Unable to sit still, I walk to the window and peer out. A car with California plates pulls up and parks across the street. The male driver climbs out and opens the back door of the car. The upper half of his body disappears inside the car. He emerges carrying a baby in a padded infant car seat and a briefcase. He bumps the car door shut with his hip. A woman hustles around the back of the car. She’s lugging an enormous diaper bag and has a leather handbag hanging from one shoulder.
I step away from the window and stand by the elevator like I’m waiting to board. Juggling the baby, briefcase, diaper bag and purse, the two fumble through the door. They look to be in their mid-forties. Both are clearly exhausted, particularly the woman. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, her dark blond hair mussed. The man’s shoulders droop slightly and he’s unshaven. Looks like their little bundle of joy kept them up all night. They walk to the elevator. He sets the baby in its comfy car seat on the floor and shifts his briefcase to his other hand.
Usually, I’m reluctant to talk to strangers. In this case, I know I have to. I tap into my inner Sandra. My mother’s never met a stranger, so, what would Sandra do?
I glance at them and smile. “Wow, you two have your hands full. Can I help?”
The guy eyeballs me for a moment and then looks at his wife who gives me a grateful smile. Apparently they decide I’m not going to snatch the kid and run. Lucky for me they don’t know my past. The woman sighs and hands me the diaper bag. “I guess we look like we need help.”
“Baby keep you up all night?”
“Every two hours, like clockwork,” the man says with a chuckle. “But look at him now. Sound asleep. Wish he’d sleep this good at night.”
I lean over the car seat and check out the baby. They have him bundled up like we’re in Siberia. A fluffy yellow blanket is pulled up to his chin. I zero in on the only visible part of his body, the tiny red face beneath a knitted blue cap. “Oh, what a cutie.” I gush. “A little boy. Right?”
“Yes,” the woman says, pride in her voice, “This is Michael Junior. He’s just two days old.”
“I bet he has your blond hair.”
The woman carefully pulls the baby’s cap back to reveal blond fuzz. “Yes,” she says. “He has blond hair.”
I run an appraising eye over her slim figure. “You look great. Can’t believe you just had a baby.”
The couple exchanges a glance. I stand there, grinning like an idiot, hoping my expression says: you can trust me.
The woman leans close and says, “Thanks for the compliment, but I wasn’t pregnant. We tried for years to have a baby.” Her eyes fill with tears. “And now we do. Michael is adopted.”
In my heart, I feel the pain they’ve suffered. Now, I see their souls overflowing with joy. These are good people. If this baby was stolen from Larissa, she’s not the only victim.
I swallow the lump in my throat and try to think of something to say. “I’m happy for you,” is all I can come up with.
The guy presses the button for the elevator and picks up the baby carrier. The doors open and we all pile in. “We’re going to two,” he tells me. I reach around him and hit the button for three.
The tiny elevator lurches to a stop at the second floor. The doors open to an expansive carpeted lobby. It smells like money. A receptionist guards the door to the inner sanctum where I’m sure Ethan Rockwell is waiting with the birth certificate for baby Michael.
I hand over the diaper bag and, in keeping with my new friendly-as-a-puppy persona, chirp, “If you ever need a baby sitter, I’m available. I have references.” Or I will after I contact Sandra.
Before she steps through the open doors, the woman digs around in her purse and hands me a card. “We live in San Francisco. But if you’re in the area and need a job, give us a call.”
I take the card and, as the doors are closing, call, “I don’t have a card, but my name is Melanie Sullivan. Good luck with baby Michael.”
On the bus ride home, I pull the card from my pocket and discover I’ve just met Michael and Pamela Kruger. The embossed card includes their address, their home phone number and a cell phone number for each of them. I think about their joy at welcoming a child into their lives and my heart aches for them. I can’t prove this is Larissa’s baby, but my gut tells me it is. If I’m right, there will be no happy ending for the Krugers.
And, where the hell is Larissa?
Chapter Twenty-One
Back at Nick’s, a white panel truck emblazoned with the words Bio Clean-Up blocks my view of Number Twelve. I peer around the truck and see the bed is already gone and two guys are tearing up the carpet. Looks like Nick meant business when he said the room would be ready to rent in record time.
Second surprise. Paco, straddling his Harley, is parked outside my new home and he’s shooting the breeze with Connie, Captain of the Motel Maids. As my mother would say, Connie is no spring chicken. In fact, she’s probably close to the half-century mark. Her hair is usually pulled back and secured with an elastic band. Now, freed from its bonds, it tumbles around her face in a cascade of dyed black ringlets, as if she’s been tossing it flirtatiously. She stands with one hand placed on her plump hip, shoulders back, ample breasts thrust forward for Paco to enjoy. And, judging by the look on his face, he is. Enjoying them.
Oh my God, I think, as I visualize a hissing, scratching catfight between Roxy and Connie. My fervent prayer is, if it happens, it won’t be at Nick’s.
As I approach, Paco tears his fascinated gaze from Connie’s bountiful attributes and growls at me. “I was looking for you. You’re supposed to call me when you want to go someplace.”
“I am?” I walk past him and unlock the door to Number Ten. “Guess I didn’t get the memo.”
Connie’s screech is gone. Her voice is sexy growl pitched two octaves lower than normal as she purrs, “Aye, Paco. I get to work now. You know where to find me, big man.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Paco grin and give her an enthusiastic thumb’s up. He follows me into the room. We settle into chairs next to the table. He folds his arms across his chest, tilts the chair back and frowns at me. “It’s what your mother wants.”
I suppress an annoyed sigh and choose my words carefully. “I appreciate the offer, but the bus stop is right out front. If I need you, I’ll call. You mentioned you have—um—business in Idaho. If you have to go, it’s fine with me. Really. I can take care of myself. I won’t tell Sandra you’re gone.”
His eyelids slip to half-mast as he mulls it over. Finally, he stands and stares down at me. “Nope, I’m going to hang around a while. At least until that boyfriend of yours has more free time. Looks like counseling will keep him tied up for a while.”
Say what?
He starts for the door.
“Hold it.” I spring from my chair. “You know about that?”
He turns to face me. “Yeah, he told me about the PTSD yesterday.”
I’m speechless with shock. Billy, my Billy, who can barely utter the PTSD word to me, his girlfriend, had wasted no time unburdening himself to a total stranger. How did that happen? Is it a man thing? A bromance? Had they bonded over their Harleys? Part of me is slightly pissed off.
“Well, damn,” I mutter.
Paco plants his big paws on my shoulders and squeezes. “Look, kiddo. I’ll try not to get in your way. Just call if you need me. You’ve got my cell number. Right?”
I assure him I do. He tells me he and Roxy have pitched a tent in a campground south of 3 Peaks.
“How does Roxy feel about staying in 3 Peaks?”
Paco shrugs. “If she’s not happy, tough shit. Like they say, lots of fish in the sea.”
I get a sudden visual of Paco riding off into the sunset with Connie clinging to his back. Will Connie be my next aunt?
Paco and I hammer out the details of our agreement. As far as Paco is concerned, unless I think he needs to know something, he promises my business is my own. He won’t ask for details about where I�
�m going, what I’m doing, or whom I’m doing it with. That way, he tells me, he has little or nothing to report to my mother. Sounds good to me.
After Paco leaves, I gather up my dirty clothes and head for the laundry room, taking care to avoid Connie in case she’s found a particularly nasty room for me to clean. I’m sitting cross-legged on top of the washer, trying to figure out my next move, when my cell phone rings. The display says Aida.
I step outside. “Hi, Aida. What’s up?”
She’s crying so hard she can barely speak. When she does, her speech is mangled and I have a hard time making sense of the heavily accented words. When I do, a cold chill forms at the base of my neck and slithers down my spine.
“You come. Now. Missus gone. Police come. Tell me Larissa is dead. Say nothing about baby.” Her voice breaks and she sobs, “How can that be? Where is baby? You come. Please, Mel.”
I promise I’ll be there soon and search for Paco’s number in my phone. Go figure. I just told Paco I don’t need him. Now I do.
****
When we get to Rockwell’s house on Broken Top (much easier on a Harley), I try to convince Paco to drop me off and skedaddle until I call him to pick me up. He doesn’t agree. He’s all about serve and protect. Finally, I say, “Paco. You’re a 300-pound Mexican man wearing a leather jacket with gang insignias. And, you’re in the most exclusive neighborhood in 3 Peaks. Think you don’t stand out just a little?”
Fortunately, he doesn’t take offense. Before he motors away, he pats the top of my head. “Call if you need me.”
Aida meets me at the door, Destiny in her arms. The baby is fixated on Aida’s face as if she’s trying to figure out what is causing her distress. As I step into the foyer, Destiny glances over at me and buries her face in Aida’s neck.
Once inside the house, the memory of being trapped in the pantry comes flooding back. I’m acutely uncomfortable. Even though we’re alone in the house, I whisper, “Are you sure Mrs. Rockwell won’t surprise us again.”
Aida waves a hand. “No, no. Missus tell me she go to lunch with friends after work-out. She take lunch clothes. Come with me. Baby tired. I put her to sleep.”
She leads me through the kitchen and into the adjoining family room with leather furniture and a gigantic flat screen TV extending across one wall. A portable crib is tucked into the corner. Aida plops down in a rocking chair and pats Destiny’s back, murmuring softly to her. Her charm bracelet jingles rhythmically, in time with her pats. The baby relaxes as she snuggles against Aida’s body, her chubby legs splayed wide over Aida’s growing tummy. Afraid I’ll interrupt the process; I’m reluctant to speak even though I want to get the hell out of Rockwell’s house as fast as possible.
After a couple of minutes, Aida places the sleeping baby into the portable crib and covers her with a blanket. She joins me on the leather couch and takes my hand. She’s fighting tears and her lower lip quivers. “Oh, Mel. I don’t know what to do. My sister is dead. “
I wrap my arms around her and pat her back; trying to comfort her in the same manner she comforted Destiny. I’m dying to pepper her with questions, but stifle the urge. In time, the sobs subside and she pulls away from me. I pull a wad of tissues from my pocket and hand them to her. She wipes her face and takes a deep breath.
“How did the police make the connection between you and Larissa?” I ask.
Aida fumbles with her charm bracelet. Her hands are shaking, but she manages to unclasp it. “I show you how she did it. Larissa very smart.” Aida uses her thumbnails to open a small silver charm shaped like a heart. “She fold up tiny piece of paper with my phone number and put inside heart. Police find it and call. I answer phone. They tell me they find my number in silver heart, they coming over to show me picture of dead girl. I know right away it is Larissa. Mister and Missus very upset. They tell me, ‘Be careful. We send you away, to place they treat you very bad.’ They tell me to say, ‘Yes, this my sister,’ but say nothing more. Ask no questions. So, I’m too scared to ask about baby.”
I’m unable to speak, sickened by her words and the Rockwell’s threats. They’ll send her to a place where she’ll be treated badly? The term human trafficking once again rears its ugly head. What happens to these foreign girls after they give birth? Are they forced into prostitution?
Aida swallows hard and continues. “They show me picture. I see it is Larissa and try not to cry. I tell police her name. Mister and Missus are watching me. Police say, ‘Where did your sister work?’ I tell them I don’t know, ’cause I really don’t know.”
When I find my voice, I try to think of a tactful way to phrase my questions. Not possible. “Did the police say how she died? Was she shot? Had someone beaten her? Were there marks on her body?”
Aida shudders. “They say will tell me more after they do…what you call it?”
“Post mortem?”
“Yes. That. But, Mel, what about baby? Where is baby?”
I’m caught in a moral dilemma. Do I tell Aida I believe Larissa’s baby is now Michael Kruger Junior and on his way to San Francisco? Or, do I keep my mouth shut until I have more proof? I decide to do a little of both.
I take her hands in mine. “When is your baby due?”
Two worry lines appear on her smooth forehead. “End of summer. August. Why?”
“I think Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell are involved in something very bad. But, you mustn’t say anything to anybody. I’m trying to find out what they’re up to. With any luck, we’ll have it figured out before you have your baby.”
Aida pulls her hands free and glances over at Destiny. “What you mean, something bad? Something about babies going missing?”
“I don’t have any proof yet, but I’m working on it,” I say. “Remember when I told you Destiny’s mother, Dani, was my best friend?”
She nods.
“She died in a fall and now the Rockwell’s have her baby. Dani would never have agreed to give the baby to them or anyone else.”
“So, what we gonna do?”
“I have a couple of people I trust who are helping me figure things out.”
“I mean,” Aida says, “What do I do?”
I think for a moment. “Do the Rockwell’s talk about things in front of you.”
She nods. “All the time. They think I’m a stupid girl who doesn’t understand.”
“Excellent. Keep your ears open and if you hear anything about the medical clinic or babies, let me know.”
Aida puts two and two together and her face blanches. “You think they want my baby?”
I place a hand on her arm. “That’s what we need to find out. But, don’t worry. I won’t let ’em.”
Sandra is fond of saying, “From my lips to God’s ears.”
Amen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Paco is true to his word. When he drops me off at the motel, he asks me no questions and repeats his previous statement. “Call if you need me.”
I’d just fitted my key into the door of Number Ten when I hear a car pull up behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see it’s fry cook Myron in his big old Impala. Beads of water dot the hood. Looks like he’d just come from the carwash. He leans across the wide front seat, cranks the passenger side window down and a blast of country music pours out. He calls, “Hey, kid. Hear you had a scare last night. You okay?”
I glance into his flat gray eyes and lie. “Couldn’t be better.”
“That’s good. I see you have a new place to crash.”
“Yep. Number Ten is my new home.”
After a long, awkward pause, he says, “Anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“Okey dokey.”
I watch him pull away and think about the strangeness of our conversation. In the past, Myron barely acknowledged my existence. Now, he’s suddenly Mr. Helpful? I try to remember if Myron was working last night, but I’m drawing a blank. No, I’m sure it was Sammy in the kitchen. But, why would Myron want to hurt me? Should I add him to my list of
suspects along with Eddie and his sleazy buddies?
I finish up my laundry. The mindless task gives me time to think about the events of last night and Larissa’s death. I’m certain there’s a connection but I have no proof. If I go to the police with my story, they’ll think I’m a nut job. I have to do something. But what? Then, I remember what Sandra always says when frustration gets the best of me. “You can’t control other people, but you can work on yourself.”
Since arriving in 3 Peaks, I’ve been obsessed with making a living. And with Billy. I’ve neglected my physical training. Time to get back in shape. I change into shorts and a tee, clear off a space on the floor and go through the warm-up drills I learned in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Blessed with a flexible body, I find I haven’t lost much since I’ve been idle. I finish with a long stretch, legs wide apart, arms reaching forward, forehead touching the floor. I grab my key and trot out the door for a run.
At first, my feet feel leaden and my breath is labored. After I cover ten blocks, everything smooths out and I pick up speed. A feeling of euphoria rushes through me. My feet have wings as I circle around a pocket park and head back home. A block before I reach Nick’s, I hear a car coming up behind me. When it doesn’t whiz past like the rest of the traffic, I peek over my shoulder. A late-model gray sedan rolls along, keeping pace with my stride. I stop and turn to face it. That’s when I see the driver is wearing mirrored sunglasses. My breath hitches in my chest. The guy sees me checking him out, hits the gas and zips away.
Aw, come on. Twice in one day? Can’t be a coincidence. Wasn’t the bloody scene in Number Twelve good enough? Have they sent a hit man after me?
I’m still feeling paranoid when I trot across the motel parking lot. I look behind me, making sure there’s no sign of the gray car. Before I duck into Number Ten, I remember Nick has a copy of today’s paper in his office. I angle away from my front door and jog to the back of the restaurant. Myron glances over his shoulder as I dash through the kitchen.
I find Nick in his office, his feet on the desk.
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