Pick Your Poison (16 page)

I swirled a stick covered with rock candy into the foam, breathing in the wonderful aroma, watching the cinnamon blend into the coffee. I needed this reprieve from family interference.

“Do you need to leave?” I asked when he returned.

“No. My partner had a few questions about a case we’re working. I’m supposed to be off tonight, not even on call, but for Homicide cops, real days off exist only in theory. No one’s figured out how to actually make them happen.” He held the rock candy up for examination and instead added three bags of sugar to his cup.

“You’re off duty? You aren’t officially assigned to follow me tonight?”

“Did I say I was following you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Let’s drop it,” he said. “I can’t discuss the case.” He took several swallows of coffee and then produced a new pack of gum from his jacket pocket and offered me a stick.

I refused by shaking my head. “You know, I’ve learned a few things since we last spoke.”

“And what have you learned?” he asked, smirking.

I explained about the adoption angle, Feldman, and Judge Hayes, and finished by saying, “I really thought we could help each other out, especially since you no longer consider me a suspect, but I’m wondering now if you haven’t changed your mind.”

“You’re not a suspect. You’re also not my partner. End of discussion.” He said this in a far friendlier tone than he would have on the first day we met, but I must have pouted anyway, because he leaned toward me and said, “I asked you out on an impulse, and I hate making mistakes probably as much as you do. Don’t turn this into one, okay?”

“You keep saying you can’t tell me anything, but do you have any idea how frustrated I am?” Okay, I was whining, and thus had moved a rung below pouting. “Ben didn’t deserve to die, and he wasn’t a murderer, either. I’m not sure I can explain this, but for the first time in years, I’m certain of something . . . and if I let go of this investigation, it’s like . . . like I’m giving up on Ben.”

“Very noble, but I’ll let you in on something. If a murder’s not solved in the first eight hours, twenty-four hours max, you’d have better luck faxing it to
America’s Most Wanted
and letting the media have at it. I can think of a few exceptions, but that’s the unpleasant truth.”

“So this is already a cold case?”

“No. Cloris’s murder is a cold case.” A tense silence followed; then Jeff said, “You know, I really do appreciate your concern. In fact, I’m amazed a privileged little heiress like yourself cares enough about a middle-class guy like Ben Grayson to go hunting up people from the past and pursuing the clues. Pretty impressive.”

“Privileged little heiress? Is that how you think of me?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well . . . I don’t think of myself like that. Sounds more like a description of Aunt Caroline.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“You know Aunt Caroline?”

He smiled. “I know your whole life story. Parents died. Adopted with your twin by Charlie and Elizabeth Rose at the age of six weeks. Mom died when you were three. Auntie helped Daddy raise you. Graduated from the University of Houston. Married Bradley four years ago. Divorced last year.”

I sat back. Hearing him recite these things made me feel so . . . strange. More surprised than angry, really. “What else do you know about me?”

“That would take us into forbidden territory. So let me return to my lesson on murder in the big city. As I’ve told you already, I have to be selective about where I concentrate my energy. Usually you find relatives and neighbors out there destroying each other, and most of them leave plenty of evidence. But the Grayson murders? Hell, I spent a whole day finding out his real name. I can’t waste twenty-four hours on every murder. I’d never solve anything. We bank on percentages and statistics in Homicide . . . and the probability a perp will screw up or brag to half the city about the crime.”

“Those priorities rear their ugly heads again.” I took my napkin and dabbed the cappuccino foam clinging to his upper lip.

He took my hand when I finished and held on, his once-icy stare having warmed considerably since our first meeting. I was liking this little date. A lot. I mean, Jeff Kline was brainy and broad-shouldered, and I had the feeling I could learn a lot from him—about things not involving police work.

About then the lone worker made enough sweeping and cleaning noises in the background for us to take the hint, so we left. After Jeff dropped me at home, I locked the front door, regretting the conspicuous lack of a good-night kiss.

“Not even a measly peck on the cheek,” I lamented, climbing the stairs with Diva in my arms.

I worried about my breath for a second, but knew he had to keep his distance while on the case. I also understood an important difference between Jeff and me. He had all the patience I lacked and then some. He took things slowly. But Sergeant Jeff Kline still appealed to my senses. Every single, tingling one of them.

Fueled with the gallon of coffee I had consumed during the evening, my brain wasn’t ready to quit. As I brushed my teeth, I decided that just because Jeff could squeeze my toothpaste anywhere he wanted didn’t mean I’d leave the investigating to him. I had an idea of how to locate Feldman, but the plan needed refining. Like Daddy used to say, it would take a lot of river water to float this boat.

20

The next day, Kate’s guilt over our little spat at the club came pouring out over breakfast, but though I had planned to ask for her help finding out if a connection still existed between Feldman and Parental Advocates, Kate was too vulnerable right now. She felt so guilty she would have agreed to wear pajamas to the university, had I asked. Besides, I needed a little more time to think through my plan. Although Hamilton knew Feldman, I wasn’t sure exactly what their relationship was. And there could be plenty of information lying behind Parental Advocates’ leaded-glass door, information about Cloris Grayson’s baby. So maybe my sister, whose face was unfamiliar to Helen Hamilton, could help me find out what I wanted to know.

Kate had only a morning session, and I heard her heading for her little office off the living room when she got home around noon. I followed her, and she smiled when I held my arms out and we hugged. “My turn to say I’m sorry for stomping out on you last night.”

“We were both a little tense after that dinner. Did you see the way Aunt Caroline hung on Terry’s every word?”

“Hard not to notice,” I said.

She plopped down into her favorite overstuffed chenille chair and I sat behind her desk.

“I could use your help,” I said, picking up a pen and doodling on her blotter. “I’m not giving up on the investigation. And the two of us might actually have a little fun with this.”

“Like the fun we had when we were in first grade and you tied Buster the dog to the wagon and convinced me we could ride to school with him as our horse and you as the driver?”

“That
was
fun,” I said, smiling.

“Until Buster saw the cat.”

“Well, I didn’t foresee cats.”

“Four stitches.” She pointed to her eyebrow. “Do you know how traumatic four stitches are when you’re six years old?”

“I told you I was sorry.”

“Yes, you were sorry then and sorry now. My question is, are you tying dogs to wagons again?”

“I want to say no. But—”

“But you can’t.”

“Please, Kate. Just listen?”

“I’m listening.”

“I need to get into Hamilton’s office. I’m sure I could find Feldman if I had a peek inside her desk. You get me in, and I’ll do everything else.”

“How do
I
get you in?”

“You bring Hamilton something that will grab her attention, making her think you’re ready to cut a deal for a baby; then you’ll have to get creative . . . I’m thinking a fake illness might work. Yeah, that’s it. You ask for water or aspirin. She’d have to leave the front office to get it, and that’s when I sneak in and hide in the closet. You depart, she goes home, and I’m free to explore.”

“Are you crazy? At the very least, that’s trespassing.”

“I wouldn’t be jimmying any locks, or climbing into windows. And no one will know but you and me.”

“I—I want to help you, but this?”

“Terry told you how he felt after we left her office, didn’t he? How disgusted he was with Hamilton’s so-called business?”

She nodded. “He said he doesn’t think you have to run an adoption agency as if you’re working the commodities exchange.”

“She’s only in this for the money. Feldman probably operated the same way. She could be his daughter, for all we know, carrying on the family business for another generation. Help me? Please?”

“We could get in serious trouble.”

“And if we do nothing, another woman like Cloris might have her children stolen from her.”

“Okay, so what’s this something you mentioned that’s guaranteed to grab her attention?”

I smiled. “Money, of course.”

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Kate said. It was late afternoon and we were on the way to Galveston.

“You agreed because you’re my loyal, loving sister, not to mention my best friend,” I answered, maneuvering through rush hour traffic. “Besides, behind your placid facade lies a spirit yearning for adventure.”

“You really think this will work? Hamilton sounds like a fairly clever woman. I don’t know how convincing I can be.”

A light rain forced me to turn on the windshield wipers. “You can match wits with Hamilton any day, Kate. Once she sees you’re willing to write a check, you’ll have her right where you want her.”

“But you said she insisted on cash.”

“You’ll say someone told you the price was ten thousand, but never mentioned the cash-only stipulation. She probably won’t even accept your check, but your eagerness to whip out a checkbook will add authenticity to your visit.”

“And what if she’s not there?”

“We try again on your next day off.”

“And what if Hamilton comes back before you’re in the closet? Or what if that door you remembered seeing isn’t a closet?”

“Kate, don’t get yourself worked up. That office was once a foyer, so that door has to be the front closet. And if she does catch me, I’ll confess that my other visits and the one today were lies. I’ll say I’m a reporter doing an adoption series.”

“I see. I’m Jimmy Olsen and you’re Lois Lane. Well, let’s hope we don’t need Superman.”

Though the streets were damp in Galveston, the rain had stopped by the time we reached Parental Advocates. I watched Kate climb the steps to Hamilton’s office, feeling like a mother sending her kid off on the first day of school. As much as Kate trusted my version of how this would go down, Hamilton could do something unforeseen. But still, the bottom line at Parental Advocates was greed, and I was certain Hamilton would be licking her chops after Kate got out her checkbook. Then, if the woman stayed true to form, Kate wouldn’t have a chance to sign her name before the cash-only speech ensued.

A minute after Kate entered the office, I tiptoed up the porch steps, crouched under the railing, and waited there. Ten minutes later, Kate appeared in the window and gave the signal that Hamilton had left the room, probably to fetch the glass of water Hamilton’s very “upset” visitor had requested. The plan was working perfectly so far.

I carefully opened the front door.

And realized I had missed something important. The door chimed.

I quickly opened the closet and sneaked in, reading panic in Kate’s eyes as I eased the door shut. Enveloped in blackness, I prayed Kate would think of an explanation.

When Hamilton returned to the office, I pressed my ear against the door to listen.

“Did someone come in?” Hamilton asked.

“I’m sorry. I felt so faint, I thought fresh air might help. But the humidity made me feel worse than ever.”

Good girl. That ought to fly
. I slowly released my breath.

“You did want ice water, Mrs. Rose?” Hamilton said.

“Yes,” Kate replied. “Thanks so much.”

“Please let me apologize again for upsetting you,” Hamilton said, “but I must refuse your check. We only take cash. Believe me, you don’t want to leave a paper trail.”

Yes!
The same song and dance she’d offered Terry and me.

“If all the contracts are legal, why should it matter?” said Kate. “I mean, do the birth mothers really come back that often to claim their babies?”

“Sadly, yes. That’s why we’ve been so successful at Parental Advocates. We prevent problems like that from happening beforehand. Please bring your husband and we’ll discuss the details.”

“Thanks for seeing me without an appointment. I know you must want to go home,” said Kate. Her chair scraped the floor.

Another chair moved, and Hamilton’s heels clicked a few times on the hardwood. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I guess I’m still woozy. I’ll just take this cup of water with me,” said Kate.

“Would you like a refill before you go?” asked Hamilton.

“No, thanks. I appreciate your time.”

I relaxed at the sound of them walking away. I couldn’t tell if Kate said anything else, but I heard the now-familiar chime as the door opened and closed, then the renewed
rat-a-tatting
of Hamilton’s feet.

Coming toward the closet.

Then her feet obliterated portions of light shining under the door.

Damn!
I was trapped like a lizard under a cat’s paw!

I covered my mouth with my hand, as if that would somehow make me invisible. Then I heard the blessed bleat of the phone and her feet
clackety-clacked
away. I frantically felt around in the darkness, my heart thumping. I touched a large cardboard box . . . hanging clothes . . . stacks of folders . . . several umbrellas leaning in the narrow space between the door and the wall. I climbed on the box, moving what felt like a wool coat in front of me.

Insulated by the fabric, I couldn’t hear her telephone conversation or even if she was headed back my way.

But sure enough, within seconds the door opened. I held my breath again. Peeking through the coat’s folds, I captured her lower body with my left eye. The crimson enamel on her nails flashed as she picked up an umbrella. The storm. Of course. Then she closed the door and darkness enfolded me again.

Lucky for me, all I’d lost was a little confidence. I moved the coat aside in time to hear the metallic turn of—oh, no! That sounded an awful lot like a dead bolt.
Deadbolt, Abby. As in, How the heck will you escape once you’re finished searching?

I’d have to deal with that problem later.

I cracked the door and peered out. Storm clouds completely filled the Gulf of Mexico, and with the front drapes pulled, light barely eked into the office through the leaded-glass window. I had already spotted the motion sensor on my first or second time here and knew I could reach the computer by staying close to the wall. I sidled over, feeling simultaneously silly and scared. Creeping around someone’s office uninvited wasn’t something I had ever imagined myself doing.

The telephone intrigued me, but shutting down the security system was the first order of business. I might not have detectivelike observational skills, but the distinctive ribbon cord leading from the computer to the wall told me Hamilton’s system was hooked up to an extra power supply for several modules behind the computer. This special cord handled electric current along with communication and control signals. Computer-controlled security like this avoided the very expensive rewiring usually required in these older houses for computerized security. I knew all this because CompuCan had an agreement with Intelli-Home, the company that sold this system, and my familiarity with the program would help me turn off the alarms.

I typed a few commands already prepared with an override for the Intelli-Home password, since I’d looked it up ahead of time. I walked through the necessary steps without a glitch, and a message soon flashed, informing me the security system was disengaged. I then started hunting through the files stored on the computer, but found only contract templates, word-processing files, and lists of adoption agencies in every state of the union. No information about clients appeared to be stored here, or they were well hidden.

I found plenty of disks and CDs in a box next to the computer, labeled only with dates, none older than a few months ago. I had no time to load and search all of them, and besides, what I really wanted was information from years back, or anything connecting Feldman to Parental Advocates. I turned my attention to the telephone, a state-of-the-art piece of equipment. Maybe I could find out about Hamilton and Feldman through whatever numbers were stored in the telephone.

I hunted in the desk for the instruction manual and found it within seconds. I perused the index for a last-number-redial feature, then read the directions. The phone displayed the date and time above the number buttons, and next to that, an orange tab labeled FEATURE protruded. To the right and above the numbers were more buttons. To autoredial, I pushed feature three. Not only did the phone dial the number, it displayed the digits where the date and time previously appeared. I quickly wrote the number down and hung up. So what else could Magic Phone do? Back to the manual.

I learned the phone could be programmed to speed-dial up to twelve numbers by using those unlabeled buttons. I pushed each one and jotted down five additional phone numbers on a Post-it note when they appeared in the display window. I stuck the paper in the pocket of my shorts and opened each desk drawer but didn’t find an address book with Feldman’s name agreeably printed under the Fs, nor an appointment schedule conveniently lying around.

I switched my focus to the hall door leading to the rest of the house. What went on back there? Were there filing cabinets chock-full of records?

Time to find out. I opened the door and discovered several lights glowing in the short corridor. But did I stop and consider why these lights were on? Of course not. I charged right in.

Another light, this one tiny and red, flashed up high near the end of the hallway. Miss Smarty-pants Rose had missed something else in her perfect plan.

Smile, Abby. You’re on
Candid Camera.

This video equipment, obviously not hooked up to the computer, needed the hall’s brightness to adequately film unwanted visitors. Unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen this possibility.

Now what? I went down the hall, stood underneath the camera, and squinted up. Could I turn the thing off? And where would the tape be? How could I get it out? The camera was too high for me to reach, so I decided to leave that little problem for now.

I retraced my steps and entered the first room off the corridor. A copier stood against one wall, with a fax machine and document shredder alongside. The filing cabinets tempted me, but they were all locked, with no key to be found.

I reentered the hall and took several steps toward the kitchen end of the house, once again facing the blinking camera.

Then I heard the muffled sound of the chime, the one that had nearly been my downfall earlier.

I stopped dead, my stomach tight with fear, then soundlessly took a giant step to the opposite wall and flattened against the wall. I edged toward the office, positioning myself behind by the door so that if someone came through, I’d be hidden—or so I hoped.

A female voice spoke. Definitely Hamilton.