Made To Be Broken Part 25

His first word was, predictably, "f.u.c.k," 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 a.s.sistance 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 d.a.m.n 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 G.o.d 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-cla.s.s 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 c.r.a.ppy hitman.

Clearly then, the buyers had to be special cases. Those who couldn't pa.s.s 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 willing 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? "h.e.l.lo, 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 dare look too closely. 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 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..." 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 pa.s.s 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 ident.i.ties we were about to a.s.sume. 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 a.s.sistant."

"Ah, Evelyn. You know, you really don't give the poor woman enough credit. She's just a sweet old lady who lives lives to help you, Jack. And for what? Just the simple satisfaction of staying useful in her twilight years." 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. Ident.i.ties in hand, we needed to find suitable outfits to hang on them. Time to go shopping.

We were a.s.suming the ident.i.ties 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 gla.s.ses, 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-cla.s.s guy turned entrepreneur."

Neither was a grade-A disguise, but they'd do.

Chapter Thirty-four.

At four thirty-five, we stepped through the very door we'd been watching that morning. It was a simple door, with a simple lock and dead bolt. A security system or camera was a definite possibility, but once inside, alone in a semidark stairwell, we had time for a thorough search. No alarm system. No camera. No need for them in a business like this.

To reach the office, we had to climb a set of old, narrow stairs that smelled of must and rotting wood, underlain with the faint "soaked into the walls" stink of urine. The stairs were slick with age and poorly lit. I didn't dare touch the handrail.

I wondered how many prospective parents never got past these stairs, struck by the uncomfortable feeling they were about to ascend into a squalid office manned by a sweaty beef-jerky-chomping guy named Sal, who had a sports book on the side. If a couple had any twinges of guilt over private adoption, any fear that it wasn't the legitimate business they'd been led to believe, they probably turned around right here.

But if they made it up the stairs, past the shadowy landing, and through the wooden door, all their fears would evaporate. It was like stepping into the reception area for an upscale preschool.

The reception desk was large, made of rich wood, with no hint of the corporate or industrial about it. The walls had been painted beige with just a hint of pink for warmth. Framed watercolors adorned the walls, all in soft, warm tones. Two armchairs waited, big and inviting, each flanked by a table with magazines, but with nothing between the chairs, letting the anxious or excited couple stay close, whispering or holding hands.

A glance at the magazines showed not a single parenting one. Nor were there any pictures of children even the watercolors were all landscapes. No need to remind clients of what they lacked. And yet the general air still suggested a business that catered to children maybe just that lived-in hominess that you couldn't help a.s.sociating with family life.