Swift Justice (36 page)

“I did. Thanks.”

We smiled at each other as three police cars swarmed around the corner, light bars pulsing and sirens screeching.

“Thank goodness,” Gigi said, and then, “Oh, my.”

I looked over my shoulder to see a horde of happy Walmart shoppers snatching containers of Fluffy-Wip from the wreck, some spraying the froth into their mouths, others using it to coat their friends, and one enterprising young tagger drawing swirly whipped cream letters on the side of the trailer. He’d gotten a ten-foot high
F-U-C
spelled out by the time I handed Lloyd over to a uniformed policeman who cuffed him, Mirandized him, and led him away.

“I love whipped cream,” Gigi said, watching the revelers wistfully.

“Me, too.” The baby was safe. Lloyd was on his way to prison. What better way to celebrate than by spraying strangers with whipped cream substitute? “Let’s do it.”

We hurried to the ankle-deep pool of whipped cream surrounding the trailer and fished for unopened cans. A Golden retriever, flocked with whipped cream, shook itself vigorously, coating us with a mist of sticky dairy product. Gigi lost her footing trying to get out of the line of spray and plopped onto her bottom, trying to hold her cast up to avoid the goo. She
was giggling, so I figured she wasn’t hurt. Reaching down to help her up, I slipped, too. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em: I aimed my can at Gigi and depressed the nozzle. That’s where we were when Montgomery found us—and the news cameras. Swift Investigations made the
Live at Five
broadcast for the third time in a week.

(Saturday)

The following Saturday, nine days after the whipped cream frolic at the Walmart and the rescue of baby Olivia, I was in the office early, planning to put in a couple of hours on paperwork before spending the afternoon basking poolside in the bikini I hadn’t gotten to wear yet this summer. An apartment complex just a mile from Swift Investigations had a resort-style pool and lax security measures: No one would know I didn’t live there if I showed up with my towel and Pepsi, acting like I belonged. It was ninety-five degrees, and I was rushing through my billing, anxious to slide into the cool water, when the door opened and a soft voice said, “Miss Swift?”

“Charlie,” I said automatically, looking up to see Wes Emmerling standing awkwardly on the threshold.

“C’mon in,” I said. “Want a Pepsi?”

“Uh, sure.”

Wearing khaki cargo shorts and another Emmerling T-shirt—no mud accessories this time—he accepted the can
as he sat in the chair in front of my desk. He placed a manila envelope on the desk to free his hands for opening the Pepsi. His bangs flopped into his eyes.

“What’s up?” I asked, suspecting I knew. I eyed the envelope but didn’t reach for it.

“I got the results.”

I knew what results he meant without his having to say. He’d come in the day we rescued Olivia to tell me he was going to have the DNA test. I’d given him Olivia’s DNA profile Melissa had provided the day we met for his lab to use as a comparison. It probably wasn’t quite in keeping with the spirit of client confidentiality, but the courts would have ordered Melissa to produce the baby for a test if Wes went that route, and I wanted to spare Olivia any extra needle sticks.

“And?”

“She’s mine.” He barely breathed the words.

Yowza. If I had a hundred bucks for every time I’d heard those words in connection with this baby, I could retire. My mind flashed briefly to Ian Lloyd and the desperate actions he’d taken, all because he believed Elizabeth when she told him Olivia was his. How different things would be for so many people if Elizabeth hadn’t lied. Or, I thought, maybe she truly didn’t know whose baby it was and chose to believe it was Ian’s because he was the one in a position to bankroll her new life. Would she really have gone to Virginia? I wondered. Would she have contacted Wes? I pushed back in my chair and took a long breath. “What are you going to do?”

“What should I do?” He didn’t look like a father; he looked like what he was—a nice, naive kid on the verge of adulthood,
a little more together than some, but an unlikely prospect for single fatherhood.

“I can’t tell you that. Have you told your folks?”

He shook his head. “No. My dad—”

How come this guy couldn’t seem to finish any sentence that started with “my dad”? “Don’t you think they’re the best ones to advise you? Would they want to raise the baby, or help you raise her?”

He shrugged again, looking frustrated.

“Look, Wes.” I leaned forward, putting my forearms on the desk. “There’s going to be a battle over this baby. Right now, she’s with Elizabeth’s killer and his wife, Elizabeth’s biological mother, because everyone thinks he’s the father. Elizabeth signed a contract with a nice couple who are desperate for a baby, though, and they’re going to fight for custody in court. Even if you don’t want to raise Olivia, as her father, you could have some say in who gets her. I know it’s a lot of responsibility, but with knowledge comes responsibility.” I nodded at the envelope on the desk. “If you weren’t ready to take it on, you wouldn’t have had the test.”

He rose and pocketed the envelope, looking resolute. And scared. He left his Pepsi untouched on the edge of the desk. “Thanks, Miss Swift.”

“Charlie,” I called after him. I watched the door for several moments after it closed behind him, not sure what course of action I was hoping he’d take. Sometimes it’s easy to know what the right thing is but hard to make yourself do it. Other times, choosing the right course is a challenge in itself. As Elizabeth no doubt realized too late.

(Sunday)

The next night, Gigi and I sat at Albertine’s bar with its owner, drinking piña coladas, Pepsi, and martinis (the James Bond classics, not the frou-frou kind), respectively. The bar was closed, but Albertine had offered drinks on the house in return for the story of our capture of Ian Lloyd. Tonight, she shimmered in silver and aqua lounging pajamas and made quite a contrast with Gigi, who was in the outfit I thought of as her canary suit. She sported a yellow cast to match and was hopeful the doctor would take it off completely in another ten days.

“So where’s the baby now?” Albertine asked when Gigi finished telling her how many showers she’d needed to get the whipped cream stickiness out of her hair.

“With Melissa, for the moment. Since Ian’s apparently the biological father and is out on bail awaiting trial, the court ruled in their favor.” I threw in the “apparently” because I knew Ian wasn’t Olivia’s dad but I didn’t want to out Wes Emmerling. “The Falstows are fighting it, however, and who knows what’ll happen if Ian gets convicted.” Or if Wes comes forward.

“If?” Gigi said. She looked at me wide-eyed over the rim of her glass. “What do you mean ‘if’? He killed Elizabeth. He kidnapped little Olivia.”

I shrugged, inured to the capriciousness of the legal machine. “Oh, the DA will push it, but with no witnesses to Ian’s encounter with Elizabeth, he might well be able to convince a jury her death was accidental, and since the baby seemingly was—is—his, the kidnapping charges sort of evaporated. Melissa swore it was all a misunderstanding.”

Albertine rolled her eyes as Gigi said, “That’s just not right.”

I agreed with her, but what could you do? Melissa had felt guilty enough, though, or grateful enough, to let me borrow Olivia for the morning. I’d driven the baby—asleep in her car seat, thankfully—to Denver and introduced her to Aurora Newcastle. She was at Purple Feet, working, but an oxygen tank trailed her now, a clear hose snaking from her nostrils. Her skin was like parchment, despite the rosy glow reflected by her pink dress, but her eyes were still bright and clear and focused on Olivia as I handed over the awakening baby. Olivia stared up at Aurora, unblinking, her eyes unbelievably blue and wondering.

“Let me tell you about your mom,” Aurora said, cradling the baby in her arms and walking down the nearest aisle, the oxygen cart trundling behind. “I met her when she was just a little older than you . . .”

She kissed Olivia’s forehead an hour later when I told her we had to go, and a new sense of peacefulness wafted from her. I suspected she’d be dead within the month and felt sad.

Albertine recalled my drifting thoughts.

“What about that Johnson fellow?” she asked, sliding another Pepsi down the bar to me. “What was he doing at Elizabeth’s apartment? Didn’t you say some kid saw his car there?” She looked from me to Gigi, who was bobbing her head enthusiastically, remembering her role in finding Mikey the Spy.

I popped the can open and took a long swallow before answering. “Well, since Johnson’s not talking to me and Montgomery tells me the police see no need to interview him, given how things turned out, the best we can do is speculate. I’d
guess he was having one last go at trying to convince Elizabeth to marry him. She was proven fertile, after all.”

“You sound like she was a brood mare,” Albertine objected.

“I think that’s basically how he saw his wives.”

“He’s getting married again, you know,” Gigi put in.

I blinked at her.

She nodded and bit into the slice of pineapple decorating her glass. “To Hannah Wittinger. Her mom told me yesterday. They’re having a small private ceremony.” She grinned at our astonishment.

“How old is this Hannah? Fifteen?” Albertine asked scathingly.

“Twelve?” I guessed.

“Seventeen,” Gigi said. “Dexter went out with her a couple of times.”

We were silent a moment, pondering the stupidity of people confronted with money and power. Or at least I was. The Wittingers were letting Seth Johnson buy their daughter as breeding stock. I gave the marriage two years, tops.

“Eighteen months,” Albertine said, apparently reading my mind. “Are they tying the knot at the Church of the Hypocritical Pastor and Domestic Abuse Perpetrator on Earth?”

Gigi and I laughed at her renaming of Sprouse’s church.

“Uh-uh.” Gigi shook her head. “The Wittingers are Catholic. Seth’s converting to marry Hannah.”

I wondered cynically if Seth was that much in love with Hannah or if the Catholic stance on in vitro fertilization was more to his liking. Either way, it sounded like Pastor Zach was going to be up a creek without a sponsor. So much for his
dreams of TV evangelist fame. I couldn’t say I was sorry for him, although I did pity his wife, who, as far as I knew, had still not even been able to see her grandchild.

“Let’s get some dinner,” Gigi suggested. “I’m hungry. I’ve been doing that South Beach Diet and I could eat a whole loaf of bread with a giant helping of fettucine alfredo.” She patted her plump thighs ruefully.

“Zio’s sounds good,” Albertine agreed.

“Can’t,” I said airily, sliding off the bar stool. I bent to fuss with the strap of my high-heeled sandal, letting that account for my heightened color when I straightened up. “I have plans.”

“Plans?” Gigi echoed.

“A
date
?” Albertine asked, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“Maybe.”

“Ooh, is it that hunky priest who took you to the fund-raiser?” Gigi asked.

Was Dan Allgood hunky? I tabled that thought for another time.

“I’ll bet you made up with that fine man you pissed off in here last week,” Albertine guessed.

“Let’s just call him Bachelor Number Three.” I waved to them over my shoulder as I strolled toward the door. I didn’t need Montgomery tracking me down here and fueling their speculations. Especially since it was just a payback dinner he said he owed me for helping him file the Sprouse case under
CLOSED
. It wasn’t a real date. I’d’ve dressed in my black silk pants and the clingy green peasant top even if I’d been going to Zio’s with the girls. Really.

“See you tomorrow, bright and early,” Gigi called. “Remember, we’ve got five appointments with new clients.”

Nothing like a little free TV advertising. “See you tomorrow, partner.”

I didn’t even wince when I said it.