Falling For The Enemy. Dawn Stewardson
credit for that. Apparently it was very important to him that the assessing psychologist believe him, which got me wondering. You know what I mean?”
“He doth protest too much, and all that jazz?”
“Exactly. I couldn’t help thinking it might not be true at all.”
“And you want to know whether it is because...?”
For a moment, she almost gave in to the urge to tell Peggy everything and ask her advice. If Billy’s people had grabbed her son rather than Max, what would Peggy do? Would she trust the scandalplagued New Orleans police force enough to report the kidnapping? Trust it with her son’s life? Or trust the FBI?
Hayley couldn’t ask, though. She was too terrified that, as Sloan had intimated, Peggy might take the matter into her own hands.
There couldn’t really be much chance of it. Still, any chance was too much, so she simply said, “Knowing would make my assessment easier.”
When only silence followed that, her skin began to feel clammy.
“Why?” Peggy finally asked. “You think Billy Fitz might give you his word about something while you’re assessing him?”
“Well...sort of. I mean, if he swears he has no ulterior motive, that he really does only want a transfer so he can get into a rehab program...”
“I thought we agreed that was a crock?”
“Yes, but I’ve been thinking more about it and... Oh, Lord, am I out of line here? Maybe I shouldn’t ask you to do this. I didn’t figure it would be a big deal, but if it is I can—”
“No,” Peggy said slowly. “No, it’s not a big deal. I’ll talk to a couple of informers, see what they say. You just surprised me. The question seemed strange.”
“It did?”
“Yeah. But I guess that was just the cop in me. Once a perp’s in for life, nobody on the job cares whether his word’s worth two cents. Actually, at that point nobody cares anything about him. But I guess my mind-set’s not quite the same as yours.”
Hayley forced a laugh. “Right. Your job’s putting them behind bars. Mine’s keeping an eye on their mental health once they’re there. And I don’t want to make any mistakes when it comes to Fitzgerald. Don’t want to see my name in the Times-Picayune , in some article on how the head of the Irish Mafia is getting special privileges. Or in one saying we’re treating him unfairly, either.”
“Yeah...I see your point. Well it shouldn’t take me long to ask around. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got something.”
“Do you think it might be today?”
Peggy didn’t answer for a couple of beats. That started Hayley sweating even harder.
“I thought the assessment on Fitz wasn’t going to happen for ages,” her friend said at last.
“Oh, it probably won’t. I’d just like to finish my notes for the file. So I can get it off my desk.”
“Ah. Okay. I’ll see what I can do today. But it might be tomorrow or Thursday before I get back to you.”
“Whenever you can. And thanks, I owe you one. Bye.”
“Bye, Hayley.”
She hung up, her hands trembling. She wasn’t used to lying and she didn’t like the way it made her feel. But at least she’d learn what she needed to know.
SLOAN PRESSED THE BUTTON on the post, then identified himself to the disembodied voice that responded. When the gate opened, he reluctantly drove into the Poquette Correctional Center compound, really not looking forward to this visit with Billy.
Hayley Morgan had done anything but endear herself to him by not recommending a transfer, so predicting how he’d react to the idea of letting her see her son wasn’t tough.
After parking his Cherokee in a visitor’s space, Sloan climbed out into the gathering morning heat and checked the staff section of the lot for Hayley’s car. One of Billy’s boys had told him it was a silver Taurus and given him the plate number, which made it easy to establish that she was already here. Here and expecting him to stop by after he’d seen Billy.
And if he had to report that Billy had said “No way she can see her kid...” Hell, that was undoubtedly what he would say, regardless of how hard Sloan argued.
Telling himself he’d just have to hope the luck of the Irish was on his side today, and that his powers of persuasion were in top form, he started across the dusty parking lot toward the dirty brick quadrangle that was Poquette.
When he opened the front door, stale air wafted out toward him. Wishing for the tenth time that he didn’t have to be here, he stepped inside and walked the few feet to the metal detector, sticking his keys and loose change on a tray before stepping through.
Once the correctional officer on door duty nodded for him to proceed, he retrieved his things and headed for the reception counter, trying to stop remembering the way Hayley had looked yesterday when he’d told her Billy’s men had snatched Max.
He couldn’t force the image from his mind’s eye, though. Hadn’t been able to, in fact, since he’d woken up this morning. In mere seconds, she’d gone from a picture of calm composure to a portrait of anguish.
Seeing her face grow pale and her dark eyes fill with terror had made him feel lower than an alligator’s belly. He hated being a part of what was happening to her and her son, and if he could, he’d simply deliver the boy back to her.
But that just wasn’t an option.
Exhaling slowly, he reminded himself he was only doing his job. That usually helped.
It didn’t this time, though. Probably, he knew, because Hayley Morgan wasn’t like most of the other women he’d had dealings with while working for Billy.
Actually, unless his memory was failing, she wasn’t like a single one of them. She was intelligent and cultured and...
And dammit, she appealed to him in a way he couldn’t let any woman appeal to him. A way that was physical, yet dangerously more than that.
There was something about her, some substance or inner strength, that had reached out and grabbed him. As upset and frightened as she’d been, as close to dissolving into tears as he’d known she was, she’d pulled herself together and coped with the situation as best she could.
He liked that strength, liked the way... But hell, there was no point in defining what touched him about her. Since she had to figure he was the scum of the earth, thinking about that was nothing except a waste of time.
At the reception counter, he gave his name and identified himself as William Fitzgerald’s lawyer. The correctional officer checked the appointment log, then buzzed the door unlocked. It led to a small room where another C.O. had him empty his pockets.
“What’s that for?” the officer asked as Sloan set his minirecorder on the table.
“I use it to tape conversations with clients.”
The C.O. picked up the recorder and examined it, removing and then reinserting the cassette before checking that the space for the batteries contained nothing it shouldn’t.
As he put the unit back down, Sloan began to breathe more easily again. It hadn’t happened yet, but there was always the risk that one of these guys would notice the extra switch.
“Face the table and place your hands on it,” the C.O. ordered.
When he did, the man treated him to a thorough pat-down—one of the joys of visiting someone in protective custody.
“I’ll call ahead and have the prisoner brought from his cell,” the C.O. said when he’d finished. “Then I’ll get someone to escort you to the visiting room.”