Into Thin Air

by Karen Leabo

  Amanda dried her tears with her dishcloth. “Won’t you help me, Henry? I think you’re the only one around here who cares what happens to me, my only friend. Won’t you help me keep my baby?”

  Henry frowned. “I’ll think on it. I’m pretty smart, you know.”

  “I know. And thank you.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, struggling to keep her revulsion under wraps.

  Henry turned bright red. “I’ll finish up in here. You can go watch the rest of the movie with the others.”

  * * *

  As Austin drove the ten minutes or so to the law firm of Smith, Clovis and Beaman, he mentally reviewed his earlier phone conversation with his brother, Dean, who worked in the DA’s office. Dean had told him that Travis Beaman, who had handled Justin Krill’s adoption, was a senior partner in a high-profile tax law firm. The firm was well established, but due to the lousy economy, it didn’t have the herd of wealthy clients it once did, and several associates had been let go in the past year.

  Travis himself had an impeccable reputation. He was in his late forties, reputedly in good health, married with no children.

  It was unusual that he was the attorney of record for an adoption, though not shockingly so. Most adoptions weren’t terribly tricky from a legal standpoint, and Beaman had probably handled it personally at the request of the adoptive parents. Apparently he and Don Krill were good friends.

  Austin had thought long and hard about how to approach Beaman. If Justin Krill was really Marcy Phelps’s baby, Beaman wasn’t about to let that fact slip out. The lawyer would have covered his tracks well. If, however, the whole adoption was legitimate, Beaman might be a good-enough guy to allow Austin a peek at the confidential adoption file—especially if he was worried about Austin’s suspicions being made public. Austin would be able to eliminate Justin as a candidate and concentrate on the other adopted babies on Caro’s list.

  Smith, Clovis and Beaman occupied the entire eighteenth floor of the Southland Life Building. From the ankle-deep, sage-green carpet to the solid cherry paneling and antique brass accents, the firm’s decor quietly screamed affluence—although there was an empty wall in the waiting area where a painting had once hung. Austin felt sure the receptionist, a classy redhead with upswept hair and a demure blue dress, had been hired as much for her looks as anything. Or maybe it was her name. A discreet nameplate identified her as Ms. Dubois.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a honey-smooth voice.

  “I’m Corporal Austin Lomax with the Dallas Police Department,” he said, trying to sound quietly ominous as he offered his badge. “I’d like to see Travis Beaman, please. Is he in?”

  She checked a list on her desk. “He’s in. I don’t suppose you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I won’t take much of his time. And it’s a matter of some urgency.”

  The redhead smiled knowingly, dimpling her cheek, then picked up the phone and talked with someone Austin presumed was Beaman’s secretary. “You’re in luck,” she said when she’d concluded the conversation. “He’s in conference, but he’ll be done in about fifteen minutes if you’d care to wait.”

  “Thanks, I would.”

  Fifteen minutes turned into thirty and then forty-five, and Austin was tempted to blow the whole thing off. This might be nothing but a wild-goose chase, after all. But it occurred to him that Beaman might be deliberately testing his patience, hoping he would go away. So Austin held his ground.

  At last the great attorney deigned to see the lowly detective. His secretary—another very attractive woman—led Austin through a maze of hallways, past offices and work stations that appeared oddly quiet and deserted. Man, Dean hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the firm had laid some people off.

  Beaman occupied a corner office, naturally. The secretary tapped discreetly on the door, opened it without waiting for a reply and ushered Austin inside.

  The Cowboys could have held scrimmages inside the office. Austin had never seen anything so ostentatiously huge. He thought about his own little cubbyhole, with its cheap government-issue desk and bare tiled floor, and he wondered if he hadn’t gone into the wrong line of work.

  The man himself was unremarkable looking, with thinning, iron-gray hair and an expensive suit that did a good job of camouflaging his girth. He had wire-rimmed glasses and good teeth—or maybe they were capped.

  “Good afternoon, Officer Lomax,” Beaman said, standing behind his massive, carved mahogany desk and offering his hand. His smile was pleasant but distant as he indicated a delicate, antique-looking chair across from him. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  Austin almost pointed out that he was Corporal Lomax, not Officer. But he decided not to start out on the wrong foot by antagonizing Beaman. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said instead, shaking the lawyer’s hand. He sat down in the chair, which was much too delicate for even a man of his moderate size. He wondered if the chair had been chosen deliberately, to make clients feel uncomfortable and vulnerable so they would cough up more money.

  “I know you’re busy so I’ll keep this brief. I’m investigating a case with a possible connection to one of your clients, and I believe you’re in a position to clear it up quickly.”

  “I’ll do what I can, of course,” Beaman said, “but you realize I can’t violate my clients’ confidentiality.”

  Austin nodded. He’d figured as much. “The case I’m working on involves a teenage girl who died in childbirth and whose body was dumped in a lake. You’re probably familiar with it.” Austin watched Beaman closely.

  “You’re talking about that Phelps girl,” Beaman said. His face and voice reflected nothing but calm assurance, but he fiddled with his coat button. “What possible connection does she have with this firm?”

  “The police have reason to believe Marcy Phelps’s baby was illegally adopted. It’s possible the adoptive parents, and even their lawyer, didn’t know the circumstances surrounding the child’s birth.”

  “Their lawyer...meaning me? I’m primarily a tax attorney.”

  “But you’ve handled at least one adoption. Justin Krill.”

  Beaman abruptly dropped any semblance of civility he’d previously shown. “I handled that adoption as a favor for a friend. And you had better not go nosing around the Krills and upsetting them. God knows they’ve been through enough pain.”

  “That’s why I came to you first. If you can prove, to my satisfaction, that the child wasn’t born to Marcy Phelps—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Justin Krill’s biological mother is personally known to me. She’s the daughter of a friend of mine. I knew the Krills were trying to adopt, and I got the two parties together and handled the adoption as a favor. Now, is that all?” he said dismissively.

  “What’s her name? The biological mother, that is.”

  “I can’t tell you that. I’m legally obligated to protect her privacy.”

  Austin sighed impatiently. “Mr. Beaman, I can get a subpoena that will allow me to search your records,” he bluffed. “I have enough evidence. I was hoping you would make this easy.”

  “Look, I don’t know where you ever got this crazy idea that Justin Krill is Marcy Phelps’s baby, and I would like nothing better than to open the Krills’ file and show you how wrong you are. But to do so would open me up to a lawsuit. So you just go and get your court order. Make a fool out of yourself. I really don’t care. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than discuss nonsense. Ms. Paladin will show you out.”

  The lovely Ms. Paladin opened the door at that precise moment, having been summoned by mental telepathy, it seemed. Her demeanor was noticeably cooler as she escorted Austin to the reception area.

  Austin had thought he might hit up the secretaries for information. But neither Ms. Paladin nor Ms. Dubois appeared overly impressed with his status as a detective. Hell, a firm this prestigious probably paid the help well enough that they knew better than to divulge secrets, anyway, no matter how roman
tic the notion of assisting with a police investigation.

  Austin left Smith, Clovis and Beaman with no more evidence than when he’d entered. In fact, from an intellectual standpoint, Beaman had been very convincing as the outraged attorney falsely connected to a crime.

  As soon as he returned to the station, Austin sought out Caro. She was probably back with Scott Humphrey by now, and Austin was eager to see what he could get out of the kid. He was disappointed to find Caro’s desk empty. The dry-erase board over Sergeant Nona Quayar’s desk reported Caro as out to lunch.

  “You looking for Corporal Triece?” Quayar asked. “If it’s important, I’ll beep her. She’s probably across the street at Dave’s Dive, although I don’t see how she can stand that barbecue. Snout sandwiches—ugh.” For a large woman, Quayar was able to shiver with amazing delicacy.

  “She and Tony Villaverde were supposed to pick up a suspect for me,” he said.

  “Oh, right. He’s come and gone.”

  “Who questioned him?” Austin asked, bewildered.

  “Corporal Triece, I think. I’m sure if she’d learned anything mind-boggling, she’d have let you know right away.”

  Now, that was odd. Caro had been dead set against interrogating Scott. What had changed her mind?

  “She’s riding with Corporal Villaverde. If you can’t reach her on the car phone, I’ll beep her.”

  “It’s not that important,” Austin said with a dismissive shake of his head. “I’ll catch her later.” He was amazed at how eager he’d been just now to share a little bit of noninformation with Caro, to see her reaction, get her feedback. Less than a week ago he’d simply wanted her out of his face.

  Raines was right about her. She had a quick mind, even if she was a little prickly, and she obviously hadn’t forgotten the lessons she’d learned working in CAPERS. But she was also accustomed to running her own investigations. If Austin wasn’t careful, she’d be trying to grab the reins away from him. He decided he needed to back off, or next thing he knew his co-workers would be thinking he couldn’t solve a case without hanging on to Caro Triece’s apron strings.

  When Austin returned to his own desk, he found about a zillion messages to deal with. He flipped through them disinterestedly until he reached one that grabbed his full attention. It was from a Sergeant Norm Wiggs of the Denton Police Department.

  Without even taking off his jacket, Austin picked up the phone, dialed the number and asked for Sergeant Wiggs. Please, let this be good news, he prayed. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Corporal Lomax? Yeah, we got your man. Ray Seifert showed up at that house where he used to live. He’s in custody and he’ll be arraigned this afternoon. We don’t have a prayer of getting bail denied on this type of sexual assault, so if you want a crack at him—”

  “I’ll be there in forty minutes.” Yeah, he was definitely in the right line of work.

  * * *

  Odell ushered an obedient Amanda into her room and locked the deadbolt. There, that was the last one. All of the girls were snug in their rooms for their afternoon rest period, and Odell would have a few minutes of blessed peace.

  Sometimes the stress of maintaining order and discipline among the ten teenagers gave her splitting headaches. Every night she would drop into bed exhausted, dreading the morning. Sometimes she even wished she didn’t have to be so harsh with the girls. But then she would remind herself that they were sinners.

  Amanda was coming along nicely, Odell thought with satisfaction as she made her way toward her small office, her daytime sanctuary. After those first couple of shaky days, during which Odell was convinced Amanda would be another troublemaker like Terri, the girl had settled down and was now one of the home’s most pleasant, well-behaved residents. Odell wished all of them could be like Amanda.

  When she reached the office, she unlocked the desk, pulled out her cellular phone and began checking in with her answering services. She had one in each of the major cities of Texas—Dallas, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin and San Antonio. Also in each of those cities she had a contact person who could provide her with names and addresses of young pregnant girls considering abortions. One was a school counselor, but the rest worked at abortion clinics, either as nurses or psychologists.

  Odell was very selective about which girls she ultimately brought to the home, and she never took too many from any one area, so that no discernible pattern would develop. Currently she had two from each city.

  The home was filled to capacity right now. Terri would be leaving soon, however. The girl claimed she’d conceived toward the end of May, but Odell suspected the baby was closer to term than that. She needed to start thinking about replacing Terri.

  She was surprised when the Dallas answering service gave her a message from her brother. Now, what would he want? Since Travis never contacted her except in a dire emergency, she returned his call right away.

  “Odell,” he said. As always, there was never any affection or emotion in the greeting. He kept the conversation brief and to the point. “I don’t know how it happened, but the police are onto us. Somehow they’ve connected me and the Krills to our little Marcy Phelps.”

  “Oh, God.” Odell barely breathed the words.

  “Why in the hell didn’t you do a better job of disposing of that girl’s body? You could have buried it in the woods, where it might never have been found.”

  “Please don’t curse, Travis. You must understand that the girl needed a Christian burial,” Odell said quietly, but with absolute conviction. “If the poor child has any hope of escaping the fires of hell—”

  “I appreciate your compassion. But we can’t take that kind of chance anymore, not with things heating up like they are.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “Look, it might not be as bad as we think. The cop who came here was just fishing. He didn’t know anything for sure, and I certainly didn’t give him anything to work with.”

  “But how do you suppose the police got your name in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. Even if they did manage to unseal the adoption records, Justin’s biological mother is listed as ‘Patricia Smith.’ I guarantee you Marcy’s name was never mentioned around this office.”

  “Who else knew?”

  “Just Don Krill, and he knows better than to tell anyone. Even his wife doesn’t know. I’ll talk to him, though. Odell... maybe we should stop.”

  “No,” she said flatly. She slipped off one of her orthopedic shoes and massaged her foot.

  “But we’ve already found parents for four children, and there are at least six girls at the home who are too far along for abortions. That’s ten in all.”

  “Thirty-four. We have to save thirty-four. Or don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t remember the exact number, not the way you do. We were just children back then.” She could hear the weariness in his voice. They’d had this argument before. Travis had never felt as guilty as Odell about their sins.

  “Maybe you were a child, but I wasn’t,” she reminded him. “I was twenty-three when I assisted with the last one.” Odell’s stomach churned and her heart pounded every time she recalled that sweating, moaning teenage girl and the five-month fetus she had delivered. The baby, no bigger than a potato, had writhed briefly before dying. Odell’s father had placed it in a paper sack.

  She remembered each case just as vividly, in horrid technicolor. And every day of her life, she regretted that she hadn’t put an end to the slaying. She could have. But she’d been frightened, so frightened, because she had helped. Travis had helped, too.

  Odell had started assisting her father when she was sixteen and too ignorant to understand exactly what was going on. She wanted more than anything to be a nurse, and at first she was so excited that her father was letting her help that she didn’t question why those ladies came to their house instead of her father’s office.

  Then one day she’d figured it out. And when she’d confronted her father, he’d told
her they would all go to jail if she opened her mouth. She’d been so timid and gullible, so in awe of her father, that she’d continued to assist him with his devil’s work, all the while dying inside.

  The idea for the Good Shepherd Maternity Home had come to her several years ago—a way to atone for her sins. She had assisted in killing thirty-four babies. If she saved an equal number from the abortionist’s knife, perhaps she could yet see the kingdom of heaven. And perhaps she would no longer be tormented by the nightmares.

  The preparations had taken years. She’d had to develop contacts, renovate the old farmhouse, obtain a gun and learn how not to be afraid of it. And she’d had to depend on Travis for a lot of money. But her scheme was working, and it would continue to work, at least for a while. She wouldn’t let it all go until she had no other choice.

  “You never really believed you could save all thirty-four, did you?” Travis asked, jerking her back to the present. “We’ve known all along that sooner or later the police would catch on to you, no matter how many precautions we took.”

  “I was hoping it would be later rather than sooner.”

  “We’re lucky to have gone this far. It’s a miracle none of the three girls you’ve released so far have been able to lead the police straight to you.”

  “They can’t lead the police to me when they have no idea where the Good Shepherd Home is. They’re drugged when they come here, and drugged when they leave. Henry drives them hundreds of miles away before he puts them out of the car.”

  “But don’t you think it’s odd that we’ve never heard anything on the news, or read anything in the papers, about those girls being found?”

  “There’ve probably been stories in their hometown papers,” Odell reasoned. “None of them was from Dallas. Only Marcy, and we’ve heard plenty about her.”

  “I still think we should quit while we’re ahead. We could let the girls go and leave the country. Lord knows there’s not much left here to stay for. I don’t know how much longer this firm will be able to hold off the creditors.”