them?

If so, it was okay for the moment. The Crew wouldn’t be able to reach Virgil while he was inside.

But gangs sometimes formed alliances, if it was in the interests of both groups. And The Crew would know Virgil’s name wasn’t Simeon Bennett. They’d know he wasn’t a legitimate con here because he’d been exonerated and released from ADX Florence. All they had to do was share that information with the HF, and together with what Weston already suspected, they’d all know the truth.

Pulse racing, Peyton dropped the messages and looked up at Shelley. “What’s today? It’s Thursday, right?”

“Yeah, it’s Thursday,” she said, nonplussed. “Is something wrong?”

Yes, something was wrong. Thursday was visiting day for the SHU. Shit! What were the chances?

“I need you to do an errand for me before you go.”

Shelley didn’t seem happy to hear this. She had her purse on her shoulder and her car keys in her hand. “What?” she asked hesitantly.

“Go over to visitation and get me a list of everyone who came to the prison today. Ask specifically if anyone requested a meeting with Detric Whitehead or Weston Jager.”

“That’ll be a pretty short list. Can’t you just call over there?”

Peyton didn’t have time for any argument. An inmate was most vulnerable when he was in the yard or the dining hall. And it was the dinner hour. “I want a list of all visitors, and I want you to get it and bring it to me now. If you don’t move your ass, you can find yourself another job.”

The sharpness of her response made Shelley’s eyes flare wide. “Okay, jeez. I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t do it. I was just saying, if you’re only looking for a list of SHU visitors, there probably aren’t more than two or three,” she grumbled as she trudged off.

Peyton didn’t respond. Her mind was racing through possibilities, hoping it wasn’t already too late to pull Virgil out of the dining hall, if necessary. She would’ve sent word to the C.O.s in gen pop to get over there, but she was afraid her concern was making her imagine danger where there was none. She didn’t really know what Pretty Boy wanted to impart; she was guessing at all of it.

But she was pretty sure she’d guessed right when Shelley returned. She didn’t recognize any of the visitors on the list Shelley slapped down in front of her. None of them matched the known gang members mentioned on the website, either. She’d been scrolling through it and doing internet searches, looking for other names affiliated with The Crew. But the fact that none of the names matched didn’t bring her any relief. Visitors for men in the SHU had to get clearance, which meant The Crew wouldn’t send someone who was likely to be rejected. They’d send someone who didn’t have a record. What was significant was that, after going God knew how long without any visitors at all, Detric Whitehead had a man by the name of Donald Mechem visit him about five hours ago.

30

Virgil thought he was running a fever. He kept breaking into a cold sweat and he felt nauseous. But he wasn’t about to let the Hells Fury know he wasn’t in good shape. Not when they were huddled over in the corner like they’d been the night they attacked him.

Something had changed. He wasn’t sure what, but even Buzz, who’d been promising gang sponsorship, wouldn’t come close to him. Several members of the Nuestra Family had sauntered over to invite him to join them, but he could tell that the HF was looking for any excuse to jump him again and he didn’t want that to be the trigger. He didn’t feel well enough to be up on his feet, let alone swinging his fists.

After telling anyone who approached to leave him the hell alone, he moved his food around his plate to make it look like he was eating and hoped to survive dinner without an altercation. He had no chance out in the open. He didn’t even think he could handle Buzz if it came to a fight in the cell. His arms and legs seemed to weigh a ton, and his head kept spinning and pounding. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed to see a doctor.

He’d just decided that he’d ask to visit the infirmary when that guard who’d approached him in his cell— Hutchinson—came up. “Hey, big guy, how ya doin’?” he asked, popping his gum as he talked.

Virgil drew a deep breath. Steady. Hang on. “Not so good,” he said. “I think my