Seeing Red (4 page)

Carr blinked and forgot all about his tee time. “After fifteen years? Why now?”

“Well, a man can’t do much to prove his innocence while he’s in prison, ’specially when he’s got no money.”

“I’m a newspaper man, Mr. Alexander, not a lawyer. I don’t know what you think I can do for you.”

“I read all your articles, the ones you wrote right after that girl was found. You know I didn’t do it.”

“I don’t know any such thing.”

“You were plenty vocal about the attacker bein’ the girl’s boyfriend—and you were right.” He paused. “Listen, man, I just need someone in my corner, get public opinion in my favor, maybe even help me convince a lawyer to petition to reopen my case.”

Carr’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Alexander, what good will that do? You’ve served your time. Getting the case reopened now will be extremely difficult. I suggest you get on with your life.”

“They’ve got more technology now. DNA testin’ and whatnot.”

“Well yes, but—”

“I’m also contactin’ the Justice Project—they’ve gotten all kinds of convictions overturned on DNA evidence.”

“Yes, but they don’t accept many cases. The odds are against you—especially since it’s been so long and you’re now free.”

“Free?” Alexander gave a choked chuckle. “I just thought you might be interested in gettin’ the story . . . you know, for the paper. Maybe even write a book about it.” Another puff on the cigarette. “There’s lots of money in a book like that. You help me; I help you. Ain’t that the way it works out here in the real world?”

This was just too much to process during an unexpected phone call. Carr couldn’t be hasty. “Let’s meet and we’ll talk.”

Hollis Alexander hung up the phone, pleased with how well things were falling into place. But he had to move slowly, to have patience. Patience to follow his plan, even though he burned for a swift and frightful reckoning. It wouldn’t do for his retribution to fall short of complete because of his own impatience.

So many people to punish. So many sins to rectify.

He finished unpacking, laying his neatly folded socks beside his tidy stack of underwear in the cheap particleboard chest of drawers.

Too damn bad his parole required him to live in this fucking halfway house. Of course, the parole board hadn’t called it a halfway house. They’d referred to it as “a supportive environment to aid him in his transition.” Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. It was just prison with an unlocked door.

Nothin’ he could do about it, so he focused on the advantages of “transitional housing.” He did have a room all to himself. And it made the powers that be feel in control. That could be a valuable asset—along with the court of public opinion.

He shook his head. All he’d had to do was mention a book and that journalist had jumped right on the bandwagon.

People were so fucking predictable.

He straightened the worn blanket that covered his twinsize bed and left his room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He was whistling as he headed to see his parole officer and report on his new job at Heidi’s House of Hounds. Then he was going to make an unexpected call on an old friend.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

N
ate Vance sat in the gate area at LaGuardia, next to a young woman gently jostling a baby. She was traveling alone and had eyed him just a little suspiciously when he’d taken the seat next to her. He supposed she was right to; there were plenty of seats across the aisle. Unfortunately, she was worried about the wrong man.

Nate had noticed the guy with the shaved head had been shadowing the young mother for the past ten minutes; the man’s eyes were steady on the woman’s purse. Babies and diaper bags made great distractions for thieves.

Opening his newspaper, Nate smiled and gave the woman a friendly, yet not too forward nod. “Beautiful baby.”

She smiled cautiously. “Thank you.”

He returned his attention to his paper and didn’t pursue conversation. He didn’t want to frighten her off and have to figure out a way to continue watching over her without really freaking her out.

He glanced at his watch, frustrated at the amount of time he was wasting. It had been quite a while since he’d flown in anything other than a corporate jet—not since the last time he’d gone to South Carolina, over two years ago. Although he had to take care of some business in Savannah first, Charleston was his destination. And because of that, he was flying commercial, and under one of his aliases, Samuel Johns.

He didn’t allow himself low-country visits often. But he’d been one of the thousands of faces in the crowd when Ellis Greene had graduated from Charleston College. He just couldn’t miss that. Not when he’d known how difficult pushing through had been for her. He hadn’t chanced getting too close; he’d used his binoculars to search for her black-robed figure among hundreds. But he’d found her.

She’d looked happy and hopeful . . . whole. It had made his heart swell to see it, making it worth all the contriving he’d had to do to get there.

And then, a couple of years later, he’d slipped into Belle Island and watched her teach her self-defense class in the park. His identity had been protected by the tinted windows of a rental car—and he’d never been so tempted to throw caution out the window.

She’d developed into a very striking woman—tall, athletic, with those exotic green eyes and full lips. He’d always known she’d be a knockout. But watching her instruct those girls with passion animating every feature, every action, he’d felt a deep stirring he’d not expected. The kind of stirring that makes men risk rejection and ask for women’s phone numbers.

His surprise at this feeling had only been surpassed by his shock at its intensity. He’d been tempted to initiate things that would spell disaster for him—and wouldn’t do her a bit of good either.

Before he weakened and revealed himself to her, he’d started the car and driven away.

He hadn’t dared to go back since. Until now. With Hollis Alexander out of prison, the risk of Nate
not
going outweighed the risk of his returning to Belle Island.

The airline called his row for boarding.

Nate folded his newspaper and stood, but he remained where he was until the young mother’s group was called. Then he followed her to the Jetway entrance and handed his boarding pass to the gate attendant.

With all the impotent fury of a father who had been unable to protect his child, Greg Reinhardt started dialing Victim Services five minutes before the office in the state capital was scheduled to open. On his sixteenth dial, at exactly eight-oh-one, someone picked up the phone.

“I need to speak to Valerie Scatterfield.” Scatterfield had been assigned as the “liaison” for Laura’s case. She’d taken over last year when Cyrus Boone had retired. Greg had never felt comfortable with the change—obviously for good reason, as things now stood.

A father of three daughters, Cyrus had taken a special interest in Laura’s case, had been there from the beginning. To Valerie Scatterfield, a childless veteran of bureaucracy, Laura was simply another victim years past the crime, just another case number.

“May I tell Ms. Scatterfield who’s calling and what this is regarding?”

“Tell her it’s Greg.” Hopefully the guard dog on the other end of the line would hurry this along like a personal call, which it was, personal to
him
anyway.

“One moment.”

When Valerie Scatterfield answered the phone, she sounded breathless, as if she’d hurried from the coffee station to take the call. “This is Valerie.”

“This is Greg Reinhardt. Laura Reinhardt’s father.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Reinhardt?” There was no recognition in her voice.

“You can tell me how in the hell Hollis Alexander got paroled and we weren’t notified about the hearing.”

He heard paper shuffling. “I’m sorry, who was the inmate again?”

“Hollis Alexander. Ridgeland Correctional. Supposed to be serving a thirty-year sentence for raping and beating my daughter to death.”

“Murder or manslaughter?”
Chocolate or vanilla? Coffee or tea?

Greg wanted to reach right through this phone line and wring her neck. Why in goddamn hell did Cyrus have to retire? “Neither. It took her four years to die.”

“Oh. I’m very sorry,” she said, her tone changing drastically. Apparently, that appalling fact pierced her professional armor. He heard a keyboard in the background. “We do have him listed as paroled on May twenty-third. He’s in transition housing, which is good. Let’s see . . . He’s to meet with his parole officer this morning and is due to meet with him again next Monday, then every two weeks thereafter. As a sex offender, he has to stay away from schools, parks, and playgrounds. And, naturally, he’s been ordered to have no contact with the victim’s—with your family.”

Greg’s stomach wanted to expel the coffee he’d consumed. “So it’s too late to send the bastard back to prison?”

“Unless he violates parole, sir.”

Greg scoffed. “And somebody catches him.”

“As with all law enforcement, I’m afraid the probation department is understaffed. I’ll give you his parole officer’s name and number in case you have a complaint.”

With the number of offenders out there and with the understaffing problem, a parole officer keeping a real eye on Hollis Alexander would be like a man trying to watch one fiddler crab in a marsh full of them.

Greg shifted gears. “So why weren’t we informed about his parole hearing? We’re registered. We’ve been given thirty days’ advance notice in the past. If we’d been there, he wouldn’t have gone free.”

“Mr. Reinhardt, he isn’t free—”

“Let’s not get into a semantics discussion. He’s out. He has a life after he robbed my daughter of hers. We should have been able to present our case at the hearing.”

“Let me go back and check something.” More keyboard clickety-clacks followed. “Hmmm, that doesn’t make sense.”

“What?”

“According to my records, you’ve been removed from the notification list.”

“That’s impossible. If you’re trying to cover up incompetence—”

“Oh, no, Mr. Reinhardt. This was taken out of the system before I transferred here. Besides”—her voice grew slightly testy—“our service is a courtesy to victims and their families. We have no reason to hide our mistakes.”

“When was it removed?”

“Umm, looks like September before last. It’s marked as requested by the next of kin.”

“I
did not
request it.”

“Perhaps your wife, then?”

With a muttered curse, Greg slammed down the phone.

It was eight-forty a.m. when Ellis heard footsteps coming up the outside staircase that led to her front door. Her gaze darted to the alarm control panel. The reassuring red “armed” light gazed back. She snatched up the cordless phone and tiptoed to the door. Just as she leaned close to look out the peephole, a soft knock sounded.

“Ellis? It’s Dad.”

As she disarmed the security system, she felt as foolish as a preacher caught in a lie. She had to get some perspective on this. If Alexander was freshly paroled, she doubted he would jeopardize his freedom so quickly. And if he
was
coming after her, he wouldn’t very likely do it in the light of day—or with a knock at her front door.

She unlocked the door, then smiled over her shoulder at her dad as she headed to the kitchen. “You still like your coffee so it’ll walk to the table on its own?” Putting on a brave face was an important component in managing fear.

“Only when your mother isn’t in sight. She’s got me on watered down decaf. Might as well drink dishwater,” he said glumly. “But however you take yours will be fine.” Somehow he made the statement sound both resigned and hopeful.

As she prepared coffee, her dad went to the fridge. “Do you have any of those refrigerator cinnamon rolls, you know, the ones that have that doughboy on them?” He leaned into the refrigerator. “Criminy, you don’t have anything in here. What do you live on?”

“I can make you some oatmeal.”

“If I’d wanted oatmeal, I’d have eaten at home and gotten my brownie points for it.”

Ellis turned around and leaned against the counter. “Does Mom know about Alexander?”

He nodded. “She went over to tell your aunt Jodi in person.”

“What did Uncle Greg say when you called him?” Her aunt and uncle had divorced thirteen years ago; Ellis’s mother had said it was because they dealt with their grief in such different ways.

“He’s mad as a wildcat in a waterfall. I’m sure he was all over those people at Victim Services the minute they showed up to work.” Her dad opened the pantry door and pulled out her one and only junk food—brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts. After ripping open the silver bag and dropping two into the toaster, he turned to her. “Maybe the Web site was wrong. They’ve always notified us before.”

“Let’s hope. I mean, Prosecutor Buckley seemed pretty sure Alexander wouldn’t get parole—ever.”

“Well, one thing I’ve learned is that this world ain’t what it used to be. All you hear about are overcrowded jails and criminals’ rights and how they deserve a second chance, that they can’t help the way they are, that they’re all victims of their upbringing. I say big flippin’ deal. Let ’em suffer a little for all the suffering they’ve caused.”