Over time, Jenny said, she noticed other kids' progress through different stages of childhood. Her little Nicholas didn't babble or coo, then after a year or so, he failed to say “mommy” or any other word. As he got older, he didn't to want to be held and threw tantrums for no reason. It tore Jenny's heart apart. It all came crashing down in a cold medical office with Nicholas sitting in her lap —completely aloof and unresponsive to her rubbing his back or touching his cheek. The doctor said the little boy likely had autism.
With her cash flow dwindling by the day, one of the kid's parents at the daycare facility approached Jenny about a job opportunity at Big Heart, saying they needed caring, nurturing guidance counselors in their adoption agency. Jenny felt like a prayer had been answered—she now had benefits to help with the care for Nicholas, and her pay had increased.
“At first, it felt like it was my life's calling. At first.” Jenny's voice trailed off.
“When did you first notice something illegal?” Andi asked.
Jenny looked into the corner of the coffee shop. At first glance, Jenny could be a cover girl. A petite five-two, Jenny had straight, jet-black hair, appeared to be part Asian, and God had given her the gift of a perfect complexion. No blemishes, the purest cream-colored skin Andi had seen. In fact, at five-eight, Andi felt like a beast next to Jenny, a little Asian doll.
“I'd only been there three months, and I felt like I'd gotten lucky, working with two couples to find their little dreams in just under two months,” she said. "The next day the manager walked in and told us the house rule: find babies or young children for couples in no more than six weeks. If we could do it in less than four weeks, we'd see a little bonus in our next paycheck.
“It just didn't seem right. It felt more like selling used cars.”
“Appalling,” Andi said. “That isn't right, but what part of it is illegal?”
“I became curious and began listening to other conversations, some in English, some in Russian.” Andi pinched her right ear, a lifelong habit that always seemed to accompany deeper focus, and nodded for Jenny to continue. “My father, as crazy as he was, lived in Eastern Europe until he was seven years old, and he taught me Russian.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard the co-owners talking to the manager about a week delay in getting their latest shipment of kids, and the number was down to twenty, instead of twenty-five. It sounded like they were bringing in kids from Russia, or that part of the world.”
Andi's heart accelerated like a horse just let out of the gate. She shut her eyes and used the same counting exercise she'd used while swimming.
“What led you to share this with Dawn and her husband?”
“They were just so devastated. I slept on it one night, then I knew I had to reach out to Dawn.” Her voice became meek. “But I knew I couldn't stop what was happening. I can't leave the job. I have to keep Nicholas in good care.”
Andi contemplated how to play this.
“Jenny, we need evidence, solid proof of what is going on.”
“But—”
“Jenny, there are babies being sold like candy. Who knows how this operation is set up in Russia? People are getting swindled and someone is getting rich off it. It's inhumane.”
“I know.” A tear came alive.
“Will you help me?”
“My little Nicholas.”
“I'll figure out something for you and your little boy. All these parents and kids who are being abused by these ruthless assholes...you will help them, help me, won't you?”
She looked away then back into Andi's eyes. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A bath had been drawn, but the two feet of water was motionless. Hunched down, I dropped my hand closer to the water, but before it touched, I heard a creak behind me. I jerked my head but only saw a darkened bedroom, flanked by an empty closet. A single drop fell from the phallic spigot, puncturing the deafening silence, and my heart pinged in my chest.
I sloshed my hand in the water, noting the room temperature and wondered how long the tub had been waiting for its occupant. I caught a waft of something fruity, and I sniffed to the air like a puppy.
“Hiya, Mikey.”
I flipped on my knee and viewed a beautiful, alluring woman, her hands cupped around a silver candleholder, the three-inch, orange flame illuminating her chest, light and shadows flickering off her neck.
“Where you been all my life?” One eyebrow popped up on the last word.
I took three cautious steps forward. “Are we replaying Casablanca?”
No response, but a thin grin. She set the candle on the dresser and leaned her naked body against me. She grabbed hair on the back of my head and pressed her lips against mine. A gentle, soft kiss grew into a head-turning, deep show of passion, both of us immersed in the other.
She rested her hands on my chest and stared at me, her eyes looking almost amber with the candlelight splashing in our direction.
She slid each button of my shirt through its hole, taking her time, looking back into my eyes after completing each task. My pulse quickened by the pace of her tease, hoping we'd soon reach the end of the game.
This stunning woman—my wife—grazed the front of me and sauntered toward the Jacuzzi tub. She bent over to turn on the warm water, purposely tempting fate—the ultimate tease. She even peered over her shoulder, wondering if I'd take the bait. I took a step forward and felt the warmth of her backside. I kissed up and down her neck and nibbled at her ear, then closed my eyes and buried my face in her expertly-highlighted, curly hair, taking in every scent that existed, coconut and vanilla most prominent.
“Here's to you, kid,” I said, playing along, and then I went in for the kill.
God love Ireland I flinched, initially forgetting it wasn't even completely dark outside yet. “What's that?”
“What do you think it is, silly?”
“Right, the doorbell.”
Three more successive rings.
“It's probably just a door-to-door vacuum sales guy, or two ladies from the Jehovah's Witnesses church from down the street.”
Marisa slid on sweats and a T-shirt. “Sorry, we'll have to pick up where we left off later.”
She looked at me, still fully prepared to finish the game now. Two more doorbell rings.
“These people just don't give up,” I said, staring at the ceiling, fists lifted in frustration. “Why me...or should I say us?”
Marisa smiled and walked out the bedroom door. A minute later, she popped her head back in. “It's Carrie. Trouble in paradise, it seems.” She checked out my package, which still longed for her, and she shook her head. "My, this might be harder on me than it is on you. Then again, maybe not."
“Thanks.” I reached for my robe.
“Hey, put on some real clothes. We don't need a tent popping up in the living room.” She winked and shut the door.
I splashed water on my face and bemoaned the thought of engaging with Carrie. I thought about putting on boxers and vegging out in the bedroom, catching up on my latest Konrath thriller. But I knew I'd eventually get a return visit from Marisa, so I bucked up and got fully dressed and joined the conversation.
“He's just so inconsiderate. I just don't know how I didn't see it before.” I heard Carrie babbling away long before I entered the main living area.
I took in a deep breath. “So, can I get anyone a drink? Bar's open. I'm going to have a Shiner.”
A shrill pierced the air. “Oh, that's Brandon's favorite. What have I done, Marisa?”
God love Ireland I stood at our makeshift bar adjacent to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, popped the lid off my Shiner Bock, and took a swig. After a tiring trip to Baton Rouge and learning that the emails and double homicide had a more likely connection, we'd received that odd diatribe from Yours Truly, possibly rationalizing his involvement in the murders. God love Ireland He never outright admitted it or even named the victims. Was this Fox fellow involved,
if indeed that was his name? And I wasn't sure what to make of the emails being sent to the other newspapers, including Rolando's in Baton Rouge.
That was over twenty-four hours ago. Nothing new today—Friday—from Yours Truly or the law enforcement side of the free world. So, I'd decided to leave an hour early and set up a romantic scene for Marisa before we headed out for date night. Turns out, she beat me to the punch with her water ballet. With no guidance, I created my own concoctions for the ladies, and then I played bar waiter.
“Here you go, Carrie. This should help calm your nerves.” I'd just given her a whiskey sour, heavy on the whiskey.
“For you, Marisa, I've created a new masterpiece.”
“A Bloody Mary? That's a first.” She took a sip and grinned. “Thank you, baby. You're so sweet.”
Carrie grabbed a tissue and sobbed, rocking back and forth like she'd just lost a limb.
Standing behind Carrie, I held out my hands asking Marisa nonverbally what the hell had happened. She shrugged her shoulders, then reached over and rubbed Carrie's back.
Wanting—needing—to have a more peaceful Friday evening, I couldn't resist trying to find a resolution and move on.
“Carrie, what did Brandon do? If he hurt you, I'll fire his ass.” I didn't intend to say that, my abruptness perhaps influenced by recurring memories of holding Marisa's hips.
“Oh no, he would never do that.” She flipped her wrist, her tissue fluttering behind. “It's actually worse than that.”
Marisa and I glanced at each other, and I scooted closer to the edge of my leather chair.
“He called me fat.” Here come the sobs again.
I'm sure my forehead was as wrinkled as crumpled bacon. I was, once again, perplexed by the female species. Marisa just kept rubbing her back.
“I'm sure he didn't mean it, Carrie,” Marisa said.
“He never said those words, but he meant it.”
“What words did he say?”
“I asked how I looked in my new gray stretch pants from White House Black Market. He said I looked better in my new purple skirt.” She blew her red nose, then used the same tissue to dot her wet eyes.
Gross.
The doorbell rang. Maybe we could trade a vacuum for Carrie. I handed our guest a full box of tissues and escaped the emotional black hole.
“Hey, Michael.” Brandon stood on our tiny front porch, hands buried in his jean pockets, his eyes averting mine.
“Hi, Brandon. I suppose you'd like to speak to Carrie?” I reluctantly turned and extended an arm into our home, a.k.a., the counseling center.
“Sorry, I don't mean to bother you and Marisa with all this relationship stuff.”
God love Ireland, I thought but dared not say.
As Brandon walked timidly toward Carrie, Marisa took that as her cue to exit stage right. We both met in the kitchen.
“Any hope of resolution without having to call in UN peacekeepers?”
“Very funny, Michael.” Marisa playfully poked my chest. “Women think differently than men, if you haven't figured that out yet. Certain words and mannerisms are code for something else.”
I leaned against the counter and finished my beer, then opened the fridge to grab another.
“Do you hear that?” Marisa whispered.
“What?”
“Exactly. They've either made up or left.”
“Maybe Brandon put us all our out of our misery and suffocated Carrie under one of our throw pillows.”
“You're sick.”
“You're right, I don't want to ruin a fifty-dollar pillow.”
Marisa jabbed my ribs, and we exchanged a quick giggle as we peered around the corner into the living area.
“Good gosh, get a room, will you?” The pair had officially made up, and apparently, they thought they were alone—at their own place. Hands and tongues were moving everywhere, and they sounded like two wet seals.
The two of us continued gawking, and I whispered to my better half, “Can we stop this behavior, please? We live in Texas...there are laws against all that.”
Marisa snorted. “I'm not going to be the one who interrupts their moment.” She backed up a couple of steps.
“Seriously, this is like watching God love Ireland.”
“What's that?”
“A new program starring Carrie and Brandon—in heat.”
The doorbell rang...again. I put my hand to the side of my face as I walked through the living room, blocking the lovebirds from my vision. The lip smacking ceased.
With Marisa two steps behind me, I opened the door.
“Hi, Michael?” The man's voice sounded uncertain.
I didn't recognize him. “Yes, can I help you?”
“I'm your brother, Jeremiah. Nice to finally meet you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Thank you...Marisa, is it?”
“Yes, Marisa.” My wife stared at the person who claimed to be my brother.
“I'm not real good with names. Cool.” He took a quick drink from the beer bottle we'd just offered him then wiped his mouth clean with the sleeve of his brown and green flannel shirt. “I don't get to drink fancy beer very often. Tight budget and all.”
Ever the pragmatic mediator, Marisa had chosen to let this clown into our house and give him a chance to explain himself. There was power in numbers, she said, whispering that the presence of Carrie alone would frighten away even the seediest of criminals.
“Look, I'm sorry to show up, unannounced, and spout off that you have a brother you never knew existed,” he said, looking at four sets of eyes fixated on him. “I'm assuming you never knew?”
“No, I never knew.” My voice faded, as my mind swirled with endless theories, most of them irrational or impossible to believe. “If indeed it's true.”
Now four sets of eyes turned to me.
“Look, no offense, Jeremiah, but what do you expect me to say? I've been an only child for thirty-six years,” I said, my arms splayed wide. Marisa laid her hand on my knee, calming my nerves a tad.
I turned to Brandon, who up to a week or so ago, had been my wingman, a steady beacon of light any time the seas became turbulent at work. Apparently, he hadn't lost his quest for the truth.
“So, Jeremiah,” he said in a slightly accusatorial tone, “Why now? Why show up unannounced and surprise Michael like this?”
Glad I wasn't the only one who wanted to pin this guy to the wall and pepper him with questions.
“I've been an only child for all thirty-one years of my life. I just found out a couple of weeks back. I mulled it over and figured I'd head this way,” he said.
“Where did you head from?” Brandon asked.
“I live on the East Coast, in God's country near the Appalachians, Greensboro, North Carolina.”
“Did you say you're thirty-one?” Carrie asked, a gleam in her eye.
“Yep.” He took another swig of beer.
“My, you are young looking,” Carrie said.
Brandon turned his head and opened his lips but didn't say word.
“Just like Michael,” Marisa said instinctively then quickly realized I didn't need to hear that.
Jeremiah and I exchanged an awkward look.
“Who told you?” Brandon wasn't thrown off by the girls' comments.
“My parents told me I was adopted back when I turned twenty-one.”
Brandon nodded, pondering the location of his next fast ball.
“It took you ten years to cross the Mississippi River?”
“It took me ten years to have the guts to find out who my real parents were.”
I thought that the girls, Carrie in particular, might go over and hug the guy.
Brandon and I traded an unspoken head nod.
“Look, I can give you all the details. I just didn't think you'd want me to come in here and rattle off a bunch of names and addresses,” he said. “I only wanted to meet a brother I've never seen, and any family. Like I said, I'm an only child—a
t least to my adopted parents. I don't have other family. When you turn thirty, you start asking yourself questions. Where did I come from? Is my brother in the US senate or in prison?”
We all laughed at that notion, including me, which lightened the mood.
“I could imagine the Senate before prison. Your pretty-boy face wouldn't last a minute,” Brandon said with an extra chuckle.
“Hey now.”
“If Arthur had his wish, you'd at least be in the Texas Senate.” Marisa held my arm.
“Who's Arthur?”
“A special friend,” Marisa said.
“And my boss.”
“Maybe you'll meet him someday,” Marisa offered.
Marisa took round two of the drink orders, and I went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and looked in the mirror, studying my features. I took that mental picture back to the living room.
I stopped before entering the room and looked Jeremiah over. I couldn't see the resemblance. Eyes, mouth, nose, cheeks—all looked foreign to me. His hair was a little lighter and a little longer than mine, but he had a similar wave. His beard was closely shaven, but thick.
“Before we put Jeremiah through another grueling line of questioning, why don't Carrie and I run into the kitchen and try to pull some dinner together?” Marisa said. “Michael and I were going out on a date tonight, so I don't have much to offer. Maybe we can make some homemade chicken soup.”
“I don't mean to interrupt your plans. I just wanted to drop by and say hello.” Jeremiah stood in front of his chair.
“I wouldn't think of you leaving now. We have a lot to catch up on,” Marisa said.
“Well, thank you Marisa. And it's not good to waste a cold brewsky.”
I hadn't heard that term since college. Geez. I shook my head, but Marisa went about her business, leaving Brandon and me alone with my new, uh...Jeremiah.
“What kind of work do you do back in Greensboro?” Brandon sounded like my paid spokesman.
“Oh, a little this, a little that. Most recently, I was a carpenter at a millwork company,” he said. “But I'm comfortable in just about any setting, as long as I don't have to sit in an office.” He laughed. This guy seemed less like my relative the more I got to know him. Then again, how much of who we are as adults is defined by our DNA? Or are we more influenced by our environment—in this case, adopted parents?
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