One Man's Family

“Does he see his father?”

“He did last week.” She set a deep frying pan on the stove, drizzled some olive oil into it and turned on the burner beneath it. “I didn’t realize the intake process would take so long—more than four weeks—and that was the first chance we had to visit since he was transferred to Columbia River Detention Center.”

“How did it go?”

“Not good. Lia cried through most of the hour, Joey barely said two words, and Joe and I just stared at one another feeling helpless.”

The oil sizzled when she dumped the meat into the pan. “I wish I could believe it would get better, but I’m not sure that it will, and those kids have done nothing to deserve this.”

She dumped the board and knife into the sink, then turned on the tap and scrubbed her hands with soap and water. “Then again, I don’t believe Joe did anything to deserve his fate, either.”

She dried her hands on a towel, then found another board and knife and started slicing a red pepper into thin strips.

He watched her move around the kitchen, impressed by the efficiency with which she worked, and glad that he was sitting here watching her make dinner instead of on his way back home.

He tried to remember the last time a woman had offered to cook for him and couldn’t. He knew it had been more than two years because that was how long it had been since his ex-girlfriend moved out. And it had been a rare occasion for her to prepare a meal that didn’t come ready-made for the microwave. She hadn’t liked to cook and he’d understood that she didn’t feel like hovering over a stove after spending ten or twelve hours at her job. And yet, here was Alicia, not only undertaking the task at the end of what he knew had been a long and difficult day, but making it look easy.

“I wasn’t going to stay for dinner,” he told her.

She smiled as she sliced briskly through a zucchini. “You have to eat, and I had to cook for myself and the kids, anyway.”

“You look like you enjoy cooking.”

“I do,” she said, moving on to peel the carrots she’d set aside. “Even when I’m only cooking for myself, it relaxes me.”

She took a couple of cans of soda from the fridge, offered him one. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”

He noted that she started when their fingers brushed in the transfer, as she’d done when he’d reached for her bag back at her apartment. Was she just jittery? he wondered. Or was she also feeling the sparks generated by the energy between them?

“You didn’t really give me a choice,” he said, leaving the chemistry issue aside for now. “And maybe I should thank you for that, because I would have gone home to a frozen dinner with only my TV for company.”

She stepped away from him, turning to stir the meat and vegetables in the pan. “It’s always more fun to share a meal with a friend than to dine alone.”

He popped the top on his drink. “Are we going to be friends, Alicia?”

“I hope so.”

Scott was starting to hope—against his better judgment—that friendship would only be the start.

Chapter Three

Alicia knew she had a tendency to talk too much when she was nervous, and she found herself rambling throughout the meal and even after. Scott Logan, on the other hand, seemed to be a man of few words. He answered the questions she asked and responded to statements directed to him, but he did so with a minimum of words and always managed to redirect the conversation back to her.

It was a disconcerting change for Alicia to sit across the table from a man who didn’t regale her with stories designed to prove how interesting or important he was. Her most recent dating experiences had been with men who, though expressing an interest in her, were really more interested in themselves. She didn’t know many who would have hung around to dine with two ill-behaved children and even fewer who would have stuck it out through after-dinner negotiations over TV shows and bedtimes. So she was more than a little surprised to return to the kitchen after running Lia’s bath to discover that Scott Logan was not only still there but washing dishes.

Of course, this wasn’t a date, so she really shouldn’t compare the P.I. with the other men she’d dated. But she couldn’t deny there was something about the image of a strong man with his hands immersed in sudsy water that made her heart skip a beat. Forget candlelight dinners and long-stemmed roses—a man who willingly tackled household chores was the one who scored points with her.

“When I invited you to stay for dinner, I didn’t expect you to help with the washing up.”

“I don’t mind,” Scott said, wiping the cloth over another plate.

“Well, as much as I appreciate the effort, my mother would be appalled if I let an invited guest do my dishes.” She nudged his hip with her own to push him aside so that she could take over.

Of course, the subtle hip check didn’t even seem to register, except maybe in the glint of humor she saw in his dark eyes when he turned to meet her gaze. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a lot bigger than you.”

“I noticed,” she admitted. “But my brother taught me not to be afraid of someone’s size. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ he always told me.”

“That might be true,” Scott said. “But it would be easier for you to find a towel and dry these dishes instead of battling with me over washing them.”

She shrugged as she retrieved a clean towel from under the sink. “If you really want to help, I’m not going to refuse.”

“But it goes against your grain, doesn’t it? And not just because of your mother would disapprove.”

“What do you mean?”

“You strike me as a woman who feels compelled to do everything for herself, maybe just to prove to yourself that you can, or maybe because there hasn’t been anyone around to lend a hand.”

His words struck painfully close to the truth. “Were you a psychologist before you became a private investigator?” she asked.

One side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “No.”

“That’s right, you were a cop,” she said, remembering what Jordan had told her.

“Yeah, but my father’s a psychologist.”

“And you think that gives you license to perform an amateur analysis of my character?”

“No,” he denied. “But I am curious.”

“About psychology?”

“About you,” he said. “About how a woman who already juggles a full-time job and med school ended up with legal guardianship of her brother’s children.”

“He asked,” she said simply. “And there was no one else.”

“Their mother isn’t around?”

“Joe was granted full custody in the divorce,” she said. “That should tell you something about Yvette.”

“Grandparents?”

She shook her head. “Yvette cut all ties with her parents a long time ago. I don’t even think the Solomons have ever seen their grandchildren.”

“What about your parents?”

“They died almost four years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

“There was a fire in the restaurant they owned. They lived upstairs. I know it probably sounds weird, but I actually found comfort in the fact that they were together. They’d been married forty-two years and devoted to one another for all that time.”

She slid open the cutlery drawer, dropping in forks and knives as she dried them.

“They were the reason I got interested in reproductive technology,” she continued. “Because my mom suffered through so many miscarriages, both before and after Joe and I were born.

“She and my dad always said they wanted a dozen kids, but it took a lot of years before she finally had Joe. Then, when she had me less than a year and a half later, they thought their luck had turned around.

“But I was the end of the line, and although we never had reason to doubt how much they loved us, we knew they were both saddened by the loss of the other babies she couldn’t carry to term.”

“So now you help other women have the families they want,” he said.

She nodded. “Not all of our patients get the results they want, but for those who do…well, it really is a miracle.”

“And for those who don’t?”

“It’s just one more heartbreak,” she admitted.

“It must be hard dealing with those emotional highs and lows.”

His insight and understanding surprised her, and made it impossible for her to hold back. “A while ago, I was reprimanded by one of the doctors who caught mecrying in the staff room. She said that tears were unprofessional and I had no business working at the clinic if I couldn’t hold myself together.”

“That was harsh.”

“Dr. Logan thought so, too. He—” She narrowed her gaze on him. “Dr. Jake Logan?”

“My brother,” he admitted.

“I should have guessed,” she said. Jake was a little taller and Scott’s shoulders were a little wider, but otherwise the physical resemblance was striking.

“You were telling me about crying in the staff room,” he reminded her.

“And your brother came in and interrupted Dr. Morningstar’s lecture to tell me that, in his opinion, compassion was more important than professionalism. Then he handed me a box of tissues and steered Dr. Morningstar outside so I could finish crying in peace.”

She allowed herself a smile before admitting, “I cry a lot—tears of sadness and despair when a procedure fails, tears of happiness and gratitude when one of my patients experiences the joy of giving birth.”

He rinsed the stir-fry pan, then pulled the plug. “Does Dr. Morningstar still give you a hard time about that?”

“She transferred to another clinic a couple of months ago—just after the Sanders adoption case hit the headlines.”

“That was a nasty one, wasn’t it?” He wiped around the inside of the sink as the water swirled down the drain.

“I’m not sure it’s over yet.” She put the pan away and folded the towel. “Now Robbie Logan—” She paused.

“My cousin,” he told her.

“Okay. Robbie has resigned and apparently disappeared, and there are still rumors that the agency might close.”

Despite her boss’s reassurances that they would weather this latest scandal, Alicia was concerned. Not just for the patients who desperately needed the hope the clinic offered, but for herself personally. If the Children’s Connection shut down, she’d lose not just the job she loved, but her means of supporting herself and her brother’s children.

“I thought LJ’s campaign had turned things around.”

“LJ?”

“The PR guy who was brought in from New York to help spin things for the media—LJ Logan,” he explained. “Another brother of mine.”

“How many of you are there?” she wondered aloud.

“Four. LJ’s the oldest, then there’s Ryan—he’s an architect—then Jake, and myself.”

“Four,” she echoed. “I’ll bet you kept your mother hopping.”

“She blamed us for every one of her gray hairs.”

She smiled. “What is it like, being part of a big family?”

“It’s crowded,” he said. “And noisy. But it’s fun, too.”

“You’re close to everyone?”

“Mostly,” he said, and left it at that.

“Joe and I have always been close,” she said, turning on the tap to fill the coffeepot with water, then dumping it into the reservoir. “And now—” she shook her head “—I just can’t believe any of this is happening.”

He didn’t offer any platitudes, for which she was grateful. There was nothing anyone could say that would make her current situation any easier to accept. There was no way anyone could understand what it was like for her brother to be locked away in prison, knowing he shouldn’t be there.

Still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What would you do—if it was one of your brothers in jail?”

Scott started to shrug off the question. After all, he knew his brothers, and he knew that none of them would ever end up in the kind of situation Joe Juarez was in. Except he realized that Alicia felt the same way about her brother as he did about his, and that was why she was such a passionate advocate for his cause.

He also knew, from his years on the police force, that human beings were inherently volatile and anyone was capable of almost anything given the right motivation.

Could he imagine LJ smashing the window of an electronics store to lift a new stereo system? Or Ryan going door-to-door to scam people out of their savings in the name of home improvements that would never happen? Or Jake stealing cars to sell on the black market overseas? Of course not—the idea of any of his brothers involved in such criminal activity was ridiculous. On the other hand, he didn’t doubt that they were all capable of inflicting serious bodily harm on anyone who threatened someone they cared about.

“I’d do exactly what you’re doing,” he finally responded to Alicia’s question. “And leave no stone unturned in trying to prove his innocence—or at least understand why he’d done whatever it was that landed him in jail.”

“Joe didn’t take the engine or those plans.”

“I know you believe that, and you might be right. But maybe you should think about what circumstances might have forced him into a situation where he decided to take them.”

“Joe wouldn’t sacrifice his integrity under any circumstances.”

“What if his integrity demanded he do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if he believed the emissions of this alternative fuel were carcinogenic?”

“That isn’t what happened here.”

“What if something like that did happen?”

“Then he would have urged the company to scrap the project.” She handed him a mug of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. And what would Joe do if the company refused?”

She frowned as she sat across from him, obviously considering possibilities she hadn’t before and not appreciating the implications. “Can we stick with the facts as they exist?”

“Okay,” he said. “What we know is that Joe had taken the prototype and the engine plans home to make some alterations on them over the weekend. On Saturday morning, he couldn’t find them.

“According to the statement he later gave to police, he tore the house apart looking for them and, when he still couldn’t locate them, put in a call to Gene Russo, his boss. A review of his phone records confirms that the call was made, although he didn’t leave a message on Russo’s machine.”

“Of course he didn’t leave a message,” she said, a little defensively. “He wanted to talk to his boss in person so he went to track him down—”

“—at the garage,” Scott interrupted to continue, reminding her that this was his recitation of facts. “Russo went back to Joe’s house with him and they called the police from there.”

“And Joe admitted to Mr. Russo and the police that he’d taken the engine and plans home on the weekend, which he wouldn’t have done if he’d had something to hide.”

That had occurred to him, too. But he’d worked a lot of cases where suspects had unexpectedly admitted to incriminating activities, and he’d found such confessions usually allowed the investigation to be wrapped up quickly. Which is exactly what had happened here.

Had it been wrapped up too quickly?

That was a question he couldn’t answer without more information and a close look at the transcripts.

“Other than the fact that Joe was the last person in possession of the items that were stolen, what evidence did the prosecution have?”

“There was a five-thousand-dollar deposit made to Joe’s bank account on Friday before the plans went missing.”

“Five thousand?” It seemed a paltry amount to risk prison for, but he’d known people who did crazier things for less.

“Yes,” she said. “And, yes, Joe had unpaid bills.”

“What kind of bills?”

“Outstanding medical expenses from Lia’s tonsil-lectomy in the fall.”

“How much?”

“He’s been making regular payments, but there’s still about two thousand owing.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the mortgage, household utilities, that kind of thing.”

“Credit card bills?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t carry a balance on his cards.”

“Did he gamble—horses, slots, stock market?”

“No.”

“Do drugs?”

Her jaw tightened. “No.”

“What did he do?”

“He worked and spent time with his kids.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?” he pressed.

“No. He dated occasionally, but no one seriously or exclusively.”

“Who else had a key to the house?”

“Me.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Not even Joey?”

“No. But he knows there’s a spare hidden in the ceramic frog on the back step.” She brightened at the implications of that. “Where almost anyone could have found it and come into the house to take the prototype and plans.”

“Anyone could have,” he agreed. “But there’s no evidence that anyone did.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m grasping at straws.”

“What did Joe say when the prosecutor asked him about the money?”

Alicia pushed away from the table and went to refill her mug with coffee. “Nothing.”

“He didn’t answer the question?”

“He didn’t testify,” she admitted.

“Why not?”

“That seems to be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

Or maybe, Scott couldn’t help but think, in this case it was only a five-thousand-dollar question.

Alicia listened to the metal doors clang shut behind her and fought to suppress the instinctive shudder that ran through her every time she heard the sound. She wondered if she’d ever get used to it and desperately hoped not. She didn’t want Joe to be stuck in this prison long enough for her to get used to it.

She followed the guard to the visitors’ room. It was mostly empty at this time of day, which filled her with both relief and sadness. She felt claustrophobic enough in here without the press of dozens of bodies around her, and yet, she knew that visits from family and friends were the only bright lights these men had, their only connection to the outside world.

She wouldn’t have expected to feel any empathy for these convicted criminals, except that her brother was now one of them. He spent his days locked up in this prison with no one for company but the other inmates who lived behind these bars and the guards who monitored their every move.

The thought made her stomach clench. Her brother didn’t deserve to be here. And yet, he was here, and she was scared to death that he wouldn’t be able to survive without the oppressive environment crushing his spirit.

Joe had always been a kind person, a gentle soul, a dreamer. He believed the best in people and always looked on the bright side, even when life threw him a curveball. And life had thrown him a lot of those, starting with Yvette’s unexpected pregnancy when they were both barely out of high school.

Joe had immediately proposed, wanting to marry her and give their baby a family. He hadn’t listened to the naysayers who’d warned of the difficult road ahead because he’d believed that their love was strong enough to triumph over whatever obstacles they might face.

And for a while, it looked as though he was right. Joe Jr. was born seven months after they married, then Lia came along four years later. During that time, Joe had worked two and three jobs to provide for his young family. When Yvette started making noises about feeling restless, Joe had done everything he could to make her happy, fought with everything he had to keep their marriage together. In the end, he’d let her go because it was what was best for their children.

Yvette had broken Joe’s heart. Alicia knew it because she’d been there for him when his world was falling apart and when he’d started to put it back together again.

She’d been the first person he called when he was hired by Russo’s Dirt Devils Racing Team. He’d been as excited as a kid, thrilled with the challenges and opportunities the job would present, and overjoyed to have a steady paycheck that would keep Lia in ballet slippers and allow him to get Joey that computer he’d been eyeing.

He’d worked hard for and with the team. He’d taken pride in their accomplishments while continuing to look ahead at what they could do to perform even better. And he’d been thrilled to be part of their secret project.

There was no way he would have compromised the work. No way he would ever have stolen the prototype or the plans. And she was furious that anyone who knew her brother could even suspect him of such crimes.

The injustice of it all continued to gnaw away at her as she moved over to the table she’d started to think of as her “usual” table and sat in the hard wooden chair waiting for the door at the other end of the room to open.

A few minutes later it finally did, and Joe was led inside.

He looked tired, was her first thought, and thin. He’d lost weight in the few weeks he’d been incarcerated, weight that he couldn’t afford to lose from his already slender frame. And the color had faded from his cheeks, leaving his skin pale, almost pasty.

He was little more than a shadow of the vibrant man she loved so dearly, and it broke her heart to see him like this after only five weeks in jail. How could he possibly survive five years?

“Hey, Ali.” He managed a smile when she rose to give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before returning to her seat in accordance with the strictly enforced rules of visitation. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

But she could tell that he was pleased by her visit, grateful for the interruption of his mundane routine.

“I’m on my lunch break so I can’t stay long,” she told him. “But there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Are the kids okay?” he asked, immediately concerned.

“Joey and Lia are fine,” she said quickly, anxious to reassure him even while she recognized the falseness of her assurance.

Of course they weren’t fine—they were going through hell trying to deal with the repercussions of their father being in jail. On the other hand, there wasn’t any kind of medical emergency that she suspected Joe was worried about.

“Okay.” He exhaled shakily. “Good.”

“How about you, Joe?” she asked gently. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” he responded, though not very convincingly.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Worrying about me in here isn’t going to change anything.”

“I know,” she admitted. “But I can’t help it. And I can’t help feeling guilty for living my life while yours has been put on hold.”

“Joey and Lia are my life, Ali. And because of you, they’re able to move on with their lives. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re there for them.”

“It would mean more to them to have their father with them.”

He winced as the barb struck home. “Dammit, Ali. You know this wasn’t my choice.”

“Then why didn’t you testify, Joe? Why didn’t you take the stand to tell your side of the story?”

“Haven’t we been through this already?”

“Not really, because you always refused to answer the question.”

“Telling my side of the story wouldn’t have changed anything,” he told her. “Not without proof that someone else took those plans.”

“Then that’s what we’re going to find.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked warily.

“I’ve hired a private investigator.”

“Why?”

She was stunned. “Because you shouldn’t be locked up for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“The jury convicted me,” he reminded her.

“Because the jury didn’t have all of the evidence.”

“Let it go, Ali.”

She frowned. “I thought you’d be pleased by this.”

“I’ll be pleased when my sentence is over and I can be home with my family again.”

“Well, hopefully Scott Logan will make that happen sooner rather than later.”

“Who?”

“The investigator I hired on the recommendation of your lawyer,” she told him.

“Jordan gave you his name?”

She nodded. “Because he believes, as I do, that you were wrongly convicted.”