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As for a rehab program to occupy his mind, it would more likely bore him to death. Besides which, he wasn’t an even remotely viable candidate. The programs were strictly for prisoners nearing the end of their sentences, and she’d bet Reeves knew that. All of which added up to a hidden agenda of some sort.
Since she had a meeting to get to, she didn’t probe Fitzgerald’s motivations further but simply said, “You know, I rarely have anything to do with transfers. The person you should talk to is Warden Armstrong, at Poquette.”
“Yes—in fact I have an appointment with him this afternoon to file the request forms. But I wanted to let you know I’ll be asking him to have you do the mental-health assessment.”
“Oh?” That news made her more concerned about what the hidden agenda might be.
“It is something you occasionally do, isn’t it? Some of the mandatory evaluations? In this case, give your opinion about whether a transfer might benefit Mr. Fitzgerald?”
She nodded. Obviously Reeves had done his homework, and it had included checking into her job description. The realization unsettled her. She didn’t like having a stranger poke around for information about her.
“The staff psychologists at Poquette are more than competent,” she told him. “Why would you request that I assess Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Because of your position. Because your signature on a transfer recommendation would carry more weight.”
“You’re assuming I’d recommend it.”
“I’m hoping you will.”
“Well... Look, there’s a fundamental problem here. The rehab programs are solely for prisoners close to their release dates, and with Mr. Fitzgerald not meeting that criterion...”
Reeves gave her a slow shrug. “I think I’ll be able to get around that by emphasizing his need for more human contact. You see, the way I look at it, there’s an Eighth Amendment violation involved.”
“A what?”
“I feel that his being kept in isolation constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.”
Hayley almost groaned. Sloan Reeves had things figured upside down and inside out.
“After you’ve talked with Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll recommend a change of scenery to improve his mental health. If you don’t... Well, I’m sure you will.” With that, he leaned back and smiled at her once more.
It was a warm smile that reached his eyes and turned them an impossibly deeper shade of blue, a smile that under different circumstances she knew she’d have found both engaging and appealing. Under these circumstances, she found it neither.
Maybe her overdeveloped sense of fair play was coming to the fore, but she didn’t want to be involved in any attempt to manipulate the system.
And there was something else, of course. She was annoyed as hell at the way this man had walked in unannounced and told her what she was going to recommend.
THERE WASN’T a law firm’s name on Sloan Reeves’s business card, and several times during her ten-thirty meeting Hayley caught herself wondering whether he had a one-man practice. And whether he specialized in representing clients who were unquestionably guilty. The minute she got back to her office she phoned Peggy Fournier, a detective with the New Orleans Police Department, to find out.
A couple of years ago, Hayley had helped Peggy talk a jumper in off a ledge. During the aftermath, the two women had established that they were both single mothers with young boys. In no time, their sons were buddies, while she and Peggy became the sort of friends who were always trading favors.
If Peggy didn’t recognize Sloan Reeves’s name, locating someone who did wouldn’t take much effort. Since he was representing Billy Fitzgerald, three-quarters of the cops in the city could probably fill her in about him.
When Peggy proved to be on duty but not in the station, Hayley left a message. Then she grabbed a salad from the cafeteria downstairs, took it back to her office and spent the next hour reviewing every last detail in the Poquette psychologist’s intake assessment of Billy Fitzgerald.
He and his wife had divorced long ago, and she’d given him custody of their sole child, a son named Brendan, without an argument. According to Billy, at least. The wife’s version of the story would probably be very different. Something like, if she hadn’t given Billy custody he would have killed her.
His psychological profile, as Hayley had noted during her first reading of it, showed him to be a charming, highly intelligent, extremely manipulative psychopath.
Deciding she had as accurate a read on him as she could get from the file, she set it aside and started in on some backed-up paperwork while she waited for Peggy to return her call. It was close to four o’clock before she did.
“Sloan Reeves?” Peggy said when Hayley asked about him. “Good-looking? Smart enough to win on Jeopardy? Sets the ladies’ hearts aflutter with his smile? That Sloan Reeves?”
“Well, he hardly set my heart aflutter.”
Even as Hayley said the words, an imaginary voice reminded her that the touch of his hand on hers had sent a definite tingle through her. But that was before she’d known anything about him.
“It was more like he set my teeth on edge,” she told Peggy. “But yes, I’d say we’re talking about the same man.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“He walked into my office this morning and informed me that Billy Fitzgerald didn’t like his accommodations.”
Peggy laughed. “Well, Reeves should know. He’s the only lawyer in town with a client list of one. Or I guess it’s two at this point. We might have put Billy away, but so far it hasn’t stopped him from running the Irish Mafia. He’s just doing it through his son, Brendan, now. And I guess that means Reeves is acting as legal adviser to both of them.”
“Wait a minute, are you serious?”
“Hey, the world changes and the wise guys keep up. They’ve got legal advisers, financial advisers, certified public accountants—you name it.”
“Reeves works exclusively for Billy Fitzgerald?”
“I take it he didn’t mention this.”
“No, he didn’t.” And the fact that he was so close to Fitzgerald’s organized crime family—more like part of it, really, than close—made Hayley uneasier still about his visit.
She did her best to force the uneasiness away as Peggy continued.
“What a waste, huh? If he really did set your teeth on edge, you’re one of the few women in the city with that reaction. He’d probably get voted Most Eligible Bachelor in New Orleans if he wasn’t in bed with the bad guys. What exactly did he want?”
The question made Hayley hesitate. Sometimes, in her job, there was a fine line between what was confidential and what wasn’t. Still, she trusted Peggy, and she definitely wanted her take on the situation.
“He came to tell me,” she finally said, “that Fitzgerald is looking to transfer to a different prison.”
“Why?”
“The story is so that he can be in a rehab program.”
“What? They aren’t for lifers, are they?”
“No, and it gets better. Fitzgerald supposedly wants into one for the social contact.”
“Oh, puh-leeze. Like he wants to socialize with his fellow cons?”
Hayley almost smiled. Thus far, Peggy’s take was exactly the same as her own.
“I’m sure the real story is that, for some reason or other, Fitzgerald’s determined to get out of Poquette.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“No, but they had to come up with some explanation for a transfer request.”
“They came up with a pretty lame one. I wonder what Fitzgerald’s problem with the place is.”
“Me, too. But my problem is that they’re involving me in their game. A psychologist has to evaluate a prisoner’s mental health when he requests a transfer, and—”
“It’s going to be you, right?”
“Exactly. And Reeves is expecting me to recommend the transfer.”
“He said that?”
“He didn’t come right out and say ‘expecting,’ but there was no missing the message.”
Peggy was silent for a few seconds, then she said, “Does that have you worried?”
“I...yes, a little, now that you tell me he has friends in low places. But the final decision is the warden’s, not mine. I only give him my recommendation. And neither Fitzgerald nor Reeves will know what it is. So if the request’s turned down, which I’m certain it will be, they’ll have no way of knowing whether I—”
“Oh, Hayley, don’t play naive with me. Guys like those two can find out anything they want and you know it.”
“Maybe. But this isn’t the first time I’ve faced a little... subtle intimidation, shall we call it?”
“I could think of better terms,” Peggy muttered.
“Well, when you work with criminals this kind of thing comes with the territory, right? As a cop, you must see that all the time. I’ve never let anyone frighten me out of doing my job yet, however, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Yes, of course. I only... Well, this is a red-tape sort of thing, anyway, isn’t it. It’ll be forever before you have to assess Fitzgerald, so we can talk about it the next time we get together. But...”
“But what?” Hayley said uneasily.
“Look, I don’t think Reeves would get physical himself. Billy Fitz, on the other hand, has more than enough boys who play as rough as it takes. So if the good counselor pays you another visit I want you to call me.”
Once Hayley had promised that if Reeves showed up again Peggy would be the first to know, they chatted about their sons for a few minutes before hanging up.
It wasn’t ten seconds later that the phone rang again.
“Dr. Morgan,” Hayley said, answering it.
“Dr. Morgan, it’s Warden Armstrong at Poquette.”
“Yes, Warden?” A dryness settled in her throat. She had absolutely no doubt what he was calling about.
“You’ll be here in the morning, won’t you?”
“Yes. Tuesday’s my regular day.”
“Good, because Billy Fitzgerald’s filed an application for a transfer and he’s asked that you do the psych assessment. I want to give him a quick decision, so I’d like you to work the evaluation into your schedule tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWO
HAYLEY HADN’T SLEPT WELL. Monsters wearing Sloan Reeves’s handsomely chiseled face had chased her through a series of nightmares, making it a relief when morning stole into her bedroom.
The first thing she did when she got up was phone Poquette and arrange to have Billy brought to the psych area at nine o’clock sharp. She might not know why Armstrong wanted to make a quick decision, but her job was to cooperate with him.
Naturally, Max picked this morning to dawdle. He usually ignored Satchmo’s game of always being on the wrong side of the door, but today he let the cat out and in three times before reluctantly sitting down at the table. Then he played a seemingly endless round of eenie-meenie before he decided which cereal he’d have.
Finally, she managed to get him to finish his breakfast and collect what he wanted for his day at the sitter’s.
After walking him and his pint-size two-wheeler the few houses down the street to Anne Kelly’s, she headed back to her car.
Despite Max’s delaying tactics she made it to the highway by 8:00 a.m. Once she started down the peninsula toward Poquette she was able to drive on automatic pilot.
The surrounding terrain was flat and wet—not completely barren but close to it—so the area wasn’t highly populated. That made for little traffic on the road, which gave her a chance to think through how she felt about this situation Sloan Reeves had dragged her into.
Peggy had been right in saying that prisons dealt with most requests from inmates at a snail’s pace. Armstrong’s asking for an immediate evaluation was highly unusual, and Hayley couldn’t help but wonder what leverage Reeves had used.
Regardless of how he’d done it, she was annoyed that he had Armstrong jumping through hoops. She didn’t like the idea of any prisoner, or his lawyer, having the power to force a warden into giving preferential treatment.
Force.
As the word repeated itself in her mind, she realized she shouldn’t assume Armstrong was jumping through hoops at all. She’d had enough contact with him to know that, like most wardens, he was hardly the type of man who’d let himself be intimidated.
Of course, bribery was always a possibility, although she seriously doubted Armstrong could be bought. In fact, she could readily imagine him throwing Reeves out on his ear if he tried either intimidation or bribery. So why this big rush?
Quite possibly, she’d never know. Armstrong wasn’t obliged to give her any explanations. When it came to things at Poquette, he was in complete charge. Which, in this case, was definitely a good thing.
As Peggy had said, if Reeves or Fitzgerald wanted to find out what Hayley recommended, they could. So it was just as well they were aware that the ultimate decision on a transfer wasn’t hers. Because, at least based on what she knew to this point, there was no way she could recommend one. Not with a clear conscience.
When she turned her attention back to her driving she was nearing the tall bridge that lay partway between Port Sulphur and Buras. The structure always struck her as spooky, although she wasn’t quite sure why.
Possibly it was the weirdness of there being freshwater on one side and saltwater on the other. Or maybe there was just too little land and too much ocean along this stretch.
Whatever, she was always glad to leave the bridge behind and drive the remaining few miles to the gravel road leading from the highway to the prison.
A couple of minutes later she could see it in the distance, a tired-looking big brick quadrangle in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by a heavy link fence topped with razor ribbon, it always struck her as utterly depressing—the sight of it frequently reminding her she could have specialized in other areas of psychology.
But with a mother who taught criminology at Penn State and a father who was a district attorney, her interest in the correctional treatment of psychopathology was hardly surprising.
And even though the vast majority of prisoners were damaged beyond repair, there were enough she could help to make her work rewarding. In fact, one of her most treasured possessions was a little box containing cards and letters from ex-cons who’d made it on the outside.
Reaching her destination, she stopped at the concrete post in front of the gate and pressed the button.
“Yes?” a guard asked through the speaker.
“Dr. Hayley Morgan.”
The gate slowly swung open. She drove through, parked and headed for the staff entrance—where she stepped reluctantly from the cheery daylight into the dim interior of the prison.
After signing in, she passed through the metal detector and started down the hall. At the end of it, a correctional officer unlocked the heavy door and let her into another world. One in which an eerie sense of pent-up danger hung in the air like static before an electrical storm.
