Unlawful Contact by Pamela Clare

Yes! Here it is! MORE. And guess what! I have two. more. chapters. after. this…

CHAPTER 1

Twelve years later

Sophie Alton drove through the streets of Denver as quickly as she could in six inches of slick snow. She was running almost twenty minutes late on the one day in her journalistic career when she didn’t want to be late. Today Megan Rawlings would be able to hold her baby girl for the first time since the baby’s birth seven months ago. It was the day Megan had been living for, the day she’d been working so hard for, and Sophie didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

She’d told the publisher that she had an important interview this morning, but Glynnis Williams never let anyone’s schedule interrupt her agenda. Glynnis had joined the paper three months ago and had made it abundantly clear that she cared more about advertising dollars than journalistic ethics. She’d interrupted the Investigative Team meeting to explain at great length why she wasn’t going to oppose legislation that would weaken the state’s whistleblower laws, her reasons having everything to do with sucking up to big business and government interests and nothing to do with journalism.

Naturally, Tom hadn’t taken this lying down. Tom Trent had the reputation of being the toughest, most brilliant editor in the state-and the mostly likely to be murdered by a member of his own staff. But today he’d seemed almost likeable. He taken Glynnis on, haranguing her for a good fifteen minutes about the importance of whistleblower protection laws and slamming her with the most inspired version of his “Watchdogs of Freedom” rant Sophie had ever heard. Glynnis had left the meeting looking gratifyingly angry, but that didn’t change the fact that Sophie was now running late.

She took the exit at Federal, glanced at the digital clock on her dashboard, and pushed the speedometer up to thirty-five, weighing the benefits of speeding against the risk of totaling her car on the ice. “Dammit, Glynnis!”

She’d been reporting on Megan’s struggle since last summer, when her investigation into the stillbirth of an inmate’s baby had spurred her to look closely at the plight of women in prison. Megan had been seven months pregnant then, and something about her had tugged at Sophie’s heartstrings. Perhaps it was Megan’s vulnerability, a young woman going through the uncertainty of pregnancy and childbirth in a world of cold steel and indifferent strangers. Perhaps it was Megan’s brave struggle to overcome her addiction. Or maybe it was Megan’s sweetness and lingering innocence, qualities one didn’t often encounter among repeat offenders.

Sophie had visited Megan every week for months. She’d reported on the drug charges that had landed Megan in prison, six weeks pregnant. She’d bitten her fingernails in the hospital hallway while Megan, shackled by one ankle to the delivery table and denied pain relief by an indifferent obstetrician, had endured 18 long hours of labor. She’d watched when Megan had kissed and cuddled her newborn. She’d tried not to cry when Social Services had taken little Emily away, her heart breaking at Megan’s tears and grief.

But today there would be tears of a different sort. Today, mother and child would finally be reunited for a two-hour supervised visit. Just thinking about it put a lump in Sophie’s throat.

She turned left onto Acoma-and pressed on the brakes. Five police cruisers sat in front of New Horizons, lights flashing. It wasn’t unusual to see a cop car parked there. After all, New Horizons was a halfway house, and every so often one of the residents screwed up-broke the house rules, tested hot for drugs, lifted something-and landed back in prison. But never during the months she’d come here had Sophie seen this kind of police response.

Someone was in deep trouble.

She made her way around the bottleneck created by the police cars, nosed her little Toyota into the parking lot, and turned off the engine. Then she grabbed her notebook and purse and stepped out into the frigid February morning. The sky was a brilliant blue, but the sunshine held no warmth, an icy wind blowing off the jagged white mountains to the west. She pulled her coat tighter and, chin down, hurried to the front door.

Joaquin Ramirez, the paper’s best shooter, was already waiting for her in the lobby, his camera ready. He grinned when he saw her. “Told you I’d get here first.”

“You cheated.” Sophie fished out her press card, glanced toward the reception desk. “Lucky for you every cop in Denver was here. One of them might have pulled you over.”

He rolled his dark eyes. “Don’t blame me if you’re chicken to drive in snow.”

She glanced toward the reception desk. “Did you check in?”

“Nope. I was waiting for you.”

Sophie crossed the lobby, signed in, and held out her press card. “Sophie Alton and Joaquin ‘Speedy’ Ramirez here to see Megan Rawlings.”

The receptionist glanced down at Sophie’s press ID, then met her gaze, a strange look on her face. “You’ll have to wait in the lobby.”

Sophie’s stomach knotted. “Is something wrong?”

The police couldn’t be here for Megan. They couldn’t be.

“Wait in the lobby.”

Too nervous to sit, Sophie walked back into the lobby and stood by the window, looking out at the police cars. “They can’t be here for her, Joaquin.”

He set his camera bag down on one of the chairs, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve really gotten attached to her, haven’t you?”

There was no way to deny it. “Yeah.”

They’d waited almost thirty minutes-a half hour that seemed an eternity-when a squat, balding police officer came round the corner accompanied a tall, dark-haired man with a fat moustache who was wearing a charcoal gray business suit. Sophie could tell by the way the jacket bulged on one side that the man was carrying a firearm. A detective?

Her heart sank.

“Ms. Alton?” The cop had a notepad and a pencil in his hand.

“Yes.”

“I’m Officer Reed. This is Officer Harburg.”

Officer Harburg held out his hand. “I’m Megan Rawlings’ parole officer.”

Feeling almost sick, Sophie shook the man’s hand. “Please tell me Megan and Emily are all right.”

Officer Harburg gave a sad smile. “I wish we could, but Ms. Rawlings seems to have taken her baby and disappeared.”

# # #

“When they catch her, they’ll charge her with possession of a controlled substance, skipping parole, and kidnapping.” Sophie tossed back the last of her chocolatini, chasing her misery away with the one-two punch of booze and best friends. “The stuff they found in her room field-tested positive for heroin.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie.” Tessa Darcangelo, a former member of the I-Team, rubbed her pregnant belly, her blue eyes filled with sympathy, her long blond curls hanging down the back of her chair. “I know how much she and her baby meant to you.”

Sophie knew that Tessa really did understand. Last year, Tessa had witnessed the murder of a teenage girl and had nearly lost her own life trying to expose the human trafficker who was responsible. Sophie suspected Tessa carried the girl’s dying screams with her to this day.

“How can they accuse her of kidnapping her own daughter?” Holly Bradshaw, one of the entertainment writers at the paper, popped an olive in her mouth. Tall, platinum blond and model-gorgeous, she rarely ate food that contained calories. “Doesn’t she have a legal right to be with her baby?”

“Not if she doesn’t have custody.” Kara McMillan, who’d once been the I-Team’s star reporter, set her empty margarita glass aside and tucked a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear. With a hunky senator for a husband, three adorable kids and a successful freelance and nonfiction book career, she was everything Sophie hoped to be one day-wife, mother, star journalist. “I’m guessing the baby is a ward of the state.”

Sophie nodded. “A family of Mennonites have been caring for her-really sweet people. I bet they’re worried to death.”

Sophie had met them and interviewed them-a kind, older couple who’d raised nine children of their own and somehow had energy left to lavish love and attention on the kids of women in prison. Emily was the sixth foster child they’d taken. It had been plain to see that they adored her.

Tessa flagged down the waiter. “Another boring herbal tea for me and another chocolatini for her. Drink your brains out, Sophie. I’ll take you home.”

“That’s the nice thing about having pregnant friends.” Sophie smiled, fighting the sense of gloom that had dogged her all day.

“Designated drivers,” they all said in unison, laughing.

One hour and two drinks later, Sophie felt tipsier, but not more cheerful. Katherine James, the I-team’s environmental reporter, arrived late and ordered a mug of hot chocolate. A mixed-blood Navajo with long dark hair and unusual hazel green eyes, she never drank alcohol. Sophie had originally found her distant and aloof, but she’d realized that Katherine, or Kat as everyone called her, was just naturally reserved. Maybe it was a cultural trait.

They’d quit talking about Megan and her baby and had moved on to a discussion about virginity, prompted by Holly’s tale of the Saudi Arabian prince she’d met and slept with while skiing at Aspen last weekend. “He was surprised to discover I wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t see anything wrong with the fact that he wasn’t a virgin.”

“Ah, the good, old double standard!” Kara smiled. “Somehow I think the two of you aren’t meant for each other.”

“Hardly! Though the prince thing was très glam.” Holly ate another olive. “So how old were you when you lost your virginity?”

Kara was the first to volunteer. “I was nineteen. We did it at his apartment-lots of candles and Bon Jovi playing in the background. It seemed romantic at the time, but compared to sex with Reece, it was pretty silly.”

“I was a college, and we did it in his dorm room.” Tessa shook her head at the memory. “I thought he was the one, but afterwards he told me he’d just wanted to have sex with a natural blonde. It was so humiliating! I didn’t go near a man after that until Julian.”

“How about you, Kat?” Holly was obviously enjoying the conversation, sex being her favorite topic and natural habitat.

Kat looked down at the table. “I haven’t done that yet.”

“Really?” Holly looked so stunned that Sophie almost laughed.

Kat shrugged. “There was no way to hide birth control living with nine other people in my grandmother’s hogan, and I didn’t want to get pregnant and miss out on college.”

“Okay.” Holly seemed to be thinking it through. “But what about during college?”

“Not everyone makes sex their top priority, Holly,” Kara said.

But Holly was still staring at Kat.

“I never met anyone who was worth it,” Kathleen answered simply.

“I was fourteen.” Holly smiled conspiratorially. “He was the brother of my best friend. It was so lame! We did it in his bedroom while his parents were downstairs watching TV.”

As Holly went on to share too much information, as she always did, Sophie found her thoughts drifting back to the night she’d spent with Hunt so long ago. She could almost hear his voice explaining the stars, oldies tunes drifting over his radio, his arm around her shoulder.

It hadn’t been silly or humiliating or lame.

It had been romantic and passionate-and beautiful.

I want you more than any girl I’ve ever known!

He’d said it, and she’d known he meant it.

No man had come close to matching his intensity-or his sweetness. Not the egocentric attorney she’d gone out with a few years back. Or the self-absorbed rock climber she’d dated briefly after that. Or the reporter from the Post she’d gotten together with last year.

She’d thought of tracking Hunt down, but then she’d imagined how it would feel to knock on his door-and come face to face with his lovely wife and their three kids. The thought had stopped her cold.

“How about you, Sophie? Your turn.”

Sophie sipped her chocolatini, swallowed the rush of emotion that lingered around that bittersweet memory. “I was sixteen, and he was the hottest guy in the senior class-and the school bad boy. We had sex on a blanket under the stars in the desert, and it was perfect.”

Four pairs of eyes stared at her, blinked.

“Really?” Holly looked incredulous.

Sophie tossed back the last of her drink. “Really.”

“What happened afterwards?” Tessa asked.

“He enlisted in the Army and I never saw him again.”

With that, the conversation shifted once more.

Tessa shared her determination to get through her baby’s birth without drugs, provided she could have a vanilla latte the moment the baby was born. “Nothing can equal the agony of going without coffee for nine months.”

Kara assured them they had nothing to worry about with the whistleblower bill. “Reece says the bill will die in committee.” Kara always had the inside scoop on events at the state capitol because her husband, Reece Sheridan, was president of the State Senate. “There’s no way it will even reach the Senate floor.”

“That’s good to hear,” Kat said. “If it were to pass-”

“Why the hell did she do it?” The words burst out before Sophie could stop them. “Megan was close-so close-to having her life and her baby back!”

For a moment, none of her friends said anything.

Then Tessa reached over, took Sophie’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. “God only knows why people do the stupid things they do.”

“You know, Sophie, maybe this is so hard for you because of what happened with your own parents.” Kara spoke quietly, almost hesitantly. “It must be hard for you to see a mother and child torn apart like that.”

The ache that had been sitting in Sophie’s chest all day grew sharper. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s part of it.”

She’d been fifteen when her parents, who’d owned a popular restaurant in downtown Denver, had been hit and killed by a drunk driver. Everything about her life had changed overnight. She and her younger brother, David, had gone from living with a doting mother and father in a wealthy Denver suburb to living with their maternal grandmother in Grand Junction, a smallish Colorado town on the edge of nowhere. The sense of loss and the shock of separation had been staggering. Her parents had gone out-but they’d never come home.

And yet somehow she and David had gotten through it. David was studying in California to become an equine reproductive vet, and she was living her dream of being an investigative reporter. They’d gotten over it. Mostly.

Sophie wiped her tears on her napkin, voiced the secret thought she’d been carrying all day. “If I’d gotten to New Horizons on time-”

“Don’t even start!” Holly glared at her. “I don’t want to have to take you out in the alley and kick your butt, because it’s too damned cold. But I’ll do it if I have to. It’s not your fault.”

Then Sophie remembered why she’d been late. “That’s right. It’s Tom’s fault for raving at Glynnis about the whistleblower bill.”

“There you go.” Tessa nodded with apparent satisfaction. “Blame Tom.”

“Not to defend Tom,” Kara said, sounding like she was about to do just that, “but the only person to blame for Megan’s situation is Megan herself. No one forced her to start using drugs again or to take off with her baby.”

Holly fished a silver tube of lipstick out of her purse. “You just say that because your mom is living with Tom.”

“Holly!” Tessa scolded.

“No.” Kat met Sophie’s gaze. “She’s saying that because it’s the truth. It takes a strong heart to defeat addiction.”

Sophie’s heart felt anything but strong. “Can we go now, Tess?”

A half hour later she sat in the parking lot of her own apartment in Tessa’s snazzy Thunderbird, her head throbbing.

“Promise me you’ll call if Julian hears anything, okay?”

Julian Darcangelo, Tessa’s husband, had been an undercover FBI agent, but now worked as a detective for the vice unit of the Denver Police Department. Nothing much happened on the streets of Denver without him knowing about it.

“You know how Julian is. Just because he knows something doesn’t mean he’ll tell me. I’ll make a point of prying, okay?” Tessa gave her a hug. “Now are you going to make it to your front door walking on that ice, or am I going to have to carry you?”

# # #

One hundred twenty-one. One hundred twenty-two. One hundred twenty-three.

Marc Hunter counted the reps, his third set of push-ups for the night, his mind focused on maintaining form despite the burn in his arms, shoulders, and chest. He barely heard the animal howls coming from the cell upstairs or the shouts of “Shut the fuck up!” that echoed through the cellblock or the throbbing din of angry fists and feet pounding on steel doors-an attempt to force the guards to silence whoever it was who’d bugged out. His mind was as focused and clear as it would if he were back in Afghanistan, eyes on tango. He’d realized six years ago that surviving in prison meant keeping both his mind and his body disciplined and fit. He’d already lost his future. He wasn’t about to yield his sanity.

One hundred thirty-seven. One hundred thirty-eight. One hundred thirty-nine.

He kept his breathing controlled and even, sweat beading on his chest and forehead, his muscles shaking. He pushed himself past one-forty, maxing out, forcing his body where it didn’t want to go. He grunted through the last several reps, his arms and chest barely able to lift his weight, then sat back against the cold concrete wall, breathing hard.

What time was it? He had no idea. There was no window in his nine-by-nine cell, no break in the grey concrete wall to let in daylight and show him whether it was morning or night. In the Colorado State Penitentiary, day broke at 5 a.m. when the fluorescent lights came on and ended at 11 p.m. when the lights went out.

He closed his eyes, imagined the moon rising over the plains, it’s pale light making yesterday’s snow glow silver, Orion setting over the mountains, his belt of stars gleaming. It had been six long years since Marc seen the moon, six years since he’d glimpsed the stars, six years since he’d set his eyes on the mountains. It might as well have been an eternity.

It was strange what he missed. Not just the night sky, but sunrises, rainbows, lightning. Not just fresh fruit and vegetables, but birds singing, the bright colors of flowers, the change of the seasons. Not just sex, but the softness of a woman’s skin, the wild taste of female arousal, the sweetness of a feminine voice.

His life was a monotony of steel and concrete, recycled air and canned food, isolation and masturbation-sterile, cold and empty. That’s how it would be until the day he died. No house in the mountains. No wife. No chance to be a father.

And who’s fault is that, dickhead?

It was his own fault, of course.

He’d thought the deprivation would get easier, but it hadn’t. It seemed go grow sharper with each passing year, until he was afraid that he, too, would be reduced to shrieking and howling in his cell like some wild thing desperate to get out.

But that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t let it happen.

Megan still needed him. Even from behind bars, he’d been able to help her, trading cigarettes, favors and secrets to make her life easier both in prison and out, using money from his 401(k) to get her into the best halfway house, working through his attorney to secure little Emily’s future. His life might be fucked up beyond hope, but Megan and Emily still had a chance, and he intended to be there for them as much as a man serving a life sentence could be.

In the cellblock beyond, the din of stomping feet and pounding fists reached a crescendo. Any moment now the lights would flash on, and guards would march down the hallway to remove the screamer. They’d haul whoever it was down to psych, strap him to the board and pump him full of sedatives. Then the noise would finally stop, and everyone would be able to get some sleep.

He heard the checkpoint down the hall click open and clang shut, quick footsteps hurrying down the tile floor. Hard soles. A guard.

Instantly on his feet, Marc drew himself up against the wall to the right of the door and waited. He wasn’t about to be taken by surprise. His conviction for killing a federal agent had hadn’t made him popular with guards, and his status as former DEA had made him an object of hatred among the inmates, particularly the ones he’d put behind bars. He’d already survived more than a few attempts to off him-and worse.

The footsteps stopped outside his cell, and the tray slot on his door slid open.

“Hunt! You awake?” came a whisper. “It’s Cormack.”

Marc let himself relax. “Yeah, Cormack, what you got?”

Cormack was one of the few guards he trusted. When Cormack had been new and green, Marc had pulled him away from a mob of lifers who’d been about to blade him up. Naturally, Cormack had been grateful-grateful enough to become one of a network of people who kept Marc informed about the world outside.

“It’s about Megan,” Cormack whispered.

Marc felt his pulse skip. “Go ahead.”

“They say she bolted from the halfway house and took the baby with her. When they searched her room, they found a couple unused syringes and a half-ounce of shit.”

The breath rushed out of Marc’s lungs, and he sank slowly down the wall to the floor.

He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

Goddamn it! Goddamn it!

Megan had worked so hard to get clean. She’d been clean since the moment she’d realized she was pregnant and had promised both him and herself that she wouldn’t use again. She’d told him in the letters Cormack had smuggled to him how she wanted to be a good mother to Emily, how she planned to give her baby a home and not abandon her to foster care as their mother had done. Her last message had seemed so full of hope and determination. How could she have broken so quickly?

She’d been out for only a week. One goddamned week!

He fought to find his voice. “When?”

“Yesterday morning.”

That meant Megan had been on the run for almost twenty-four hours. She wasn’t an experienced mother, didn’t know much of anything about babies. She had no money, no place to sleep, no way to take care of Emily-to feed her, change her diapers, keep her warm. The newspapers said it had gotten to ten below last night.

If Megan had Emily out on the streets…

Rage burned in his gut, tangled with the sense of helplessness he felt every time his sister did something to fuck up her life. Only this time it was worse. This time she had an innocent baby with her. He fought the urge to slam his fist into the wall, fought to clear his mind of anger and disappointment and worry. He needed to think-and fast.

He reached for the photo of her that he’d taped to the wall beside his bunk. It had been taken in the hospital the day she’d had the baby. She sat in the hospital bed, holding a bundled Emily in her arms, her ankle shackled to the guardrail of the bed. She looked exhausted, her brown hair in a disorganized ponytail, her eyes holding both happiness and heartbreak.

What the hell had she been thinking? Was she out of her fucking mind?

Maybe seeing Emily again had made it too hard for her to turn the baby back over to Social Services. He knew his sister was emotionally fragile. Or maybe she’d been strung out and had bolted without thinking of the consequences. She’d have to have been high as a kite to leave behind that much smack. What kind of addict left their stash to the cops and…

“Did you say a half-ounce, Cormack?”

“Yeah. That’s what the police report says. It was laced with fentanyl.”

Christ!

That shit was deadly.

But a half-ounce was a hell of a lot for anyone who wasn’t a dealer or a rock star. Either she’d come into some connections he didn’t know about-or it wasn’t her heroin.

And in a single heartbeat her disappearance took on a more sinister meaning.

One day I’ll just disappear, and you’ll find me dead!

Marc felt the cold hitch of fear in his gut. “Did she have any visitors yesterday morning or the night before?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.” Cormack sounded pleased with himself. “Just that lady journalist who’s been writing about her. What’s her name?”

“Sophie Alton.”

“Yeah, Sophie Alton.”

Marc glanced at the pile of articles he’d torn out of the Denver Independent, a plan forming in his mind. “I feel like giving an interview, Cormack. Get in touch with Ms. Alton and let her know I have information that could lead her to Megan Rawlings.”

“You think she’ll want to talk to you?”

Marc lifted one of the articles, glanced at the byline. “I know she will.”