by Brenda Novak
But she should’ve known better than to count on Perry. When she arched an eyebrow at him, asking for his opinion, he shoved his wire-rimmed glasses higher and remained mum.
“You don’t have anything to say?” she pressed.
With a sniff—he battled constant allergies—he finally spoke in a characteristically nasal voice. “I, ah, I suppose it can work.”
In other words, he didn’t give a damn if it didn’t. It wasn’t his neck on the line.
Peyton turned to the warden. “At least take some time to think this over, sir.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.” Fischer studied Simeon. “You sure you’ve got the balls for this, son?”
One side of his mouth twisted in the semblance of a grin, Bennett rolled up his sleeve to expose a tattoo that looked like a prisoner ID number.
“You’re an ex-con?” Peyton cried.
Bennett didn’t rush to explain. Buttoning his sleeve, he nodded.
“Oh, that’s great.” She leaned back so she could cross her legs. “That really makes me feel I can rely on you.” What inmate tattooed his prison number on his arm? Only a very belligerent one….
He didn’t seem to find her sarcasm warranted. “Considering your reservations, I’m more worried about being able to rely on you.”
Peyton would have offered a retort, but the warden spoke before she could. “Why’d they put you behind bars?”
“Murder one.” His gaze never wavered from her face, even though she wasn’t the one who’d asked the question. He was interested in her reaction. Too stunned to speak, she gaped at him.
Rosenburg’s chair raked the carpet as he shoved himself away from the table. “How long were you in?”
Simeon had read her shock and repugnance; Peyton could tell. His lips maintained that mocking grin, but this time he looked at Frank when he answered. “Nearly six years.”
“What happened to Mr. Bennett was…unfortunate,” Wallace said. “But, thanks to evidence that surfaced well after his conviction, he was exonerated.”
Exonerated. For a moment, that word held no meaning for Peyton. Simeon Bennett had become a regular ex-con to her—probably because he seemed every bit as hardened as the men in her prison. Before Wallace’s explanation could reverse that image, she had to walk herself through the definition. He didn’t do it. Of course. He wouldn’t be sitting here, working for the CDCR if he’d murdered someone. But six years? For a crime he didn’t commit? She couldn’t believe he’d be willing to put himself back in such a vulnerable position. To make his pretense credible, they wouldn’t be able to show him any favoritism or give him time off. Going undercover in Pelican Bay would be very close to going inside for real.
“If you think that convinces me you’re ideal for this job, you’re wrong,” Peyton told him.
He had to speak over Wallace in order to respond. “And why is that, Chief Deputy?”
“Something so tragic…it has to have made…changes in who you are.”
A muscle flexed in his cheek. “Which would make me damaged goods. Is that what you’re saying?”
She looked at the warden, Frank, even Joe, for support, but got avid curiosity instead. “It could.”
Simeon’s jaw jutted forward. “I assure you I’ve passed all my psych evals…with flying colors.”
Wallace handed them each a manila envelope. “You’ll find Mr. Bennett’s résumé inside. Given the unusual nature of his background, I assumed you’d have some questions. We want you to feel completely comfortable with what we’ve got planned—well, as comfortable as any of us can feel under the circumstances. But rest assured that we’ve done our homework. We’re calling this Operation Inside, and we expect it to be a success.”
“We…” Peyton repeated.
“The department.”
His emphasis was intended to make a point: it wouldn’t be too beneficial to piss off her employer. But she couldn’t justify worrying more about her career than a man’s life.
Peyton shifted her gaze to Simeon’s knuckles. Love. Hate. Which emotion dominated the other? Did he even know from one minute to the next? “Where’d you do the time?”
“In the federal system.”
He could’ve elaborated but, once again, didn’t. Was it because he didn’t want her poking around in his past, checking up on him? If so, that defensiveness bothered Peyton. A man who’d spent six years in prison for murder could have a lot of dark secrets, despite being exonerated and despite having worked in the private sector for some time.
“How long have you been out?” the warden asked.
The contempt Simeon wore like an army jacket grew more apparent. He didn’t like talking about this, didn’t like being questioned. “Ten years.”
“And you’ve been with Department 6 ever since?”
“I became a cop, then moved to the private sector, but I’ve been with Department 6 for most of that time.”
“So you went in at…what?” Peyton asked.
His eyebrows slid up. “Eighteen.”
That was young. Peyton could only imagine how such an experience had affected him. “Your family must’ve been heartsick.”
He wasn’t fooled by the sympathy in her voice. He knew she was digging for additional information, maybe even some assurances and explanations. But he refused to accommodate her. “Yeah, they were pretty broken up about it.”
This man already had her guessing at what was going on behind the mask of his G.I. Joe face. She prayed that the giant chip on his shoulder, if not his background, would motivate Warden Fischer to rethink his willingness to go along with the department’s plan. But without bothering to open his manila folder, Fischer stood and extended his hand to Wallace.
“We’ll do all we can to keep him safe. When will he go in?”
Shit. Peyton ground her teeth in frustration. Fischer was going for it.
“We were hoping he could arrive just after the other transfers next Tuesday,” Wallace said as they clasped hands. “During a busy afternoon like that he shouldn’t stand out.”
It was Friday now, which meant this investigation would begin in four days…. And, as far as Peyton was concerned, such a handsome man would always stand out.
“No problem. We frequently get singles,” Fischer said.
Frank stood and rested his hands on his utility belt. “What will his story be?”
Wallace responded. “His central file will indicate that he was convicted of killing his stepfather. The closer we stick to the truth, the more convincing it’ll be.”
“The truth?” Peyton echoed.
Although she and Wallace had gotten along on every other visit, today his lips pursed whenever she spoke. “That’s what he went in for originally.”
A shiver crawled up her spine. Not only had Bennett been convicted of murder, he’d been convicted of killing someone very close to him. That made her uncomfortable, whether the jury had been mistaken or not. There had to have been a reason he was convicted in the first place.
When Simeon’s piercing blue eyes lingered on Peyton yet again, she sensed that he understood the revulsion she was feeling—that he expected it and resented it at the same time.
“Who really killed your stepfather?” she asked.
When he merely smiled, Wallace filled in the blank. “His uncle. He’s being held at Solano State in California, awaiting trial. He also has a mother in L.A., where he was raised, who might’ve put her brother up to it. There’s some circumstantial evidence to suggest it, but no real proof, so she’s never been charged. The only other member of the family is a younger sister who is now a divorced mother of two, if that helps. Any other information you might need, Chief Deputy?”
Yes—a lot. If his mother had persuaded her brother to kill her husband, how was it that Simeon had gone to prison? Wouldn’t his mother have come forward to stop it? Did she just let it happen? Or had she and her brother framed him? Question after question sped through Peyton’s mind. But she saw no po
int in pursuing the answers. Warden Fischer was going to do this with or without her agreement. Why make their mutual boss any angrier? She’d heard the sarcasm in Wallace’s response. “No,” she said.
“We’ll be ready for him on Tuesday, then.” The warden motioned toward the door as if he expected Wallace to leave before him, but Wallace didn’t budge.
“One more thing.”
At his somber tone, everyone perked up.
“Bennett’s true identity and everything else about Operation Inside is top secret. Everything. Do you understand?”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Fischer assured him. “When we get back to the prison, I’ll make sure every member of my staff understands the sensitivity of the situation and their responsibility regarding it.”
“No.” Wallace shook his head. “You won’t tell your staff. The only people who can know are the ones in this room.”
Fischer scratched his sagging jowls. He seemed to be catching on to what Peyton had understood all along. “You’re saying we can’t even tell the C.O.s working in gen pop?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Then…how will they protect him?”
Parting his jacket, Wallace hooked his thumbs inside his belt as if posing for GQ. He wanted to be director of the CDCR someday. He’d never actually voiced that aspiration, not to Peyton, but it was obvious from the way he tried to impress those above him and how unyielding he could be to those below. “They won’t do more for him than they would for any other inmate,” he said.
“But—” At last the warden started to argue, only to be overruled.
“Treating him differently, pulling him aside to ask how things are going, showing him respect the others aren’t entitled to—that’s what will get him killed. One knowing look could be enough.”
The warden buttoned his coat. “The way you’ve got it set up doesn’t provide much support.”
As Peyton had already mentioned….
“It’s our only choice,” Wallace said. “We can’t risk a leak.”
“I promise you, my staff is completely trustworthy,” Fischer insisted.
Wallace’s wedding band wasn’t nearly as impressive as the heavy gold and diamond ring he’d bought to celebrate his recent promotion. Once again, Peyton noticed it as he lifted his hand to gain everyone’s attention before the warden could add anything else. “There are 1,400 employees at this prison. I’m not accusing anyone, but we all know that drugs, messages, weapons come in and out. For that to occur as frequently as it does, some of your staff have to be acting as facilitators. One word of warning to the Hells Fury and…well, I don’t have to tell you how fast the truth would spread and what could happen as a result.”
A frown creased Fischer’s heavily lined face. “So this investigation will include convicts and employees alike?”
“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Releasing his belt, Wallace closed his briefcase. Then he and Simeon Bennett walked out.
Peyton heard their car start while she, Fischer, Rosenburg and Perry stood staring at one another. Finally the warden asked Rosenburg and Perry to excuse them for a moment, and the two men went out to wait in the van.
Bracing for a tirade, Peyton leaned against the door she’d shut on the heels of Rosenburg. She thought her boss was about to chew her out for being uncooperative during the meeting. He generally didn’t hesitate to let her know if he disapproved of her behavior. Because they were so different in their philosophies, that happened more often than she would’ve liked. But this time he surprised her.
“You don’t like the idea of this investigation, do you, Peyton?”
She’d already made that clear. “No, sir.”
“You don’t think Bennett can handle it?”
“I’m not sure anyone can. You know what it’ll be like if he’s labeled a snitch. The Hells Fury won’t demand proof. Suspicion will be enough. I’m afraid we’ll have blood on our hands before the week is out.”
He sat on the edge of the table. “One way or another, it’s going to turn into a can of worms,” he admitted. “But…if he could break the stranglehold of the Hells Fury, everyone will be better off.”
She couldn’t deny that. Measuring her words so she could speak the truth without undermining her integrity, she said, “It would be nice to put a stop to Detric Whitehead and his organization, yes.”
“We have no choice except to comply. You understand that, don’t you?”
After being in heels all day, her feet were beginning to hurt, but she resisted the urge to sit down. She didn’t want to appear tired or weak. She worked in a prison, had to prove herself every single day. “And why is that, sir?”
“You heard Wallace. He presented his plan as if we had some input, but we didn’t. The decision was made before he ever asked us to meet him here. Even the governor is set on it.”
Securing the flap of Wallace’s manila envelope, she bit back the accusation that he could’ve tried harder to refuse. “So…what do you suggest we do?”
“We go along with the damn investigation, as agreed. But there’s no need for two of us to spearhead this thing. I’ve given it my blessing. Now I want you to run with it.”
Apprehension clawed at Peyton’s stomach. Why would he turn such a sensitive investigation over to her? “Would you mind clarifying that, sir?”
“I’ve got more than I can handle on my plate already. You’ll take over from here.”
Irritated by a strand of hair that’d fallen from the knot at her nape, she tucked it behind her ear. “Which means…what, exactly? I’ll be the liaison?”
“That’s right. You’ll meet with Bennett whenever it’s safe to do so, and you’ll relay his progress to Wallace. This is your baby. All of it.” But she was the one who had a problem with the operation. And she’d just strained her relationship with Wallace, to say nothing of alienating Bennett. Why would—?
And then it dawned on her. Warden Fischer was purposely distancing himself. He was as nervous about this investigation as she was and didn’t want to be anywhere nearby if it blew up in their faces.
Now she understood why he’d invited her to attend such a clandestine meeting, even though she was far from the patsy Joseph Perry was. She was his “fall guy.” He could pacify the Department of Corrections by acquiescing to their wishes, and sidestep the blame if it all went to hell.
“Do I have any choice?” she asked.
He smoothed down his sparse white hair. “Not unless you’d prefer to tender your resignation.”
Peyton drew a steadying breath. As tempting as that sounded at the moment, she’d invested sixteen years in her career. She wasn’t about to throw it all away without a fight. Especially when there was a chance, albeit a small one, that Bennett could come through and make them both heroes.
She imagined the pale blue eyes of the man who’d sat across the conference table from her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen irises that exact shade of blue, certainly none that so closely resembled shards of ice…. “No, sir.”
Fischer smiled. “Glad to hear it. Good luck to you and Bennett,” he said, and left her standing in the conference room.
Dropping her head in her hands, Peyton cursed Fischer and his reluctance to take responsibility for what had just happened.
Was Bennett as good as Wallace thought?
She hoped so—because if he went down, so did she.
2
Wallace had provided a one-page background sketch on Simeon Bennett, nothing more. Peyton understood the need for secrecy, the danger of putting too much in writing, but this supposed “bio” revealed nothing they hadn’t been told. It was a formality, a pretense, and that made her uncomfortable. She spent five days a week with some of the most cunning liars, thieves and murderers in California. She knew when she was being played, and that was what the meeting at the library had felt like.
What was the CDCR trying to pull? She’d never dreamed she’d have to worry about the people o
n her side of the law, especially those in the chain of command above her.
A soft knock sounded at her office door.
Peyton slid the sheet of paper she’d been reading back into the envelope, then stuck it under some files on her desk. “Come in.”
Shelley, her administrative assistant, poked her curly brown head into the room. “I’m heading home. Is there anything you’d like me to do before I go?”
Peyton glanced at the clock. Four-thirty already? She was so busy the days flew by. Maybe that was why she didn’t have much of a love life—in addition to the fact that she refused to date anyone who worked at the prison, which ruled out most of the men in Crescent City. “No, thank you. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Shelley paused. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s the matter?” Peyton asked.
“You’ve got ‘the crease of concern.’”
To keep her hands occupied, Peyton straightened her stapler, pen holder, calendar. “The crease of concern?”
“Yep.” She pointed to her own forehead. “Right there. You get it whenever you’re worried. What’s wrong?”
Peyton smiled to clear away that crease. Regardless of how she felt about what the department was doing, she wouldn’t risk Bennett’s life by letting on that something unusual was afoot. “Just another inmate in gen pop claiming to be suicidal.”
“What does his psych report say?”
“That he’s a malingerer.”
“A what?”
“Faking it,” Peyton clarified.
Stepping into the room, Shelley crossed her arms over her large breasts, which strained against a dress that was far too tight, and leaned against the wall. “What’s he in for?”