by Hester Young
“She’s missin’,” Noah says. “Someone took her.”
It takes a couple minutes, but I eventually extract the story from him.
When Noah arrived at Vonda’s house, no one answered the doorbell. He found the door unlocked and discovered Vonda lying on the kitchen floor, unconscious but breathing, the back of her head bloody. He called 911 and immediately began searching for Micky.
Thinking she might’ve gone to seek help for Vonda, he asked a pair of neighborhood boys if they’d seen her. One reported that Micky had left not too long ago with an unfamiliar adult female. The boy was unable to describe Micky’s companion except to say that she wore sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt. Her car, he said, was “big and white.” Micky seemed to know her.
“It was a woman,” Noah says, as if this subtlety might somehow have escaped me. “Someone she knew with a white car.”
“Pam,” I whisper. “It was Pam. I never should’ve let her walk out of that restaurant.”
“What would Pam want with Micky?” Noah scoffs.
I duck into the conference room, making sure I’m out of Albert’s earshot. “Micky heard something,” I say in a low voice. “The night that Donna and Jasmine were murdered, she heard something. Something Pam doesn’t want anyone knowing about.”
“Even if that were true . . . how would Pam even know where Micky was?”
“Pam’s been tailing everyone,” I murmur, remembering the weird video she took in the middle of the night. “She could’ve followed us there at some point, easy. The woman’s unhinged, Noah. She tried to get me to bug McCullough today. We’ve got to find her before she hurts Micky.”
“None of this makes any sense,” he protests. “Pam wouldn’t hurt that kid, not knowin’ how much she meant to Donna.”
“You don’t understand.” I don’t waste precious time laying out every dirty little detail. “I talked to Vonda earlier. Micky heard Pam at Jasmine’s apartment that night, okay? Micky placed her at the scene. Micky is the only witness. And Pam knows that.”
Noah doesn’t speak for a few seconds, trying to absorb this. “You think Pam . . . you think she killed them?”
“I don’t know.” I hear sirens in the background. “Are the police there?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Tell them what I told you. Tell them they need to find Pam. Now.”
“I’ll tell them. But they don’t have a warrant. They can’t just bust into her place.” He still doesn’t sound entirely convinced that I’m right. “Pam knows me. Maybe I should go over. I could talk to her.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
Nausea gathers in my stomach as I imagine Noah showing up on Pam’s doorstep, demanding to see Micky. Would Pam hurt him? The woman certainly knows her way around a firearm.
I hear voices in the background, and then Noah exhales. “I gotta go,” he says. “Sit tight. I’ll call you when I know more.”
Sit tight? Easy for him to say.
I wander back over to the carton of my mother’s items. The box of Rohypnol lies perched on top like an ugly accusation. I stuff it in my purse; the police may need it later.
What was Pam doing at Jasmine’s apartment that night? What were she and Donna mixed up in? After all her crazy investigations, all her outward displays of grief, could Pam really be the one who killed my mother?
“You can take that whole box with you,” Albert says from behind me. He’s spun around in his chair, watching me. “You don’t have to sort it all out here.”
It takes a moment for his words to register, to realize he’s trying to get rid of me. “It’s just junk,” I say, backing away from the table. “You guys can throw it away.”
I should leave. But I don’t know where to go, what to do. Sit tight, Noah advised. Translation: wait around for his call. It’s not a very attractive option.
I take a few steps toward Teresa’s office and absently run a finger over the gold nameplate outside. The door is half open, the lights off. Teresa’s not sitting idly around her office, I think. She’s busy saving the world. And here you are, unable to save the one person who really needs you.
I stare at my feet. Where are you, Micky?
“Sounds like you’re having a hard day.” Albert has turned off his computer and has his bag in hand, not-so-subtly hinting that it’s closing time.
“How much did you hear?” I ask.
“Nothing really,” he says. “But you look pretty blown out. Listen, I’d let you hang around, but I’ve got to pick up my son.”
I nod, but my mind is on Pam, trying to figure where she might be. Has anyone called her? Maybe I should call her. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding and she’s trying to protect Micky, not hurt her. I reach into my purse, feel around for my phone. Just as my fingers close around it, something inside Teresa’s office catches my eye. A movement from behind her desk.
I approach the doorway, the back of my neck tingling. “Albert, is someone else here?”
Albert shakes his head. “It’s past six. That’s late for this crew.”
It’s relatively dark in Teresa’s office, but now I see it again. A shadow that stands behind the desk and then moves quickly out of view.
“There’s somebody in there,” I say.
“I don’t think so . . .”
I enter the office, my whole body on high alert. I can’t see anyone inside, just the outline of a desk and chair, a window with the blinds drawn, a filing cabinet. I flip on the lights.
The walls of the room are covered with framed articles about Sonora Hope, photographs of Teresa smiling with influential donors, a few awards. My eyes sweep the room for any signs of someone, but it’s a small office. There’s only one place someone could be hiding: under the desk.
I circle around, forgetting, for a few seconds, to breathe. Peer underneath. Nothing.
“We really shouldn’t disturb Teresa’s things,” Albert says from the doorway.
“No, of course.” Now I’m embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I just . . . thought I saw someone.” I reach to turn off the light on my way out and stop. My fingers freeze in midair at the image I see before me, about six inches to the right of the light switch.
A glossy page from Arizona Living, half text and half photograph, in a varnished wooden frame. On either side of Teresa, two men grin for the camera, both sporting tuxedos. Teresa, wearing a lavender formal gown and a demure smile, holds up a plaque for some exceptional-nonprofit award she’s received. What stops me in my tracks is not the award but the man standing to her left.
It’s Quico.
I quickly scan the caption. Sonora Hope founder Teresa King celebrates the success of her nonprofit with husband and CEO of Mexikids International Jonathan King and Sonoran director of Family Rights Francisco Ortega.
“Charlotte?” Albert is drumming his fingers on the wall, the polite façade rapidly fading. “I need to lock up.”
I point at the photo. “Do they work together? Those three?”
He sighs. Steps into the office to get a look at what I’m ogling. “Ortega is one of our partners in Mexico. Kind of smarmy, but comes with the territory, I guess. And the other guy is Teresa’s husband.”
“Does her husband work with Sonora Hope?”
“No, his organization does for-profit adoptions. They have nothing to do with us.”
Except they do, I think as I follow him blindly back to the lobby. The three of them laid out in a row—it’s plain to me now. They have everything to do with one another. There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat as the realization hits.
Teresa King works with women, vulnerable women. Women with no men, or else bad men, in their lives. Women struggling to support themselves and, in many cases, their children.
Jonathan King facilitates adoptions in a country with strict rules about who may be adopte
d. No child under five, Teresa told me—unless that child is disabled or sick, requiring care he or she could not receive in Mexico.
And Quico? According to Pam, Francisco Ortega’s responsibilities include overseeing American adoptions of Mexican children.
What a neat, efficient little machine they’ve made.
I put my hand to my belly. Blink. Stare at the fluorescent ceiling lights until they’ve burned themselves into my vision, floating white circles that travel the length of the office with my gaze.
No wonder Marilena, the most successful recipient of Sonora Hope’s assistance, has lost three children. No wonder Ysabel, who also lost a child, will find herself well cared for by the organization afterward. There were a lot of pregnant women in that program. And now I know why.
Albert was wrong. Duardo was wrong. These mothers didn’t lose their babies because they were exposed to toxic waste. They didn’t lose their babies at all.
They sold them.
Twenty-Nine
Albert locks the door behind us and surges toward the parking lot. “Sorry to rush you out,” he says, “but I have to pick my son up from practice.”
I study him for some sign that my questions about Quico and Teresa have made him nervous but find none. He’s impatient but nothing more. I’ve delayed him from performing a fatherly duty.
The man has no idea who it is he’s working for.
One thing I know: a person with a secret can be dangerous. Quico, Marilena, and Teresa share a secret, and I’m willing to bet the farm that secret was responsible for Lety’s death. Perhaps others knew, too. Donna. Teresa’s husband.
So many people with something to lose.
Poor Lety. Young and pregnant, out of options. She must’ve gone to Marilena for help. She must’ve promised them her baby. Maybe Lety was playing them all along, bleeding the program of whatever resources it could offer while she planned her escape to the United States. Or maybe, in the beginning, Lety truly meant to give her daughter up. Maybe, as her pregnancy progressed, she fell in love.
Either way, I know how it felt to be Lety that moment in the shower before she died. She believed in her own future as a mother. She had no intention of giving her child away to some Americans.
Someone made her pay for that, but who? Is Lety’s death connected to Donna and Jasmine’s? To Micky’s abduction?
I need to know just how dangerous Teresa King is.
I jog through the parking lot after Albert. “What color car does Teresa drive?”
He peers over his shoulder at me. “A white Range Rover, I think. But I told you, she already left for the day.”
A big white car. Uh-oh.
“When did she leave?”
“I don’t know.” Albert unlocks the door of his own little red hybrid. “She was chatting with Andrea, and then . . . she left. Something came up, I guess. Right before you got here.”
Right before you got here, that’s the part I don’t like. It corresponds a little too neatly with Micky’s disappearance.
I told Andrea Rincón over the phone that Micky might have overheard someone in Jasmine’s apartment that night.
Andrea talked to Teresa.
Teresa left just before I arrived.
Micky disappeared shortly after.
The sequence of events forms a clear if circumstantial line. I drift away from Albert, racking my brain for some idea of where Teresa might have taken Micky.
My odd behavior has begun to concern poor Albert. “Charlie,” he calls, “what is this about? Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
“Something’s going to happen.” I keep walking, eyes on the pavement. “If I don’t stop it.”
• • •
GRANDMA’S FRIEND. As I wander through the parking lot searching for the trappings of a plan, it all seems rather obvious.
Micky told Vonda that she’d heard “Grandma’s friend” in her apartment the night Donna was murdered. She didn’t mean Pam, safely accounted for at her poker game. She meant Teresa. Teresa who deals in black-market babies. Teresa who probably ordered Lety’s death. Teresa who would do anything to save her own hide, even if it meant executing a friend.
Maybe Donna finally learned the truth about all those pregnant women in the program. Or maybe she had always known, but killing Lety was a step too far. One way or another, Donna became a threat, one Teresa felt she had to deal with.
I pass another set of office suites as I weave my way back toward the entrance of the development. I’ll call a cab . . . just as soon as I can figure out where to go.
No wonder Pam ran off when she overheard Vonda’s phone call. Grandma’s friend. She must have known exactly who Micky was talking about. Noah and I may have been taken in by Teresa’s sad history, her inspiring road to success, but Pam wasn’t. Pam has never trusted the woman.
Which explains why Teresa chose Jasmine’s place to commit her bloody murders. She didn’t dare attack Donna in her condo. Not with Pam around. Not with all those guns.
Teresa knew about Donna’s troubled relationship with Jasmine, must have known that Donna was often left to babysit her granddaughter. Maybe Teresa was watching her, waiting for an opportunity. Maybe Donna herself revealed her plans. Jasmine’s out again tonight, looks like I’m babysitting. And so Teresa came late, when she knew that Micky would be asleep.
She hadn’t anticipated Jasmine’s being home. Jasmine was supposed to be out having fun with McCullough, not stuck home with her mother.
When they saw Teresa on their doorstep, they must have let her in. Perhaps the three made small talk, and Micky, only half awake, heard them speaking. Who knows how long Teresa sat with them before the situation turned ugly? Maybe she hadn’t gone with bad intentions. Maybe they argued and things got out of hand.
But the Rohypnol. Why the Rohypnol?
I dial Noah’s number, hoping I can intercept him before he dashes off to Pam’s place and makes an idiot of himself. He doesn’t pick up. I send off a quick text: CALL ME.
I have to work out my next move. Have to anticipate Teresa’s. As I hurry through the parking lot, only dimly aware of my surroundings, a white Wrangler screeches to a stop just inches from hitting me. The near-collision breaks me from my haze.
“Jesus Christ, Charlie, what are you doing here?” Pam leans out the window, staring me down with a disbelieving squint.
An ally with a set of wheels—exactly what I need right now, if only I can trust her. What choice do I have?
I dash over to Pam’s open window. “I need to find Teresa.”
“You’re a little late. She left about an hour ago.”
“Have you been watching her?” Maybe Pam knows where she is. Maybe we have a chance.
“I wasn’t watching her exactly. Let’s just say I keep tabs on her movements.”
Whatever sketchiness Pam has been engaged in, I’m grateful. Without waiting for an invitation, I run around to the passenger side of her vehicle and climb in. “Teresa’s got Micky,” I say. “We’ve got to find her.”
“Micky? But why—”
“She thinks Micky can ID her. That Micky heard her at the apartment that night.”
A look of sudden comprehension falls over Pam. “Micky’s foster home—is it over on Arollo?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Was Teresa over there?”
“Shit,” says Pam. “Shit, shit, shit. I knew something was up with her. She’s been driving by this house on Arollo a few times a week. And last week she drove by Jasmine’s place a couple times. It didn’t sit right, that she knew the address. But I thought . . . I mean, those pictures. And Serena seemed so unstable . . .”
I don’t blame Pam, not really. Twenty minutes ago I was ready to pin this all on her.
“I should’ve told you back at the restaurant,” Pam says. “When Vonda said that thing about ‘Grand
ma’s friend.’ I should’ve told you to watch out for Teresa. But I had to be sure.”
“Are you sure?”
“I went to see an old friend from Homicide this afternoon. About Teresa’s alibi.”
“Does she have one?”
“Home with her husband, watched television, very hazy with the details. Husband corroborated her story, but I think he’s covering for her. His story was more solid. He remembered several TV shows that night and was on the phone with his sister ’til late.”
“He may not have pulled the trigger, but the husband’s in on it,” I tell her. “His company, Mexikids—I think it’s the middleman for a bunch of illegal adoptions. Americans getting babies from Mexico. Sonora Hope is basically paying these women to breed.”
“Babies,” Pam mutters. “So that’s Teresa’s deal. I should’ve known. There were always a couple of them with a bun in the oven. I used to tell Donna, you really want these gals to move up in the world, maybe start handing out birth control.” She frowns. “The paperwork, though. Adoption is a bureaucratic nightmare. How are they getting past all that?”
“Francisco Ortega,” I say. “This Quico guy I was telling you about. He works for the Office of Family Rights, remember? He must be signing off on it, forging records. Maybe there’s a doctor or two getting a cut. Saying the kids have health issues, developmental disabilities, to get an exception.”
“That’s sketchy as hell,” Pam says. “Wouldn’t the adoptive parents figure this out? If the paperwork says the baby has problems and then the kid is normal—they must know something’s off.”
I think of Bianca, waiting six years and shelling out forty grand to adopt her Chinese daughter.
“I don’t think you understand how desperate some people are to be parents, Pam. If they’re getting a healthy baby, they might be happy to cut a few corners.” My thoughts return to Micky and I feel sick. “What do we do? Can you send out an APB or something? We have to find Teresa. What if she’s taking Micky to Mexico?”
