by Maggie Price
Not to the firm. To him, Stu thought smugly. Some to Iris.
His eyes narrowed at the thought of how Iris had turned greedy when it came to the Calhouns. Since she’d met them, brought them into the process, she wanted a finder’s fee. He’d agreed, mainly just to keep her in line. He had a payment past due to his supplier, and he needed the Calhouns’ money. Yesterday.
Knowing the damage his supplier’s thugs would do to him if he didn’t make good on what he owed had fear manifesting as a sharp pain in the center of Stu’s forehead. He considered taking another snort of cocaine just to calm himself, then decided against it. After a two-day high, the only thing that would prevent him from going into a full crash-and-burn landing was vodka to smooth out his nerves and about twelve hours of sleep.
If Lori Logan still hadn’t given birth after he’d gotten his shuteye, he would do something to speed the process.
Just as he was about to take another hit from the decanter, Stu heard the door open behind him. He reached for a glass, poured himself a shot of vodka, then turned.
“Dad.”
“Stuart.”
“Care to join me?”
“I don’t drink. You know that.”
“Yeah.” Stu turned, leaned a negligent shoulder against the bar. “I know.”
“And neither should you.”
“So you continually tell me.”
As always, his father’s spine was stiff beneath his tidy three-piece suit. Closing the door behind him, Mr. Stiff-As-a-Board moved to the center of the office, a glint of disdain settling into his eyes as his gaze swept across the cluttered desk.
“Was your meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun successful?”
Although he wanted to chug the vodka in one gulp, Stu sipped at it. “They signed the paperwork. I’ll have their certified check tomorrow.” And a lot more of their money in an offshore account you’ll never find, Stu added silently. This was his revenge. Justice for the way his father had treated him since his mother’s death. “All that’s left is for the baby to arrive so the Calhouns can start changing diapers.”
Harmon, Sr. raised a silver eyebrow. “That’s why I’m here, Stuart. To inform you there might be a problem with the adoption.”
Stu paused, the glass partway to his mouth. “What the hell do you mean by ‘problem’?”
“The Logan girl was here this afternoon.”
“You didn’t tell me she had another appointment.”
“She didn’t. She commandeered one of those big yellow vans that belongs to Usher House and drove herself here.” Concern settled over his father’s face. “I wish she hadn’t done that. There’s another storm moving in and the roads could turn bad.”
“Why?” Stu asked, flicking away his father’s comment with a snap of his wrist. “Why did Logan come here if she didn’t have an appointment?”
“She needed someone to talk to, and she chose me.” His father’s mouth lifted at the edges. “I apparently remind the girl of her late grandfather. I asked Miss Logan if she still intends to give up her baby. She assured me she does. However, I sensed she’s dealing with a great amount of turmoil over her decision. I’m not sure we can depend on what she’ll do between now and the birth of her child.”
“Did she say that?” Stu set his glass on the bar with a snap, then took a quick step toward his father. “Did she actually say she wants to keep the kid?” He could feel the panic rising inside him, burning the base of his throat. He had to have the Calhouns’ money tomorrow. If not, he was a dead man.
“No, to the contrary.” Harmon, Sr. picked a piece of lint off his shirt’s starched cuff. “She said she isn’t able to support her daughter. Still, Miss Logan is having second thoughts, so I want you to put the Calhouns on hold. Don’t accept any money from them until the child is born and we know for sure what Miss Logan is going to do.”
“Fine. Sure thing.” Stu’s mind was racing. Whirling. He weighed his options. Found he had only one. “When did she leave?”
“Excuse me?”
“Logan. What time did she leave here?”
“A half hour ago. Why?”
Half an hour—it would take her thirty more minutes to drive to Oklahoma City. Stu had seen the shelter’s yellow vans during previous visits from other birth mother clients. The vehicles were big and lumbering and even in favorable weather he doubted they made good time on the highway. Unlike his Porsche, which ate up the pavement.
“Just curious,” Stu answered. “I was wondering if Logan ran into the Calhouns when they left a few minutes ago. She was adamant about not meeting them, after all.”
“She still is. She arrived before they got here and I walked her downstairs when she left. Thankfully, Miss Logan and the Calhouns didn’t cross paths.”
Stu checked his watch. “Gotta go. I just remembered I have a date.” He grabbed his coat and walked fast out the door, leaving his father behind.
Five minutes after she and Mark returned to their suite at the Mirador Resort, Grace had the director of Usher House shelter on the phone.
“I was in a meeting all afternoon,” Millie Usher explained. “So I didn’t know Lori Logan took the van until Mr. Harmon called. He wanted to let me know she’d needed someone to talk to and had come to his office. He asked me not to be too hard on her for taking the van without permission.”
Because the woman’s voice sounded tinny, Grace rose off the bed and moved to stand at the windows, hoping to improve the reception on the secure cell phone the FBI had provided. Her gaze settled across the room on the small writing desk where Mark sat, his own cell phone clamped between one cheek and shoulder while he jotted notes on a pad.
“Is Lori back yet?” Grace asked while thunder rumbled in the distance.
“I’m upstairs in my office, looking out the window at our parking lot. All three of our vans are there. So, yes, she must be back from Winding Rock.” Millie sighed. “Sergeant McCall, that young girl just breaks my heart. She’s barely fifteen years old and has no family. No one. When her baby’s father dumped her, she cried for days. I’m working to get her into a foster home after the baby’s born, but there’s no guarantee a child her age will make a good fit.” Millie paused. “I don’t have to tell you that. You’re a juvenile detective—you know how rarely we find a perfect fit for a lot of kids.”
“I know.” In her mind’s eye, Grace saw Lori Logan with her spiky, purple-tipped hair, diamond nose stud and oversize clothes. Saw, too, the way she had held her tattooed hand against her belly, as if protecting the child she carried. Lori didn’t know it, but Grace was determined to keep her and her child safe.
“Millie, what clinic does Lori go to for prenatal care?”
“The one on Sixth Street, run by Dr. Tom Odgers.”
The clinic where Iris Davenport worked, Grace thought with a shudder. Odgers was cooperating with the investigation and had reassigned Iris, so she no longer worked in the delivery room. Further, the Bureau had an agent working undercover at the clinic. Still, those safeguards weren’t enough for Grace. Not when a young woman’s life might be on the line.
“Millie, I can’t tell you right now why I’m asking about the Logan girl. I’ll explain everything later. I just need you to make sure she doesn’t go back to that clinic.”
“Her records are there, Sergeant. She’s due to give birth any day.”
“I know. Trust me on this, Millie. Lori Logan can’t go back to that clinic. And I need you to keep an eye on her, just to make sure she stays okay. I want you to call me the minute she goes into labor,” Grace added, then rattled off the number of her cell phone.
“All right, Sergeant. You can depend on me.”
“Thanks, Millie,” Grace said, then clicked off the phone.
While Mark’s call continued, she pulled off her plum-colored wool blazer and hung it in the closet. She toed off her heels. Another rumble of thunder, closer now, had her padding back to the window. It wasn’t even five o’clock, yet dusk was already se
ttling, like thick soot drifting down through gray water. Behind her Mark’s voice was a quiet murmur.
She closed her eyes. If someone had told her two weeks ago she’d be sharing a series of hotel suites with Mark Santini, she would have called them crazy. Told them there was no way in hell that would happen. But it had. And here she was, not only sharing a suite with Mark but a bed.
They were lovers again, for a few more days.
She swallowed past the knot in her throat. She could handle this, she assured herself for the nth time. Could handle having only days—instead of a lifetime—to spend in Mark’s arms. She had resolved not to dwell on the past. Promised herself she wasn’t going to obsess about the emptiness she knew lay in the future. She wouldn’t let herself think about anything but now. Refused to contemplate what her life would be like when he was gone.
“I’ve got some background on Harmon, Jr.,” Mark said.
Blinking, Grace turned away from the window, saw he’d ended his call. “What have you got?”
“What we haven’t got is a licensed attorney.” Grabbing up his pad, Mark rose and carried it across the room to where she stood. “Junior has taken the bar exam on these dates.”
Grace raised a brow as she gazed at the pad. “Three times and he has yet to pass?”
“Crashed and burned each time. Bet that made Dad proud. And here’s an interesting tidbit—Junior got popped for possession of cocaine a little over three years ago. The charge was dismissed. We’re trying to find out why now, but I’ll wager Harmon, Sr. used his influence to get his kid out of hot water.”
Grace settled on the edge of the bed. “When you and I talked last night, we agreed Senior doesn’t seem the type to black-market babies. Junior, on the other hand, does.”
“He fits the mold,” Mark agreed, taking a seat beside her. He had his shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, and the knot of his tie loosened. “A person could afford to buy lots of coke if he were selling babies for seventy grand each.”
“I can picture Iris Davenport teaming with Junior,” Grace said after a moment. “Killer nurse supplies kidnapped babies to coke-head wannabe lawyer. He operates out of a prestigious law firm with a rock-solid reputation, so prospective parents have no reason to question if everything’s on the up-and-up.”
“Junior doesn’t have a license to practice law, so his name doesn’t appear on any of the adoption papers. Senior’s name goes on all the legal documents.” Mark paused. “Last year, Senior handled more than seventy adoptions. Duly decreed through the court. The receptionist told us standard operating procedure is that Senior meets with the adoptive parents, then Junior takes over and deals with the paperwork. And the money.”
“The money,” Grace repeated. “If the Calhouns are like all the other adoptive parents the Harmons deal with, they get a contract to sign that has no dollar amount shown. And Junior wants payment in cash, wired to an account that it’s possible only he knows about.”
“Yeah,” Mark agreed. “So, hypothetically, it’s possible Dad believes Junior charges a lot less money per adoption. If Junior is still putting coke up his nose, he might be funding his habit by squeezing a lot more money out of each desperate couple than Pop knows about.”
“And we have to wonder if all the adoptions are legal,” Grace pointed out. “FBI agents are taking a look at those seventy adoptions. So far, everything appears to be aboveboard.”
“Since the babies born to Andrea Grayson and DeeDee Wyman have yet to surface, we can probably go with the theory that there was no real adoption where they’re concerned. No legal proceeding through any court. All Junior had to do in these cases was draw up fraudulent papers and get the adoptive parents’ signature. Junior never filed the papers in any court, he just forged signatures and seals so the new parents wouldn’t get suspicious.”
Grace’s hands balled into fists of frustration. “This case is the worse piece of knitting I’ve seen. All we’ve got are loose ends. We still have no solid proof that Iris Davenport committed the two murders and kidnapped two infants. Then there’s Troy Pacer, the pharmaceutical salesman she spent at least one night with while in Vegas. So far Pacer looks clean, but he’s got a lot of connections to the Florida medical community. He could use them to acquire newborns for the black-market ring.”
“Both Harmons,” Mark added, “Junior for sure is involved, because after meeting with him today we know he’s the money man. As soon as he accepts the Calhouns’ money, we can make a case against him for the fees he’s charging. It’s a felony to overcharge for an adoption. There are federal statutes as well as state.” Mark narrowed his eyes. “At this point Senior’s involvement is unknown.”
Mark tossed his pad aside. “Damn it to hell.”
Grace stiffened at the snap of anger in his words. “What?” She shifted to face him, saw the frustration in his dark eyes.
“If all we can collar Harmon on is a lame adoption charge, we’ll never find those two babies. Never know if they’re dead or alive. And if they are alive, they’re at the mercy of whoever this coke-snorting scum sold them to.”
At the mercy of a monster, Grace thought. Now that she knew about Mark’s childhood it wasn’t hard for her to read his thoughts. To know he would naturally wonder what fate had befallen the two helpless infants whose mothers had been murdered. Just two more children who Mark felt he needed to protect.
She laid a hand on his clenched fist. “I need to brief you on my call to Millie Usher.”
“Right.” Mark blew out a breath. “I take it she gave you the last name of the pregnant girl who was driving the Usher House van?”
“Lori Logan,” Grace said, then ran down the rest of the conversation to Mark. She ended with, “Millie promised to keep her eye on Lori. And to call me the minute she goes into labor. I wish we could take her into protective custody now. Hide her away to keep her and her baby safe.”
“If we do that, word might get back to the Harmons. We know they hedge their bets—that’s why they’ve bugged the living area of this suite and our rental car. It’s more than possible they’re paying someone at Usher House to keep an eye on things. Let them know if any cops show up, asking questions. If that’s the case and Lori Logan all of a sudden disappears, the Harmons might call off the Calhouns’ adoption. That happens, this investigation folds with no real proof against any of the parties involved.”
Grace nodded. “Iris would remain free to kill again on a whim. And we’d lose all hope of finding the two kidnapped babies.”
“Yeah.” Mark wrapped his hand around hers. “The Calhouns’ money is scheduled for transfer by ten o’clock in the morning. The minute it hits Junior’s account, we move in on him. After we get him into interrogation, we start talking about charging him with accessory to two murders and kidnappings. I guarantee he’ll roll on Davenport. Then we’ll have cause to pick her up.”
“In the meantime, the Calhouns wait.”
“We wait,” Mark agreed. His thumb glided across her knuckles. “Any suggestions on how the Calhouns should pass the time?” he asked softly.
Grace slid him a sideways look. “They could go downstairs. Eat dinner in the Sabroso Room.”
“I am hungry for something tasty,” he murmured. Feathering her hair back, he pressed a whisper-soft kiss against her throat. “But not for food.”
Instant heat, delicious and amazing slid through Grace’s veins, pooled beneath her flesh. Now, she reminded herself as she closed her eyes on a soft moan.
The past could wait until tomorrow. Now was all that mattered.
Chapter 14
By the time Stu parked his Porsche in Iris Davenport’s driveway, his system was jumping for a hit. He would take one, he promised himself as he dashed up the porch steps two at a time. Right after he had Iris where he needed her.
“Where have you been?” she demanded when she swung open her front door. Her green sweater was as skintight as her jeans, and she’d piled her red hair up on top of her head. “
I’ve left messages for you since I got back from Vegas. Something’s happened.”
“You’re telling me,” he shot back as he stalked past her. He glanced to his right, his gaze taking in the small living room. When he’d met Iris, she’d been a hospice nurse, working two jobs. Her rental house had been furnished with Salvation Army castoffs. Now new furniture filled the room. A TV with a thin screen the size of a helicopter pad took up the entire wall opposite the couch. Although the sound was muted, the pictures of several infamous murderers, currently displayed on the wide screen, had Stu theorizing that Iris had been watching a documentary on serial killers. Appropriate, he thought, looking back at her. She’d killed twice. Committing one more murder shouldn’t make a difference to her.
“I need you to pack a bag,” he said.
She slammed the front door shut then advanced on him, her eyes boring into him like a pair of cold lasers. “I’m not doing squat until you tell me why you’ve dodged my calls for two days.”
“I was taking care of things.” Everything. “Adoption papers. Monitoring the Calhouns’ conversation.” Getting stoned, Stu added silently. He vaguely remembered the messages Iris had left on his voice mail. He’d intended to return them. Then his coke high had become unsustainable and everything had started bleeding out of his brain. “I don’t have time to stand here while you throw a fit. Something’s come up.”
“You’re damn right it has. When I got home from Vegas and went back to work, I found out I’d been transferred. I’m no longer assigned to work with maternity patients.”
Stu narrowed his eyes. “Why? Why were you transferred?”
“I don’t know. Dr. Odgers said several staff members needed cross-training so we could fill in for each other.”
“So, you’re not the only one who got transferred?”
“Five of us did.” Her glossed mouth tightened. “Do you realize what that means? I no longer have easy access to the homeless mothers. The ones who want to give up their babies.”
He held up his hands. “We’ll deal with that later. In the meantime, pack a bag with enough clothes for a couple of days. There’s no heat, so bring heavy stuff. And blankets.” Stu shoved a hand through his hair, forcing his overloaded brain to function. “If you’ve got any medical supplies for delivering a baby, bring them.”
