by Pamela Clare
“That’s not mine.” Sophie didn’t realize she’d spoken until she heard the surprised sound of her own voice. She spoke louder and started toward them. “Whatever that is, it doesn’t belong to me.”
But before she could take a single step, the officer who’d been standing beside her stopped her, blocking her path. “Stay where you are, ma’am.”
She looked up, met his reproving gaze. “But I have to tell them it’s not mine.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that downtown.”
Downtown?
“What? You can’t mean…”
But she saw on his face that he did.
Blood surged to her brain. “Oh, my God!”
They were going to arrest her!
Heart thudding against her breastbone, she reached into her pocket, drew out her cell phone, and dialed Tessa’s number.
Please answer! Please answer! Please answer!
Sophie gave a sigh of relief when Tessa picked up.
“Hey, girl. Julian and I were just talking about you. We were wondering—”
But Sophie didn’t have time for that. “Tess, listen! I’m about to be arrested. I don’t know what’s going on. I got pulled over, and the cop asked to search the car, and I said okay, and their dog found something—cocaine or heroin, I think. They’re about to arrest me, but the drugs aren’t mine!”
“Take a deep breath, Sophie.”
Sophie tried, but panic seemed to fill all the space inside her lungs. She heard Tessa say something to Julian, and then Julian’s voice came on the line.
“Sophie, are you still there?”
“Yes.” But she wouldn’t be for long. The cops were looking at her now, and one of them was walking toward her. He was carrying handcuffs.
“Don’t resist. Don’t argue. Don’t admit to anything. Got it?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good girl. I’m on my way.”
Sophie hung up just in time to have her phone taken away.
“Ms. Alton, you’re under arrest for possession of a schedule I controlled substance. Step over to the vehicle, and put your hands on your head.”
It was only after she’d been patted down, cuffed, and shut in the backseat of a squad car that she understood, the truth hitting her with the force of a bullet.
Seven years ago someone had planted drugs on Hunt. Two weeks ago someone had planted drugs on Megan. Now, only days after she’d requested information that might expose the truth about Cross’s murder, someone had planted drugs on her, too. The man who had helped Cross rape Megan—the man who’d made sure Hunt went to prison for life—knew Sophie was looking for him. And he was trying to stop her.
CHAPTER 15
“THE SMACK WAS sitting on the passenger seat beneath your briefcase, Ms. Alton. Do you really expect anyone to believe you didn’t know it was there? How could you miss it?”
Sophie looked into the detective’s bloodshot eyes, feeling every bit as exhausted as he looked, her emotions worn to a single fraying thread. “It’s not mine.”
“Maybe it wasn’t yours.” The detective leaned forward so that she could smell the coffee on his breath, his wooden chair creaking. “Maybe you were holding it for someone else. Maybe your job was to transport it.”
She shook her head, feeling anger toward him that he didn’t deserve. He was just doing his job. “No! I don’t use drugs, I don’t sell drugs, and I wouldn’t help anyone else sell them, either.”
This was turning into the longest night of her life. She’d spent an hour in booking being ogled by drunks before they’d fingerprinted her, photographed her, and locked her in a chilly holding cell. There, she’d had time to think about too many things—the week’s worth of groceries she’d just bought that would likely spoil, the bill she was going to get from the rental car company when they learned their vehicle had been impounded, the court battle that would follow if this mess didn’t straighten itself out.
She’d tried telling herself that she was innocent and had nothing to fear. But then she’d thought of Hunt and how no one had believed him when he’d told police the coke they’d found in his house wasn’t his.
Even you didn’t believe him at first, Alton.
Would anyone believe her?
And where was Julian?
“Look, I know you’ve been through a rough time lately.” The detective sat back, crossed his arms over his hopelessly rumpled shirt and tie, the silvery two-way mirror behind him reflecting the back of his gray-haired head. “I know all about how that bastard took you hostage at the state pen and got rough with you up in the mountains. I can’t blame you for turning to drugs to forget about it. It must have been pretty terrible. It would be a lot easier on both of us if you would just tell me who sold you—”
Fighting tears, she pushed up her sleeves. “Do you see needle tracks? The drugs aren’t mine! I didn’t buy it, and I didn’t use it! Someone planted it on me!”
He glanced at her arms, frowned, gray brows meeting above his nose. “Why would anyone want to plant drugs on you, Ms. Alton?”
“I think it has to do with an investigation I’m working on. I think someone—”
There came a knock, and the door opened.
Chief Irving stepped inside, acknowledging Sophie with a nod. “Ms. Alton. I can’t say how sorry I am to see you here. Not only does it mean bad times for you, it means I’m about to get a call from your asshole boss.”
Sophie might have laughed—if the mention of Tom hadn’t made her think of her job and the repercussions she would face at work. How was she going to explain this?
Then Chief Irving motioned the detective out with a jerk of his head. “Let’s talk.”
The detective gave Sophie one last weary look, then stood and followed Chief Irving out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him and leaving Sophie alone with her fears.
They’d been gone only a minute or two, when the door opened again.
“Julian!”
He walked in, shut the door behind him, and then pulled Sophie into a warm embrace. “How are you holding up?”
“Oh, God, Julian! They think I was trying to sell heroin!”
“I know.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze, then released her. “Have a seat while Old Man Irving buys us some time. We need to talk.”
It was then she noticed the bag of carryout he’d set on the table.
“Is that food?” Her stomach growled.
“We’re not allowed to bring inmates food. I bought this for myself, but I guess since I’ve already eaten supper I’m not very hungry. Think you can polish it off before Irving gets back?”
Suddenly ravenous, Sophie tore into the containers, her mouth watering at the spicy scent of what could only be chicken pad thai. “Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome.” He turned a chair backward, straddled it, then sat.
She took a bite, moaned. It tasted both sweet and spicy, the heat of the red peppers making her mouth burn. “God, this is good! I was hoping to get out in time to grab something at the late-night Wendy’s drive-through, but this is so much better.”
Julian frowned. “That’s one of the things I wanted to tell you. You’re going to be here at least overnight, Sophie.”
Overnight? In jail?
“Wh-what?” Sophie forgot about food. “Can’t I get out on a PR bond?”
“They found thirty grams of fentanyl-laced heroin in your rental car. The DA’s looking at possession of a schedule I controlled substance with intent to distribute—a serious felony. They won’t let you out on personal recognizance. They’ll want the judge to set bail.”
Which meant she would be locked up at least until her first court appearance.
If she was lucky—very lucky—she’d be out tomorrow afternoon.
“Oh, God!” She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears. “This can’t be happening! Please tell me this isn’t happening!”
Julian took one of her hands, held it. “I’m sorry, Sophi
e. I know this is hard. I’m doing everything I can, but some things I just can’t change. You’re strong. You’ll get through this.”
“Pardon me if I don’t feel so strong at the moment.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, so you eat while I tell you what’s going to happen.”
She picked up the fork she had dropped, not wanting the food Julian had smuggled in for her to go to waste, but what he told her left her feeling queasy.
“Because you’re a felony arrest, you’ll be strip-searched. A female CO will have you take off all of your clothes and tell you to bend over. Then they’ll have you squat naked on the floor and ask you to cough while they watch your posterior.” He grimaced, as if describing this was painful for him. “Jesus! I can’t believe you have to go through this.”
She couldn’t believe it either.
He drew a deep breath and continued. “After searching you, they’ll give you your jail uniform, let you dress, then take you back to the unit. It’s late so the women are already locked down for the night. I’ve arranged for you to have your own cell—not an easy thing, given how overcrowded this place is. Do you understand all of that, or am I going too fast?”
Sophie cleared her throat, tried to find her voice. “I understand. Thank you.”
“Do your best to sleep tonight, okay? I know it won’t be easy, but try. Tomorrow morning John Kirschner, your attorney—”
“I don’t have an attorney.” She didn’t even have money for an attorney.
“Yes, you do, and he’s the toughest criminal defense attorney in the state. Kirschner would fight like hell to spring Jack the Ripper, and he’d probably succeed. He’s the suit cops and prosecutors hate to see in a courtroom.”
“But—”
“Tessa and I have taken care of it, Sophie. That’s all you need to know.”
Fresh tears stung her eyes. “Th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I know it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full, but can you tell me what in the hell is going on? You told Charlie you thought this was tied to one of your investigations. Does it have anything to do with that bastard Marc Hunter?”
Sophie almost choked. “Why would you say that?”
Julian raised a dark eyebrow. “Former DEA agent turned drug dealer and murderer takes you hostage at gunpoint. Now, a couple weeks later, someone plants drugs in your car. I don’t know—call it gut instinct.”
She took another bite, trying to decide how much she could tell him, the sense of guilt she’d battled these past two weeks pressing in on her. Once again her friends had come to save the day—and once again she was keeping secrets.
She dabbed her lips with the paper napkin. “I filed an open-records request on Monday asking for all documents pertaining to an internal investigation DOC did about eight years ago in response to allegations that a couple of guards were routinely raping girls at Denver Juvenile. I think whoever put the drugs in my car wants to destroy my credibility and bully me into dropping the request. I have reason to believe he left DOC but stayed in law enforcement. Get a copy of the request, Julian. Better yet, get that report.”
She’d told him the truth. It just wasn’t the whole truth. And every omitted fact scraped over Sophie’s conscience like broken glass.
Julian seemed to consider what she’d told him. “Who tipped you off? Oh, wait—let me guess. You can’t tell me. Reporter–source confidentiality, right?”
“Right.”
“You know you can trust me, don’t you, Sophie?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Julian. It’s just…”
What could she say? No matter now much she adored and trusted Julian, she couldn’t tell him that Hunt had tipped her off. Or that he was dining on sushi and driving a Jaguar. Or that she was helping him find Megan. If Julian knew Hunt was here, he would turn Denver inside out to find him, and that would inevitably lead to some kind of confrontation. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if either of them got hurt.
“This is about Hunter, isn’t it? You had this same torn look on your face in the hospital. The bastard’s got you mixed up in something.” Julian leaned closer. “Look at me, Sophie. Does the heroin belong to him?”
She met Julian’s gaze straight on. “No, absolutely not. I don’t know who put it there. Someone—probably a cop—planted it on me to get me to back off. For eight years, he’s gotten away with raping those girls, and he doesn’t want me to find out who he is.”
He studied her. “Well, shitty luck for him. Now he has someone else on his ass.”
There came another knock at the door, and Chief Irving stuck his crew-cut head inside. “You done breaking the rules, Darcangelo?”
Julian glanced at the takeout containers. “Almost. Give me another ten minutes to finish my dinner, old man.”
Chief Irving looked over at Sophie, who sat, frozen, fork in hand, and raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Make it five.” He shut the door and was gone.
Five minutes.
And then she was going to be strip-searched and locked in a jail cell.
She couldn’t have eaten another bite if she’d wanted to. “Oh, God!”
“It’s going to be okay, Sophie.” Julian reached out and took her hand. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re going to feel like you’re alone in the world when they take you back there, but you aren’t. You’re all we’re thinking about tonight. Remember that. I’m going to get home to find the entire I-Team, past and present, camped in my living room.”
She tried to smile. “I guess I’ll try to view this as research for some future article.”
Julian grinned. “I’ll pass that along to the guards. It’ll scare the shit out of them.”
MARC PARKED THE Jag down the street from Sophie’s place and sat, watching the apartment, a sense of helpless rage making his gut churn.
This was his fault. It was his fault.
He’d known that getting her involved would put her at risk, and he’d done it anyway. To be fair, she’d filed the open-records request before he’d asked her to help, but she never would have done it if he hadn’t told her about Megan. He’d left a trail of bread crumbs that no journalist could have ignored.
And if that trail leads her to prison, asshole?
No fucking way was he going to let that happen.
He stepped out of the Jag, activated the alarm, and walked down the dark street, backpack slung over his shoulder. He’d been following her, just keeping an eye on her, when he saw them pull her over. The moment the K-9 unit had pulled up, he’d known what they’d find. Wishing desperately that he could help her, he’d had to drive away so that he could beat the cops here.
The bastard who’d sent him away for life, the bastard who’d helped Cross brutalize Megan, had now set his sights on Sophie. Only this time it wasn’t going to work. Marc knew his MO and had come here to fuck up his carefully laid plans.
Marc cased out her building, then walked up the stairs to her apartment, opting to break in through the front door this time. He pulled out a lock-picking kit—the sort of thing that would have cost him both balls on the inside—and quickly worked the lock. Then, weapon drawn, he let himself in, cleared the apartment, and got down to business.
She didn’t have an attic or crawl space, so he started in the bathroom. Wearing cheap latex gloves, he turned on the lights and started searching. It had been years since he’d executed a warrant, but the rhythm came back to him, the ability to divide each room into a grid and meticulously work through it.
He checked the toilet tank, looked behind the toilet, probed the shower drain. He took everything out of the cabinet beneath her sink, checking for loose floorboards. He removed the covers on her light switches and electric outlets and checked inside them. He removed the light fixture and checked inside it. After an hour, the only incriminating evidence he’d found was a purple and green packet of Plan B—the morning-after pill—an unwelcome reminder that she’d probably had sex with other men.
<
br /> You’re the one who let her go, Hunter.
Not something he wanted to think about just now.
He repeated the same process in her living room, in her coat closet, in her kitchen, looking in every conceivable nook and cranny, turning over her couch, checking the back of her picture frames, pulling the books off her bookshelves—even probing her flour and sugar with a long wooden spoon.
Nothing.
But it was here, somewhere. It had to be.
He moved to her bedroom—and knew he was getting warmer. On the floor between her bed and her nightstand sat a used cooker and couple of syringes still wrapped in plastic—just the sort of evidence that would convince a jury. He carefully picked the paraphernalia up and dropped it into a plastic bag, then checked under her bed, beneath her mattress, behind her headboard.
He found her vibrator in the top drawer of her nightstand. Bubblegum pink, it was shaped like a dick—a thick, veiny, enormous dick. Except that no dick he’d ever seen was packed with tiny pearls. Or came with switches. Or quite so many ridges.
Feeling both humbled and curious, he picked it up, turned it on—and damned near dropped it when it started to twist, the pearls rolling over one another as the head rotated.
Geee-zus!
Marc’s mind filled with images of Sophie rubbing the buzzing head over her clit, sliding the rotating shaft inside her, her muscles contracting around it as she came. Blood surged into his cock, which, lacking pearls or a motor, did nothing but press uncomfortably against his jeans. He turned the vibrator off and put it in his backpack.
No way was he leaving it here for the cops to find.
Fighting to get his mind off his crotch and back on the job, he opened the next drawer—and hit pay dirt. There, beside a stack of women’s magazines, was a baggie holding what looked like seven or eight grams of heroin. Carefully, he picked it up and examined it through the plastic. Little green flecks told him it was probably laced with fentanyl.
Just like the shit they’d planted on Megan.
Marc had no way of knowing for certain, but he’d bet his ass the stuff they’d found in Sophie’s car was laced with fentanyl, too. It probably came from the same batch—all of it. It had probably been stolen from the evidence room or straight from the dealer.