“Brady did most of the work,” she said truthfully. “He likes to settle in.”
She glanced at the countertop. “Lots of small appliances. Do you enjoy cooking?”
“Not so much.” During the drive, she and Brady had discussed this part of their relationship. “I try, but my husband is the real chef in the family.”
“That’s what he said, too.”
Good, their stories agreed. “Cooking is just another way he can be creative.”
“You’re so lucky to have a man like him.” Margaret sighed. “An artist.”
“That’s not all he does. He’s also a fine auto mechanic.”
She had the urge to babble on and on about Brady, but he’d warned her that one danger in establishing a cover story was saying too much. Every embellishment had to be remembered.
To avoid getting herself into trouble, she turned the focus around. “Tell me about your son.”
Her plain features brightened. “His name is Jeremy, after my dad who passed away when I was four years old. At least, that’s what my mom told me. He might have run off with another woman.”
Yet, she’d named her son after the father who abandoned her. Margaret must really be yearning for a family connection. “Are there other kids at Lost Lamb that your little boy can play with?”
“He doesn’t need anybody but me.”
Petra wasn’t sure she agreed with that philosophy, but she’d never criticize another woman’s child-rearing technique unless there was harm to the child. “I’m sure you’re a good mom.”
“Jeremy is very bright. Miss Francine says so. She said we should tutor him ourselves instead of sending him to preschool next year.”
Brady came racing down the staircase wearing jeans and a San Francisco Giants T-shirt with a lightweight black jacket. Even though he’d thrown himself together and his stubble was thick and his hair uncombed, he looked neat. His personal style simply wasn’t going to change. Brady would never be a laid-back artist.
And she decided that was okay with her. His precise personality was reflected in the details of those paintings he’d chosen to represent himself.
* * *
DURING THE BRIEF DRIVE to the Lost Lamb Ranch, Brady tried to hammer one important concept into Petra’s head. While she was there, she had to maintain their cover. “Don’t investigate. Take no risks.”
“I’ll be careful,” she promised.
“Let me repeat. Take no risks. If Francine gets suspicious or figures out that we’re investigating, the whole operation could disappear. Those pregnant women would be swept into more danger than they’re in right now. Do you understand?”
“I get it.” She threw up her hands in a gesture that was both annoying and graceful. “By the way, the paintings supposedly done by Brady Gilliam are really wonderful. How does the FBI come up with stuff like that?”
He’d explain his artwork later. Right now, he wanted her to focus on just one thing. “Let’s be completely clear. No snooping. No asking of probing questions. No eavesdropping.”
“If I’m not investigating, what should I do?”
“Observe,” he said. “Don’t search for evidence. Let them show it to you.”
“And if I happen to run across something?”
“Call me on my cell phone,” he said. “Lost Lamb is the best lead we’ve uncovered in the human trafficking network. This could be our only chance to get to the people at the top.”
“Like the lawyer in Durango,” she said.
“He’s another lead.”
From his prior research, Brady didn’t think Stan Mancuso ranked among the upper echelon of the organization. No doubt, he was taking a payoff to handle paperwork, but he wasn’t making a million-dollar profit. Nor did Francine Kelso seem like one of the big fish.
He parked the truck beside Margaret’s van, and they followed her into the house where she escorted them into Francine’s office to the left of the front foyer—a high-ceiling room with a dark cherry desk and a fancy rug with a maroon-and-blue detailing. The walls were plain white, but the fancy antique furniture reminded him of an old-fashioned bordello. A couple of cheap Degas prints hung on the wall in ornate frames.
Francine stood behind her desk. She wore a black silk kimono embroidered with colorful dragons. Even though it was before nine o’clock in the morning, she was already in full makeup. Her dark Cleopatra eyes regarded him dismissively as she spoke to Petra. “Dee wants you to deliver her baby. How much is this going to cost me?”
“I have a sliding scale,” Petra said. “I prefer an integrated, holistic approach to childbirth. That includes prenatal exercise, the birth itself and postpartum instruction.”
“None of these girls need postpartum.” Francine gestured for them to sit opposite her desk. “These babies are being given up for adoption.”
“Having the baby adopted doesn’t mean the mom is immune to postpartum depression,” Petra said. “It’s partly a matter of hormonal imbalance, and can be incredibly detrimental to the mother’s emotional and physical health.”
“Not my problem. I take care of them until after the baby is born, then they’re on their own.”
Her expression was Arctic cold, but Brady wasn’t here to judge. He opened a notebook-size sketch pad and took out a pencil. The ornate picture frames on the wall gave him reason to hope that Francine might be interested in having her portrait done. If she agreed to sit for him, he had an in.
While the two women wrangled over the cost of Petra’s services, he sketched a flattering rendition of Francine’s dark eyes and shining black hair. He made sure to include her cleavage and one of her manicured hands.
“Excuse me,” she snapped at him. “What the hell are you doing?”
He met her gaze and smiled. “I’m an artist. While we were at the house, Margaret saw some of my work and can vouch for me.”
“Margaret isn’t qualified as an art critic. Are you drawing pictures? Of what?”
“Of you. You have a striking bone structure. I want to paint you.” He handed over the sketch book with her picture. “I could do an oil portrait for your office.”
Petra leaned forward to catch a glimpse of his pencil drawing. “Wow,” she said.
Francine fired a sharp gaze in her direction. “You sound surprised.”
“That’s one of the best first sketches I’ve ever seen my husband do. He must really be inspired.”
“It is rather good.” She held up the picture and looked at one of the frames on the wall. “You’re an expensive couple to know. How much do you charge for a portrait?”
“My art isn’t about money,” he said. “I’d like to do three or four sittings with you, and then finish up the details at my home studio. When I’m done, you pay me what you think the painting is worth.”
“Not much of a businessman, are you? You’re lucky to have a wife who works.” She circled her desk until she was standing in front of him. Purposefully seductive, she perched on the edge of her desk. Her kimono fell open, exposing her long legs which she crossed. “I hope you get your money’s worth, Patty.”
“I do,” Petra said. “Brady has many talents.”
“Such as?”
“For one thing, he’s a terrific chef.”
“I’ll bet.”
She lowered her gaze to focus on his crotch. This was a challenge. He thought it was less about sex than about power. She wanted to put him in his place.
In his undercover identity as a laid-back artist, he might have backed down. But his instincts wouldn’t let him. She wanted to play games. Fine with me. Bring it on.
He rose to his feet. His gaze locked with hers. “Do you see anything you like?”
“I believe I do.” She placed the sketchpad in his hands. “We have a deal, Brady. Our first sitting will be at two o’clock this afternoon.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
She got off the desk and turned to Petra. “I’m going to hire you, too. If things work out wel
l with Dee, I might put you on retainer. Margaret will show you where to find Dee.”
Petra asked, “Is she in the room where we were before?”
“Certainly not. I can’t have the other girls being disturbed. Women in labor are loud. They have to be removed from the house.”
Her disgust was evident. Brady figured she couldn’t care less about the other pregnant women. It was Francine herself who didn’t want her day disrupted by inconvenient screams of pain. A true sociopath, she had less empathy than a predator shark circling her prey.
Dealing with her wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to be on guard. Painting her without fangs and devil horns would be a real challenge.
Chapter Ten
On the veranda outside the front door of the Lost Lamb, Petra went up on tiptoe to give Brady a wifely kiss on the cheek. Thoughts of what had happened last night when she attempted the same maneuver were a million miles away. They were in enemy territory, and she didn’t dare lose control.
Ignoring his masculine scent and the heat that radiated from him, she whispered, “Nice job with the dominatrix, Picasso.”
“Be careful,” he responded.
There was much she wanted to talk with him about, starting with his artistic talent. His quick sketch of Francine was the same style as the paintings at the house. He was the artist—a biographical detail she never would have guessed. She’d pegged him as a guy who loved the rules—not someone who enjoyed coloring outside the lines.
Margaret joined them. Her smile was meant only for Brady. “Congratulations,” she said. “Francine doesn’t hire just anybody. She likes the best of the best.”
Or the cheapest. Petra was certain that his offer to charge only what Francine wanted to pay had clinched the deal. “I hope she won’t be disappointed by either of us.”
“We’ll see.” Margaret scowled at her. “Come with me. I’ll show you where Dee is.”
“I need my backpack from the truck. I brought along a few things that are helpful in childbirth.”
“We have all the medical equipment.”
“And I’m sure it’s state-of-the-art,” Petra said as she left the veranda and went toward the truck. “But I like my own stethoscope and fetal monitor.”
Margaret glanced over her shoulder as though she was considering running back to the house to ask Francine’s permission.
Brady touched her arm and changed her mind. “My wife is real stubborn about having her own things while she’s working. I promise there’s nothing to fret about.”
“I suppose it’s all right.”
At the truck, Brady opened the passenger door and reached inside for the extra-large backpack she’d stowed under the dashboard. “I’ll carry this for you.”
“You can’t come with us,” Margaret said nervously.
“I won’t be in the way,” he promised.
“Sorry, but nobody is allowed.”
Petra knew why Brady had offered to be her pack mule. He wanted to see where they were headed. Earlier, he’d told her not to investigate, not under any circumstance. Now that they were here, in the heart of the Lost Lamb, he was tempted.
So far, they’d been lucky. Francine had hired both of them. They had an in. The smart move was to avoid anything that might be considered suspicious. She took the backpack from him and hoisted it onto her shoulders. “It’s okay, Brady. I’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”
“Let’s go,” Margaret said. She tilted her head up for another longing gaze at Brady. “Goodbye. For now.”
As Petra fell into step beside Margaret, she didn’t look back at Brady. She was on her own and needed to focus, to observe and to draw conclusions. The investigation had begun.
The end goal was to figure out who was behind the baby trafficking operation and to get evidence to arrest them. But she’d start with a smaller objective. If Lost Lamb was a front for a bigger operation, she suspected that there were more than five pregnant women involved. Who were they? Where were they being held?
Behind the main house were two long bunkhouses painted gray with sloping roofs in a rusty red that matched the roof on the two-story main house. Margaret led her along a wide, asphalt path toward the bunkhouse on the left. None of the other pathways around the house were paved. Petra asked, “Is this a road?”
“If one of the women in labor has complications, we need to be able to get an ambulance down here to pick her up.”
A paved road would also be useful for dropping off human cargo. In front of the bunkhouse was an asphalt area with enough room for a truck to make a turnaround. Not a bad setup for a smuggling operation. Vehicles pulling in and out would make aerial surveillance difficult, especially at night.
Petra asked, “How many people live at Lost Lamb?”
“Miss Francine is in the house, of course. Then, there’s me and my little boy—”
“Jeremy,” Petra supplied his name.
“That’s right. Jeremy and I have a bedroom and playroom in the main house. Robert and the other handymen are in that bunkhouse.” She pointed. “The pregnant girls come and go, of course. There are usually three or four of them.”
“And they have bedrooms in the house?”
“That’s right.”
“What about this bunkhouse?” she asked. “Who lives here?”
“The birthing room is at the end, and it’s separate. The other part is arranged like a barrack with cots on both sides. Usually, there’s nobody staying there.”
The windows on the bunkhouse were shuttered. A shiny padlock fastened the door at the far end. Petra would like to get inside and look around.
Margaret opened the door to the separate room, and they walked inside. The birthing suite—consisting of a bedroom, a delivery room and a bathroom—was surprisingly pleasant. In the bedroom, the sunlight from two windows dappled the pale yellow walls and filtered through light blue drapes. The color scheme reminded her of Miguel’s baby blanket.
Dee sprawled in the double bed, sleeping. In a padded chair beside her, a pregnant woman with a long brown braid flipped through a fashion magazine, no doubt dreaming of the day when she could wear skinny jeans again. Disinterested, she looked up. “About time. I’ve been here forever.”
Petra introduced herself, thinking that she might be delivering this woman’s baby within the week. She asked, “How’s Dee been doing?”
“Not so hot. She said she was hungry but didn’t eat any of the breakfast I brought her.” She pointed to a tray by the door with a napkin draped over it. “She didn’t puke, though.”
Petra could smell the grease from sausage patties and congealed eggs. Not appetizing in the least. She went to the bed and lightly stroked the blond hair off Dee’s forehead. Her skin was pinkish and warm but not feverish. “How long has she been sleeping?”
“Half an hour.”
Petra glanced back and forth between the pregnant woman and Margaret. Their faces were blank. They had very little idea about how to take care of a woman in labor or how to make her comfortable. “Who delivers the babies?”
Margaret answered, “Miss Francine is a nurse, but she has somebody she calls.”
“A doctor?”
“He shows up when the contractions are a couple of minutes apart.”
Before this supposed doctor arrived, the expectant mothers were on their own, facing an intense experience with minimal support. Petra’s protective instincts rose to the surface. These women shouldn’t be treated so coldly. Giving birth should be a wonderful experience.
“I can take care of Dee from here,” she said. “If either of you would like to learn about birthing techniques, I’d be happy to show you.”
Margaret held up her palm, warding off the suggestion. “I have other chores to do.”
“Been there, done that.” The pregnant woman pointed to her belly. “This is my third.”
She didn’t look older than twenty. Her arms and legs were thin. Her complexion pale. In an authoritative voice, Petra said, “You
should be eating leafy green veggies. Are you taking prenatal vitamins as well as calcium and iron?”
“It’s too many pills. They make me nauseous.”
“The vitamins are as much for you as for the baby.” Hadn’t anyone bothered to talk to her about these things? “Your body is providing fuel for the baby to grow. It’s important to take care of your nutrition. If you don’t have enough calcium, it could lead to problems with bone density.”
“I’m fine.”
A young woman like her wouldn’t be concerned with osteoporosis, but Petra knew how to get her attention. “You could lose your hair. Your fingernails will be brittle, and you could get acne.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll take the pills.”
“And eat the veggies.”
“Whatever.”
She and Margaret fled from the room in a hurry. And Petra turned her full attention to Dee who was sleeping fitfully. No wonder Dee had wanted to see her. Margaret and these other women didn’t know how to take care of her. And Francine—if she really was a nurse—didn’t want to be bothered.
When Dee opened her eyes, a tear slipped from the corner. “I’ve been thinking about my baby. My son. I want to do what’s right for him.”
Earlier, Dee had been anxious to be dosed with drugs, shove the baby out and get on with her life. Being close to the time of delivery had changed her attitude. “You want a more natural delivery.”
“That’s your thing, isn’t it? As a midwife?”
“I want what’s best for you. And for your son.” She sat on the edge of the bed and held Dee’s hand. “Tell me about your contractions.”
“It’s like cramps. Comes and goes in waves.”
“Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better. First, I’ll do a quick examination to see how far along you are in the labor.”
Dee sat up on the bed. “Do you want me on the examination table?”
Adjoining the pleasant little bedroom was a more sterile delivery room and a table with stirrups. Convenient for examinations, but Petra preferred for Dee to be comfortable. “I can examine you right here. Let me get my stuff from the backpack.”
“You’re so nice,” Dee said. “Everybody around here is so mean. If I’d known they were going to be so nasty, I never would have agreed to any of this. It was my boyfriend’s idea.”
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