Made To Be Broken Part 16

"Like any sixteen-year-old."

"Exactly. When she became pregnant, I strongly suggested adoption. Maybe too strongly. I might have made her feel like I didn't think she could care for a baby and she wanted to prove me wrong."

In the silence, I could hear Noyes's self-recriminations and hurried to change the subject. "I saw Deanna's picture. She's a beautiful girl."

"Isn't she? And Connor? He was gorgeous. People used to stop Deanna in malls and tell her Connor belonged on TV."

"Did anyone ever take his picture? Offer to make him a model?"

Noyes paused. "No. Why?"

"A few weeks before my niece disappeared, a man took photos of her baby. He claimed to be from a modeling agency, but I was suspicious. You hear so much about perverts "

"Yes!" Noyes fairly shouted the word. "Oh, G.o.d, yes! I knew it. I knew it. I told the police, but they brushed me off " She inhaled, controlling her excitement. "A few weeks before Deanna and Connor vanished, she took him to a Christmas parade. This man said he was from the Free Press Free Press and wanted to take Connor's picture. Deanna was thrilled. She thought her baby was going to make the front page." and wanted to take Connor's picture. Deanna was thrilled. She thought her baby was going to make the front page."

"But he didn't."

"Not the front page, not the back page. I know photographers don't use every shot they take, but when Deanna told me the story, I didn't like it. She said he took a whole roll of pictures, mostly of Connor, but some of the two of them together. That's too many takes for a simple human-interest shot."

"Did Deanna get his name?"

"She didn't ask. Too excited, I'm sure."

"Did she tell you anything about him?"

"She said he looked like a photographer. Clean-cut. Nicely dressed. Homely." A laugh. "That's not the word she used, but you know what I mean."

"Unattractive."

"Yes. She said he was around my husband's age. Thirty-five or so. Oh, and he had very nice teeth. Very straight, very white. She made a point of saying that. As if no one could be a pervert and practice good oral hygiene. Does this sound like the man your niece met?"

"She didn't say anything about his appearance." I hated to lie, but I couldn't have Noyes phoning the police with added information. "I don't know if there's a connection, but I'm going to keep after our local police. Would you like me to keep you updated?"

"Even if there's no connection to Deanna, let me know if your niece turns up. And hang in there. I know it's hard, but there's always hope, right?"

G.o.d, how I wished that were true. But there was no hope for Sammi, and I was pretty sure there wasn't for Deanna, either. I could only hope there was still some for their babies.

Chapter Twenty-one.

When I got off the phone, I drove in silence and stopped at the first coffee shop we spotted. We went inside, found a quiet table, and I told Jack my theory.

There's a black market for every valuable commodity, including infants. Years back there'd been a scandal over one set of twins being sold multiple times. I recalled none of the specifics, but what did stick in my mind were the photos of the deceived adoptive parents. In their faces, I'd seen all the raw pain and grief of any victim touched by violence.

Though I had no experience with the adoption system, I knew it wasn't like driving over to the Humane Society and saying you'd like a kitten. There were too many parents and too few babies. What if you had a blemish on your personal history? I could be married to a minister and they'd turn down my application.

I'd heard of international adoption, but if you were h.e.l.l-bent on having a healthy Caucasian baby, how far would you be willing to go? How much would you be willing to pay?

Sammi and Deanna were both marginalized teenage mothers, girls that everyone would a.s.sume had just run off. Sammi had an alcoholic, abusive mother. Deanna's grandmother had disowned her. To anyone who did a routine background check, it would seem there was no one to miss either of them.

Both were beautiful young women with beautiful babies. Healthy girls, healthy babies. Both had their pictures taken within weeks of their deaths. Sales photos.

See how beautiful and healthy this baby is? See the mother? See how she's smiling? She's so happy her baby will go to a good family.

I could not would not believe that the people who'd adopted Destiny and Connor knew what had happened to their babies' mothers. I hold out too much faith in the human race for that. The smiling photos of mother and child would go a long way toward persuading buyers of the teen's sincerity. The parents would pay the money, sign phony doc.u.ments, take the child, and be rea.s.sured that they'd never have to worry about the mother contesting the adoption.

Why not just pay the mothers off? From what Noyes said, it wouldn't have taken much to buy Connor from Deanna. The girls had been killed because it was the easiest thing to do. It avoided haggling over price, let the seller keep all the money, and eliminated any chance of interference. They'd been killed because they were disposable.

"What I need to do now is research black-market adoptions. Not that I know where to start looking."

I scrubbed at an ancient coffee ring, my napkin shredding as the stain clung to the melamine.

"Wanna move?" Jack said. "Table over there's clear." "For a coffee stain? I'll live. It's just... it's like seeing a crooked picture. It gnaws at me, especially if I'm already edgy." I rolled my shoulders, then laid a clean napkin over the mark. "There. Now, I need to figure out "

"Stick with what we know. Black-market babies? No. Hitmen? Yes."

I reached for my coffee, then decided I really didn't need more caffeine. Just thinking about guys out there, killing kids for their babies, was enough to have me perched on the edge of my seat, toes beating the floor, gaze sliding to the door.

"Hit was good." Jack grimaced. "Don't mean that way. Good as in "

" professional, I know. It was a clean hit and a decent b " I couldn't bring myself to say body dump. " burial. We aren't talking about some thug who'll graduate to contract killer if someone offers him five grand. This guy's a serious pro, meaning we're dealing with a restricted pool of suspects. Not small enough to just go knocking on doors, though..."

"Leave it with me. You look after your business."

We made it back to the lodge by midafternoon. I'd told Emma I was dropping Jack off in Peterborough on my way to Toronto, giving him a break from being cooped up at the lodge. As for why I'd gone to Toronto, Emma knew it was related to Sammi, presuming I was still trying to find her.

I found Emma in the laundry room, folding linens.

"Did you see anyone as you were coming in?" she asked.

"Are we expecting early guests?"

She shook out a pillowcase. "We had one, but only for about an hour before he took off."

"Decided this wasn't quite what he had in mind?"

"No, that wasn't it. At least, I don't think it was." She folded the case, ironing out the creases with her rough hands. "Does anyone know you're looking for Sammi, Nadia?"

I nearly dropped the sheet I was lifting. "What?"

She waved for me to calm down. "It's probably nothing. At worst, the Draytons have hired a PI to look for their grandbaby, and I wouldn't say that's a bad thing. They have the money; they should be looking, not you."

"Someone was asking questions about Sammi?"

"No, nothing like that. If you weren't checking into Sammi, I'd have figured him for someone Mitch brought up, took a s.h.i.+ne to you, came back on his own..." Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective who came up a few times a year. "Though, G.o.d knows, if that's the case, I could have just told him not to waste his time. You cloister yourself like a nun, blind to perfectly fine men like Mitch, who'd be up every weekend if you gave him one iota of encouragement "

"This guy..."

"Nice fellow. Big strapping sort, short hair, cleanshaven, polite. Could have been one of our regulars cop or firefighter but I didn't recognize him. He checked in, took his bag up, then came down and started poking around."

"Poking around?"

"Checking things out. He saw some of the photos, and he pointed you out, wanted to know whether that was the Nadia Stafford who owned the place. Seemed like he already knew the answer. He asked whether you were around, and when I said you weren't, he wanted to know when you'd be back. I offered him a coffee or a beer, said I could get Owen to take him on a tour of the property, but he wasn't interested. Wandered around for about an hour. Next thing I know, he's at the desk, ringing the bell, bag in hand, telling me he got a call and has to leave. He needed directions to the nearest gas station. I tried giving him his money back for the booking, but he wouldn't take it."

"He paid cash?"

She nodded. My heart felt like it was pounding against my windpipe, cutting every breath in half. I shook out the sheet, letting it snap like a sail as I hid my reaction behind it.

"Did he give a name?"

"Ryan Brown."

"Doesn't ring a bell." Two common names a good sign it was fake. "Did you happen to see what he was driving?"

"Little silver box. Looked like a rental."

"Huh."

I folded my sheet in half, and was scrambling for an excuse to take off again, when hands grabbed the bottom corners and brought them up for me. I glanced over the quartered sheet at Jack.

"Thanks," I said.

"I forgot your stuff."

"St ?"

"The supplies for the range you asked me to buy. I completely forgot. I'm sorry. If you don't mind me borrowing the truck, I can run into town and see if the hardware store carries them."

I checked my watch. "I'd better go. I know where it's stocked."

I finished folding the sheet, stacked it with the others, and met up with him in the front room.

"You heard?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I'll pick you up at the door."

Chapter Twenty-two.

For a professional killer, the line between caution and paranoia can be hard to find. One could argue that it doesn't exist at all. Every hint of threat is worthy of investigation.

It's not like robbing the corner store or dealing drugs behind the lodge. If I'm caught, I'll never see the outside of a prison. That's the cost of a job that pays the equivalent of a constable's annual salary for a couple of four-day stints in New York every year.

Jack thought Emma's initial reaction that it was some guy who'd visited with his buddies and now was coming back to see me was a possibility. I didn't. You don't express interest in a woman by driving from G.o.d-knows-where and checking into her hotel for the night. That kind of thing only happens in movies... and to other women.

It could be the first scenario Emma had raised a private investigator looking into Sammi's disappearance, hired by the Draytons. He'd want to question me, as Sammi's employer, but I'd publicly expressed concern, so I'd be a willing source, meaning there was no need to check into the lodge. Maybe he didn't know that. Or maybe he thought my concern was actually a.s.s-covering.

If he knew about my background, that could make me a suspect. Yes, there's a huge difference between killing a lowlife who raped and tortured a teen, and killing a teen employee with a bad att.i.tude, but to some people murder is murder.

Jack insisted on driving. On my own roads, I instinctively regulate my speed. As Jack had proven the night I found Sammi, if he wasn't on a job, he had no such compunctions.

He pushed the truck up over 130, which wouldn't be so bad on a four-lane highway. On a winding dirt road barely wide enough for two cars? It was a struggle to keep my eyes open.

I knew the service station Emma would have sent him to, and their "full service" was far from "fast service." Sure enough, about two kilometers past it, as we neared the highway turnoff, I spotted a silver compact.

I didn't get a chance to open my mouth before Jack stomped on the accelerator, slamming the words back down my throat. The truck roared forward, engine shrieking, tires hydroplaning over the dirt, and I decided that, target in view, I could safely close my eyes.

When the truck went into a skid, my eyes flew open, certain we were heading for a tree. Instead I saw the silver car. Jack swerved into the car's path and slammed on the brakes, forcing it to stop. He wrestled out of his seat belt, cursing under his breath. When he got it free, he ducked for a look at the other car and went completely still, one hand still holding the seat belt. Then he spat a string of oaths with a venom that made the others sounds like endearments.

"Gonna kill him. Swear I'm gonna f.u.c.king kill him." He swung toward me. "Stay here."

"What's ?"

He was already out the door, slamming it so hard the truck rattled. I wasn't letting him confront anyone without backup. I waited until he'd stumped off without his crutch. Then I got out.

The other man was getting out of his car. His head was down as he unfolded himself from the too-small vehicle, and I saw only the top of his head, dark blond hair cut military-short. He wore slacks and a sports coat, nothing fancy, but a cut above the department store wear my dad and his colleagues bought. His white dress s.h.i.+rt was open at the collar, tie probably stuffed in a pocket.

Leaves dancing in the wind overhead cast moving shadows over the man's face, leaving me with only fleeting glimpses. But it was enough to recognize him.

"Quinn," I whispered.

I broke into a grin and started forward. Then I stopped, hand going to the truck bed, gripping it, the chill of the metal creeping up my arm.

Quinn. At my lodge. Looking at my picture.

Is this Nadia Stafford? The owner?

Seemed like he already knew the answer, Emma had said. Emma had said.

Quinn. Who'd seen my police college nights.h.i.+rt. Who'd caught a glimpse of me out of disguise. Who'd sworn he'd never use that information, never try to find out anything about me.

My heart thudded so loud I could barely hear Jack, his voice so harsh he sounded like a stranger, words coming as fast and hard as blows. He stood a few inches from Quinn, who'd backed up against the car. Quinn, who never backed down from Jack, who always pulled himself up to his full height, making use of those extra inches in every confrontation.

I took another step.