Swallow The Hook Part 12

"Well, the owner helped me a little." He didn't want to go there. "I'm very glad you like it. What else are you doing to celebrate your birthday?"

"The boys built a castle with LEGOS for me-isn't that cute? Eric is closing a big deal in South Carolina, so we'll do something when he gets back."

"Can't let a birthday get in the way of a big deal." The moment the sarcastic words were out of his mouth, he wished he could have reeled them back in.

Caroline reacted with a predictable, "Dad-ee."

"I just meant, I hate to see you all alone on your birthday. If I knew, I would have come down and taken you out."

"Oh, it doesn't matter-I'm a big girl. Or so I'm told."

Was that a quaver he heard in her voice? "Honey, are you okay? Tell me what's wrong."

"Don't be silly. Nothing's wrong."

"Caroline, I know something's bothering you. Let me help."

"I don't need you to-Oh, Jeremy, no! What a mess. I've gotta run, Daddy. Thanks again for the bowl."

And the phone went dead.

In the silence of the office he mulled over what Caroline had said, and not said. He struggled to remember when this coolness toward him had started. She'd been fine in the spring, hadn't she? But maybe he'd been so preoccupied with the Janelle Harvey case that he hadn't noticed the change coming over her.

Could it be some trouble with Eric? No, that was just his natural mistrust of every man who'd ever shown an interest in his daughter, from the kid who tried to kiss her in the sandbox, on up to her husband. The last time he'd seen Caroline and Eric together, they'd been embarra.s.singly affectionate.

Maybe she was sick? A shudder of fear pa.s.sed through him. Caroline was young and healthy-he wouldn't even consider that. But when he rejected the obvious, he was left with the nagging worry that he and Caroline were drifting apart because she had no need for him in her life.

The conversation with Caroline at least gave him a pretext to call on Beth. After all, she had asked to know how his daughter liked the bowl. And suddenly the office seemed unbearably small and stuffy.

Frank quickly drove the two miles to Beth's shop. Relieved to see no other cars parked in front, he entered and followed a humming sound to the curtained doorway in the back of the showroom. Pushing the fabric aside, he stood and watched as a pear-shaped vase took form on the potter's wheel under Beth's nimble fingers. It grew magically from a lump to a graceful column, with only the slightest coaxing from its creator. She smiled slightly, but her eyes never left the wheel, so he perched on a stool and waited for her to finish.

In a minute or two the wheel slowed and stopped and Beth looked up. "Sorry, once I start, it's not easy to stop."

Frank smiled. "You could say that about a lot of things."

Beth relaxed. "I thought you might still be mad at me."

"And that worried you?"

He watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as she blushed and fiddled with something on her wheel. He was getting better at this flirting business.

"I wanted you to know my daughter really likes her bowl. I thought I'd take you out to lunch to celebrate our success."

"What a good idea!"

Ten minutes later they were settled in a booth at the Trail's End. Frank wasn't thrilled to be perusing their menu again so soon, but food wasn't really the point of this lunch.

"You should order something vegetarian, Frank," Beth teased.

"Real men don't eat quinoa. I'll have the chicken," he told the young man taking their order.

Beth settled back in the booth and smiled at him. "You're very 'not-from-around-here.' Tell me how you happened to move to Trout Run."

So he told her about the spectacular mess of his last case in Kansas City, about Estelle's sudden death and the loss of his job. And she told him about the slow but steady growth of her business, and the slow but steady decline of her marriage. He barely noticed when his food arrived, and unconsciously ate the artichokes he'd intended to sc.r.a.pe off. Without much arm-twisting, Beth agreed to coffee and a shared piece of pecan pie, which led somehow to more talk about books, hiking, and music. Eventually Frank noticed their waiter pacing anxiously near the cash register-they were the only two left from the lunch crowd.

"Oh, my! It's three o'clock," Beth said. "I've got to get back to the store."

In all this time he hadn't managed to bring up Green Tomorrow. Now, all he had left was the brief ride back to Beth's place. He paid the check, then guided Beth through the door with his hand on her back.

"So how's Katie holding up after her near-miss the other day?"

"I think it's made her more determined than ever."

"Why is that? After all, Raging Rapids has been there her whole life. Why did it take Nathan Golding coming to town to get Katie all up in arms?" He didn't add "and you," but the implication hung there.

Beth pulled away. "Sometimes it takes someone with a fresh perspective to open your eyes to a problem."

"True. But sometimes a person with his own agenda can get others to do his bidding."

Beth stepped quickly toward his truck and pulled on the pa.s.senger door.

Frank came up beside her with the key in his hand, but made no move to unlock it. "Are you planning on staying involved with Green Tomorrow?"

"Is that why you asked me out to lunch? To see if you could recruit an informant?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm worried about you."

"I don't need a watchdog, Frank. I've been taking care of myself for a long time. I know what I'm doing."

"There's something bigger going on here, Beth, something you and Katie aren't being told."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. Aren't you curious why Golding targeted a little operation like Raging Rapids as his next project, when he's involved in much bigger things out West?"

"Nathan grew up in New York. The Adirondacks are the last great wilderness area in the East. He is-was-committed to preserving them for future generations. I feel an obligation to continue his work."

"An obligation? You hadn't seen the guy in twenty-five years."

Beth tossed her long hair over her shoulder. "Don't be cynical, Frank. It's not at all attractive."

Frank unlocked the truck door and yanked it open without bothering to help Beth into the cab. They drove in tense silence all the way to the sign that marked Beth's road. As he made the turn, Frank glanced over at her. She looked as miserable as he felt. He reached out and took her hand. She looked surprised, but didn't pull away. Steering into her parking lot, he stopped the truck and turned to face her.

"Look, Beth, I admire you for having strong convictions. Just be aware that not everyone's motivations are as pure as yours. Someone murdered Nathan Golding, and Katie came d.a.m.n close to being killed, too. If anything happens that doesn't seem right, please, don't be afraid to ask me for help."

She brushed her fingertips against his cheek. "I know you're a good man, Frank. I'm sorry we have to be on opposite sides of this thing."

Not as sorry as me, he thought as she slipped out of the truck.

Why was this so G.o.ddam hard? How had lunch gone from fun and comfortable, to angry and defensive?

And where could he go for advice? He'd always turned to Estelle when there was some personal conflict at work or a rift with a friend. Even now, when he found himself in some sticky situation, he'd try to imagine what Estelle would do. But he felt like a philanderer even thinking about Estelle and Beth at the same time.

Oddly enough, he thought Estelle would like Beth-her artistic bent, her independence. Maybe the idea that Estelle would approve was part of the attraction. How weird was that, picking a girlfriend that you thought your dead wife would like? A shrink would have a field day.

Frank sighed and put the truck into gear. He was too old for this game.

18.

"ANY LUCK?"

"No. I've been going through my old contacts, but so far all of them have changed their minds about giving up their babies."

"I'm doing a little better. I have another couple for Mary Pat's baby."

"Great! Then we can use that money to pay off the Braithwaites."

"It won't be enough. They're only paying twenty thousand."

"Twenty thousand! That's less than the Finns would've paid."

"I don't have time to shop around for a better prospect; we've got to get that baby placed. It's making me nervous leaving her where she is."

"You can say that again. When should I bring her?"

"They want to see her tomorrow. Then it will take them a few days to come up with the cash."

"Good. I need the money."

"You don't get any of this money if you don't find another baby for the Braithwaites. Get busy."

"Where have you been?" Earl looked about ready to burst when Frank got back to the office. "I worked my way through the whole list of newspapers you left for me. Boy, they've been running that ad all over the place-Saranac Lake, Peru, Willsboro, Schroon Lake."

"Always the exact same ad?"

"The words are the same, but there's three different e-mail addresses they use. The one we tried this morning, and two others."

"Are the ads still running now?"

Earl shook his head. "The most recent one was August fifteenth."

Just over a month ago. Frank flopped down in his chair. That meant Sheltering Arms could still be actively recruiting. How could he flush them out?

"All right, Earl, let's brainstorm here." This was a code word that meant that Frank would think aloud, and Earl would not interrupt with any remarks about how unworkable the ideas were.

"Say we send our message from 'Brandy' to those other two e-mail addresses in the ads, and one of them actually goes through. Then what? Eventually, they're going to want to set up a face-to-face meeting. Who are we going to send? We can't involve a teenage girl in a police sting operation."

"A woman cop?" Earl knew his role as straight man: throw out the obvious solutions for Frank to shoot down.

"The only female trooper under Meyerson's command is Pauline Phelps."

Frank and Earl both snickered. Pauline was a terrific cop and a h.e.l.l of a nice person, but she was built like a Giants linebacker. Pa.s.sing her off as a girl in trouble would never fly.

"Maybe Lieutenent Meyerson could find us someone from another barracks," Earl suggested.

"That would be ideal, except that he's under tremendous pressure right now with this Nathan Golding investigation. He won't want to bother trying to set that up, especially since we're still not sure those ads are placed by Sheltering Arms."

Frank stood and began to pace. "How about this? What if we come at it from the buyer side? Go to some of those independent adoption chat rooms that the Finns mentioned and those bulletin boards you found, and post messages saying we're a couple looking to adopt a healthy white infant. We'll drop hints that we've got money and we're willing to pay to make it happen fast. Then we'll see if Sheltering Arms contacts us."

"But we'll still need someone for the sting."

"That's the beauty of it. We can use any middle-aged male cop to pose as the prospective adoptive father."

"What if they don't contact us?" Earl asked.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Frank sat down in front of his computer. Long periods of thinking were interspersed with short, rapid bursts of typing. He hit the print command and handed the sheet to Earl.

"Here. Post these messages. I'm going to do the afternoon patrol."

Frank cruised past the high school in time for the end of the football game, idling by the rear parking lot to discourage lead-footed departures by both players and fans. Then he swung by the lumberyard to give the owner, Clyde Stevenson, an opportunity to see his tax dollars at work. Crossing over Stony Brook on the new bridge, he drove along Route 12 with no particular destination in mind. Homes and businesses were mixed together here: a small engine shop that repaired chain saws and ATVs, an old Victorian homestead, a new vinyl-sided ranch house. On the right was the Rock Slide, a store that sold hiking, camping, and rock-climbing equipment. From the Adirondack chairs on the wraparound porch, customers could admire the view of the Verona Range while snacking on trail mix and Snapple from the juice bar.

The store had reported a break-in last month, in which some expensive climbing equipment had been stolen. Frank had spent several hours with the owner, showing him ways to improve security. Deciding to check if the fellow had followed his suggestions, Frank pulled in and parked near the back door of the store, where the burglars had jimmied a flimsy lock.

Frank was pleased to see that the owner had installed a new metal door with a heavy dead bolt. He continued around the perimeter of the building, noting with satisfaction the new floodlights and the shrubbery that had been trimmed back from the windows. He turned the corner of the building and came along the side of the porch. There, sitting on two adjacent chairs, were Stephen Galloway and a young blond woman. Their backs were to him and he could only see their faces in profile as they leaned toward each other past the high-backed chairs. He couldn't make out their words, but they seemed to be discussing something intently. Perhaps this was the California girlfriend, come east for a visit. Either that, or Galloway was on the prowl for a new local amus.e.m.e.nt.

Frank watched them for a while, not sure why he was so interested. Then the young woman stood up, and he could see she was much younger than Galloway. She stepped down off the porch and headed for a pickup with New York plates, turning when she got there to offer the doctor a halfhearted wave. Then she heaved herself with some difficulty into the driver's seat. She was hugely pregnant.

Frank decided to find out what the pregnant girl's story was before he confronted Galloway. He took down the license plate number of her truck and traced it when he returned to the office. The vehicle was registered to a John Sarens in the town of Peru. He tried several times to call the Sarens's home, but each time the phone rang endlessly.

Finally he gave up. It was dark and he was hungry. Earl was long gone. He'd drive up to Peru first thing in the morning and catch the family at home, since it was Sunday. To get on the road early, he decided to drive the patrol car home.

Circling the deserted green, he headed toward his snug little house on the bank of Stony Brook. A half-mile away from the center of town, a pickup truck pulled out in front of him. One of its taillights was burned out. Frank didn't like to write a ticket for this offense; it was possible the driver didn't even know it had happened. He'd do the guy a favor and pull him over to let him know, though; it would save the driver from being ticketed by a state trooper somewhere else.

He put his lights on and gave the guy a minute to notice. The truck made no effort to pull over, but the road was narrow here. Frank gave him a while longer. The road widened, but still the truck didn't stop. Frank let out one whoop of the siren, the "Yes, I really do mean you," warning.

Instead of slowing, the truck sped up. What the h.e.l.l was this about? Frank accelerated, and the truck shot farther ahead.

Frank threw on the sirens-this guy would pull over, or he'd know the reason why. He probably had an open beer in the truck, or a few joints-Frank watched to see if anything flew out the window. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the fellow seemed to be hunched over the wheel, intent on his driving. They had been climbing a hill, and as the two vehicles crested it, the truck shot ahead on the long, straight descent, getting up to eighty.

What in G.o.d's name did this guy think he was doing? He must really have something to hide, to drive at that speed on these dark mountain roads. Frank radioed the state police for a.s.sistance and kept up the pursuit, although he refused to risk going that fast here. The truck's taillights disappeared from view around a bend at the base of the hill. As Frank reached the bottom, over the siren he heard a sickeningly loud thump, the crunching of metal, the shattering of gla.s.s.

He came around the turn and found the truck flattened against a large outcropping of rock that jutted out almost to the edge of the road. The hood was compressed all the way into the pa.s.senger compartment. The driver, whoever he was, was clearly dead.