Made to Be Broken (12 page)

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 hell-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 assume 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 documents, take the child, and be reassured 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 shine to you, came back on his own..." Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective who came up a few times a year. "Though, God 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 God-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 ass-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 attitude, 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 fucking 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 shirt 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.

Quinn. Who'd seen my police college nightshirt. 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.

Seeing me, Jack wheeled. "I've got it. Get back in."

Quinn turned. "Nadia..."

He barely breathed my name, but it floated over as clear as Jack's sharp words.

I turned back to the truck.

"I can explain."

Jack snorted. "Or sure as hell gonna try."

I glanced over as Quinn straightened, jaw tensing with a flare of that old antagonism as he pulled himself straight.

"I screwed up, okay? I admit – "

"You do? Fucking wonderful. You admit it. Apologize. Everything'll be fine."

"You condescending – " Quinn bit the sentence short and turned to me. "I – "

" – fucked up," Jack said. "Yeah. You did. I warned you. Use what you saw? Deal with me."

"I didn't
use
anything. I meant I screwed up by coming here. Look, can I just talk to Nadia – Dee – ?"

"Here it's Nadia," I said. "This is my home."

His chin dipped. "I know, and I'm sorry. I thought – well, I guess I wasn't thinking – " He looked at Jack. "Can you give us a minute – ?"

"No."

Quinn paused, as if struggling not to be drawn into a fight. He sidestepped toward the front of the car, closer to me. I stayed where I was, tucked in the open doorway of the truck.

"This is what I wanted to tell you in Toronto," Quinn said. "That I know."

"How?" Jack said.

A brief glower at the interruption. Then Quinn continued. "A couple months ago, some of us were talking in the office about a case in Tennessee. A detective shot a dealer point-blank. I guess he'd had a few run-ins with the guy, and nothing would stick, so he just... had enough. Anyway, we were talking about that, and what makes cops snap, and one of the guys said it's always men, that you never see a woman doing that."

The hairs on my neck rose.

"Then someone says no, he remembers this case in Toronto with a woman cop, and the other guy says bullshit, and he says come here and I'll look it up. He Googles it and..."

"Finds me."

Quinn nodded. "He called us over to read the article. I saw the name, the particulars, but it didn't mean anything until he scrolled down and there was a picture."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down. "I didn't know what to do, Dee... Nadia. I thought maybe I should act like I'd never seen it. But what if, later, you found out I knew all along? You'd never forgive me and I wouldn't blame you. I knew I had to tell you. I started with the ski trip idea, then thought, great, I treat you to a nice getaway and hit you with that. No way. Then the Toronto job came along. Professional setting, close to home if you wanted to walk away. But then..."

"You got called back."

"And I couldn't just drop that bomb and leave. But all week, it's been driving me nuts, so when I had to be in Montreal tomorrow, I decided to take an early flight, make the drive... And when I got there, I realized it was my worst idea yet."

"So you left."

He nodded.

"That's your story?" Jack said.

A muscle in Quinn's cheek twitched as he pivoted Jack's way. "Yes, Jack, that's my
story"'

I headed toward them. "Jack..."

"Can you prove it?" he said.

"No, Jack, I can't fucking prove it and you know that. You want to hook me up to a polygraph? Or better yet, put a gun to my head and see if I'll crack." Quinn...

At least
he
acknowledged me, glancing over and nodding, then rolling his shoulders and smoothing his tone as he said to Jack, "It would be nice if you could look at our history and agree that I've never been anything but honest and fair. But that's obviously out of the question, so at least give me credit for having a healthy sense of self-preservation. You don't like me. You don't like what I am. It makes you nervous. And seeing me getting close to your protégée
really
makes you nervous. But whatever ethical code you play by, it says you need an excuse to kill me. So do you honestly think I'd give you one?"

Jack snorted, but said nothing. Quinn fished the keys from his pocket.

"I'll take off now, and give you guys time to think it over and decide... whatever you're going to decide." He opened the door. "I'll e-mail you in a week or so, Nadia, and – " He stopped, fingers drumming against the window frame. "Or, I guess, I should wait for you to get in touch with me."

"I will."

He nodded, trying for a smile, but not finding it. He pulled the door wider. Jack's hand shot out and slapped it shut.

Quinn wheeled. "Oh, for God's sake, Jack. You won't even let me make a graceful exit, will you?"

"You owe her."

"Owe – ?" He ripped a wallet from his pocket, yanked out his driver's license, and waved it. "You mean this? Tit for tat? Do you think I wasn't going to tell her who I am? Maybe I just wanted to do it in private, but if that's too much to ask for..." He held the license out, the edge falling from his voice. "Here, Nadia."

I shook my head. "I don't need that. Jack, please, just let him – "

"He owes you. Not information." He plucked the license from Quinn's hand and tossed it through the open window. "She needs help. Working on something. Needs to dig up old cases. Compare – "

"No. He doesn't need to – "

"I will. I'd be glad to," Quinn said. "Anytime you need my contacts or my research, you only have to ask, like I've said. Why don't we find someplace to grab a coffee – "

"Can't," Jack said. "She's got guests coming. Re spon si bil i ties." He glanced at me. "After dinner?"

I nodded and we arranged the meeting.