Made to Be Broken (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

No one had signed up for morning jog. Considering I'd been up until four, I decided I could let myself slide for a day. Our four guests had asked for breakfast at nine, so I was showered and downstairs at eight to help Emma. When I entered the kitchen, she sent me right back out, with coffee and cinnamon rolls for "John."

"He's up?"

"For the past – " A glance at the microwave clock. " – hour. He's out working on those ATV things again."

"What?"

She waved, showering me with flour. "Four-wheelers, minitrucks, whatever you call them."

"I know what you meant. I just... John?"

"He's been tinkering on them with Owen. Or he was before his trip to Toronto. Now he's back at it. He went out about an hour ago, and asked me to send you around when you got up."

I took the tray, with steaming mugs and warm buns for two, then headed to the shop around back. I was glad Jack had found something to keep him occupied while I was busy, though I suspected his involvement was limited to handing tools to Owen.

When I stepped into the shop, though, there was no sign of Emma's husband. Jack sat awkwardly on the cement floor, cast stretched out, parts scattered in front of him.

"Emma wasn't kidding. You are fixing the ATVs."

"Hope so. Not so sure." He lifted two parts, turning them over as if trying to figure out how they fit together. His scowl was so unlike him that I had to laugh.

"Yeah? Won't be laughing when I fuck up. Make them run in reverse." He pushed to his feet and tossed the parts on the workbench. "Who am I kidding? Been too long."

"You know this stuff?" I said as I set the tray on the bench.

"Used to. Thirty years ago. Gonna be a mechanic."

"Seriously?"

He shrugged. "Was just a kid. But yeah. That's what I wanted to do." He picked up the part, as if drawn back in spite of himself. "Dropped out of school. Got an apprenticeship. Lasted a year. Then... things changed. Only mechanical work in my future? Rigging a mark's car so it won't start." He started to reach for the coffee, gaze still fixed on the parts, then murmured. "Fuck, yes." He scooped them up. "Should have seen that."

Coffee forgotten, he lowered himself to the floor and reassembled the pieces as I searched about for an old cushion. I started to sit, tray in hand, but he waved me to the door.

"Done here. Nicer outside."

We headed out.

"Called Quinn this morning," he said, squinting into the morning sun.

"Already? Thanks."

He motioned me to the dock, where we could talk and see anyone approaching.

"He'll work on it. Wants to come by. Talk."

"Talk?"

"About the case. Thinks it'd be easier. Safer. In person." A roll of his eyes as he sipped his coffee. "I mention he's crap at excuses?"

"So he doesn't really think it'd be better to chat here, he just wants to come over because..."

A look that said the answer should be obvious. "The company."

"Ah. Okay, so he wants an excuse to pop around before he heads home, and you told him no – "

"Nah."

"Fine, you told him 'nah.' "

Another look, this time accompanied by a soft sigh as he leaned back in the Muskoka chair. "I mean no. I didn't tell him no."

A sharp shake of my head. "Is it just me or is this conversation degenerating?"

"Just you. Told him fine. Come by. Might be easier. Cop shit? He's the pro. Could use him."

"So you told him it was okay to come by so the three of us could discuss the best way to build a case that can be handed over to the police."

"Said that, didn't I? He's stuck in Montreal for the weekend. Said that's fine. No rush. You've got guests, responsibilities. He'll be here Sunday night. Meantime, this – " He tapped his cast against the deck. " – is going."

"I thought you had another two weeks."

"It's fixed."

"So now you're a doctor as well as a mechanic?"

He pushed the last chunk of cinnamon bun into his mouth, talking around it. "They say ten weeks? Probably half that. Covering their asses. Afraid of getting sued."

I thought of asking whether it hurt, and suggesting it might if the cast came off early, but Jack would no more take that into consideration than he'd admit he was in any pain now. "It's just two more weeks, and you're getting around pretty well – "

"Like last night? Hitman with a crutch? Clomping around on a cast? Fucking bad joke. And dangerous. It's coming off. You wanna help? Appreciate it. Otherwise? Point me to the hacksaw."

I managed to persuade him it could wait until Sunday. He grumbled, but agreed.

I will admit to pangs of panic at the thought that Jack expected me to shelve the case until Sunday. But, having only last night sworn I wanted nothing more to do with the investigation, I could hardly complain at a forty-eight-hour delay.

As we headed in for breakfast, though, Jack told me Quinn would be expecting my call at four. I wanted to start discussing the how and when of handing the case over to the police, and while it could have waited until Sunday, I appreciated the excuse to do it earlier. Just as I appreciated Jack's suggestion that I join him in the shop before the weekenders arrived. Mechanically, I'd be no help at all, but it gave me an excuse to hang out with him... with the shop radio tuned to the Kingston stations for news of last night's murder.

It was like sneaking chocolates to a dieter – feeding me little bits to keep my resolve up. I felt guilty about that, but it didn't keep me from accepting the tidbits, and being grateful for them.

* * * *

The dead girl was sixteen-year-old Mina Jackson. And, far from being stumped by the murder of a teenage mother at an auto wreckers, the police – or at least the media – had no end of suspects and theories... none of them being "a hitman whacked her to steal her baby."

Mina had lived in that office, courtesy of her boyfriend, Nate Hellqvist, owner of Hell's Wreckers. Nate had rung up more than his share of enemies, all of whom might send a message by killing his girlfriend. There was the bookie he owed fifty grand to, the gang cohorts he ratted out in a plea bargain, and, of course, his wife, who was a little annoyed with the whole "teenage mistress and baby" arrangement... and whose doting father had "reputed mob ties." No wonder Fenniger picked Mina. People might notice she'd disappeared, but it wasn't likely that any of them would care. Even Hellqvist would probably presume she'd had enough and run off.

With the ever-growing list of motives and cast of suspects, all centering on Nate Hellqvist, Mina herself would be lost in the soap opera, mere collateral damage. As for the baby, Hellqvist apparently didn't want him, which, all things considered, was probably the best thing that could happen to the kid. If Mina had any family, the reports didn't mention it. Her four-month-old son was currently in the care of children's services, which would find a suitable foster family.

If I informed the police that Mina died in a botched professional hit and kidnap scheme – completely unrelated to her personal situation – the cops would toss the theory in with the rest of the crazy-person leads. I wished we
had
left Fenniger's body out for the police to find. I considered tipping them off now, but then attention might turn to who had killed
him,
and Jack wouldn't want that.

When I spoke to Quinn, he agreed. With a half dozen more likely scenarios to explain the one death we could prove, we had little hope of getting the local police on the right track. They couldn't afford to devote valuable time investigating claims of a connection between three missing girls – two in another country – and one almost-solved murder.

Hell, I could send them a PowerPoint presentation with interactive maps leading them to Sammi's body, the Byrony Agency, and the house where Fenniger said he'd delivered Destiny, and it wouldn't make a difference... except that they'd probably consider the sender the murderer of Sammi Ernst, concocting this wild "black market baby" scheme as a cover-up.

That wasn't insulting the intelligence or competence of the police. When I used to dream up elaborate solutions for my father's unsolved cases, he always quoted Sherlock Holmes: "We balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination." When I was older, I'd shoot back Heraclitus: "A hidden connection is stronger than an obvious one," to which he'd only laugh and tell me that, given the choice between the words of the world's greatest fictional detective and some dead Greek philosopher, a cop was going with Mr. Holmes every time.

To woo the authorities, I needed more evidence, and I knew where to start collecting it.

"I have a couple days off coming up," Quinn said when we finished. "Compensation for my lost weekend, and the day off I'd requested after my Toronto visit. Jack gave me the okay to swing by and chat but... well, already being in Canada, no one would think it odd if I decided to spend my days off up here... or in Michigan."

"You mean to help me with this?"

"If that'd be all right with you."

"Absolutely."

A moment of silence. "While I'd love to say that's all that counts, I'd better let you run it past Jack first. When it comes to us, he seems to be warming to the idea." A laugh. "Or, I guess 'warming' is optimistic, but he seems resigned to it. Elbowing my way into a case you two are working, though, might be pushing my luck. And overstepping my boundaries. And invading his turf. While I'd normally say 'screw him if he doesn't like it,' I don't want to put you in the middle of our fights."

"I'll talk to him."

Chapter Thirty-two

Jack agreed. It wasn't an enthusiastic or even speedy agreement, but if I'd said, "Quinn wants to know if he can join us for a few days" and Jack said, "Sure, sounds like fun," I'd have been running inside for the thermometer, certain his broken ankle had somehow become infected.

His first word was, predictably, "Fuck," followed by a string of profanity-peppered mutters. I said it was totally up to him. He said he'd think about it. Sunday morning, he agreed. He wasn't certain we needed a third pair of hands, but Quinn's expertise would be invaluable, especially in building a law-enforcement-ready case.

As it turned out, though, that assistance would have to wait awhile longer. A complication in whatever case Quinn was working had him delayed in Montreal, and he had no idea when he'd get away. Jack didn't seem terribly broken up about the delay. In a damn fine mood, actually, though he credited it to relief at getting his cast off... with his foot still intact.

Monday morning. Detroit. Jack twisted in his chair, legs squealing against the linoleum, then grimaced as he tried to wedge his fingers under his pant leg without whacking his chin on the tabletop. After a few seconds of furious scratching, he straightened, wincing as his spine cracked.

"You're starting to regret removing that cast, aren't you? Did you use the lotion I picked up last night?"

"Yeah. Probably rubbed off by now."

"If you had a purse, you could carry it around with you." I nodded toward a middle-aged man with a pleather fanny pack sheltered by the belly spilling over his waistband. "How about I get you one of those?"

A muttered profanity. I reached into the tiny paper bag beside my elbow and popped a Swedish berry into my mouth. I struggled not to tap my toes and wriggled, trying to get comfortable, the plastic chair rock-hard against my tailbone. I'd spent the weekend on the go, hosting a full slate of activities, but I still couldn't relax and enjoy this quiet cup of coffee. Unfortunately, for now, progress meant sitting still.

I peered out the window, through the morning sun, at our target – a door across the road. The offices of the Byrony Agency, the private adoption firm where Fenniger's contact worked.

"Thank God for coffee shops, huh? It's the one place you can sit for an hour or two, and as long as it isn't too busy and you keep ordering coffee, no one bugs you. There's only one drawback." I lifted my mug. "The coffee. Emma makes decaf in the evening for me – I hate drinking caffeinated after dinner, like I need anything to keep me up at night. Hers is fine. Places like this, though? I swear they make the pot when they first get in and leave it stewing until it's empty." I took a sip and made a face. "I'm probably torturing myself for no reason, too. All we'll be doing is looking."

"Yeah. But you don't need the caffeine. That sugar's enough."

"Hey, don't forget who bought me the candy."

I popped another berry. As I chewed it, I watched the plain smoke-gray door across the street. The Byrony Agency was one of two key addresses Fenniger had given us. The second was the house where he'd dropped off Destiny. That one, we'd check out later.

When I'd envisioned the adoption agency, I'd pictured two possibilities, polar opposites. One, a sleek suite in a fancy high-rise. Two, a barred, unmarked door in a syringe-strewn alley. The truth seemed somewhere in the middle. The office was in the business district of an upper-middle-class Detroit suburb, on a street of historic buildings that had probably once been a village downtown core. Now it was a mix of restaurants and specialty shops topped by offices – legal, accounting, insurance...

An intense Web search on the weekend had revealed little about the Byrony Agency except that it was licensed to provide private adoptions in the state of Michigan. That definitely wasn't what I'd expected. Though it didn't have a fancy Web site like some of the others, the Byrony Agency seemed to be legitimate.

Private adoption had been legal in Michigan since 1995, as long as it was conducted through a licensed agency or adoption lawyer. From Detroit-area Web sites, I got some idea of the process and the costs.

Prospective adoptive parents needed to provide everything from a home study and criminal record check to doctor's reports and tax statements. Once approved, they could expect to wait about two years for a child.

They could be charged only for direct expenses incurred by the agency and the birth mother, topping out at about ten thousand dollars. International adoption could be more than twice that. Less than a third of the ten grand typically went to the mother, and only to pay the additional costs of pregnancy – doctor's bills, counseling, additional food and clothing. So, in killing the birth mother, the Byrony Agency could see a profit of about three thousand dollars. For that, they couldn't even hire a crappy hitman.

Clearly then, the buyers had to be special cases. Those who couldn't pass the background checks, those who were unwilling to wait years for a match, those with very strict requirements for race, gender, and coloring – getting a baby that "looks like Mom and Dad" – above all, clients willing to pay very dearly to see their cradle filled.

So was this a special service offered by the agency? Or a single greedy employee making deals on the side? Finding out wouldn't be easy.

We'd left the lodge Sunday night after our two remaining guests went to their room. They'd be gone today and we had no more bookings before Friday. I'd told Emma I was pursuing Sammi's case, and might be gone for a few days. I'd check in daily, and make sure I was back by the weekend. As for "John," he had a nibble on a job in Toronto, so I'd be dropping him off there.

We'd been watching the door to the Byrony Agency since eight-thirty. Four employees had gone inside – two women and two men, both of whom, from our angle, had matched the description Fenniger gave of his contact.

At nine-thirty, the first couple arrived. At 10:15, they left, their steps slower, the husband's hand against the small of his wife's back as she stared down the street with empty eyes, clearly having had their hopes dashed. Even if I'd never wanted a child, I could imagine what it would be like to be told I didn't qualify to be a parent.

In a few hours, when their shock and disappointment had time to crystallize into despair, would they get a phone call? "Hello, it's Joe from the Byrony Agency. I was just reviewing your file. While you don't qualify for regular private adoption, I'm in charge of a special project we're testing here at the agency, and I think I might have some good news for you."

He'd offer a few more words of encouragement, enough to make them eagerly agree to the first meeting. After feeling them out over several sessions, he'd feel confident enough of their answer to make the offer. Their special needs could be met by special girls who wanted to get their lives back on track and, more important, hand their babies over to parents whose devotion would be unquestioned, parents willing to pay more than the price of a used car for a child. Provide this girl with the money she needed to go to college, to move away, to restart her life, and she would give up her child and all rights to that child, make the clean break that she was certain was in everyone's best interests.

One baby, at premium cost. A healthy, beautiful, well-adjusted baby with pictures they could see in advance. The mother paid and gone from their lives forever. Of fi cials bought off to provide legitimate adoption papers, with no fear of future repercussions.

How closely would the prospective parents examine such a deal? One glance at the faces of that couple leaving the office, and I knew the answer. With their dream within reach, they wouldn't
dare
look too closely.

About five minutes after the first couple left, a second arrived.

"They seem to have a steady flow of clients," I said. "Or prospective clients, at least."

Jack nodded.

The couple paused at the door, double-checking the name on the plaque, consulting a PDA, then flipping through papers in a folder.

"Their first visit, I bet," I said.

"Probably."

"Bet they get a lot of that."

"Probably."

I watched the couple go inside. "I imagine it wouldn't be very hard to – "

"No."

"May I finish the idea before you shoot it down?"

"Don't need to. Gonna suggest making an appointment. Playing parents. Long shot."

He sipped his coffee. I waited, giving him the chance to expand on that. Futile, of course, but I always do, just to be polite.

"What's a long shot?" I asked.

"Getting the offer. Won't do it for everyone. Gotta be just right. Try it? Big risk. Little chance of payoff."

"I wasn't thinking we'd play prospective parents and hope they'd offer us a black market baby. I'm not
that
deluded. But if you have a better idea for getting inside and taking a look at the office, the layout, the security setup, the staff..."

"Huh." Another slow drink of coffee. "Good idea."

"I do get them, on occasion."