Made to Be Broken

Chapter Forty

Jack had decided he'd stand guard, since Quinn and I had more experience conducting searches. He did, however, provide locksmith services, while Quinn and I stood at opposite ends of the block, whistling when the coast was clear, and ready to whistle again if a car approached. But the night was quiet, and the streets empty, and we stayed silent. By 12:25, we were in.

We started by downloading files. After Evelyn booted us out, I couldn't very well ask for tips on bypassing computer security, but Quinn knew how, and even gave a quick demonstration, promising more later.

Once the e-mail, accounting, and word processing files were on a flash drive, we moved on to the locked filing cabinet. A key in the receptionist's desk meant we didn't even need to pick the lock.

Quinn took the top drawer and I took the bottom, working together.

"Damn it, this isn't easy wearing latex," Quinn muttered. "The pages all stick together."

"You don't usually need to be discreet, do you?"

"Discreet… sometimes. But avoiding prints, no."

I thumbed through another folder. "I'm trying very hard not to put the pieces together, you know. Figuring out what federal agency you're with."

I tried to make my voice light, teasing, but in the moment of silence that followed, I cursed myself for mentioning it. When I glanced up, his expression was puzzled.

"You don't know? You said Jack told you my specialty was – No, I guess I misinterpreted that to mean Jack had told you who I work for. I thought he would – tit for tat. I'll keep you guessing…" His wide lips curved in a grin. "At least for another hour or two. After we're done here, we'll see how close you are."

I finished with my drawer – all very old records – then pulled out the next one and set it on the floor.

"Man, all these files," he said. "All these couples wanting kids. Hard to believe."

I laughed, keeping it quiet. "I take it you don't want any… or don't want more."

"More?" He paused. "Shit, I keep forgetting. We've been talking online for six months and we couldn't even do the 'first date basic info exchange.' No, I don't have any kids. As for wanting… I'm not saying no, just…"

"It's not in the forecast. Same here."

He exhaled, as if correctly answering a quiz question. "I've got a passel of nieces and nephews. I love being an uncle. Taking them to movies and minigolf and baseball games. Even coach their teams. But when it's all done, and I've tired them out and loaded them up with soda and ice cream, I get to drop them off at home."

"That's the way to do it."

"Everyone's always trying to set me up with nice divorcée moms. But just because I like kids doesn't mean I want my own, you know?"

I pulled out a thick folder. "I hear you."

"Have you got nieces and nephews?" he asked.

I shook my head as I returned the folder. "I've just got the one brother and he hasn't reproduced yet… at least not as far as I know. We aren't close."

"Really?"

I shrugged. "We never were and then… what happened with me, it was tough on him and my mom, so that pretty much nailed the coffin shut." When Quinn looked confused, I said, "The shooting. It got ugly afterward, with the media. Huge embarrassment for them."

"Embarrassment?" His voice took on an edge. "You made a mistake. Hell, I wouldn't even call it that, except the part about getting caught. But your family should have been the first ones to step up and – " He shook his head. "Sorry, I just mean…" He shrugged. "Their loss anyway."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"So – " Another head shake. "Sorry, I'll shut up and work. We'll have plenty of time to talk later. It's just…" He met my gaze. "There's a lot to say."

"I know."

He nodded and returned to the files.

We didn't find anything in the paper files, though we did copy the employee records. There would probably be more in the computer files.

By the time we got out, it was almost two, but no one was ready to call it a night. So when we passed a plaza advertising both an all-night liquor store and take-out pizza until three, we pulled in. Quinn went for the liquor store, Jack into the pizza parlor, and I kept the car warm. Quinn returned first, with a twelve-pack of beer.

"Even got Labatts," he said as he climbed in. "Just for you."

"Having tried American beer, you have no idea how grateful I am."

He grinned. "I'm tempted to ask 'how grateful,' but I did say I'd cool it, didn't I?"

"You did."

"Damn." A dramatic sigh. "So, changing the subject, have you picked an agency yet?"

"Ag -? Oh, your job. I know you've done fieldwork – searches, stakeouts, tailing suspects. Given how much help you were with the Wilkes case, keeping us abreast of the FBI investigation, the most obvious answer is FBI. But Jack said something last fall that made me think that wasn't it."

"It's not. I could help because I have a lot of contacts, in a lot of different branches – friends really – and no one thinks twice if I'm nosy or curious, because that's normal for me."

"Next, I considered DEA, which would fit, especially with the cross-border visits, but it doesn't feel right."

"It isn't."

"CIA, NSA… Maybe ATF."

"No on all three."

"Homeland Security?"

A bark of a laugh. "No, thank God."

"Postal Inspector? Fish and Wildlife?"

He gave me a look.

"Hey, I'm running out of options. I know there are a bunch of military law enforcement agencies, and those would be federal, but I'm going to guess no to all of them."

"You'd be guessing correctly."

I leaned back in the passenger seat, racking my brain. In Canada, we had a handful of federal law agencies. In the U.S., there were dozens.

"USMS," Quinn said.

"What?"

He sighed. "Even when I give the acronym, it doesn't help. What did Jack say my specialty was?"

I thought back. "Oh, right. Finding people." A pause. "Border patrol? Coast Guard?"

A deeper sigh. "No respect, I tell you. The oldest federal law agency in the country, and we always get forgotten. Or, worse, discounted as glorified bounty hunters."

"Marshals. USMS – United States Marshal Service."

"It was the 'glorified bounty hunters' that did it, wasn't it?"

"Sorry."

He fixed me with a mock glare. "I'll have you know the marshals do a lot more than apprehend fugitives. We're not only the oldest law agency, we're the most versatile. Just check our Web site. Says so right there."

I smiled. "I stand corrected. But fugitive apprehension is what you were doing in Canada, right?"

"Montreal, yes. I got a lead about someone your RCMP is also interested in. Toronto was a training seminar."

"What were they teaching?"

"I was teaching." He caught my look. "What, I don't strike you as instructor material?"

I glanced over at him and considered it. "Actually, yes. I can see it. But not full time."

"Agreed. They've been pushing me to do more, but I'm digging in my heels. I might have the personality for teaching – curious, outgoing, reasonably patient. But I love field – "

He stopped and lowered his head to peer out the windshield. Jack had paused, pizzas in hand, at the front of the car. I rolled down the window.

"We're decent," I said.

"Just checking," he said as he walked around. "Windows looked steamy."

"Just talking. We're good at that, in case you haven't noticed."

His grunt said he had. I got out, took the pizzas from him, and crawled into the back with them, letting him drive.

We returned to the hotel, where Quinn started checking the files on his laptop. We didn't sit around in anxious silence, though. Maybe it was the lingering buzz from the break-in, or maybe we were just giddy from the late hour. Whatever the reason, Quinn and I were both in talkative moods, tossing anecdotes back and forth, mostly related to break-ins – outrageous or incompetent thief stories we'd heard on the job.

There was a lot of one-upmanship and laughing as we downed the beer and pizza, and I wouldn't have blamed Jack if he walked out and found a quiet, sane place to wait, but while he didn't contribute to our stories, he seemed content to listen, eat, and drink.

Nowhere in those files did we find a receipt for the sale of one blue-eyed, blond-haired baby girl from Ontario. Nor was there a ledger file with fifty grand paid to Ronald Fenniger for "services rendered" and a hundred grand from the Keyeses for "goods received." A paper trail would have been nice, but unlikely.

We had the employee files, both on paper and on disk, and they'd open a new avenue of investigation. Was anyone in financial straits? Or enjoying a sudden surge in wealth? Did anyone have a criminal record? Or complaints lodged against them regarding adoption practices?

We had the client files, too. The Keyeses' one was interesting. They'd been on the waiting list for about six months, after a prolonged background study where a few red flags had arisen. She'd spent time in rehab for prescription drug addiction. He had two kids from a prior marriage, and a history of defaulting on child support payments.

The problems, though, seemed to have been worked out. Leslie had been clean for three years and the addiction had been to painkillers after a serious auto accident. Ken blamed his child support problems on a "miscom-munication" with his wife, who'd even written him a letter of recommendation, assuring the agency he'd repaid her. So they'd been placed on the waiting list, but from the notes, I suspected they'd have been waiting awhile. Then, two months ago, the Keyeses had withdrawn, their bills paid in full. A note on their file said they were pursuing other options.

If we could find more files with a similar pattern – problems with the intake process, proven financial means, and a recent departure from the agency's prospective parent list – we might find the other babies.