Unlawful Contact

by Pamela Clare

  She ignored his attempt to throw her own words in her face. “What’s his name?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. If she’d wanted you to know, she’d have told you. Besides, you’ll probably try to track him down, and I don’t want you near him. He’s dangerous. Even if you did find him, he’s not going to tell you anything he didn’t tell me. My methods of interrogation are more…persuasive than anything you can dish out.”

  Sophie glanced up, almost afraid to know more. “You didn’t hurt him.”

  “Not as much as I wanted to.”

  “You’re awfully comfortable with violence, aren’t you?”

  “You’d be surprised what a man can get used to.” He spoke the words casually, but there was nothing casual about them.

  The truth is I spent the past six years protecting my own ass!

  Sophie took a nervous sip of coffee, set her cup down, glanced at the clock.

  Five minutes to midnight.

  “The bottom line is that I’m out of leads and out of time. If I can’t find her, I need to find out who’s after her—and that’s where I need your help.”

  She cleared her throat, spoke slowly, articulating each syllable. “Anything I do to help Megan will be done legally.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to break the law, Sophie.”

  “Your being here is asking me to break the law.”

  “I broke in. You’re blameless.”

  “I should have called the police—”

  “Why didn’t you?” His gaze seemed to pierce her.

  Realizing she’d once again revealed too much, she ignored his question. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “DOC did an internal investigation at Denver Juvenile after Megan reported Cross. It turns out that she wasn’t the only girl he and his buddy brutalized. I need that report. I need to know the identity of Cross’s accomplice, as well as the names of the other victims. It’s possible that she’s hiding with one of them.”

  Sophie didn’t tell him that she’d already requested documentation on all such reports. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. The fact that she was already investigating his claims didn’t mean that she would share information with him.

  She stood, walked to the counter, and emptied the dregs of her French press into her cup. “DOC will redact the girls’ names because they were juveniles at the time. At best you’re going to get the name of this alleged accomplice. What are you going to do with that information once you have it?”

  “I’ll track him down and make damned good and sure he doesn’t pose a threat to my sister or any other woman.”

  That’s exactly what worried her. “Will you kill him?”

  He answered without hesitation. “If that’s the only way to protect Megan, yes.”

  She walked back to her chair and sat. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s against the law to end someone’s life because you think he raped your sister.”

  “And if I know he raped my sister?”

  “Rape isn’t a capital offense. Besides, that’s what judges and juries are—”

  He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. “I know all about judges and juries. Don’t preach to me about trusting the system. If the system worked, my sister wouldn’t be out there on the streets with her baby running for her life!”

  Sophie held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. “I won’t give you information that will enable you to commit murder.”

  He sat back, rolled his eyes, as if she were being ridiculous. “How do you think I should handle it? Have a beer with him and ask him to leave my sister alone?”

  “Let me expose him in the paper. If this accomplice really exists and he truly did what you say he did, Megan and the other alleged witnesses can help me bring him to justice. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is on sexual assault on a minor, but I—”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, Megan is missing, and even if we managed to find her, she couldn’t handle that.”

  “Megan is stronger than you realize, and she trusts me.”

  “She didn’t trust you enough to tell you she’d been raped at Denver Juvenile or to tell you who Emily’s father was, did she? Besides, she’s more fragile than you know.” He reached over, covered her hand with his, stroked the back of her wrist with his thumb. “Even if she were tough as nails, I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in this. I just need you to go under the radar and get me that report.”

  Sophie jerked her hand away, her skin tingling where he touched her. “I’ve been caught up in this since you held that gun to my head! Do you think I’d track down the report for you and just hand it over—no news coverage?”

  She could see from the look on his face that that’s exactly what he’d been thinking.

  Then his frustrated frown curved into a smile. “Does that mean you’re going to help?”

  “Not so fast, Mr. Pistol Pants.” She flipped to a blank page in her reporter’s notebook. “I told you that you’d have to answer my questions, too. Remember? And no lies.”

  “Well, okay, then.” He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and grinned. “But when you say ‘Pistol Pants’ were you referring to my firearm—or my gun?”

  MARC WAS IMPRESSED. For forty-five minutes Sophie had grilled him about the shooting with the relentlessness of a DA. How long had he known Cross? Why had he called Cross that morning? Was it normal for him to wear his sidearm when off duty and at home? Had he ever used his position to acquire and sell drugs? Who would want to plant drugs on him and why?

  He’d read her articles while in prison, following her career from a distance, and he’d known she was good. Even so, he couldn’t help but be amazed. If she ever got sick of journalism—not likely—she’d make one hell of a detective. He answered her questions carefully, more than a little distracted by the miracle of just being near her.

  He’d known Cross for a little more than a year—since his first day on the job with DEA. He’d called Cross that morning and asked him to return a set of socket wrenches he’d borrowed. Yes, it was standard for him to keep his firearm loaded and on his person even when off duty; he had a permit for concealed carry. Hell, no, he’d never bought or sold drugs. Ever. The coke had been planted on him because some asshole wanted to avenge Cross by discrediting him, creating a motive for murder, and making sure he went down for good.

  She wrote down his answers, then pored over her notes, tapping her pen against the fullest part of her lower lip—the part of her lip that he’d nibbled just a few hours ago. “When did you find out that Cross had raped Megan?”

  And all at once Marc saw the trap she’d laid at his feet. She’d asked him the other questions before asking him this one, giving him all the rope he needed to hang himself.

  Hadn’t he known she was good?

  “We’re still off the record, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m trusting you with Megan’s life, Sophie.”

  She seemed to bristle. “I keep secrets all the time. It’s part of being a journalist.”

  “Okay, then.” He drew a deep breath, steeling himself. He’d never told anyone what he was about to tell her, not even his attorney. “I didn’t know until Cross was standing in my living room. Megan had come over for supper. She and I had been reunited for about six months, and she’d been clean for about sixteen weeks—her first attempt to break free of her addiction. Cross stopped by to drop off the socket wrenches. Megan saw him from the kitchen and collapsed in hysterics.”

  No! No! Make him go away! Please, don’t let them hurt me!

  Sophie watched him through eyes soft with concern. “What did she tell you?”

  “She told me that Cross had been a guard at Denver Juvenile, had raped her almost daily during the time she spent there and had gotten away with it. But it didn’t come out in one coherent piece. I had to put it together bit by bit with Cross standing right there.”

  “What makes you think Cross had an a
ccomplice?”

  Please, don’t let them hurt me! Make him go!

  Marc rubbed his face with his hands, the wrenching sound of Megan’s sobs echoing in his mind, making his gut churn. “Several times, she said ‘them.’ Not ‘him,’ but ‘them.’ God, if you’d have seen her—she was so broken up. Jesus!”

  Marc had never felt more helpless than he had that afternoon. Once again, he’d let Megan down—and this time it had destroyed both of their lives.

  For a moment, Sophie said nothing, leaving him to rot in memories he wished to God weren’t his. Then she set her pen down and looked at him through eyes that held…

  Jesus—was that pity?

  “So you and Cross got into an argument, and you pulled your gun and shot him in a blind rage, just like you told the police?”

  Marc squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, unable to stop the scene from replaying itself in his mind.

  Come on, Hunter! I had no idea she was your sister. Hell, I didn’t even know you! Besides, you know how chick inmates are—bored and horny, dreaming of dick. Every time you walk by their cells, you know they’re hoping you’ll give it to them.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Marc drew a steadying breath, opened his eyes, found Sophie watching him. “He admitted it, Sophie. He admitted that he’d raped her—and he laughed about it.”

  She swallowed, and he could see she was upset. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry he’s dead, but if I had planned to kill him, would I have shot him in my home with my own weapon and then turned myself in? Cross and I were federal drug agents, for God’s sake! All it would have taken was a bit of time and patience, and I would’ve been able to arrange for him to die a hero’s death on the job.”

  She seemed to think this through. “There’s no mention in the police report that Megan was there.”

  Was there any detail she hadn’t noticed?

  He hesitated. “I sent her home. I shoved her out the back door and told her to run home. She was so fucked up, so afraid. I wasn’t even sure she’d be able to find her way home, but she ran. She started using again that night.”

  “She never told me, never said a word. I knew her time at Denver Juvenile had been rough. She never wanted to talk about it. But I never would have imagined anything like this.” Sophie closed her eyes for a moment, her sweet face an image of distress. Then she looked straight at him. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did you keep this to yourself? You never once mentioned what Cross had done to Megan—not to the police, not during your trial, not even at your sentencing. You know the prosecutor never would have been able to get murder one from a jury under such mitigating circumstances, and you wouldn’t have drawn a life sentence.”

  Marc felt the noose he’d made for himself tighten. “I didn’t want to drag her into it. She would have had to talk to the police, testify, endure cross examination, and I didn’t think she could take it. I wanted her to be able to get her life together.”

  She glared at him. “So you threw your own life away.”

  Was she angry with him?

  “I knew I was going to prison, but I had no idea they’d plant drugs on me or send me away for life. I thought I’d get second degree—twenty years tops, out in six. If I had known…She’s my sister, Sophie. She’s the only family I have. I would do anything to protect her.”

  “And now you think this unknown accomplice is out to kill Megan.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “After the shooting, we were alone together just once. She warned me that ‘they’ would come after her. I don’t think she understood that Cross was dead and gone. She told me that one day she’d disappear, and I would find her dead in a ditch. At the time, I thought it was nothing more than drug-induced paranoia. Then she was in and out of prison, and I had other things to worry about—her addiction and later the baby.”

  “But then she disappeared.”

  He nodded. “And left behind a stash of smack that couldn’t possibly have been hers. A half ounce? What addict would leave that kind of gold mine behind? And where did she get the money to buy it with no job?”

  Sophie sat slowly upright, her eyes growing wide. “You think that whoever planted the coke on you six years ago planted the heroin on Megan. You think he’s the accomplice.”

  “You got it.” Again Marc was impressed. “Megan must have seen him, must have known he’d found her and was coming after her. She took Emily and ran.”

  Sophie wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill, and he thought he saw goose bumps on her arms. “You should tell the police—call anonymously if you have to.”

  “No fucking way! My gut tells me that Cross’s accomplice is still in law enforcement—someone with access to the halfway house. The last thing I want to do is tip him off.” He met her gaze, held it. “Besides, do you really think they’d believe me?”

  She seemed to consider it, then shook her head. “Not without some kind of proof, and for proof you need Megan.”

  “Megan stays out of this.”

  “But she—”

  “No, Sophie!” The words came out harsher than he’d intended—but then he needed Sophie to listen. “She stays out of this. Do you understand?”

  He could see from her eyes that she didn’t.

  She looked away. “You need to go.”

  Marc stood. “Are you going to help me get that report?”

  “I filed an open-records request with DOC today. Don’t worry. I didn’t mention Megan. I should have an answer in three days if DOC brass cooperate.”

  Amazed, he couldn’t help but smile. “Damn, you’re good.”

  She lifted her chin, a hint of pride on her face. “It’s Journalism 101, actually, but go ahead and be impressed if it makes you happy. If I do decide to share information with you—and I’m making no promises—how can I reach you?”

  “I’m staying at—”

  “No! No.” She shook her head, her voice adamant. “I don’t want to know where you are. I am not going to conceal your whereabouts, and I’m not going to have unlawful contact with a fugitive—not after tonight.”

  Somehow, he didn’t think she was worried only about the legal consequences. What he’d said earlier was true—she still cared about him.

  “E-mail then.” He took her pen—the same pen that had touched her lips so many times—and wrote down his e-mail address: marked&hunted@gmail.com.

  She glanced down, then gave him a wry look. “Clever.”

  “I thought so.”

  Strangely reluctant to leave, but knowing it was time for him to go, he willed his feet to carry him toward the front door.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head and pointed toward her sliding glass door. “I think it’s only right that you leave the way you came in.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  Okay, so she wasn’t kidding.

  “All right. Fine by me.” He crossed the room, wishing he could find an excuse to stay, every fiber in his body wanting to be near her.

  What if they catch you and you never see her again?

  The thought dropped like lead from his brain into his gut.

  He unlocked the sliding glass door, then turned back to face her. “I’m sorry I frightened you tonight, but I’m not sorry I kissed you.”

  Her face flushed pink. “Don’t ever break into my home again.”

  He nodded. “Sure, if that’s how you want it.”

  Then unable to stop himself, he slid his hand into her hair, ducked down, and kissed her, deep and slow. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but didn’t fight him, her lips parting to give him access, her tongue swirling with his, her body soft and pliant.

  Too soon it was over.

  He touched a finger to her nose. “Goodnight, sprite.”

  She stepped back, hugged h
er arms around herself. “Please, Hunt—be careful.”

  “You can count on it.” He slid the door open, stepped out onto her balcony, and shut the door behind him.

  She locked it and dropped the dowel back into place, watching him through the glass, the sad expression on her face telling him she didn’t expect to see him again.

  Oh, but she would. If he had anything to say about it, she certainly would.

  SOPHIE WATCHED HUNT lift first one leg over her balcony railing and then the other. He glanced at her, grinned, then adjusted his grip so that he was holding the vertical iron bars. Then in one smooth motion, his hands slid down the bars, and he dropped out of sight. A moment later, he reappeared striding through the snow toward the street, a shadow in the darkness.

  Only after he’d disappeared from view did she realize she was crying.

  She dropped the curtain back into place, then settled on the couch, drawing the blanket around her, giving in to her tears. She’d listened to a lot of horrific stories in her years as a reporter, but this one had been harder to hear than most, probably because she cared so much for Megan. The thought of what Megan had endured sickened her—a troubled teen raped repeatedly by men who were entrusted with her rehabilitation.

  How afraid and alone Megan must have felt, how desperate, how betrayed!

  Sophie had known Megan’s drug use started sometime after she’d gotten out of Denver Juvenile—and now she knew why. The poor kid had paid for theft with rape. She’d been horribly traumatized and had started shooting up to make it all go away. Like many injection drug users, she’d been self-medicating.

  But then she’d gotten clean, had her baby, done her time. She’d been on the threshold of a new life, and it had been taken from her, stolen by whomever had helped Cross. What kind of monster would do that to a young woman, to a new mother?

  I’m not sorry Cross is dead.

  Hunt had said it, and Sophie had no doubt he meant it.

  And truth be told, she couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. She couldn’t condone what he’d done, but she could at least understand it. He had killed Cross in a desperate moment, and he was paying for it. Unless Megan was found and came forward, he would pay for it with the rest of his life.