Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (24 page)

Thirty-nine

NOT TOO MANY miles
away, three people at the Tender Shepherd Home watched as Bijan Khatar fed his new daughter a bottle. The baby had just begun to suck down the chalky white liquid when, without warning, she spat the rubber nipple from her mouth and vomited all over Bijan's lap.

“What's the matter with her?” Bijan demanded, alarmed.

“Oh, she ate too fast.” Edwina threw a linen napkin over her shoulder and scooped up the baby. “She needs to burp.”

Laughing, she patted the baby on her back and turned to Kimberly. “Why don't I take care of her and you take care of your husband? There's a powder room tucked in beneath the staircase. Maybe you can help him clean up in there.”

“Come on, Bijan.” Kimberly took him by the hand and led him, his dark trousers dotted with curds of milk, to where Mrs. Templeton had di­rected. As she opened the bathroom door, she noticed Mrs. Templeton's two servants huddling together in the shadowy hall, frowns on both their faces.

“No se preocupe,”
Kimberly hastened to reassure them.
“Solo un accidente peque
ñ
o.”

The young woman started to reply, but the man grabbed her arm. Nodding obsequiously, he smiled, saying,
“Sí, sí.”

“What's with those two?” asked Bijan as he dampened a small hand towel.

Kimberly said, “What do you mean?''

“They've been lurking in the foyer the whole time we've been here.”

“Lurking?”

“Yeah. Hiding in the shadows, watching. The girl keeps wiping her eyes, like she's crying. The man looks kind of, I don't know, ashamed.”

“They must not want Jennifer to leave. They've probably gotten attached to her.”

“Attached? In three days?”

Kimberly grinned. “You got attached in about thirty seconds, Mr. Let's-not-get-too-excited-about-this-baby.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” Bijan admitted as he hung up the towel and took his wife in his arms. “I am permanently attached to that little beauty. Just like I'm permanently attached to her mother.”

“Oh, Bijan.” Laughing, she kissed him, then wiped a rosy vestige of her lipstick from his mouth. “Come on. Let's go hold our daughter again.”

Giggling like teenagers, they opened the door to find Mrs. Templeton standing by the front door, holding Jennifer in her arms.

“I might not have mentioned this,” she called as the pair emerged from the powder room. “But the State of Tennessee requires that all infants be transported in a car seat. I know you didn't bring one with you, so I'll be happy to loan you one for your trip to the airport. What airline did you say you're on?”

“Delta,” replied Kimberly.

“Then just leave it at their counter. I'll have Paz pick it up tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Kimberly smiled. “That's very kind.”

Mrs. Templeton handed the baby back to Bijan. “I know it seems early, but you three should probably leave now. Airports are crazy these days, and they're always doing construction on the Nashville interstates. I had Ruperta pack this bag for you. All your papers, plus the baby's records, are in here.” She held up a white diaper bag embroidered with pink elephants. “You'll get an amended birth certificate from the state of Tennessee in a few weeks. You've also got formula, diapers, baby wipes, a binky, and an extra jumpsuit in case she soils the one she has on.”

Mrs. Hatcher chuckled. “That should certainly get us to Fort Lauderdale.”

Though Kimberly felt like they were being hustled out the door, she didn't mind. Mrs. Templeton could hustle them to China, for all she cared. They had their amazing, wonderful little daughter. Their family was now complete. That was all that mattered. “I can't tell you how grateful we are,” Kimberly said. “You and Mrs. Hatcher have made our dream come true.”

Mrs. Templeton smiled. “I'm just glad I was able to help out, dear.” She hugged Kimberly, engulfing her in a wave of flowery perfume. “God blessed us with this one. It doesn't often happen this easily.” She released Kimberly and nodded at Bijan. “Mr. Khatar, take the new Miss Khatar home to meet your family and friends. I know they'll find her just as enchanting as you.”

“Thank you.” Bijan knelt down and buckled the baby into the car seat. She seemed recovered from her bout of nausea, and gurgled up at him, her dark eyes once again bright.

“Come on, Jennifer Aziz,” he whispered, grinning down at her. “It's time to go home.”

Bijan lifted the car seat by its handle, then he gave Kimberly a quick kiss. With a final wave at Edwina Templeton, they buckled their new baby in the back of their rental car and with Mrs. Hatcher in tow, drove away from Tender Shepherd Home, eager to begin their life as a family of three.

“Holy Jesus!” hissed Edwina, watching as the white car disappeared down her driveway. “I thought they'd never leave!” She knew, from the sticky feel of her camisole, that she'd sweated through most of her underwear, and that if she lifted her arms she would find fragrant damp circles darkening the pale beige silk of her suit. Illegal adoptions always made her nervous, and with those Arabs and that babbling idiot Hatcher added to the mix, it was a miracle she hadn't jumped right out of her skin. And to top it all off, Ruperta had answered her telephone! She'd heard her wailing in Spanish just as the Khatars were had that moron chosen today, of all days, to break the first rule of her employment?

“Ruperta!” Edwina locked the door and turned around. “Come here!”

She heard a soft scurrying in the hall, as if mice had been listening and were now fleeing her wrath. “Ruperta!” she bellowed. “Right now!”

“
Sí,
Señora?”
Soundlessly the young woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes looked as if she'd been weeping, and she dabbed a wadded up tissue at her nose.

“Did the phone ring while my guests were here?”

“
Sí
, Señora.”

“Did the answering machine take the call?”

Visibly trembling, Ruperta backed up a step. “No, Señora.”

“Then who did?”

Ruperta's chin quivered. “I'm sorry, Señora, but I did.”

Edwina peered at her with narrowed eyes. “Don't you remember my first rule?”

“Sí,
Señora
.
We are never to answer the tele­phone. But I was so upset about the baby, I just grabbed it without thinking!” Tears seeped from Ruperta's eyes. “She was just so little. And so sweet. And it just isn't fair to take her away—”

“From someone who doesn't want her? I think that's fair, Ruperta. I think that's more than fair.” Edwina clenched her jaws together, furi­ous. She expected this sentimental drivel from her teenage clients. She had no use for it in an employee. “Who was on the phone?”

“A woman. She did not say who she was. I told her no one could talk to her now and to please call back later.”

“You told her no one could talk to her?” Edwina's outrage grew. What if it was one of the Christmas Tour ladies? What if one of them had called with an invitation to some nice tea or luncheon and Ruperta had rebuffed them with her babbling Spanish and sniveling tears? A fresh wave of anger engulfed Edwina. How dare these Mexicans show up at her house begging for work and then flagrantly disobey a simple rule that had been clearly stated, several different times? She had half a mind to fire both of them, right this very minute.

Edwina waggled her finger at Ruperta. “If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, let the answering machine pick up the phone,” she said loud enough so Paz could hear. “Now go to your quarters! I don't want to see you until you bring my breakfast tomorrow morning!”

“
Sí,
Señora.”
Turning, Ruperta fled down the hall, her sobs echoing through the otherwise silent house.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Edwina muttered, stomping down the hall to her office. “What a fat lot of trouble for one little bastard child.” She should have known that anything connected with Dun­can would mean trouble.

She stormed into her office and locked the door behind her. Sitting down at her desk, she began to twist the tumblers of the safe located in the wall behind her desk. As she ran through the familiar combination, her anger began to abate. She'd just made a nice amount of money for not a whole lot of work, and that bed would look amazing once she got it up here from New Orleans. If the lost caller had indeed been one of the Christmas Tour ladies, maybe she would forget about Ruperta's rudeness when she saw what a magnificent home this was. Maybe she would call back often, after that. Maybe they would become friends and have lunch together and one day laugh over the first day she called and a weeping Mexican house girl answered the phone, telling her no one was available to talk to her.

Forty

MARY AND RUTH pulled
into a brightly lit gas station across from the mall, where Mary bought a map of Franklin and left a message on Jane Frey's answering machine, telling her where they were going. Moments later they headed for Tender Shepherd Home for Girls, Mary driving as Ruth sat amazingly calm beside her. Thank God, thought Mary, her heart once again going out to the woman who'd endured so much.

“You don't think Lily might have already been adopted, do you?” Only the slightest tremor in Ruth's voice betrayed her fear.

“I don't know,” Mary replied honestly. She didn't want to frighten Ruth, but neither did she want to give her any false hope. “I'm just guess­ing here, Ruth. Like most leads, it'll probably turn out to be a wild-goose chase.”

“That's okay.” Ruth spoke with a quiet resi­gnation. “Until I find Lily, I'll be going on a lot of wild-goose chases.”

Aware that no less a fate awaited her, Mary sped down the highway. They drove with the map spread between them, Ruth reading the small print with a tiny flashlight as dusk deep­ened to darkness. She directed Mary first along a four-lane highway, then down a secondary road thick with commuter traffic. Finally they made a hard right turn at a green street sign that read “Hemlock Lane.”

“Okay,” Ruth said, peering at the mailboxes as they raced by. “We want three-forty.” With every passing mile the landscape grew more rural, and houses became just small dots of light, set far back from the road. Suddenly a large black mail­ box appeared around a curve.

“That's it!” Ruth cried. “Three-forty Hemlock Lane!”

Mary skidded into the driveway. They wound through several acres of rolling pastureland, crossed a narrow bridge, then a large white house loomed ahead of them. Columned and two-storied, it looked like it could have once had slaves picking cotton in the back fields.

“This is an adoption home?” Ruth eyed the structure, amazed.

“According to the telephone directory.” Mary pulled up at an old hitching post, wondering if they'd truly stumbled onto something. All the adoption homes she'd ever seen were modest, unassuming places. This spread looked as if it could have a sign that read “Alternative Birth Options for the Rich and Famous.”

Ruth drained her cup of tea. “So what's our plan?”

Mary gazed up at the house. No lights shone from any of the windows, and though it was just past six p.m., the whole place had a two-in-the­ morning look about it—dark and silent and still. Wishing again that she'd been able to talk to Jane Frey in person, she turned to Ruth. “I'm going up there and find out as much as I can about what goes on here. I want you to stay in the truck.”

“Stay in the truck?” The calmness left Ruth's voice. “Do you actually think I'm going to sit out here in this truck while you go search for my child?”

Again Mary's heart ached for the woman who had, for the last four days, been riding the lead car on the emotional roller coaster from hell. “I'm not sure what we might be walking into here, Ruth. And you haven't been totally yourself lately.”

“You wouldn't be totally yourself either, if you'd lost your baby.” Ruth's anger flared like a match. She unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed her purse. “I'm not staying out here. Not if there's the slightest chance anybody in that house could have seen Lily.”

Mary didn't know how to respond. If Rational Ruth remained, they would have no problems. But if the Ruth who'd dumped her cousin on the interstate came back, she could easily blow whatever chance they might have of finding anything out. Nonetheless, she couldn't think of any way she could forbid the woman to leave her own truck.

“Okay.” Reluctantly, Mary agreed. “But you've got to keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talking. You just look and listen.”

“To what?”

“To everything. Try to remember every detail about whoever answers the door. Every detail about what they say. If we get inside, look around the house and see if everything squares with what they're saying.”

Ruth gave a sardonic laugh. “So I'm to play Watson to your Holmes?”

“You got it,” Mary said firmly.

“Terrific,” muttered Ruth.

They got out of the truck, Mary again taking comfort in the fact that she still carried Gabe's gun. If they were indeed walking into a black market baby operation, things could get dicey, fast. A 9mm Glock had a nice way of calming the waters. She crossed in front of the truck and walked up the steps to the house, Ruth firmly in step beside her.

At the front door, Mary twisted an old fashioned bell. The raspy sound reverberated through the house, but elicited no response. Ruth twisted it again, making it clear that they would not be ignored.

Once more, they waited. Mary started to turn the bell a third time when suddenly the whole house erupted in light. Porch lights, driveway lights, even a dazzling chandelier inside, all glit­tered to life. Blinking, Mary held her breath as locks turned and the door swung open.

A woman stood there. She had impossible auburn hair for someone her age, and wore it pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her lips looked as if smiling might entail some heavy lifting, and she was clad in a too-small beige suit accessorized with diamonds—two at her ears, a flashy solitaire on her right hand.

“May I help you?” The woman spoke as if she'd just bitten a lemon.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Mary began, reaching in her purse for her IDs. “But we're with Deckard County Justice. We have information that a woman of Hispanic descent is working here.” She flashed her IDs quickly in front of the woman's eyes, hoping she wouldn't notice that Deckard County was in Georgia and that her function in the Justice Department was assistant district attorney rather than cop. “May we come in?”

Without waiting for the woman to answer, she stepped into the dazzlingly bright foyer, Ruth at her heels. Inside, the house looked more than a refuge for pregnant girls. A red oriental runner carpeted the wide staircase and an elegant Chippendale lowboy stood by the door. To the right, Mary stared into a living room that could have served as the cover of
Architectural Digest
.

The woman's expression soured further as she was forced to close the door behind them. “I'm sorry, what county did you say you were from?”

“Deckard,” Mary said briskly, trying to imitate the fast, aggressive questioning style of the Deckard County detectives. “We're looking for a girl who may have some immigration problems. Have you got any Latinos working here?”

The woman looked at both of them so long, Mary wondered if she wasn't going to ask to see her IDs again. Finally she answered the question, spitting out her words as if they were carpet tacks. “Two Mexicans.”

“What are their names?”

“Paz and Ruperta Gonzalez.” The woman gave up her employees without as much as an eye blink. “Paz takes care of the farm, Ruperta does housework and helps me with my girls.”

“Your girls?”

“This is an adoption home, Detective—”

“Crow,” Mary said, aware that she was breaking every code of ethics applicable to officers of the court. If this woman grew at all suspicious and pressed the case, it could easily result in her being disbarred. “Mary Crow. And you are?”

“Edwina Templeton. May I ask what kind of immigration trouble Ruperta's in?”

“A possible green card violation,” Mary answered vaguely, aware of Ruth standing with increasing impatience beside her. “Is there any chance we might speak with her?”

“I'm afraid I gave them the night off just moments before you arrived.” The woman gave a polite laugh. “I'm not sure if they're here or not.”

“Oh, come on,” said Ruth.

“Would you mind calling this Ruperta?” Mary overrode Ruth firmly. “If we don't get this straightened out, INS will.”

The woman pursed her lips tighter, but nodded for them to follow her into the splendid parlor, where she picked up and tinkled a small silver bell. “If she's here, that will bring her.”

“Got her well trained, huh?” said Ruth, the manic gleam returning to her eyes.

Mary shot Ruth a warning look, then glanced around the ornate room. “You have anybody else working here, Mrs. Templeton?”

“A security man, but he's American. He's away, too, on personal leave.”

“Any babies upstairs, waiting for new parents?” asked Ruth acidly as Mary gave an inward groan.

Edwina Templeton looked at Ruth and measured each word of her response as if it were gold.

“No. My last adoption was six weeks ago.” She rang the bell a second time. This time they waited in an icy silence, but no one answered the summons.

“I guess they've gone for the evening,” Mrs. Templeton said, walking back toward the front door. “You'll have to come back tomorrow.”

“I don't suppose you would show us Ruperta's room?” Mary pressed her luck, knowing she was taking a chance with Ruth's acerbic wisecracks.

“Don't you need a warrant to search my home?”

Mary gave her best cop smile. “If you'd prefer to do it that way, I can come back with one.”

Again Templeton hesitated, as if deciding between the lesser of two evils—having her house searched now, in the dark of night, or tomorrow, when her friends and neighbors might drive up to see. Finally she made her choice.

“Not at all,” she said, her eyes glittering like a cornered rat's. “Come this way.”

She led them briskly down a long hall fur­nished just as elegantly as the living room, with another oriental runner and a tall case clock ticking away the hours. At the end of the hall they turned right and crossed a high-ceilinged kitchen, finally stopping at a closed door. With a smug nod at Mary, she knocked on the door.

“Ruperta? Paz? Open the door. Someone wants to see you.”

No answer. Templeton knocked again, this time louder. “Paz! Ruperta!
Abra la puerta
!”

Again, no response. Edwina tried the knob. The door opened easily to reveal a small, neatly kept room. Though it held a bed covered in a bright patchwork quilt, a chest of drawers, and a small TV, it stood empty of its occupants. Just to make sure, Mary crossed the room and peeked into an equally empty bathroom.

“They aren't here,” Edwina Templeton said, sounding surprised. “I wonder where they went?”

“Hard to tell,” said Mary, exchanging a glance with Ruth. “People like that could be anywhere.”

With no illegal aliens to be found, Edwina Templeton escorted them snappily out of Ruperta's room and back into the foyer. “Anything else I can help you with tonight?” she asked, opening the front door with a grand, exaggerated swoop.

Mary shook her head. “Please don't mention our visit to your employees. These people have a way of disappearing when they get wind of us.”

“I understand completely. Good night.” Edwina Templeton gave a tight smile as they stepped through the door, then she closed it with a resounding slam. An instant later, every light in the house went out just as quickly as they'd come on. Once again they stood in darkness.

“What the hell?” said Ruth.

“Come on,” Mary whispered, her anger at Ruth forgotten. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“Because Edwina Templeton was lying.”

“What do you mean?” Ruth hurried after Mary, trying not to stumble down the stairs.

“There was a half-empty bottle of formula beside the living room sofa. If her last adoption was six weeks ago, why was that there?” She reached in her pocket for her cell phone. “We need to call Jane Frey, and we need to call her now!”

“It's much too late for that, Se
ñ
orita,” came a husky voice from the shadows as she felt a rough hand grab her shoulder. “It's too late for anything like that at all.”