Unlawful Contact

by Pamela Clare

  She didn’t care.

  After having crazy sex on the Jag, the two of them had taken a nap. Then she’d made dinner—salmon again—while Hunt had moved his search into the attic. After dinner, she’d modeled her new clothes for him, focusing especially on the lingerie. Naturally, this had resulted in more crazed sex—this time straddling his lap in front of the mirror so that she could watch him enter her body—and then he’d brought her out to the hot tub for champagne under the stars.

  “Come on. It’s time to go inside.” Ignoring her moan of protest, he stood, lifted her to her feet and climbed out of the tub, his bare butt a sight to behold. He pulled two towels out of the towel warmer. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” She stepped into the towel’s toasty warmth, her body so heated that the night air didn’t bother her—for a couple of seconds. “God, it’s cold!”

  They hurried inside through ankle-deep snow, hand in hand.

  “You can have the first shower. I’m going to poke around on the Internet.”

  Sophie pressed a kiss to his bare chest, then walked off to the bathroom to rinse off. She dropped the towel, turned on the water, and stepped under the spray, suddenly very drowsy. By the time she was dried and wearing her new silk bathrobe, she could hardly keep her eyes open. Must have been all that hot water.

  And all that hot sex.

  She brushed her teeth, then shuffled from the bathroom, making a line for the bed.

  That’s where she found Hunt. He’d slipped into a pair of jeans and was leaning back against the headboard, looking at the screen of his laptop, a frown on his face.

  He glanced over at her. “When did you last check your e-mail?”

  “This morning.”

  “Well, you might want to check it now. There’s breaking news. A man was found dead in an apparent suicide this weekend. According to your paper’s website, he worked as a guard at Denver County Jail.”

  CHAPTER 24

  MARC PASSED THE semi, dirty slush spraying over the Jag’s windshield from the truck’s massive tires. He sprayed wiper fluid over the glass and turned on the wipers. “I’m not buying it. It’s too simple, too tidy. Corrupt guard screws up and sparks an internal investigation. He knows he’ll get caught, so he panics—and kills himself? Kind of drastic.”

  “I see what you’re saying.” Beside him, Sophie was glancing at the CBI reports she’d gotten from Tom this morning. “But maybe he realized this internal investigation would expose his earlier crimes—multiple counts of first-degree rape, prisoner abuse—so he freaked out and killed himself. We need to see it from his point of view—disgrace, humiliation, prison.”

  Marc shook his head. “I can’t say why, but it still doesn’t feel right. I really need to read through the police and autopsy reports, look at the facts myself.”

  She looked up at him. “You think he was murdered.”

  “I think it’s a possibility.”

  “The coroner’s office ought to make the report public in the next couple of days. The police report is probably already waiting in my e-mail.”

  “But here’s the thing, Sophie. Even if this Joseph Addison was the same guard who tried to get into your cell—and we don’t know that for sure yet—it doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  “That he was one of the men who assaulted Megan and the other girls. Yeah, I know.”

  “Maybe he had his own gig going on at the jail. Or maybe he developed a fascination with you after all the news coverage. Maybe he just wanted an autograph to sell on eBay.”

  In journalist mode, she ignored his joke. “So as I see it, here are the possibilities: either he was working with Cross, or he wasn’t working with Cross. Either he committed suicide, or he was murdered. If he did commit suicide, that tells us nothing. If he was murdered and he was working with Cross, then we know there’s someone else out there.”

  Someone willing to do anything to hide the past.

  “Sounds right.” Marc glanced over at Sophie, feeling a sense of pride in her investigative abilities. She really would make one hell of an agent. “Of course, the difficult part is gathering enough evidence to decide which of those scenarios is true.”

  “Endicott.” She pointed to the exit sign. “Then turn left.”

  They drove in silence for a time, Marc mulling over the guard’s alleged suicide, while Sophie went over her interview questions. They’d gotten the CBI reports on both overdose victims this morning, and what they’d learned had convinced Marc that they were on the right track. According to the CBI, both girls were Megan’s age, and both had sealed juvenile records and a history of drug abuse. On the surface, it might seem like coincidence. But the fact that they’d overdosed on fefe within a week of each other—the two of them, and no one else—hinted at a very different story.

  “I’m starting to think driving the Jaguar wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Marc glanced around at lovely downtown Endicott, Colorado.

  Signs of poverty and deprivation were everywhere. Endicott looked like a squatter’s village, with dilapidated homes, lean-tos, and trailers making up the bulk of the houses in town. Old, rusted-out cars and pickups sat on cinder blocks in people’s front yards or on the streets. Snow lay in muddy drifts beside bins overflowing with garbage.

  The Jag stuck out like a black stallion in a barnyard of goats. And Sophie, with her gleaming hair and classy new suit, would stand out, too. It made Marc uncomfortable not because he was afraid someone would steal the car or try to hurt Sophie with him nearby, but because they would be noticed—and remembered.

  “A tornado came through here about five years ago and leveled the place,” Sophie told him. “Most of the people were poor and lived in trailers and weren’t eligible for federal aid. We did a big story on it. I guess they’ve rebuilt as best they could.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Marc and Sophie had used the CBI reports to track down the family of one of the victims, and they’d come here to interview the parents and to see whether they could confirm any connection to Megan. If Marc’s hunch paid off and there was a connection, then there was a chance the parents might have the DOC report or might remember details like the guards’ names. It was even possible that they might have some idea where Megan was hiding. It was a long shot, but their only alternative was to sit around until Sophie got test results back on the heroin. Neither of them felt like waiting.

  And yet as much as Marc wanted to get to the bottom of things, there was a part of him that hoped this was a dead end. It enraged him to think that these young women might have been murdered and that the same man or men might still be after his sister. Even more, he hated the fear that prowled the back of his mind—his growing fear that Megan was already dead.

  After Sophie had gone to sleep last night, he’d surfed the Internet for reports about unidentified bodies, abandoned babies, and fefe, but hadn’t found anything that could have been Megan. The body of a black or Hispanic woman on a Miami beach. An abandoned newborn in Detroit. A dead teenage boy in the bus station in East St. Louis. The bones of what appeared to be a woman in Alaska. But that didn’t mean Megan was still alive.

  Hiding a corpse wasn’t that difficult—if you knew how.

  “That should be it just ahead—423 First Street.” Sophie double-checked the address she’d printed out from her computer. “Yep, that’s it.”

  The house was little more than a clapboard shanty, gray wood showing through the worn white paint. A chain-link fence surrounded part of the front yard but was missing entirely from the east side. The screen door was missing its screen.

  She took a pen and her reporter’s notebook from her briefcase and made sure her digital recorder was in her purse. “I don’t know how long this will take. Their daughter died only a few days ago. They might not be ready to talk yet.”

  Hunt pulled to a stop in front of the house and parked. “I know you’ll do your best.”

  She got out of the car and made her way up t
he front walk, smiling at two young boys who had stopped playing in the yard next door to stare at the car. She walked up the front porch—really just wooden planks hammered crookedly together—and knocked on the door.

  A woman answered, eyeing Sophie suspiciously, her gaze traveling to the Jaguar. “You lost or somethin’?”

  The woman was probably in her fifties with long hair that was now more gray than blond, gray eyes that held a lifetime of hardship, and a flat mouth that expressed her mistrust. She was dressed in some kind of work uniform, navy blue polyester pants and matching shirt.

  “Lisa Brody? I’m Sophie Alton from the Denver Independent. I’m really sorry to just show up on your doorstep like this, but I wondered if you might be able to answer a few questions about your daughter, Kristina Brody. I’ve been covering—”

  A deep voice came from the back. “Who is it?”

  Mrs. Brody’s voice was gritty, the voice of a lifelong smoker. “Some girl from the paper come to talk about Kristy.”

  A tall man with a prodigious beer gut and short dark hair appeared from what must have been the kitchen. Dressed in a stained tank top and jeans, dark bristles on his chin, he instantly put Sophie on edge. His gaze slid over her, and he smiled. “Well, let her in.”

  “Thank you.” Sophie stepped inside and was led to an old sofa that was covered by a tattered quilt. She sat and pulled out her digital recorder. “First, let me say how sorry I am about your daughter’s death. I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.”

  “That’s one fancy car you drive.” The man held out his hand, not looking bereaved in the slightest. “The name’s Ed. Ed Brody.”

  “Sophie Alton.” Sophie took his hand, shook it, and instantly wished she hadn’t because he wouldn’t let go, a look of blatant lust in his eyes.

  Beside him, Mrs. Brody seemed to shrink into her chair.

  Sophie dragged her hand from his grasp. “So you’re Kristy’s father.”

  “As far as I know.” He smiled again, giving her the creeps. “Kristy was always in trouble for one thing or another. I guess it ain’t no surprise how she died.”

  “I’ve been investigating a series of drug overdoses in Denver that seem to be connected. I was hoping you might be able to help me put some pieces together by answering a few questions about Kristy’s background. I understand she served time in the juvenile offender system. Do you remember where she was incarcerated and what year that was?”

  “Hell, I don’t remember. From the time she sprouted tits, she was trouble. I tried my best to straighten her out, but she never gave a goddamn what her daddy had to say.”

  Sophie felt an overwhelming sense of sadness slide through her. This man’s daughter had died, and all he could do was ridicule the girl.

  He leaned forward, touched her knee. “Want something to drink, Miss Alton?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Sophie shifted out of reach and turned to Mrs. Brody, who had sat in silence all this time. “Mrs. Brody, do you remember where your daughter was sent or what year it was?”

  Mrs. Brody nodded. “She was sent to that fancy new place in Denver for about eleven months when she was sixteen. Her boyfriend shot someone up, and she was with him. They punished her same as him.”

  The “new place” could only be Denver Juvenile.

  And the date—Sophie did quick mental math—was a dead match.

  Kristina Brody had been incarcerated in the same place at the same time as Megan. And now she was dead. Somehow killed by what was starting to seem like a not-so-accidental overdose.

  Murdered.

  The hair rose on the back of Sophie’s neck, chills sliding down her spine.

  “Lisa, go fetch Miss Alton something to drink. Make a nice pot of tea.”

  Shaken, Sophie pulled her thoughts together. “No, thanks, I’m—”

  “Go make our guest some tea. Now.” It was an order, the words spoken with an authority that allowed no defiance.

  Mrs. Brody hurried to the kitchen.

  If Sophie hadn’t been so rattled, she might have seen it coming. But when Mr. Brody sat next to her and put his meaty hand high on her thigh, it took her by complete surprise.

  His gaze dropped to her breasts. “I had a special relationship with Kristy. I know more about her than her mother did. I knew my daughter’s nature, and—”

  “Get…your…hand…off me!” It was all Sophie could do not to smack him.

  He gave her a little caress, his fingers dangerously near her crotch, then withdrew his hand. “Just being friendly.”

  “I came here looking for answers. I’m not interested in anything else.” For Megan’s sake, Sophie let it pass, biting back what she truly wanted to say, afraid she’d lose the chance to learn more otherwise. Now that she knew what was at stake, she needed to do everything she could to get whatever information might be in this odious man’s head.

  Thank God Hunt was outside in the car!

  “What kind of answers do you need, sweetheart?”

  “Did Kristy report being raped when she was in Denver Juvenile?”

  Mr. Brody shrugged “You know how girls are. They’re always showing off how sweet and firm they are, wanting attention. And then when they get it, they’re ashamed of themselves and blame it on the man.”

  Spoken like a true abuser.

  Sophie refused to let him see how much his words upset her. “Actually, false reports of rape are no more prevalent than false reports of other serious crimes, Mr. Brody. Did Kristy report being raped while in Denver Juvenile?”

  “What are you—one of them uppity feminists who turns up her nose at a man?” He shook his head as if in disgust, a mocking smile on his face. “Yeah, she and some other girls said the guards were using them. Turns out, they were using the guards, trading pussy for favors. Kristy showed her choice of profession early, I guess.”

  His words, so cold, so putrid, turned Sophie’s stomach. She swallowed—hard. “Did you keep the report that the state issued after the investigation?”

  “No, I didn’t keep it. Why the hell would I? The girl shamed us.”

  “Do you remember the names of the other girls or the guards who abused them?” Sophie knew she was grilling him now, all pretense of politeness gone.

  “Abused ’em?” He laughed. “Didn’t you hear what I said? The girls took advantage of the guards. And, no, I can’t remember no names.”

  She pushed harder. “John Cross? Joseph Addison? Or maybe Megan Rawlings? Charlotte Martin?”

  He leaned closer. “If I had a little more time, I might remember, but—”

  “Thanks for your help, Mr. Brody. I’ll show myself out.” She gathered her things, stood, and took a step toward the front door. She had the information she needed and couldn’t stand being in his presence another second.

  He shot to his feet, blocking her path, crowding her, his arm managing to brush against her breast. “You’re a cold one, aren’t you? Here we are, alone. We could be having a nice little conversation, being friendly, and you want to rush off.”

  Sophie was so angry she was shaking. “You see that car out there? My boyfriend is sitting in it. He’s a former army Special Forces sniper. Earned a Bronze Star in Afghanistan taking out the Taliban. Carries a forty-five. Touch me again, and I’ll make sure he knows about it. Get out of my way!”

  “I don’t believe you.” He glared at her, the lust in his eyes colored around the edges with contempt, and she found herself wondering if Hunt would be able to hear her scream. Then Mr. Brody stepped aside. “It’s bad manners to reject a person’s hospitality.”

  Sophie walked past him and opened the door, then paused and looked back at him. “It’s even worse manners to try to grope your guest. And you’re right. I’m an uppity feminist, but I don’t turn my nose up at real men. Just at pigs masquerading as men.”

  She walked outside, tears of rage filling her eyes, profanity following her down the walk. Ahead of her, the Jaguar waited, its engine alr
eady running. She opened her door and slipped inside, her body trembling.

  “What’s wrong? Sophie, what happened?”

  “Kristina Brody knew Megan.”

  MARC DROPPED ANOTHER box on the attic floor and jerked it open.

  Sweaters.

  Goddamn it!

  He shut the box, shoved it aside, and turned to grab another.

  You’re going to lose her, Hunter. You’re going to lose Megan again—and Emily with her.

  Like hell he was.

  He would find his sister if he had to tear the world apart to do it.

  The basement had turned up some of Megan’s personal belongings, but nothing that told him where to look for her. He damned well better find something up here—and fast. His sister’s life depended on it. Today’s little adventure in Endicott had driven that point home with painful clarity.

  God, Marc hated being right.

  And what if she’s already dead?

  The thought carried the force of a fist every time it struck him, driving the breath from his lungs, leaving a terrible helpless rage in its wake.

  Leave her alone! She’s my little sister!

  He’d listened to what Sophie had learned on the drive back to Denver, his anger growing. Then she’d finally told him what had happened in that shack in Endicott, and he’d exploded, wanting to ram Ed Brody’s balls down his throat.

  “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” she’d said, using the voice women reserved for misbehaving men. “You’d have charged in there, and God knows what would have happened. Drop it, Hunt.”

  But he hadn’t dropped it. And when he’d heard how she’d gotten away from the son of a bitch—by threatening to sic her former army sniper boyfriend on him—he’d laid into her for giving away his identity, conveniently overlooking the fact that his beating the shit of the man would have done the same and worse.

  “If your buddy, Julian, starts piecing this together and visits Endicott himself, you’ll have given him everything he needs to know for certain that you’re with me and that you’re not being held captive. Did you think about that?”