Made to Be Broken Page 20

  With the ever-growing list of motives and cast of suspects, all centering on Nate Hellqvist, Mina herself would be lost in the soap opera, mere collateral damage. As for the baby, Hellqvist apparently didn't want him, which, all things considered, was probably the best thing that could happen to the kid. If Mina had any family, the reports didn't mention it. Her four-month-old son was currently in the care of children's services, which would find a suitable foster family.

  If I informed the police that Mina died in a botched professional hit and kidnap scheme - completely unrelated to her personal situation - the cops would toss the theory in with the rest of the crazy-person leads. I wished we had left Fenniger's body out for the police to find. I considered tipping them off now, but then attention might turn to who had killed him, and Jack wouldn't want that.

  When I spoke to Quinn, he agreed. With a half dozen more likely scenarios to explain the one death we could prove, we had little hope of getting the local police on the right track. They couldn't afford to devote valuable time investigating claims of a connection between three missing girls - two in another country - and one almost-solved murder.

  Hell, I could send them a PowerPoint presentation with interactive maps leading them to Sammi's body, the Byrony Agency, and the house where Fenniger said he'd delivered Destiny, and it wouldn't make a difference... except that they'd probably consider the sender the murderer of Sammi Ernst, concocting this wild "black market baby" scheme as a cover-up.

  That wasn't insulting the intelligence or competence of the police. When I used to dream up elaborate solutions for my father's unsolved cases, he always quoted Sherlock Holmes: "We balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination." When I was older, I'd shoot back Heraclitus: "A hidden connection is stronger than an obvious one," to which he'd only laugh and tell me that, given the choice between the words of the world's greatest fictional detective and some dead Greek philosopher, a cop was going with Mr. Holmes every time.

  To woo the authorities, I needed more evidence, and I knew where to start collecting it.

  "I have a couple days off coming up," Quinn said when we finished. "Compensation for my lost weekend, and the day off I'd requested after my Toronto visit. Jack gave me the okay to swing by and chat but... well, already being in Canada, no one would think it odd if I decided to spend my days off up here... or in Michigan."

  "You mean to help me with this?"

  "If that'd be all right with you."

  "Absolutely."

  A moment of silence. "While I'd love to say that's all that counts, I'd better let you run it past Jack first. When it comes to us, he seems to be warming to the idea." A laugh. "Or, I guess 'warming' is optimistic, but he seems resigned to it. Elbowing my way into a case you two are working, though, might be pushing my luck. And overstepping my boundaries. And invading his turf. While I'd normally say 'screw him if he doesn't like it,' I don't want to put you in the middle of our fights."

  "I'll talk to him."

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jack agreed. It wasn't an enthusiastic or even speedy agreement, but if I'd said, "Quinn wants to know if he can join us for a few days" and Jack said, "Sure, sounds like fun," I'd have been running inside for the thermometer, certain his broken ankle had somehow become infected.

  His first word was, predictably, "Fuck," followed by a string of profanity-peppered mutters. I said it was totally up to him. He said he'd think about it. Sunday morning, he agreed. He wasn't certain we needed a third pair of hands, but Quinn's expertise would be invaluable, especially in building a law-enforcement-ready case.

  As it turned out, though, that assistance would have to wait awhile longer. A complication in whatever case Quinn was working had him delayed in Montreal, and he had no idea when he'd get away. Jack didn't seem terribly broken up about the delay. In a damn fine mood, actually, though he credited it to relief at getting his cast off... with his foot still intact.

  Monday morning. Detroit. Jack twisted in his chair, legs squealing against the linoleum, then grimaced as he tried to wedge his fingers under his pant leg without whacking his chin on the tabletop. After a few seconds of furious scratching, he straightened, wincing as his spine cracked.

  "You're starting to regret removing that cast, aren't you? Did you use the lotion I picked up last night?"

  "Yeah. Probably rubbed off by now."

  "If you had a purse, you could carry it around with you." I nodded toward a middle-aged man with a pleather fanny pack sheltered by the belly spilling over his waistband. "How about I get you one of those?"

  A muttered profanity. I reached into the tiny paper bag beside my elbow and popped a Swedish berry into my mouth. I struggled not to tap my toes and wriggled, trying to get comfortable, the plastic chair rock-hard against my tailbone. I'd spent the weekend on the go, hosting a full slate of activities, but I still couldn't relax and enjoy this quiet cup of coffee. Unfortunately, for now, progress meant sitting still.

  I peered out the window, through the morning sun, at our target - a door across the road. The offices of the Byrony Agency, the private adoption firm where Fenniger's contact worked.

  "Thank God for coffee shops, huh? It's the one place you can sit for an hour or two, and as long as it isn't too busy and you keep ordering coffee, no one bugs you. There's only one drawback." I lifted my mug. "The coffee. Emma makes decaf in the evening for me - I hate drinking caffeinated after dinner, like I need anything to keep me up at night. Hers is fine. Places like this, though? I swear they make the pot when they first get in and leave it stewing until it's empty." I took a sip and made a face. "I'm probably torturing myself for no reason, too. All we'll be doing is looking."

  "Yeah. But you don't need the caffeine. That sugar's enough."

  "Hey, don't forget who bought me the candy."

  I popped another berry. As I chewed it, I watched the plain smoke-gray door across the street. The Byrony Agency was one of two key addresses Fenniger had given us. The second was the house where he'd dropped off Destiny. That one, we'd check out later.

  When I'd envisioned the adoption agency, I'd pictured two possibilities, polar opposites. One, a sleek suite in a fancy high-rise. Two, a barred, unmarked door in a syringe-strewn alley. The truth seemed somewhere in the middle. The office was in the business district of an upper-middle-class Detroit suburb, on a street of historic buildings that had probably once been a village downtown core. Now it was a mix of restaurants and specialty shops topped by offices - legal, accounting, insurance...

  An intense Web search on the weekend had revealed little about the Byrony Agency except that it was licensed to provide private adoptions in the state of Michigan. That definitely wasn't what I'd expected. Though it didn't have a fancy Web site like some of the others, the Byrony Agency seemed to be legitimate.

  Private adoption had been legal in Michigan since 1995, as long as it was conducted through a licensed agency or adoption lawyer. From Detroit-area Web sites, I got some idea of the process and the costs.

  Prospective adoptive parents needed to provide everything from a home study and criminal record check to doctor's reports and tax statements. Once approved, they could expect to wait about two years for a child.

  They could be charged only for direct expenses incurred by the agency and the birth mother, topping out at about ten thousand dollars. International adoption could be more than twice that. Less than a third of the ten grand typically went to the mother, and only to pay the additional costs of pregnancy - doctor's bills, counseling, additional food and clothing. So, in killing the birth mother, the Byrony Agency could see a profit of about three thousand dollars. For that, they couldn't even hire a crappy hitman.

  Clearly then, the buyers had to be special cases. Those who couldn't pass the background checks, those who were unwilling to wait years for a match, those with very strict requirements for race, gender, and coloring - getting a baby that "looks like Mom and Dad" - above all, clients wi
lling to pay very dearly to see their cradle filled.

  So was this a special service offered by the agency? Or a single greedy employee making deals on the side? Finding out wouldn't be easy.

  We'd left the lodge Sunday night after our two remaining guests went to their room. They'd be gone today and we had no more bookings before Friday. I'd told Emma I was pursuing Sammi's case, and might be gone for a few days. I'd check in daily, and make sure I was back by the weekend. As for "John," he had a nibble on a job in Toronto, so I'd be dropping him off there.

  We'd been watching the door to the Byrony Agency since eight-thirty. Four employees had gone inside - two women and two men, both of whom, from our angle, had matched the description Fenniger gave of his contact.

  At nine-thirty, the first couple arrived. At 10:15, they left, their steps slower, the husband's hand against the small of his wife's back as she stared down the street with empty eyes, clearly having had their hopes dashed. Even if I'd never wanted a child, I could imagine what it would be like to be told I didn't qualify to be a parent.

  In a few hours, when their shock and disappointment had time to crystallize into despair, would they get a phone call? "Hello, it's Joe from the Byrony Agency. I was just reviewing your file. While you don't qualify for regular private adoption, I'm in charge of a special project we're testing here at the agency, and I think I might have some good news for you."

  He'd offer a few more words of encouragement, enough to make them eagerly agree to the first meeting. After feeling them out over several sessions, he'd feel confident enough of their answer to make the offer. Their special needs could be met by special girls who wanted to get their lives back on track and, more important, hand their babies over to parents whose devotion would be unquestioned, parents willing to pay more than the price of a used car for a child. Provide this girl with the money she needed to go to college, to move away, to restart her life, and she would give up her child and all rights to that child, make the clean break that she was certain was in everyone's best interests.

  One baby, at premium cost. A healthy, beautiful, well-adjusted baby with pictures they could see in advance. The mother paid and gone from their lives forever. Of fi cials bought off to provide legitimate adoption papers, with no fear of future repercussions.

  How closely would the prospective parents examine such a deal? One glance at the faces of that couple leaving the office, and I knew the answer. With their dream within reach, they wouldn't dare look too closely.

  About five minutes after the first couple left, a second arrived.

  "They seem to have a steady flow of clients," I said. "Or prospective clients, at least."

  Jack nodded.

  The couple paused at the door, double-checking the name on the plaque, consulting a PDA, then flipping through papers in a folder.

  "Their first visit, I bet," I said.

  "Probably."

  "Bet they get a lot of that."

  "Probably."

  I watched the couple go inside. "I imagine it wouldn't be very hard to - "

  "No."

  "May I finish the idea before you shoot it down?"

  "Don't need to. Gonna suggest making an appointment. Playing parents. Long shot."

  He sipped his coffee. I waited, giving him the chance to expand on that. Futile, of course, but I always do, just to be polite.

  "What's a long shot?" I asked.

  "Getting the offer. Won't do it for everyone. Gotta be just right. Try it? Big risk. Little chance of payoff."

  "I wasn't thinking we'd play prospective parents and hope they'd offer us a black market baby. I'm not that deluded. But if you have a better idea for getting inside and taking a look at the office, the layout, the security setup, the staff..."

  "Huh." Another slow drink of coffee. "Good idea."

  "I do get them, on occasion."

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Jack expected I'd want to wait for Quinn, so I could play this ruse with a husband closer to my age, but Quinn's acting skills were minimal. As Jack said, he preferred to play things straight. A small role with little stretching, yes. This required far more. It required Jack.

  Besides, Jack's age seemed more an advantage than a liability in this scenario. A middle-aged guy with a younger wife still in her "I want a baby" time of life would be smarting from his inability to provide one. Even if the problem wasn't his, people might presume he wasn't as virile as the thirty-five-year-old prospective daddy she could have married.

  The waiting time would be a factor, too. Tell that thirty-five-year-old he has to wait three or four years to get a baby, and that'd be fine. For a guy we could pass off as closer to fifty-five, he'd start having visions of walking his child to school in a mobility scooter.

  Calling to make an appointment using phony names was risky. We had no idea whether the agency would research couples that were only asking for preliminary information, but we had to presume they might at least run a basic name check.

  We needed a genuine cover. For that, Jack suggested getting Evelyn's help again. While he was adamant there would be no cost to me - it would go on his chit, which was overpaid - I knew Evelyn wouldn't go for that. Neither would I. I kept my accounts just as carefully tabulated, and would pay them back.

  This time, though, Evelyn demanded her payment in advance.

  "She wants something," Jack said, as he returned to the rental car from a pay phone.

  "Dare I ask?"

  "To see you. Before you go home."

  "Uh-huh. And the purpose of this visit is to hit me up for - no, don't tell me. She's found another vigilante job that might tempt me more than the last."

  "Yeah. Had it for a while. Kept pestering me to tell you. Said I would. Eventually."

  "What's the job?"

  "Not telling me."

  He started the engine.

  I put out my hand. "Go ahead and call her back. If I refuse, I'm only postponing the inevitable, and we need that appointment. Besides, given the choice, I'd much rather deal with her in person - with you there."

  He nodded and shifted into reverse.

  "You already told her to go ahead, didn't you?"

  "Yeah."

  We'd just finished lunch when Jack got a call from Evelyn. He didn't answer it. Just checked the number, then went to find a pay phone. His cell phone was, of course, a prepaid throwaway, and fine for basic security, but "fine" wasn't good enough for Jack. Detroit was a big city, where a pay phone call was far more anonymous than it was in White Rock, so he was mixing it up.

  Fifteen minutes later, he tossed my notepad onto my lap. One of the pages was covered with shorthand details of the identities we were about to assume. In the top margin, he'd written and circled 4:45.

  "Dare I hope this is an appointment time?"

  "It is."

  "For tomorrow? Wednesday...?"

  "Today."

  "Today?" My voice squeaked as I checked my watch. "Four hours from now? How did you manage to get one so quickly?"

  "My admin assistant."

  "Ah, Evelyn. You know, you really don't give the poor woman enough credit. She's just a sweet old lady who lives to help you, Jack. And for what? Just the simple satisfaction of staying useful in her twilight years."

  A snort, followed by a few choice epithets.

  "Let me see how well my Evelyn radar is working today," I said. "You didn't ask her to set it up. She did it on her own, to prove how useful she can be... and to sneak a hidden charge onto my bill."

  "If I didn't ask her to do it, we don't owe. She knows that. She's grandstanding."

  "Are you suitably impressed?"

  "I'm not her target."

  "Don't worry. When I see her, I'll be sure to thank her for the speedy appointment, and to display the appropriate lack of awe."

  He laughed sharply as he pulled out of the restaurant lot. Identities in hand, we needed to find suitable outfits to hang on them. Time to go shopping.

  We were assuming the
identities of Debbie and Wayne Abbott. Thirty-three and fifty-one years old respectively, the Abbotts had been married four years. It was his second, her first. Neither had children. He owned a successful construction company. She taught third grade.

  A lovely couple, I'm sure. Rather private individuals, it seemed. According to Evelyn, their phone number was unlisted, and the only reference she could find on the Web was to Abbott's company, which didn't include photos of the owner. I'd double-check all that. I didn't mistrust Evelyn - at least, not when there would be no advantage to endangering us with false information. I'd check simply because I could.

  The Abbotts lived in upstate Michigan. When Evelyn called the Byrony Agency, she'd explained that her boss and his wife were finishing a weekend getaway in Detroit where someone had mentioned their agency and recommended them. The Abbotts had to be home tomorrow, but was there any chance they might be able to speak to someone briefly?

  At the mall, I went for smart casual - an Anne Klein blouse and slacks ensemble, and pumps with no special designer name attached. I chose a wig of short, dark blond hair, and added a tan from a winter sun getaway. Elegant small-frame glasses, pearl earrings, and a gold watch completed the look of the casually stylish schoolteacher who'd married into a bit of money, but hated to flaunt it.

  The outfit rang up quite a bill, particularly the jewelry. It was more than I liked to spend on a pro bono job, but I'd brought money from my hidden stash, and I could easily take the watch and earrings home and add them to my costuming collection in New York. The rest of the ensemble I might be able to reuse on this job, but after that it was garbage.

  As always, the male half of the act got away with a much cheaper outfit. Jack bought washout white hair color, meant for kids to add funky streaks, but equally suitable for adding more silver to his dark hair. He used my fake tanner, and bought cheap blue contacts. Expertly applied scar makeup from a joke shop added an ugly mark on his chin for interest. For clothes, he went for the kind of golf shirt, casual pants, and loafers combo that said "working-class guy turned entrepreneur."