The old-fashioned business signs they passed, like the one in front of the local gift shop, made Virgil feel as if they’d detoured onto the set of Happy Days. But that sign and others similar to it were merely one facet of this place, holdouts from an earlier era. Overall, Crescent City had become a mixed bag. Heads bent against the constant drizzle, rednecks mingled with artisans. Old, weather-beaten buildings soldiered on amid the typical fast-food joints seen everywhere else in the country. And, at the harbor in the small bay—the only calm in a restless sea—fishing boats bobbed next to shiny new recreational craft.
He took in every detail as if he hadn’t seen anything like it in years. Because, other than on the long drive from Sacramento this morning, he hadn’t. He’d read all the books, leaflets, newsletters and pamphlets he could lay his hands on when he was inside, but experiencing a place like this made a real and very different impact. He especially enjoyed the salt-laden air and the smell of the loamy earth and towering trees.
While Wallace parked at Raliberto’s Tacos on M Street, Virgil wished he could’ve visited Crescent City back when it was teeming with lumberjacks and salmon fishermen. It would have felt innocent then. But, according to Wallace, who’d picked him up at the airport in Sacramento, it was only because of Pelican Bay that Crescent City had survived. In the early ’80s, the salmon fishing had died and thirteen of the seventeen sawmills went out of operation. The prison, which opened in ’89, supplied much-needed jobs. Now nearly half the town’s population resided behind bars and most of the other half worked in a capacity related to that.
“You as hungry as I am?” Wallace continued to strive for camaraderie.
“Hungry enough.” Virgil yanked on the heavy jacket intended to hide his build and got out. “You staying all weekend?”
“I haven’t decided.” The car chirped as he locked it and came around the front. “Is that necessary?”
“If you think it’s your presence that’s keeping me here, you’re delusional.”
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….