Unlawful Contact

by Pamela Clare

  “To Florida? Oh, no!” Mr. Rawlings said. “We bought that house after she left. I don’t think she even knows about it.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.” He waited a beat. “I’d hate for you to run into her now that her brother is out.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings exchanged another glance.

  “Her brother?” they said in near unison.

  “He escaped from prison last week. Took some reporter hostage. You probably heard about it on the news.” Marc saw from the looks on their faces that they had. Then he lowered his voice like a cop about to share the inside scoop. “The guys working the case think he broke out to be with Megan, so the two of them have likely hooked up somewhere. He’s a convicted murderer—armed and dangerous. It’s probably a good thing you’re leaving town.”

  He stepped outside, took three steps down the sidewalk.

  “What about our house?” Mrs. Rawlings called after him.

  Marc stopped and turned to face them. “You should ask your neighbors and your housekeeper to report anything suspicious.”

  “Our neighbors are in Costa Rica, and we let our housekeeper go till spring.” Mrs. Rawlings’s voice had taken on a whiny tone.

  Marc pretended to hesitate. “I suppose I could order extra patrols and look in on the place myself from time to time if that would give you some peace of mind.”

  “We’d appreciate that very much, detective,” Mr. Rawlings said. “Thank you.”

  Marc smiled, already looking forward to his new home. “Don’t mention it.”

  AN INMATE AT Denver County Jail was found dead of an apparent heroin overdose in her cell early Sunday morning. Charlotte Martin, 25, was found at 5:24 A.M. by a guard during morning count. No attempts were made to resuscitate Martin, who had clearly been dead for several hours.

  Sophie typed the words, then glanced at the clock. A half hour till deadline. She was never this far behind. Then again, she’d spent half the day researching Hunt’s background, studying old news articles about his arrest and trial until she had the details memorized.

  He’d spent six years in the army, becoming a decorated Special Operations sniper and serving eighteen months in Afghanistan, where he’d set a record both for confirmed kills and long-distance marksmanship. Then he’d returned to Colorado and taken a post with the DEA, working narcotics. He’d owned a home, a couple of cars, including the old ’55 Chevy, and, according to his superiors, seemed the model officer.

  But on the afternoon of August 12, 2001, Hunt had called 911 to report that he’d just shot and killed a friend. Police had rushed to his house in Westminster to find him sitting in his living room near the body, his unloaded weapon lying on the coffee table. He’d told the cops that he and Cross had argued and that he hadn’t realized what he was doing until it was too late. News stories had discussed Hunt’s flawless service record and had speculated that the stress of serving in Afghanistan had played some role in whatever had caused him to snap. The district attorney had hinted that he was inclined toward leniency—and a possible plea bargain.

  Then police had found the drugs.

  Drugs.

  Heroin overdose. Denver County Jail. Deadline.

  Crud!

  Sophie forced her mind off Marc and back onto the article she was supposed to be writing.

  Toxicology tests showed high levels of morphine…

  She glanced quickly through her notes.

  …and the anesthetic fentanyl in Martin’s blood, as well as trace amounts of codeine in her bladder. Together with fragments of rubber found in Martin’s stomach during the autopsy, the tests support the coroner’s conclusion that Martin died quickly of an overdose after swallowing a balloon of fentanyl-laced heroin. Fentanyl is a fast-acting drug that when mixed with heroin offers an unparalleled but often deadly high. The combination is called fefe on the streets and has earned nicknames like flatliner, executioner, and drop dead.

  A week after the shooting, police had found two bricks of cocaine in Marc’s crawl space and a few ounces in his car. Marc had vehemently denied the drugs were his, claiming it must have been a setup, but they’d charged him with possession of a schedule I controlled substance with intent to sell. Then phone records had proved that Marc had called Cross the morning before the shooting, and Cross’s widow had told investigators that he’d asked her husband to come over that afternoon. And abruptly, the tone of the news coverage had changed. Articles now depicted him as a corrupt agent who’d killed a friend to cover up his double-dealing. The DA had quit talking leniency and upped the charge to first-degree murder.

  Sophie’s phone beeped, jerking her back to the moment.

  “How’s that second story coming?” Syd sounded stressed, but then Syd was always stressed out.

  “I’m getting there.” Sophie flipped through her notes and popped in a quote from the DOC flack.

  “We work hard to keep contraband out of prison,” said Allyson Harris, DOC spokeswoman. “Sometimes inmates on work release smuggle it in. Other times staff are to blame. Sometimes they take to selling drugs or other contraband during a financial or personal crisis.”

  As a DEA agent, Marc must have seen the human toll that hard drugs inflicted on society. He’d certainly seen what addiction had done to Megan. But somehow cocaine had found its way into his house and car. Tests proved it had been stolen from the evidence room. In the end, it had damned him because it created a clear and powerful motive for murder.

  But what could have made Hunt betray his badge to sell drugs when drugs had destroyed his sister’s life? Why would he admit to killing a man but steadfastly deny dealing coke unless it was the truth? And why hadn’t he told the cops that Cross had raped Megan when surely that would have shaved decades off his prison sentence?

  Not once had Hunt mentioned his sister—not during his trial when the prosecutor had tried to insinuate that Hunt and Cross had argued about the cocaine, not even prior to his sentencing when the judge had asked him for any reason to show leniency.

  It made no sense.

  In the end, he’d barely escaped lethal injection.

  “It is the hope of this court, Mr. Hunter,” the judge had said at Hunt’s sentencing, “that you will die behind bars.”

  If he was caught, that’s exactly what would happen. Unless the police shot him first. Or he’d already frozen to death in the mountains.

  Where are you, Hunt?

  Sophie’s phone beeped again and her gaze flew to the clock.

  Ten minutes.

  “I’ll have it to you in five, Syd.”

  Her blood spiked with deadline adrenaline, she pounded out the rest of the article, finishing with a minute to spare. She felt guilty that she’d put so little effort into the piece. A woman had died, after all.

  You’re obsessed with him, Alton. Admit it.

  Okay. So she was obsessed with Marc Hunter.

  Happy now?

  What did she think she stood to gain by digging into Hunt’s case? Could anything change the fact that he was a convicted murderer or that he’d held a gun to her head? Why did getting to the truth matter so much to her?

  You’re a journalist. Getting to the truth is your job.

  And the truth was that some part of her—some really stupid teenage part of her—still cared about him.

  “OH, GOD! OH, GOD!”

  “Yeah, fuck me, baby!”

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  The hooker next door—Angie was her name—was giving some happy guy a little bang for his buck, the bed knocking against the wall, the throaty groans more than a little distracting. It would have been hard to ignore even if Marc hadn’t spent the past six years in a cage with only his right hand for company. As it was, just the idea of sex gave him a hard-on. He didn’t need Sex Surround Sound.

  Trying to tune out the noise, Marc stared at the lightbulb on his ceiling, raw sexual frustration mixing with leftover rage from his visit with the Rawlingses. It had been hard enough to listen to their san
ctimonious bullshit about his mother, the same sort of crap he’d heard all his life, but seeing their utter indifference to Megan and Emily had pushed him dangerously close to the edge. How could they have taken Megan into their home and yet feel nothing for her? How could they blame her for what Cross had done to her? How did they sleep at night knowing that the girl they’d raised from the innocent age of four was out on the streets with her baby?

  Despites his mother’s faults—and she’d had more than her share—he’d always known that she loved her children, even if she’d been too much of a mess to take care of them.

  Your sister’s gone to a better home. She’s with people who will raise her right.

  For so many years, Marc had fought off the guilt and grief of losing his little sister by clinging to the hope that his mother’s words were true. While he’d drifted from one foster home to the next, he’d pictured Megan growing up with all the things a girl should have—doting parents to protect her from boys, pretty dresses, lots of friends. He’d assured himself that she was lucky because she didn’t have to live with the shame of having a mother in prison. When he’d been in Afghanistan and their mother had fallen ill with advanced hepatitis C and liver cancer, he’d actually been grateful that Megan had been spared the ordeal of watching her die. He’d had no idea that Megan’s life had been so miserable and lonely.

  If he had known, if he’d had any idea…

  Now another day had come and gone, and he was no closer to finding his sister than he’d been yesterday. Still, he supposed the day hadn’t been a total waste. He now knew that Megan hadn’t been Cross’s only victim and that there had been an official inquiry and a report.

  But how could he get his hands on that report?

  He’d wasted a few hours tonight trying once again to crack the DOC database, hours that would have been better spent beating his head against the wall. Then he’d wasted another hour going through the online DOC staff directory, looking for anyone with past ties to the Denver Juvenile Detention Center. But there were hundreds of employees at dozens of facilities, and he couldn’t be certain the information on the website was complete—or that the man he was looking for still worked for DOC.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  “Oh, yeah! Oh, baby!”

  His cock painfully erect, Marc was tempted to go with the flow and kill to another Sophie fantasy. But he was too pissed off for that. Besides, coming in his own fist had become noticeably less satisfying since kissing her in that sleeping bag, and he had other things to do.

  It came down to this: he had to find Megan, and he had to find her now.

  Easier said than done, buddy.

  He needed that report. He needed someone whose credentials would force the DOC to open its file drawers. He needed someone who cared about Megan enough to spend hours looking through old records.

  He needed Sophie.

  But this wasn’t something he could force Sophie to do. There was too much at stake for her if she were caught. If she agreed to help him, it would have to be of her own free will.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  “God, yes!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Sick of listening to the fuck fest, Marc rose from the bed, his body so tight he thought it might snap. He slipped into his boots, pulled on his jacket, and tucked one of the Glocks into his waistband. Then he stepped outside, locked the door behind him, and headed down the street, sucking cold night air into his lungs.

  Would Sophie help him? Or would she call the cops?

  He was about to find out.

  CHAPTER 10

  MARC MADE HIS way quickly through the cold streets of the city to Sophie’s address on Gaylord Street in Cheesman Park. He’d expected to find her living in a stylish condo. Instead, she lived on the second floor of a small two-story apartment building that looked like it belonged on the bad side of town. The concrete stairs were uneven. The asphalt parking lot was pitted with potholes. The paint was chipped and curling. As he scoped out the place, he found himself wondering whether the address on her driver’s license was out of date or whether reporters earned a lot less than he’d imagined. Surely, she could afford better than this.

  He surveyed the front of the building—four apartments across the bottom and four on top—then made his way around to the back. Each of the apartments had either a little patio or a balcony, accessed with sliding glass doors. There were no security cameras, no floodlights, no gates or guards. Breaking in would be almost too easy.

  Unless Sophie had a live-in lover who owned a gun.

  Wouldn’t it be a riot if some irate boyfriend lit you up, Hunter?

  Yes, it would—a laugh a minute.

  It had dawned on him on the way over that no rings on her fingers didn’t necessarily mean no man in her life. For all he knew she was in the middle of a serious relationship with some guy who seriously wanted to kick his ass. It was only after he’d gotten good and pissed off, certain the bastard wasn’t good enough for her, that he’d realized he was being ridiculous. He didn’t even know for certain that she had a boyfriend.

  If any man isn’t good enough for her, it’s you, dumbass.

  Sophie had a right to do whatever she wanted with her life. If she had a live-in boyfriend, Marc wouldn’t risk a confrontation. He’d just have to find some other way of reaching her—in the grocery store or at the gas pump.

  He walked over to the patio beneath her balcony, grabbed a plastic lawn chair from her downstairs neighbors and shook off the snow. He positioned it carefully and stepped onto it. Then he reached up, caught hold of the iron bars, and pulled himself up. Five seconds later he was climbing over the railing.

  He brushed the snow from his hands, flexed his chilled fingers, then stepped quietly up to the sliding glass door. Soft blue light flickered through a crack in the curtains, telling him she was there, on the other side of the glass, watching television. He peeked through, saw the top of her head resting on the arm of the couch, her hair spilling over the side.

  She appeared to be asleep—and alone.

  Quickly, carefully, he grasped the door and worked it out of its track, slowed only slightly by the wooden dowel she’d used to block burglars. He stepped inside and settled the door cleanly back into place, glancing over his shoulder at Sophie to see whether he’d woken her. On the television behind him, a man with an English accent was talking about medieval knights and chivalry.

  Marc drew his Glock and moved silently from room to room, clearing the apartment, making absolutely certain she was alone. He couldn’t help but notice the single toothbrush by her sink or the lack of man stuff in the shower or the pink and white quilt on her bed. Nor could he stop himself from feeling damn pleased by these discoveries.

  Sophie lived alone.

  Taking a few seconds to check that the front door was locked, he tucked the Glock into the waistband of his jeans and walked back to the living room.

  She was still asleep, her face turned toward the television, the side of her throat exposed, her red gold hair fanned around her head like a halo. Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted. Her bathrobe had come open to show the creamy swell of one breast, her chest rising and falling with each slow breath. A thick blanket hugged the curve of her hips and the slender length of her legs, her frosty lavender toenails peeking out the bottom.

  Marc forgot to breathe, some emotion he didn’t care to name stirring in his chest. She was the sweetest sight he’d ever seen—beautiful, feminine, innocently erotic. She slept so peacefully, so deeply, completely unaware that a man with a gun had just broken into her apartment and now stood beside her.

  And suddenly Marc felt like an invader, a trespasser who’d violated something sacred. He didn’t belong here. He shouldn’t have come. If he left now, she would sleep through the night undisturbed, never knowing he’d been here.

  But then he’d be no closer to finding Megan and little Emily.

  He walked over to the sofa and knelt down besi
de her, drinking in the sight of her, wanting her, wanting to protect her. The bruise on her cheek was now a faint yellow stain, the deeper bruises on her wrists still purple in places—a reminder of what she’d gone through the last time he’d intruded into her life.

  She stirred in her sleep, turned toward him, and gave a little sigh, her motions exposing a pink crescent of nipple, which puckered and grew tight even as he watched.

  Marc’s brain told him that she was just cold from the night air he’d let in, but his body read the signal as a personal invitation. Ignoring his growing erection, he ran his knuckles over her cheek, hoping to wake her without scaring her. “Sophie?”

  Sophie was having the most delicious dream. Hunt was kissing her, and she was kissing him back. The kiss was perfect, romantic and sweet, the warmth of it melting her fears and worries away, stirring her sexual need. It felt so right being with him like this, and she wondered how she could have lost touch with him. She’d heard he’d been in prison, but that couldn’t be true because he was here with her.

  God, she loved the way he kissed, the way he—

  “Wake up, sprite.”

  Sophie opened her eyes to find herself looking straight at Hunt—not some figment of her imagination, but the real, live man.

  His face was inches from hers, his green eyes dark, his fingers pressed lightly against her lips. “Easy, Sophie. I’m not going hurt you. I just came to talk.”

  Confused, her dream still strong in her mind, she reached up, touched the stubble-rough skin of his jaw. “Hunt?”

  “Yeah.”

  Confusion turned to a warm rush of relief. “You’re alive!”

  He gave a lopsided grin. “For the moment.”

  And then it hit her.

  Hunt was a fugitive, and he was really here.

  In her apartment.

  In the middle of the night.

  A jolt of alarm brought her fully awake, the truth of her situation crashing in. She sat up and stared at him, stunned.

  It was then she noticed he’d cut his hair and shaved off his beard. Dressed in a fleece-lined denim jacket, a black turtleneck, and a pair of faded jeans, he looked more like the Hunt she remembered from high school than the Marc Hunter who’d held her at gunpoint. Except that he was quite obviously no longer a teenager, but a full-grown man—potent, hard-edged, and dangerous.