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.”
CHAPTER 2
SOPHIE FILLED HER water bottle at the watercooler, trying to gather whatever thoughts were in her aching head for the I-Team meeting. Worried about Megan and Emily, she’d found it hard to sleep last night despite the alcohol in her system. She’d finally given up at five, shuffling into the kitchen for water and aspirin when her hangover had kicked into full gear. Outside her kitchen window the thermometer had read fifteen below.
“Any word?” Kat’s soft voice came from beside her.
Sophie capped her bottle. “No. I checked with police dispatch this morning, and they hadn’t found them yet. I don’t know what scares me more—what will happen if the cops don’t find them or what will happen when they do.”
Kat gave her arm a squeeze. “All you can do is keep them in your prayers.”
Sophie managed a smile. “Thanks.”
She walked back to her desk, downloaded her e-mail, and checked her voice mail. A call from an activist group that was hoping to halt the building of yet another private prison. A long rant from a woman who wanted to know why Colorado’s prison system wouldn’t let her have conjugal visits with her husband like the California prison system had. A quick word from Officer Harburg, Megan’s parole officer, who praised her article and suggested they meet for lunch to talk about some of the subtleties of the parole system.
Was that male interest she detected in his voice?
Would it bother her if it was?
No, it wouldn’t. He was an attractive man—tall, dark, masculine. So what if he was several years older than she was? He might have some insights on Megan that would help all of this make sense. Besides, she hadn’t had a date for months.
She’d just written down his number when her phone buzzed with an incoming call. She was tempted to let the caller go to voice mail, knowing she had only a few minutes until the I-Team meeting, but then she’d just have another message to wade through.
She picked up the line. “Sophie Alton.”
“Are you looking for information about Megan Rawlings?”
Sophie’s adrenaline picked up a notch. She hit the record button on her phone. “Yes. Absolutely. Who is this?”
“I’m just calling to let you know that you should request an interview with Marc Hunter, an inmate in Cañon City. He’s her brother. He can help you out.”
The caller rattled off a DOC inmate number and then, before Sophie could ask him any other questions, hung up.
Momentarily forgetting the I-Team meeting, Sophie opened her Internet browser, logged on to the DOC’s website, and filled out the online interview request form, using the information the caller had provided. Hadn’t Megan mentioned once or twice that she had a half brother who was also in prison? Yes, she had. Her brother had stayed with their mother, while Megan had been placed with Social Services for adoption. Despite the fact that they must have grown up apart, Megan had seemed to feel real affection for him.
Sophie wondered who the caller had been. It couldn’t have been Marc Hunter himself. Prisoners could only make collect calls, and this hadn’t been a collect call. Perhaps the caller was a friend, someone on the outside. Or maybe he was a CO—a correctional officer—someone who did Hunter’s business from the inside in exchange for bribes. In either case, Megan’s brother had to have illegal connections.
What kind of information could he have? He wasn’t supposed to be in communication with his sister. Megan’s parole prohibited her from having any contact with other felons. She wasn’t even allowed to write letters to her brother. Of course, parolees broke that rule all the time, and some went back to prison for it.
Sophie had just placed a request with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation for Hunter’s criminal record when she glanced at the clock. “Crud!”
She grabbed her notepad and pencil and hurried down the hallway to the conference room, where the rest of the I-Team sat around the table waiting for her.
Tom sat at the head of the table, notepad and a stack of newspapers in front of him, one pencil behind his right ear and another in his hand. More than six feet tall and built like a linebacker, he was an intimidating man. If he hadn’t been such a brilliant journalist, Sophie might have left the I-Team a long time ago. Tom had hired her from the News, where she’d worked boring GA—general assignment—and had taught her more about journalism in a month than she’d learned in four years of J-school.
And if he was sometimes a jerk and ran the newsroom as if it were a sweatshop?
Well, she didn’t always have to like him to respect him.
He looked up at her and frowned, a shock of gray curls half covering his eyes. “Glad you could make the time, Alton. Harker, what’s the latest?”
Matt Harker, the city reporter, sat to Tom’s left. Freckle-faced with short reddish hair, he always looked like he’d dressed out of his laundry basket, wearing the same wrinkled tie every day with a different wrinkled shirt. He glanced up from his notes. “The mayor and city council are going at it again—this time over the fire department budget. Council wants to freeze it, but the mayor is holding with the union and wants a substantial increase. Can you tell we have a municipal election coming in the fall?”
Syd Wilson, the managing editor, looked at Matt over her new reading glasses—the reading glasses no one was supposed to notice. Small and wiry, she wore her salt-and-pepper hair short and spiked and didn’t like to think of herself as nearing fifty. “How much?”
Matt shrugged. “Probably no more than ten inches.”
Tom nodded, glanced at Joaquin. “I’m sick of the mayor’s mug shot. Get something fresh from one of the fire stations. Benoit?”
Natalie Benoit was the newest member of the I-Team, hired to take Tessa’s place on cops and courts. From an old Cajun family, she had relocated to Denver after her family lost everything in Hurricane Katrina. Tom had hired her on the spot when he’d learned she was the journalist who’d stayed in Community Medical Center rather than evacuating, helping to care for the sick and dying. Her coverage of the tragedy there had made her a Pulitzer finalist.
With long dark hair, big aqua eyes, and a charming New Orleans accent, she’d put the libido of every heterosexual man at the paper into overdrive but rarely seemed to date or socialize. She never talked about her ordeal during Katrina, and no o
ne dared to pry.
“I can probably do with ten inches, as well. A couple of animal rights activists claim they were beaten up by police at last week’s antifur protest. An observer has come forward with a digital recording that seems to support their allegations—pretty rough stuff. They’ve lawyered up and are seeking damages. Chief Irving has promised an internal investigation.”
“Oh, good.” Tom sounded anything but impressed. “Another one.”
Syd punched numbers into her calculator. “Any chance we can get stills off the recording?”
Natalie smiled. “I’ve already turned it over to production.”
“What’s on your plate, James?”
Kat kept her gaze on her notes. She rarely looked anyone in the eyes, something Sophie had come to understand was cultural. “I got a tip that someone in the Department of Wildlife has been distributing eagle parts illegally.”
“Eagle parts?” the room said in unison.
Kat nodded. “When an eagle is accidentally killed or found dead, there’s a process wildlife officials are supposed to follow for distributing feathers, claws, and other ceremonial body parts to Indian spiritual leaders. Apparently, someone has been selling parts off to non-Indians. I’m meeting with the whistle-blower today, but I doubt I’ll have anything by deadline.”
And just like that Tom was off again, ranting about what would happen if state lawmakers weakened protections for whistle-blowers.
Sophie’s mind wandered to Megan and her baby. Had she found a safe, warm place to spend the night? What was she feeding the baby? How far did she think she could get before the police found her and sent her back to prison?
“Alton!”
Sophie snapped back to the present. “I’d like to do a follow-up to yesterday’s piece and see how many parents on parole kidnap their own children. This was supposed to be a supervised visit, after all. I want to find out if this has happened before. Unless I find something big, I’m guessing no more than six inches.”
Syd punched the numbers into her calculator. “Do we have any photos of the baby?”
“Not recent ones.” Sophie glanced down at her notes. “I got an anonymous tip this morning from someone who wants me to request an interview with Megan’s brother, who also happens to be in prison.”
“What is it—a family business?” Matt shook his head, rolled his eyes. “Does she have any relatives on the outside?”
For some reason, Sophie didn’t find Matt’s comment funny. “I’ve already put in a request for an interview with the brother and asked CBI for a copy of his criminal record. I have no idea what kind of information this guy might have.”
Tom leaned back in his chair. “Sounds like there’s only one way to find out.”
SOPHIE MET OFFICER Harburg for lunch at her favorite downtown sushi joint.
“We try hard to keep women out of prison, because many are mothers and most are nonviolent offenders. Those who end up behind bars tend to be hard-core.”
Sophie set her notepad aside to make room for her miso and edamame. She met Officer Harburg’s gaze and knew without a doubt that he was interested in her. She could see it in his eyes—light blue eyes—and hear it in the warm tone of his voice. For a moment, she let herself imagine what it might be like to kiss him.
OK, so it wasn’t fireworks, but it wasn’t a repulsive idea either.
“More hard-core? I thought men were more difficult.”
“Oh, yes, they are.” He picked up his chopsticks and stirred his miso. “Men are absolutely more violent and dangerous. The vast majority of violent crimes both in prison and out are committed by men, but women are harder to rehabilitate.”
“How so?” She dipped her spoon into the soup and sipped.
“Most female inmates are what we call dual-diagnosis—they have mental-health issues on top of drug or alcohol addiction.” He paused to pop a chunk of tofu into his mouth and chew. “Unfortunately, there are few treatment programs for female felons.”
“Don’t they get treatment in prison?”
“The state doesn’t have the money to give them the therapy they need. Besides, most of them are poor. Prison offers better food and housing than they’ll get on the outside. No pimps to beat them up. No kids to feed. No job to find.”
“That’s true for male inmates, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but there are more treatment programs for men, more jobs, better pay. Men are generally more assertive and more independent. Fewer men raise their kids alone. And—this is important—men are different emotionally. Women tend to form close friendships with other women in prison and have a hard time surviving without the support system offered by those relationships. Men don’t face that obstacle.”
Sophie tried to imagine life without the support system her friends offered—and found it stark. But her friends weren’t felons. “Did Megan have close friends in prison?”
“She’s been in and out of state custody since she was a teenager. I assume she does, though she never talked about personal things with me. I represent ‘The Man,’ you know. Based on what I’ve read of your articles—which are very good, by the way—I’d say she was much more open with you.”
“We mostly talked about her plans and how much she wanted to raise Emily.”
Officer Harburg nodded, a sad look on his face. “I doubt she’ll get that chance now.”
Sophie knew it was the truth, but it still hurt to hear him say it. “I hope you’re wrong, Officer Harburg.”
“It’s Ken.” He smiled, revealing a bit of seaweed that had gotten caught in his front teeth. “Call me Ken.”
Definitely not fireworks.
“Okay, Ken.” She forced herself to look into his eyes and not at his teeth. “What else do you know about Megan?”
SOPHIE RETURNED TO the office to find that the DOC had approved her interview with Megan’s brother for four o’clock on Friday. It was the speediest green light she’d ever gotten. She hadn’t expected to hear back from DOC until next week at the earliest.
Clearly Marc Hunter was hooked up and had pulled some strings.
ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Sophie made the familiar two-hour drive down to Cañon City while listening to the BBC on her car radio. More violence outside Banda Aceh in Indonesia. An increase in the value of the Euro. AIDS orphans in South Africa.
Her mind wandered off during a report about flooding on Denmark’s Jutland coast. Traffic was sparse for late on a Friday afternoon, the highway wet and icy in places. In front of her and to the west, Pikes Peak loomed jagged and white against the horizon, snow blowing from its summit like a frosty pennant. The sky to the east was clear and blue, but a bank of dark storm clouds rose ominously behind the mountains.
There was a winter storm warning for Colorado’s Front Range tonight—twelve to eighteen inches expected just in time for Sophie’s commute back to Denver. If she’d had money, she would have reserved a hotel room in Colorado Springs and waited till morning when snowplows would have cleared most of it away. But she was trying to save money to help David with his next tuition payment, and a hotel room seemed like a frivolous expense, especially since she’d already spent almost four hundred dollars on studded snow tires.
Just deal with it, Alton.
She found herself thinking through the questions she wanted to ask Megan’s brother. Did he have any idea where his sister had gone? Did he know of anyone who might be helping her, giving her money or shelter or food? Had Megan ever contacted him about wanting to take Emily and run? Had he heard from his sister since her escape?
Last night, she’d read through her notes from Megan’s interviews, looking for anything Megan might have said about her brother. She’d been surprised to find that Megan had mentioned him almost every time—how he’d gotten a message to her every day when she’d been going through heroin withdrawal, how he’d had his attorney deposit money into her commissary account so that she could buy an extra pillow when her pregnancy made it hard for her to sleep, how he’d
worried that she wasn’t getting good enough prenatal care.
Sophie had tried to reconcile Megan’s blindly heroic image of her brother to the cold reality of the arrest report CBI had e-mailed to her. Six years ago the man who cared so much about his drug-addicted sister and her baby had taken a high-caliber handgun and shot a fellow DEA agent, at point-blank range. Not just once, but three times. He’d put John Cross, a husband and father of four, in his grave in order to cover up his own drug dealing. Investigators had found two kilos of cocaine spread out between his house and car and had concluded that he’d killed the other agent to silence him. It was a violent act, heartless and brutal.
How did he square those two parts of himself in his own mind?
“God only knows why people do the things they do,” she said aloud, echoing Tessa’s words of a few days ago.
She exited I-25 and wound her way to US-50, arriving ten minutes early at the Colorado State Penitentiary—a hulking zigzag building of red brick surrounded by high fences, razor wire, and guard towers. She parked in the visitors’ lot in a space reserved for the press, then refreshed her lipstick and checked her hair in the vanity mirror. Not that her appearance really mattered. She wasn’t going to meet Mr. Right in this place.
She sorted through her purse, transferring everything into her briefcase except for her digital recorder, her press card, and a couple bucks in change for the vending machine in case there were delays and she got thirsty. Having covered the prison beat for four years, she knew she’d speed things up and make it easier on herself and the guards if she took with her only the things she needed for her interview. It cut down on the time the guards had to spend searching her and prevented her from having to rent a locker.
DOC regulations for visitors were very stringent, an attempt to preempt human ingenuity when it came to smuggling contraband and perpetrating violence. Postage stamps could carry LSD. Pens and pencils could be used as weapons. Cell phones could be used to communicate with criminals outside prison walls. And almost anything—cigarettes, weapons, drugs—could be hidden inside the human body. Once inside the walls, something as simple as a cigarette butt could be used to control, to manipulate, to dominate.