Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (21 page)

He was willing to use his advantage. “What if I stay naked? What if you join me?”

“Not going to happen.” She crossed the room. Her fingers ruffled the hair on his chest. “Much as I’d like to make love to you again, we have to go.”

He pulled her close, crushed her against his chest and kissed her hard. His blood rushed to his groin. He was more than ready for morning sex. “Pregnant women are real inconvenient.”

She tensed. “That’s what Smith said.”

The mention of Dr. Smith doused his desire like a bucket of ice water to the face. “You’re right. We need to focus.”

He left her to get dressed and went into his own bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans and blue work shirt and his boots. He eyeballed the Beretta on the bedside table. Even though he would have felt justified in taking along his firepower, they were still undercover. For a few more hours, he needed to act like Brady Gilliam, but with one difference. Brady Gilliam was going to start wearing a watch.

As he slipped on his watch, he felt like he was reclaiming an important part of himself. He was in control. It was three minutes past seven o’clock.

Stepping onto the landing, he heard Petra in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Was there time for coffee? He sprinted downstairs, turning on lights as he went. In the kitchen, he loaded the coffee machine, turned it on and hovered beside it as though his presence would make the water drip faster. There was almost half a pot when Petra came down the staircase.

“Three more minutes,” he begged.

“And how are we going to carry that coffee in the truck without spilling?”

He opened a cabinet, reached onto a top shelf and took down two travel mugs. “You didn’t really think I’d forget something as important as this, did you?”

“You never forget anything. It’s part of your charm.”

With travel mugs in hand, they went out to the truck. He was driving. This morning, he was not inclined to race along the winding mountain roads. As he drove, he watched the magenta sunrise lighten the skies. “I wouldn’t mind living in Colorado.”

“But you want to be in the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico.” She sipped her coffee. “It’s where your career as a profiler is headed.”

“That’s the good thing about being in the FBI. There’s crime everywhere. I could still do profiling in Colorado, and I’m pretty sure Cole could use me.”

“So could I,” she said.

He had promised her that he wouldn’t leave, and he’d meant what he said. In the foreseeable future, they would be together. It wasn’t a sacrifice for him; he liked that picture.

“I wouldn’t even mind living in Granby.” He knew her house was a rental, which meant she wasn’t obligated to stay there. “I’d like a ranch house with a bit of land. Maybe get a dog.”

“Slow down,” she said. “We’re just testing the waters in this relationship.”

“That’s what I’m doing, thinking of possibilities.”

“Planning,” she said with some exasperation. “You’re always planning.”

“It’s what I do.”

And he could easily see them on a small ranch with golden retriever and a couple of kids. His sister would be over the moon. She’d been bugging him for years to settle down. “How many kids do you want? I’m asking because twins run in my family.”

“Oh, look, we’re already at Lost Lamb.” She straightened her shoulders. “Drive past the big house to the back. Dee’s already in the birthing suite.”

“We need a code word,” he said as he drove through the gate. “I don’t expect you to run into any trouble. But if you do, call me with the code word.”

“Which is?”

“Rachel.” She ought to be able to remember her friend’s name. “Say something about Rachel, and I’ll know you need help.”

“And vice versa,” she said. “If you want me to get out of here for some reason, call me with a Rachel.”

Lights shone through the windows at the back of the main house where the kitchen was. Francine’s side was still dark. She probably slept late.

As soon as he parked the truck, Margaret was rushing toward them. Her gaze was aimed directly at him, and she approached his side of the car. Reluctantly, he lowered the window.

“Good morning, Margaret.”

“I just wanted to apologize for waking you,” she said breathlessly.

“It’s not the first time. I’m used to getting calls at weird hours for my midwife wife.”

“Midwife wife,” she said. “That’s funny.”

Petra had already gotten out of the truck. She slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Margaret, how’s Dee?”

“Complaining, whining and moaning.”

“Sounds about right.” Petra called out to him, “When are you coming back for your sitting with Francine?”

He checked his wristwatch, a simple act that gave him immense satisfaction. “At one o’clock. That’s six hours. You’ll be done before that, won’t you?”

“You never can tell.”

Margaret piped up, “I was in labor for twelve hours. That’s not unusual, especially for a first kid.”

He didn’t like leaving Petra unguarded for that long, and he was glad they had an emergency code word. “Call me if you need anything.”

After a cheery wave, she entered the birthing suite.

Brady looked toward Margaret who hovered nearby. Later today, when arrests were made and Lost Lamb shut down, he wondered how this young woman would fit into the overall scheme. She appeared to be too naive to know what was going on at this place, and she had a young son. Likely, she’d end up as a protected witness in exchange for testimony against Francine.

Her dark eyes explored his face as though sensing trouble. “Is something wrong, Brady? You look unhappy.”

“You’re very perceptive.” He tried to get a read on her. “Why do you think I’m unhappy?”

“It’s probably the same reason as everybody else.” She shrugged. “You want something you can’t have.”

“Is that true for you? What do you want?”

“A home.” She spoke quickly as thought she’d been waiting for someone to ask just that question. “I want a real home for me and Jeremy. I want him to have a daddy and the kind of life I never had.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I’m stuck here with a bunch of pregnant cows. It’s impossible to meet guys, except for the jerks who work here.”

Brady pointed out, “You could leave.”

Her gaze turned furtive. “I’d never make it on my own. Miss Francine takes care of me and my little boy. We’re lucky to have a roof over our heads.”

Margaret was as loyal as a cocker spaniel. “Do you always do what Francine says?”

“Always.” She tried another smile. “She’s looking forward to your sitting. You’ll bring a canvas with you today, right?”

“Right.” That was another task he could undertake at the house while he was waiting for everything else to fall into place. “Have a good day, Margaret.”

* * *

I
F ANYBODY HAD BEEN
watching the house, they would have known with a glance that Brady wasn’t a struggling artist recently transplanted from San Francisco. His studio had transformed into a war room with a whiteboard to coordinate communication among the various technical and surveillance people.

An FBI chopper was on the way to a private airfield near Durango. The satellite eye-in-the-sky was keeping watch on the various locations. A local agent from the Denver office was following the delivery van with the body bags that appeared to be on the way to Texas.

According to property records, the compound and Smith’s house were owned by the same corporation. An initial computer search turned up the names of three individuals who were owners. The scumbag with the gold teeth that they’d arrested in San Diego was one of them. Francine was another.

Brady was beginning to get the idea that she played a major role in the human trafficking operation. Running the supposed home for unwed mothers at Lost Lamb provided her with cover, as well as being an outlet for illegal adoptions and surrogates.

He ran his theory past Cole who was in Durango, waiting for Mancuso to leave his office.

“I’m not sure how she’d win a place at the top of the food chain.” Brady had his phone on speaker so he could use both hands to roughly fill in the canvas with Francine’s portrait. “Those positions are usually filled by family or by somebody with serious money.”

“What do we know about her family?” Cole asked.

“Not much. There’s an indication that she had a kid when she was fifteen, but there’s nothing more about the child.” It was ironic that Francine had once been an unwed mother and now she shamelessly used young women in the same situation. “Her criminal background involved a call girl operation.”

“Call girls or hookers?”

“The high-class variety,” Brady said. “She was based in southern California and had a high-profile clientele.”

“That could be your connection to human trafficking. She might have been the mistress of one of the bosses.”

That connection might be a significant part of their investigation, especially if Francine’s lover was high-profile. Brady went to the whiteboard and scribbled a note for the researchers to find Francine’s former client list.

He wished Cole good luck on his search of Mancuso’s paperwork and returned to the portrait. In his first session with Francine, he’d done pencil sketches and they’d decided on a pose. His next step was translating that sketch into a rough acrylic on canvas.

His art training was minimal. He’d never planned a career in this field and had started doing portraits as an adjunct to psychology. By painting faces, he gained a different perspective for understanding personalities. Working on Francine, he had to be careful to keep her from looking like the heartless woman she was.

Off and on during the morning, he’d been monitoring the bug in her office. Nothing of significance had happened.

Brady set aside his paintbrush, went downstairs for another cup of coffee and sat on the stool beside the drafting table. He listened as Francine welcomed Mancuso into her office.

She wasted no time with chitchat, didn’t offer him tea or coffee, didn’t inquire after his health. Her tone was that of a boss with an employee. “Did you prepare a contract for the midwife?”

“I did, and it includes a confidentiality agreement so she won’t shoot off her mouth around town.”

Stan Mancuso—who Brady assumed would be known as Stan the Man to his friends and associates—had a sour tone to his voice. In his photos, he was unsmiling, which he probably thought would encourage people to take him seriously in spite of a bulbous nose that would have looked appropriate in Clown College.

“You’re paranoid,” Francine said. “The people in town think we’re wonderful for helping these poor, misguided girls.”

“It’s the names that worry me. If anybody figures out how we’re juggling these birth certificates and adoption papers, we’ll be—”

“No one cares.”

“The surrogate program,” he said, “is going very well. We’re making good money.”

“If you can locate more people who want to use surrogates, I have an idea for how we can pump up the volume.”

She outlined a scheme for bypassing the actual surrogate process, while still charging for the egg donor and the in vitro process. “We’ll just use a baby from one of these other girls who show up pregnant.”

“But the babies won’t have the same DNA as the parents.”

Brady found it interesting that the lawyer didn’t object to cheating his clients by giving them an infant that wasn’t genetically related to them. He and Francine were equally unscrupulous, but Mancuso was more worried that they’d get caught.

“I have a solution,” Francine said. “We’ll fake the DNA results. I’m sure Dr. Terabian can manage that little task.”

“Smith,” Mancuso said quickly. “It’s Dr. Smith. I don’t want my name connected in any way with that man.”

“Oh, please.” Francine’s laugh was cold. “Do you really think you can plausibly deny knowledge of what Terabian is doing?”

“I can try. Fudging the paperwork on adoptions is one thing. What Smith does is another.” Mancuso’s voice curdled. “It’s murder.”

A juicy piece of evidence. Brady would turn the name Terabian over to the FBI. Apparently, the doctor had a reputation.

Chapter Twenty

In the birthing suite, Petra had been going through what seemed like an endless labor with Dee. When she’d first arrived, Dee had been ninety percent effaced but only six centimeters dilated with contractions nine minutes apart. Dee hadn’t been handling the pain well.

Unlike most of the women Petra worked with, Dee wasn’t motivated. She hadn’t taken any prenatal classes in breathing techniques or meditation. And she wasn’t interested in learning.

Petra had tried to talk to her about breath control, but Dee had given up before they even got started. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she’d snarled. “I’m the one having this baby. Not you.”

She’d also rejected Petra’s attempt to act like a cheerleader, giving her the old “rah, rah, you can do it.” Dee’s response had been to moan even louder.

Petra was doing her best to understand. She knew that the birthing process was hard for Dee. The woman had no support system whatsoever. Her boyfriend was completely out of the picture, which was probably a good thing because he was the one who offered her up as a surrogate in the first place. There wasn’t any family for Dee to lean on, and the closest thing she had to a friend was Margaret who sneered and called her a stupid cow.

On the plus side, Dee was healthy. The fetal monitor showed that her baby had a steady, strong heartbeat. From a purely physical standpoint, this should have been a fairly easy delivery.

The basis for Dee’s suffering was emotional. Everybody experiences pain differently, and Dee was so scared that the slightest twinge sent her screaming over the edge. In the nine minutes between contractions, Petra barely had time to calm her down before the pain started again.

Sitting beside Dee on the bed and stroking her forehead, Petra decided to try an off-the-wall distraction. If Dee continued to fight the pain so ferociously, she’d be too exhausted to push when the time came.

As soon as Dee’s contraction subsided, Petra said, “Tell me about when you were a star in high school.”