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In contrast to the Orleans Parish state government building, with Muzak whispering in the elevators and sunlight streaming through the windows on every floor, Poquette was stark and harsh—the epitome of uninviting.
It felt...hollow was a good word. The clicking of her heels on the stone floor echoed far too loudly. And even though sounds from the cell blocks didn’t actually reach the admin wing, she couldn’t keep from imagining steel doors clanging and voices calling out from behind bars.
At Records she picked up Billy Fitzgerald’s file, then proceeded to the psych area. She barely reached her little Tuesdays office before nine o’clock. Minutes later, as prearranged, a C.O. delivered Billy Fitzgerald.
He was a few inches taller than she was, five foot nine or ten, and somewhat overweight, although not sloppily so. His eyes were blue, his thinning hair mostly gray, with just enough traces of red to tell her that was its original color.
In media shots she’d seen of him he’d been a dapper and confident-looking man. Not surprisingly, he was far less imposing in drab, prison-issue cotton. His bearing, however, said he was a man used to issuing orders and having them followed.
The C.O. caught Hayley’s glance and said, “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
After nodding to him, she looked at Fitzgerald again. “I’m Dr. Morgan, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Billy,” he said, giving her a smile. “Call me Billy.”
She returned his smile and gestured for him to sit, thinking that even though he’d lived in the Garden District before he landed in Poquette it wasn’t where his roots lay.
He spoke with a slight accent that was almost Brooklynese, almost movie gangster—typical of the Irish Channel part of New Orleans, where, generations earlier, a rough, tough collection of Irish immigrants had settled.
As he sat down across the desk from her, she opened his folder. The top document was a photocopy of his request for a transfer.
“Wishes to enter a rehabilitation program” was all that was typed as the Reason for Request.
She flipped through the routine incarceration documents until she located the original of the intake evaluation she’d studied yesterday.
“I have your initial psychological assessment records here,” she told him. “You’ve been at Poquette so briefly I don’t think we need to spend time going over the same things again. Why don’t we just talk about why you want a transfer.”
“Sloan Reeves spoke to you about that, didn’t he?” Fitzgerald’s tone was carefully nonconfrontational. He sounded like a man simply seeking information, nothing more.
“Yes, he came by my office yesterday. There was one question I didn’t think to ask him though. Is there any particular prison you’d prefer to be transferred to?”
“Not really. Any one with a rehab program would be fine.”
“I see.” It had occurred to her that there might be some way he could arrange for special treatment at a specific prison, but his answer shot down that theory.
“Why don’t you tell me, in your own words,” she suggested, “the reasons you’d like to be in one of the programs.”
He nodded, the picture of cooperation, then proceeded to recite from the same script Reeves had used. He had a problem with the isolation; he wanted more human interaction; he needed something to occupy his mind.
Fitzgerald’s explanation was pat and polished. Hayley didn’t buy it from him any more than she’d bought it from Reeves.
She’d spent years in classrooms studying human nature, followed by more years in the real world doing the same. And she was absolutely certain Fitzgerald had no more desire to get into a rehab program than she did.
He obviously figured he had something to gain from a transfer, but the longer they talked, the more apparent it became that he wasn’t going to tell her what it was. Finally, she concluded the interview and opened the door to tell the correctional officer. they were finished.
“Thank you,” Fitzgerald said when he rose to leave.
He gave her another of his charming smiles and extended his hand with an uncertainty she doubted was real.
“I’m not up on prison etiquette yet, Dr. Morgan, but on the outside...”
She reached over and shook hands with him, guessing that his was damp because he was far more anxious than he’d let on.
After the C.O. escorted him out and their footsteps had faded into silence, she sat staring at the blank evaluation form in front of her for a few minutes. Then she picked up her pen and began to write.
Once she was done, she tucked the form into her briefcase. Then, after gathering up the file on Fitzgerald, she returned it to Records and headed for Armstrong’s office.
The instant she arrived, his assistant buzzed the warden and ushered her in.
“Dr. Morgan.” Armstrong half rose behind his desk and gestured for her to sit. He was a large, beefy man with a ruddy complexion that made her assume he liked his bourbon.
“I understand you arranged to see Fitzgerald first thing.”
“Yes. I’ve just come from the interview.”
“And what are you recommending?”
She handed him the form. He skimmed what she’d written, then jotted down something on a different form, scrawled his signature and looked at her once more.
“That’s it,” he said. “Mr. Fitzgerald stays where he is.”
“May I ask a question?” Hayley said before he had a chance to dismiss her.
“Sure.”
“Why did you want to get this done so quickly?”
He shrugged. “Fitzgerald’s like a lot of executive-suite prisoners. They’re used to wielding power on the outside, and they come in here expecting to do the same. I like to give them a dose of reality as fast as I can.”
“Ah.”
“Anything else?”
When she shook her head, he picked up the two forms and escorted her out of the office.
His assistant looked up expectantly as the door opened.
Armstrong handed him the papers, saying, “Make sure Fitzgerald’s advised of my decision.”
SLOAN REEVES ANSWERED his phone on the first ring. It was the call he’d been waiting for.
“She recommended against a transfer,” Armstrong’s assistant said quietly. “And the warden’s turned down the application.”
Sloan swore under his breath. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem.”
Right. Few people had a problem dispensing information if enough money changed hands.
Hanging up, he slowly shook his head. Why the hell couldn’t she have just gone along with them? Done what he’d asked and said a change of scenery would benefit Billy’s mental health?
It wouldn’t have made Armstrong approve the application. They’d known he wouldn’t do that. But if Hayley Morgan had simply said what they’d wanted her to, she’d have given them the perfect ammunition to go straight to the governor’s office and make a case there about getting Billy out of Poquette on the cruel-and-unusual-punishment angle. Since this was an election year and the governor counted on the support, or at least the noninterference, of the Irish Mafia, Billy would have been on his way to another prison in no time.
Now, though... Sloan knew only too well what Billy would say now.
It would take a while to arrange everything, probably till the start of next week, but he’d want the wheels set in motion as soon as possible.
Sloan glanced at his watch, aware that he had to talk to Billy just as soon as he could. Maybe he could convince him to try another tack. But if he couldn’t...
If the man was determined to proceed with plan B, with or without Sloan’s help, then Sloan’s only option would be to stay closely involved. Give Billy suggestions and hope to hell he took them. Otherwise, things could get awfully bad. For Morgan and for her son.
“DON’T FORGET THE RULES,” Mrs. Kelly reminded Max from behind the screen door.
“I won’t,” he told her.
She was nice, ’cept that every Monday she always talked about the rules. He’d told his mom he didn’t like that, but she said Mrs. Kelly was just afraid he’d forgotten them over the weekend.
He never did, though. So she didn’t have to keep tellin’ him over and over. And she always had the same look his mom did, the look that warned if he broke them he’d be in big, big trouble.
“Only ride on the sidewalk,” she said. “And don’t go off the block.”
“I know. I’m just goin’ to see if any kids are out playin’.”
Pushing off, wobbling a little until he got going, he headed toward the end of the street, watching real good while he passed the house where King lived. Sometimes he was out on the porch, and Jimmy’s mom said that dog was born to chase bikes.
He was born to chase cats, too.
His own mom said that Satchmo probably only had about three of his nine lives left ’cuz of King.
“Yes!” he whispered as he reached the far side of the yard. Now he was into what he and Jimmy called “the safe zone.” There were no more big dogs for the rest of the block.
But there were no kids out playing, either. Disappointed, Max stopped in front of the last house, wishing that Jimmy and his family hadn’t gone on their car trip. The summer wasn’t half as much fun when your best friend was away.
But Mom had circled on the calendar when he’d be back, and Max was marking off the days, so he knew Jimmy would be home soon. Then—
“Max? Max Morgan?”
Startled, he looked toward the curb. The man who’d called his name was in a car with another man. He didn’t think he’d ever seen either of them before.
Never talk to strangers. That was one of the serious rules.
“You are Max, aren’t you?”
He nodded. That wasn’t talking.
“Good, because your mother asked us to pick you up for her. But when we went to Mrs. Kelly’s and she told us you were out riding your bike, we didn’t know if we’d be able to find you.”
Max looked back the way he’d come, surprised they’d had enough time to talk to Mrs. Kelly.
The man who wasn’t driving got out and opened the back door. “Hop in. I’ll put your bike in the trunk.”
“I can’t,” Max said, feeling kinda scared.
The men hadn’t said the secret word, and if Mom wanted him to go with them she’d have told them it. She always said he should never go anywhere with anyone he didn’t know unless they told him the secret word.
“Max, it’s okay. Your mom’s getting off work early and she wants to take you someplace straight from her office. We’re not supposed to tell you where ’cuz it’s a surprise, but it’s a place you really like.”
He scratched his arm, thinking it might be the zoo. That was his favorite place, and the white alligators were his favorite things to see.
“Come on,” the man who’d gotten out of the car said with a smile.
Maybe they just forgot. “You have to say the secret word first,” he told them. “I can’t go unless you do.”
The man standing outside looked at the one driving. “Uh...Max,” he said. “We didn’t want to frighten you by telling you this, but your mom fell on some stairs and hurt her leg. She’s okay,” he added quickly. “But she had to go to a hospital and get checked over, so I guess in all the excitement she just wasn’t thinking about the secret word.
“She wanted us to drive you to the hospital, though. ’Cuz she’s going to take you out for dinner after she’s done there. And it’s really okay to come with us. We’re cops.”
“Detectives,” the other one said. “That’s why we aren’t wearing uniforms.”
He didn’t want to cry, but his eyes started to sting and tears began rolling down his cheeks. What if his mom was hurt worse than they were telling him?
“Come on, Max. When we get to the hospital you’ll see for yourself that she’s just fine.”
SLOAN STOOD in the lobby of the Orleans Parish state government building, waiting for O’Rourke’s call and assuring himself that nothing could have gone wrong.
Watching the sitter’s house for a few days last week had told them Max Morgan was a child of habit. Every day right after lunch he hit the street on his bike. So it was merely a matter of picking him up without anyone noticing.
But what if something had gone wrong? Despite the air-conditioning, that possibility was enough to start him sweating.
Both O’Rourke and Sammy were family men, though. And he’d suggested that Billy choose them for the job because he’d figured neither would ever harm a six-year-old. Just as he was reminding himself of that, his cell phone rang.
“Sloan Reeves,” he answered.
“Got him,” O’Rourke said. “No problems.”
“And he’s okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. But he ain’t a happy camper.”
Sloan exhaled slowly, not wanting to even think about how frightened the boy must be. “Do your best to reassure him, huh? And tell him his mom’s going to phone him soon.”
“Sure.”
He just hoped that Hayley Morgan was in her office. Otherwise, soon might not be possible. “You’re being careful not to use your real names?”
“Yeah, of course. Sammy’s ‘Tom’ and I’m ‘Dick.’ Like the Smothers Brothers. How’re we gonna forget that?”
He hadn’t figured either O’Rourke or Sammy was old enough to remember the sixties folk-song duo. He barely was himself. But since they did, it should help them keep from slipping up.
