by Karen Leabo
“Who is this?” he said, motioning Caro closer still. He angled the receiver away from his ear, silently inviting her to listen in.
Since he was perched on the edge of his desk, she had to lean in to bring her ear close to the receiver. She placed her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. And through the receiver she heard a woman’s voice, muffled.
“You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you,” Austin said. Caro could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
“I can’t tell you who I am,” the woman said in a terrified voice. There were sounds of heavy traffic in the background. “I just wanted you to know that Marcy Phelps’s baby is fine. He was adopted by a good family—”
“By you?” Austin demanded.
“Y-yes. But there was something illegal or wrong about the adoption.”
“I think that’s fairly obvious, given the circumstances surrounding Marcy’s death.”
Caro punched him on the arm. Now wasn’t the time to play tough cop! The woman was frightened, ready to hang up at a moment’s notice. In fact, she reminded Caro of some of the rape victims who would call the police, unsure of whether they should even report the offense.
“Look, this is all very interesting,” Austin continued, oblivious to Caro’s nonverbal criticism. “But if you’re trying to help me find the person responsible, I’ll need more information.”
“Couldn’t you just...you know, check up on people who do that kind of thing?”
“You mean, illegal adoptions? We don’t exactly have a list of that type of offender. I’ll need more information. A lawyer’s name, something.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll take him. You’ll take my baby away from me.”
“Now, ma’am, no one’s going to—”
The line went dead.
Caro realized then that she was plastered to Austin’s body, clinging to his shoulder like a tenacious frond of ivy. The phone conversation had been stimulating for more reasons than one. She disentangled herself and took a couple of steps backward, trying her best to look disapproving.
“I suppose you could have handled that better?” Austin asked, lifting one eyebrow skeptically.
She shrugged. “Oh, probably not.”
“You think it was on the level?” he asked, more seriously this time.
“Yeah, I do.”
Suddenly he was all business. “Okay, our mystery lady told us more than she thinks she did. Given the sounds of traffic and sirens in the background, she was calling from a big city. We can hope that means the call was local. If the adoption took place in Dallas, there must be a record of it. Don’t they file new birth certificates when a baby is adopted?”
“I think so,” Caro said. “What about the court records for the adoption itself? I know the original birth certificate and the information about the birth parents would be sealed, but maybe not the adoptive parents.”
“Great. Why don’t you go to Vital Statistics and the courthouse, and wherever else you can think of. Start with December 13—that’s the earliest Marcy could have died, according to the ME, and move forward. Male white babies.”
“Okay, I’ll...” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “Did I just hear you order me to go pawing through birth certificates and court documents?”
“Uh-huh. You wanted to help, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. Just so you remember. Scott Humphrey is supposed to be back from his vacation today. I’d planned on bringing him in for questioning.”
“You want to take his statement?”
She did and she didn’t. It had been a long time since she’d grilled a suspect. Questioning witnesses, that was one thing, but if Scott was responsible for Amanda’s disappearance... “You’re the lead detective now. You do it.”
“Okay.”
She started to walk away, then paused. “Say, Lomax, a silly thought just occurred to me. If someone had Marcy stashed away some place, and then virtually sold the baby in a highly questionable private adoption...”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think that same person might have... Nah, it’s too ridiculous.”
“Go ahead, please. What are you thinking?”
“Well, do you think that same person could have Amanda stashed away, intending to sell her baby?” Caro’s gaze caught and held with Austin’s as he considered her theory.
After a moment he broke eye contact and walked over to the wall, where a large laminated map of Texas was hung. “Okay, here’s Taryton, here’s Kips Point, and over here is the dam where Marcy’s body was found. They’re about a hundred-and-fifty, two hundred miles apart.”
“But both areas are east of Dallas—east, southeast, whatever—and both girls are from Dallas and ended up in the boonies....” Caro’s voice trailed off. Okay, she was stretching it.
To her surprise, Austin took her seriously. “Can you think of any other similarities between the two cases? Aside from the fact that both girls were pregnant?”
“Well, they both disappeared without a trace. But Marcy was out riding her bike. The bike was never recovered. And Amanda, of course, was in a car, and the car was found. The two girls were in totally different parts of Dallas. And there was never a letter from Marcy or anything like that. So, no, I’ll have to say the cases are more dissimilar than similar.”
Their gazes locked again, and then she slowly shook her head. “Nah,” they said together.
“See, I told you it was silly,” she said before grabbing the rest of her cinnamon roll and walking off.
Chapter 7
Caro dialed the Humphreys’ number from memory. They were supposed to have returned from their skiing vacation the day before, but she’d gotten no answers to the intermittent phone calls she’d made yesterday.
As she listened to the phone ringing on the other end, she mechanically popped two cold capsules and searched the top of her desk for her teacup. Failing to find it, she swallowed the pills dry. Her head cold was lingering, probably because she hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in over a week.
Thoughts of Amanda and Marcy kept her awake or invaded her restless dreams. Sometimes it was Russ Arkin’s pain-filled eyes or Audrey Phelps’s vacant smile that haunted her. Last night, for some reason, she’d dreamed about Austin. She didn’t remember the specifics of the dream, only that he had posed some kind of life-or-death threat to her.
So now she had another reason to dislike him. He was giving her nightmares.
Caro’s box of Kleenex wasn’t where it was supposed to be. She finally spotted it two desks away from hers. She was just about to hang up the phone in defeat and lunge for the tissue when someone answered.
The sleep-scratchy voice sounded as if it belonged to Dr. Humphrey.
She sniffled. “Is Scott there?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Yes, this is, um, Brandy, a friend of his from school.”
“Scott’s here, but he’s asleep. Can I have him call you?”
“Yes, he has my number.” Caro hung up quickly. So, the kid was finally home. She relished the idea of pouncing on Scott while he was drowsy and unsuspecting, so she could gauge his reaction.
And the parents’ reaction. Would they be genuinely surprised to hear of Amanda’s disappearance and their son’s possible involvement? Or did they already know? Did they have his alibis all worked out?
She supposed she ought to check with Austin to see how he wanted things handled. That was annoying, and it shouldn’t have been. He was the lead detective on the Arkin case, and he was doing a perfectly competent job. The fact that she was merely assisting shouldn’t bother her, either. During her years in CAPERS she had often played a supporting role in her colleagues’ cases. But for some reason Caro was itching to grab the bit in her teeth on this one and run with it.
Was Tony right? she wondered. Was she bored with Missing Persons and subconsciously yearning to
be back in CAPERS?
The idea held a certain appeal—until she really thought hard about it. Working on felony cases like homicides and rapes, she would again be actively involved in interrogations, testifying in court. Sometimes she would make mistakes, and guilty men would go free. That was an unpleasant fact of police life, something she could live with. But what about the innocent ones who got caught up in the justice system and were hurt by it? That was the part she had trouble with. She couldn’t stand the idea that her zeal for police work could hurt people...even kill them.
That’s why she’d refused when Austin had asked if she wanted to interrogate Scott. She strongly suspected the kid was somehow involved in Amanda’s disappearance, but she wasn’t up to the task of extracting that information from him. She’d had a hard-enough time with those two joyriders in Taryton, who should have been a piece of cake.
She ought to be relieved that Austin Lomax was in charge. By merely assisting, she could exercise her rusty investigative skills without making those tough judgment calls.
Her phone buzzed. Before she answered it, she scooted over to retrieve her box of tissue.
“Corporal Triece.”
“Caro, it’s Austin. Whatcha got for me?”
Ah, she’d almost forgotten that she’d left a note on his desk earlier that morning. Pride washed through her as she recalled her previous day’s success. “I think I have the identity of Marcy Phelps’s baby.”
“You’re kidding.”
“What, you didn’t think I could do it?”
“Well, it seemed like a long shot, with as little as we had to go on.”
“It really wasn’t that hard.” Just sweet-talking a judge into issuing an investigative subpoena, then hours and hours of tedious research, going over zillions of court cases and birth certificates, tracking down attorneys, narrowing down the field of candidates, until only one was left.
“So, who is it?” Austin asked impatiently.
“I’ll come downstairs,” she replied before hanging up. She knew Austin hated to be kept in suspense. By the time she reached his desk, he would be frothing at the mouth, making her moment of revelation all the more enjoyable. If she was right, they were on their way to finding the person who’d last seen Marcy alive.
She met Tony coming into Missing Persons as she was on her way out. “Hey, Tony, you still want to come with me to pick up Scott Humphrey?”
“Scott...oh, the Arkin girl’s boyfriend.” Tony smiled wickedly. “Sure, I’ll tag along and scowl, if you think it’ll help. You believe he did it?”
Caro shrugged. “Dunno. He loosely matches the description of the man who tried to sink Amanda’s car in the river.”
“And you’re hoping.”
She sighed. “It sure would be nice to find her. Alive.”
“Do you think there’s much chance of that?”
“Since her father got that letter, yeah. I mean, why would the perp go to all the trouble of having her write a letter if he was just going to kill her? He wants us to stop looking for her.”
Tony cocked his head and blew a huge, purple bubble. “We might have stopped looking, if not for finding her car. But have you considered that the perp might be using the letter to mislead us as to the time of death?”
The possibility hit Caro like a bucket of cold water. “You mean, he coerced Amanda into writing a postdated letter, killed her, then mailed the letter days later?” Unfortunately, Tony’s idea made sense. “But if that’s the case, we’re not dealing with any ordinary crime of opportunity or passion here. We’re talking about a cold and calculating murderer who meticulously plans his every move.”
“A guy without a conscience,” Tony said morosely. “Makes me think of Ted Bundy, or someone like that.”
Psychopath. That word, a barely whispered echo in Caro’s mind, gave her a chill. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” she said with deliberate casualness. “Let’s just see what our Scotty has to say. Can you leave in a few minutes, as soon as I give this stuff to Lomax?”
“Sure, whenever.”
Caro’s optimistic mood was completely shot. Why hadn’t she considered the time-of-death angle? Was it because she wanted so badly to find Amanda alive? She was doing it again, becoming too passionate about a case. And she knew better! Letting herself get too close, emotionally, to an investigation would only impair her judgment.
She ought to wash her hands of it—both the Arkin and the Phelps cases, in fact, before she got herself in too deep and messed something up. Yes, that’s what she would do. She would hand over the paperwork on Marcy Phelps’s baby, pick up Scott Humphrey as she’d promised, then return to her comfortable world of runaway teenagers and deserting spouses. She couldn’t deal with psychopaths or crazies of any variety, not anymore.
Once upon a time she’d relished the prospect of tearing into a rapist or child molester, ripping his story apart in the interview room until he was sobbing, begging her to leave him alone. No more. She’d lost that hard edge. And she’d decided long ago she didn’t want it back.
* * *
“So, who and where is Marcy’s baby?” were the first words out of Austin’s mouth the moment he spotted Caro striding purposefully toward his desk. Today she was wearing baggy black trousers tucked into red cowboy boots, and a plaid flannel shirt big enough to cover three women. Rather than disguising her diminutive size, as she probably intended, the getup emphasized her fragility.
Caro laid a stack of photocopies on his desk. “He’s in Highland Park.”
Austin gave the photocopies hardly a glance. “How do you know?”
“I’m not a hundred-percent sure.” She looked at Austin’s steaming cup of coffee. “Let’s go to the break room. I need some tea.”
Austin nodded, gritting his teeth. The more anxious he appeared to hear Caro’s story, the longer she would drag it out. She seemed to enjoy torturing him.
“I went through all the district court records for adoptions that took place after December 13,” she explained as they walked down the hall and into a small kitchen that held a row of vending machines, a microwave, and a few tables and chairs. The room always smelled vaguely of popcorn.
She poked around in the sink until she found the mug of her choice, with a black-and-white cat on it, continuing her story while she washed the cup, filled it with water and stuck it in the microwave. “Given the ME’s report, December 13 would have been the earliest possible date of birth.”
Austin resisted the urge to remind Caro that he already knew that. In fact, he was the one who’d told her to use December 13 as the cutoff date. But if he started arguing with her, she would never finish her story.
“I threw out all the girls,” she said, “then all the boys born before December 13, then all the nonwhites—that’s another assumption, by the way. Who’s to say the father of Marcy’s baby wasn’t black or Hispanic or green or purple with spots?”
“But he was probably white,” Austin said. “Marcy simply didn’t come in contact with many green-and-purple men—or any other color, for that matter.”
“That’s what I figured. I just wanted to point out that my methodology isn’t foolproof.”
“I understand. So you considered white babies only.”
“Right. By then I was left with a group of twenty or so, and I went to the Records building and started looking up birth certificates on microfilm.”
Austin winced. Just five minutes of watching microfilm speeding across a screen gave him a splitting headache. Suddenly he was immeasurably glad he’d drafted Caro for this chore, even if he did have to drag the details out of her. “And?” he prompted.
“I checked for the hospital and attending physician, figuring Marcy didn’t have benefit of either. I mean, even if she wandered out of a hospital or was spirited out, it would have been reported.”
“Right, I follow.”
“So I came up with two nonhospital births, attended by midwives. I contacted one by phone. She as
sured me she remembered the birth in question, that there were no problems, and she had done a follow-up visit with her patient.”
“And she could be lying.”
“If she was, she was a good liar. But you’re right, it’s possible.”
“Go on. What about the other one?”
“Her signature on the birth certificate was an illegible scrawl.”
“And that’s your prime candidate, right?”
“Right. Justin Krill.”
“Krill?” Austin grew very still. “The adoptive father isn’t by any chance Don Krill, is he?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Austin felt a headache coming on. He must have made a face, because Caro jumped to defend her conclusion.
“I don’t blame you for being skeptical, but look at the place of birth. River Rock, Texas. I checked a map. It’s a hundred and fifty miles from the Cedar Creek dam. In Texas, that’s not all that far.”
Austin nodded. “I’ve actually been through River Rock. It was on the way to my grandmother’s.”
The microwave buzzed, and Caro went about fixing tea.
Austin pulled a couple of quarters out of his pocket and got some Sno Balls—pink, coconut-covered cupcakes—from the vending machine. “River Rock is about a three-hour drive from the Cedar Creek dam. Actually, Cedar Creek is closer to Dallas than River Rock. And it seems to me the perp wouldn’t have reported the real birthplace on the certificate, anyway.”
“You think I’m reaching, don’t you?” Caro asked.
“I hope you are.”
She frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Don Krill. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“Yeah...city council, right?” She blew on her tea to cool it.
Austin was mesmerized for half a second, watching her puckered lips. He shook his head to clear it. “Krill is only about the third most politically powerful individual in all of Dallas, behind the mayor and city manager. To even suggest that his newly adopted child is part of some black-market baby scam—”
“Is that so bad? He could be useful if we decided to open the lid on this and get the media involved. We could get all the coverage we wanted.”
