Authors: Rick Mofina
36
Chicago, Illinois
K
rystal wore a little too much makeup.
That was to be expected of a twenty-two-year-old cosmetician who worked at a mall in Indianapolis, Hedda Knight thought.
She had agreed to meet Krystal at a downtown Chicago coffee shop after she’d responded to one of Hedda’s online ads.
Krystal was “so intensely serious” about becoming a surrogate because she needed to boost her savings. Her boyfriend, “Dack,” had dumped her. She was going to move to L.A. to study acting. A psychic—
a real one
—told her she was destined to be famous.
“I was awesome in
Pygmalion
...my high school drama class staged it,” Krystal said. “One last question—what happens to the baby if the parents change their minds? Like, do I have to keep it?”
“That never happens. We have long lists of parents. So no, you wouldn’t have to keep it.”
Krystal bit her lip. She’d been taking notes in a small pad. Sunlight glinted off of her neon-metallic nails as she doodled while pondering. Hedda made an obvious display of checking the time on her phone, signaling an end to their meeting.
“It’s really sixty thousand?” Krystal asked.
“If all goes smoothly, and it usually does, then yes, that is the amount you receive. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” Hedda collected her things. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Krystal. Think it over and contact me if you have more questions.”
Outside, Hedda ended any further thought of Krystal.
These days she rarely met with potential surrogates, but this had been one way to use her time while she awaited word on her problem case: Chelsea Drew-Flynn and Remy Toxton.
As Hedda walked along Randolph Street she checked her phone.
No news from her investigator, Ed Bascom.
In addition to having Bascom track Remy and her ex-con boyfriend, Hedda had launched other efforts to salvage the case. She’d had several members of her support staff pose as people desperate for a new Caucasian baby boy. She’d instructed them to call her competitors, who ran international adoption agencies, and enquire about deliverability in the shortest time frame, and to hint at a “bonus” payment if they could circumvent any waiting list.
In every case so far, all attempts had been futile. The wait was too long. One agency out of Europe hinted at something in six months. Even if Hedda had succeeded in finding a new baby boy, Chelsea rightfully regarded Remy and Fyodor’s baby as hers. She’d fallen in love with this couple. A substitution would be a challenge, but she’d done it before.
Hedda was growing increasingly fearful of the possibility that Remy may have been among the dead or missing in the wake of the tornadoes that devastated parts of Texas and other states.
It would account for why Bascom had failed to pick up any activity on Remy or Mason’s credit cards, bank cards, or cell phones.
I don’t know,
Hedda thought.
We have no proof that’s what happened
.
If Remy lost the baby, she might have been encouraged by her ex-con boyfriend to flee in order to hang on to the fifteen thousand. Or, she may have decided to keep the baby, a possibility that Hedda doubted, based on her experience with surrogates.
Hedda’s phone vibrated with a message from Chelsea Drew-Flynn.
I want to talk. Can I call now?
Hedda stopped walking and gathered her thoughts.
Be careful, you are not going to blow this
. She took a moment then responded.
Yes, call me now.
A few seconds later, Hedda’s phone rang.
“Any news?” Chelsea asked.
“Nothing concrete, but we’re very hopeful.”
“You think the mother is having second thoughts?”
“It’s...possible. But as I say, we are hopeful.”
Chelsea sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “All right, you can work out your commission or whatever you do, but I’m prepared to offer seven hundred and fifty thousand to help her change her mind, conditional upon me holding my son within two weeks.”
Hedda steadied herself on a
Chicago Tribune
news box. She swallowed, her mind assessing it all, as she cleared her throat.
“The agreement is written for two hundred. We’d have to—”
“Yes, yes, you make any changes necessary for me to initial, sign, whatever. Call the increase a gift, call it whatever you like, but I want my son and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it happen. Is that clear?”
“Understood.”
“Moreover, I had indicated to you that I know of other women very anxious to adopt a new baby, including one, actually two, who will pay over seven figures.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m willing to recommend your agency to them, if you don’t screw this up. My friends have very large networks of affluent people.”
“All right.”
“If you fail to deliver on our agreement, I’ll have to explore all my options. Do I make myself clear?”
“Absolutely.”
The call ended.
For several seconds, Hedda stood there on the busy street staring at her phone in disbelief. The stakes had gone up.
Way up.
37
Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas
S
helby Nix scratched his three-days’-growth beard as he reviewed registrations for the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel while watching commercials on the big flat-screen TV in reception.
For the past eight years he had been manager of the two-story inn that sat at the city’s southeast edge. Every now and then the ex-navy cook thought about buying the place from the owners who lived in Florida. The glory of the old motel, like its worn, embroidered towels, was fading and it barely broke even. This week was good, he thought; they were at ninety percent, thanks to the tornadoes, but today they had a lot of departures. Shelby was clicking through the guest log on his computer at the counter when the phone rang.
“Tumbleweed Motel,” he said.
“Shell, I can’t make it in today.”
His hand reflexively tightened on the handset at the sound of Daisy Culpepper’s whiny voice. She was the most senior of his four housekeepers, but even if the good Lord and all his apostles helped her, Daisy could not work a full week. He’d warned her several times.
“It’s my back, again. I’m in pain.”
“Daisy, you’re done. I’ll mail you your final check and pink slip.”
“What?”
“You’re fired.”
“But Shell—my doc—”
Shelby ended the call and started another to his junior housekeeper, Maria Mendosa.
“Hi, Maria, it’s Shelby at the motel,” he said in Spanish.
“Hi, Shelby.”
“If your cousin’s still looking for work, tell her to come with you today.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic! I will tell her! Thank you, thank you very much!”
Maria never missed a day and her work was stellar. He was confident her cousin would be a good hire. Upon hanging up, he dismissed any remorse over firing Daisy. Hell, the woman lived a block from the motel but always had an excuse not to make it into work. For the next several moments he reviewed her attendance record.
It was dreadful.
No, he thought, it had to be done. She’s gone.
Shelby’s eyes then flicked to the TV, where he saw the President’s face. The news was on. He used the remote to increase the volume. The White House was confirming the President’s upcoming visit to the Metroplex and its hardest-hit regions.
The commander-in-chief’s coming to town. How about that,
Shelby thought.
That report was followed by one showing sketches of two people sought by police.
“The FBI is investigating the case of a baby boy, five-month-old Caleb Cooper of Dallas, who vanished from his mother’s hold in the storm at the Old Southern Glory Flea Market near Kleberg.
The FBI says the baby’s clothing was found under suspicious circumstances 20 miles away in Duncanville. They are appealing to the public for help locating two persons of interest—a white male and white female, who may be traveling with the baby.”
After providing descriptions of the couple, the TV news displayed two sketches of the woman and two of the man.
Shelby pressed the button on the remote to replay the details.
The woman could have short spiky red hair, or shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.
Shelby replayed the details again and again then hit the pause button for the part of the report that displayed all four images at once.
“Damn,” he said aloud.
“Excuse me?”
Two older women were standing at the counter, waiting to check out.
“I’m sorry, ladies, just caught up in the news,” Shelby said. “How was everything?”
“Fine,” the taller one said.
“The bed was lumpy—you need to get a new mattress,” her friend said.
“Our apologies, I’ll take ten percent off your account. And how will you be settling with us today?”
The taller one placed her credit card on the counter. Shelby processed their bill, provided a receipt and thanked them. Then he resumed studying the report.
Hell, I think it’s them,
he said to himself.
I think they’re here
.
Unit 21. That couple with the baby. They were arguing yesterday, disturbing everyone near them, prompting complaints.
Shelby’s fingers clicked on the keyboard and he looked up their account. Luke and Ashley Johnson. They didn’t list the baby’s name, which was fine. They gave their address as Houston, no other details. They paid cash in advance to last five nights.
They haven’t checked out yet.
Shelby scratched his beard.
He looked under the counter at the small TV screen that displayed images from the motel’s security cameras. The insurance company insisted the owners install them, but they went with a cheaper system. Shelby manipulated the images to show the view of the lot and unit doors by the north side, including Unit 21. Their pickup truck was gone.
Blinking, Shelby gave the situation more consideration.
Then he reached under the counter for the little laminated clock sign and set it to read: Be Back in 10 Minutes.
He walked along the north side of the motel, coming to Unit 21. He pressed his ear to the door and heard voices, quickly determining that it was the TV over the drone of the air conditioner.
Someone’s in there.
Walking back to the office, Shelby recalled how the woman definitely had red spiky hair when they checked in and that maybe she changed it, made it darker—he wasn’t sure, but she definitely had a baby that was screaming. She was definitely with a man who had the height, build and tattoos that fit the description. By the time he’d returned to the office he was convinced that the young woman and man wanted by the FBI were in Unit 21.
First, Shelby had to take care of the guests who were at his counter waiting to check out. Once he finished their transactions, he reached for his phone.
His pulse quickened as he pressed 911.
38
Dallas, Texas
T
he day after Kate Page broke the story on the FBI’s investigation into the baby’s case, she arrived at her desk at 6:45 a.m.
The stream of radio dispatches coming from the emergency scanners echoed in the morning calm of the desolate newsroom. At this hour, the only other person in the bureau was Tommy Koop, the news assistant, who was listening to the scanners.
After settling in, Kate sifted through her notes and the business cards she’d collected. Like a miner panning for gold, she searched for a new lead for her story. Given that the FBI had blitzed the press last night with an appeal for help in Caleb Cooper’s case, the first person she reached out to was FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan. She’d established a good relationship with him at the shelter and emailed him.
Hi, Agent Grogan: Are there any breaks rising from the appeal? I’m willing to discuss trading any data that comes our way.—Kate Page, Newslead
Most investigators, the good ones, wanted to keep all channels of information open.
Kate went online and stared at the sketches of the woman and man wanted by the FBI.
Who are these people? We’ve got to be getting closer to finding out what happened to the baby
.
Something’s got to break on this.
Dr. Butler at the shelter had given Kate her phone number, so she texted her, as well.
Kate sent messages to Jenna and Blake Cooper, and Jenna’s sister, Holly, asking if there were any developments. As she began checking local news outlets and other news agencies to see if anyone had advanced her story, a large mug of steaming coffee appeared on her desk.
“Congratulations.” Tommy stood before her. “Your item got play everywhere—
Boston Globe, Miami Herald, New York Daily News, Denver Post, Los Angeles Times
. It was tweeted like crazy. Nice work.”
“Thanks, Tommy. What’s happening on the scanners?”
“Not much, the usual rush-hour traffic problems.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, so far. You know, Kate, your story blew Roy and Mandy out of the water. I don’t think Dorothea had counted on you being so good.”
“Kind of you to say. But in this business, you’re only as good as your last story. Roy and Mandy are strong reporters.”
“When the internship ends they’d be crazy if they don’t hire you.”
The scanners flared.
“Is something up?” Kate had put in enough years on the police desk to know how to keep an ear cocked for the telltale signs of emotion or urgency seeping into a dispatcher’s voice.
Tommy turned his attention to the scanners.
“Not sure,” he said. “There was a noninjury four-car pileup on LBJ causing a lot of headaches. I’ll check it out.”
He returned to his desk.
Several long minutes passed and all seemed quiet. Tommy continued concentrating on the flow of transmissions.
As Kate resumed working, her screen saver displayed her daughter’s smiling face, and she was struck with a sudden, overwhelming need to hold her. It felt as if they’d been apart for a lifetime. Kate glanced at the time. It was an hour later in Ohio. She checked to see if any of her sources had responded yet. No one had.
She texted her friend Heather in Canton.
Hi, Heather. I’m missing Grace. Is now a good time to call her?
Heather’s response came back within seconds.
Sure is. I’ll give her the phone. You hanging in there?
Doing my best. Calling now.
A moment later, Kate’s heart swelled when she heard her daughter’s voice on her cell phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. Did you have a good sleep?”
“Yup.”
“I forgot to ask you last night, did you have fun at the movie with Aubrey and your friends?”
“
Uh-hhuhh,
and guess what happened?”
Kate’s computer pinged with a message from Chuck:
Good story, Kate. What’ve you got for a follow today?
Kate held her cell phone to her ear with her shoulder and typed:
Working on it. Checking with sources.
“What happened, sweetie?” she asked her daughter.
“Well,” Grace said, “Billy Franklin tried to hold Aubrey’s hand. I think he’s in love with her because he said she was pretty.”
Chuck responded:
Keep digging. We own this story and need to stay in front.
Kate’s focus shifted to Tommy who’d increased the volume of the scanners and was now taking note of some of the dispatches.
“And what did Aubrey do?”
“She told him boys are smelly.”
Tommy was now headed for Kate’s desk with a note in his hand.
“Oh, that’s all so silly. Listen, sweetie, I’m sorry but I have to go now. I miss you and I love you a whole bunch.”
“I miss you and I love you, too.”
Kate hung up. “What’s up, Tommy?”
“Dallas SWAT is rolling on a location in the southeast. It came in through 911. They think the two people are in a motel.”
“Got an address?” Kate stood, collecting her things.
“I’m working on it. I’ve alerted Mark Danson. He was on his way here when he heard it on his scanner. He’ll pick you up downstairs, out front in ten minutes.”