Pied Piper

CHAPTER 61

Boldt picked up Daphne at the door to baggage claim at 11:15 P.M., Central Time. She carried a hanging bag, a purse and a leather briefcase.

Boldt drove.

“I never want to go through that again,” she said. “I’m not a very good liar.”

“It worked?” he asked.

“They believed me. They bought into it. They trusted me.” She glanced over at him, the oncoming headlights pulsing across her face. “Has it occurred to you that we’ve stooped to being exactly like them, like the Crowleys? You and me. We’re con artists. We lie to people. We cheat them. I threw up during the flight. It wasn’t air sickness.”

Cars cried past in a whine of rubber and engine.

“But they bought it?” he asked, repeating himself. He wanted every detail.

“I walked into their home, flashed my badge too quickly for them to get a look and reintroduced myself as being with Health and Welfare. I visited their child asleep in the nursery. It was Rhonda Shotz.”

Boldt glanced over at her, and back to the highway.

“I inspected the house, including their bedroom, the kitchen, the garage-even the child seat. I played my role.”

“Paperwork?” he asked.

“Chevalier brokers the adoptions. My guess is that the Hudsons have no idea what they’re into. They think they bought off an attorney to move them up a list. I worked the money issue. They were well rehearsed. I was shown a single check made out to one Gloria Afferton in the amount of her medical expenses: nine thousand and change. A second to Chevalier for services rendered: five thousand, the maximum allowed for a private adoption in Kentucky. I suppose the rest was cash or stocks or bonds. Who knows?”

“Their impression of Chevalier?”

“He’s a little slick for their tastes. The wife believes their child is an unwanted baby from a prominent family, just as Chevalier represented it. They don’t care. They would have bought any explanation. The rest of the process fit with Kentucky law for interstate adoptions: a Louisiana social worker, a woman, phoned several times with questions for them.”

“Lisa Crowley,” Boldt supplied.

“Probably.” She spoke quietly, clearly rattled from the interview. “They sent the social worker videos of their home and their neighborhood; they notarized documents; they mailed their checks; they waited.”

“Were they asked for photos of themselves? Videos?” Boldt asked. The issue was crucial to Daphne’s plan.

“They claimed not. It makes sense. An adoption can’t be refused based on how an adoptive parent looks. If anything, such a request could appear discriminatory.”

Since it was critical to their success, Boldt hoped no photos had been sent. “Delivery?”

“The baby was brought to Chevalier’s office by the social worker. They were in and out in less than an hour.”

“Judge Adams?”

“They never met him, no. But his name is on the documents.” She hesitated. “I saw the documents. As far as I could tell, they’re in order, Lou. I think the Hudsons have what would pass as a legitimate adoption.”

“Chevalier kept it all in order,” he said. “He let them be the ones to transfer the child across interstate borders. Someone delivers the child to the city, the adoptive parents take the child away. He’s careful.”

“And Rhonda Shotz?” he asked.

“Peaceful. Asleep in her nursery. I gave them a clean bill of health and went my way. And you’ll love this: They asked me to pass along their best wishes to Miss Chambers, the social worker. Lisa Crowley evidently makes a good impression.”

“It’s a living,” Boldt said sarcastically.

“And the Brehmers?” she asked.

“They have a nursery all set up. Nothing’s been used. Diaper Genie is empty. Most of the outfits still have their tags on them-haven’t been washed yet. It’s a nursery in waiting.”

“That’s it? That’s all we have?”

“Calendar by the phone in the kitchen has a line through the weekend, the word NO underneath. Caps. New Orleans. It’s them. Couldn’t find the March phone bill, might not be there yet, but February they were calling Chevalier’s office about once a week. It’s them,” he repeated. “Trudy Kittridge,” he muttered.

“Damn,” she said, turning away and rolling down the window to allow the air inside. “Awful business.” Her shoulders tightened and he thought she was crying.

His cell phone vibrated and he answered it, met by a woman’s distinctive voice that spoke the words, “Skagit County.” Theresa Russo, the computer expert he had consulted on Sarah’s ransom video.

“Come again?”

“The cable company that boxed in the severe weather notice around CNN. It provides service to Skagit. The notice concerned a flood warning.”

“You’re working late.”

“Message was buried on my E-mail. Thirty-five new messages. It’s been there two days, I’m afraid. Sorry about that. Thought you’d like to know.”

“Skagit?” he asked. “We’re certain about that?”

“Positive,” she said. “It’s good for your investigation, isn’t it? I mean, how many FedEx trucks can be assigned to Skagit? A hell of a lot fewer than in downtown Seattle, I’ll tell you that.”

“Any contacts at FedEx?”

“I may know someone who knows someone in data processing,” she said. “It’s a pretty small community. We may even supply them-I’d have to check.”

“Check,” he said. “Data processing should have all the logs and manifests. That’s what we’re after.”

“You want me to try, or do you want to do it?” she asked.

“You mind?”

“No problem. Routes and times for all Skagit deliveries?”

“March twenty-fifth.”

“I’ve got that already.” He could feel her hesitation before she asked, “How is Liz? I heard she’s out, isn’t she?”

The way she said it, it sounded to him more like a jail sentence. Maybe that was right. “She’s home,” he confirmed. “Doing fine.” He glanced at the car’s clock. He had promised to call but couldn’t remember when they had arranged. He had no idea if she was doing fine or not. He said, “At the risk of sounding like a jerk, the sooner-”

“Understood. What do I do if I get something? E-mail it to you?”

“How about dropping it off with Liz?”

“Done. I’d love to see her anyway.”

He thanked her and disconnected.

“Anything important?” Daphne asked, working a tissue at her nose.

She knew his voice too well, knew him too well. She had discerned his excitement, his anticipation. He had not told his team about the FedEx truck; he had kept that one to himself, though he wasn’t certain why. More lies. They didn’t bother him anymore. He knew he was in trouble.

He was saved from any discussion. The Brehmers’ house appeared on their left.