Harlan Coben (31 page)

“What?”

I rose from the table. “Look, I'm going to see this Bacard guy. I don't plan on hurting anyone, but if he knows something about my daughter, I'm going to find out what it is.”

Verne raised his fist. “Right on.”

I asked Verne if I could keep borrowing the Camaro. He reminded me that he was behind me all the way. I expected Rachel to argue some more. She didn't. Maybe she knew that I would not change my mind. Maybe she knew I was right. Or maybe—perhaps most likely—she had been stunned to learn that her old colleagues had zeroed in on her as the sole serious suspect.

“I'll come with you,” Rachel said.

“No.” My voice left no wiggle room. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, but I knew that I was capable of plenty. “What I said before makes sense.” I could hear my familiar surgeon-tone taking over. “I'll call you when I get to Bacard's office. We hit him and Denise Vanech at the same time.”

I didn't wait for a response. I got back in the Camaro and started toward the MetroVista office complex.

Lydia checked her
surroundings. She was a little more in the open than she liked to be, but that couldn't be helped. She had on the spiky blond wig—the one not unlike Steven Bacard's description of Denise Vanech. She knocked on the door of the efficiency.

The curtain next to the door moved. Lydia smiled. “Tatiana?”

No reply.

She had been warned that Tatiana spoke very little English. Lydia had debated how to play this. Time was critical. Everything and everyone needed to be shut down. When someone who dislikes blood as much as Bacard says that, you immediately understand the ramifications. Lydia and Heshy had split up. She had come down here. They would meet up afterward.

“It's okay, Tatiana,” she said through the door. “I'm here to help.”

There was no movement.

“I'm a friend of Pavel's,” she tried. “You know Pavel?”

The curtain moved. A young woman's face appeared for a brief moment, gaunt and childlike. Lydia nodded at her. The woman still did not open the door. Lydia scanned her surroundings. Nobody looking, but she still felt too exposed. This had to end fast.

“Wait,” Lydia said. Then, looking at the curtain, she reached into her purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and pen. She wrote something down, making sure that if someone was still at the window, they would see exactly what she was doing. She capped the pen and stepped close to the window. Lydia held the piece of paper up to the pane of glass so Tatiana could read it.

It was like drawing a scared cat out from under the sofa. Tatiana
moved slowly. She came toward the window. Lydia stayed still, so as not to startle her. Tatiana leaned closer. Here, kitty, kitty. Lydia could see the girl's face now. She was squinting, trying to see what was on the piece of paper.

When Tatiana came close enough, Lydia pressed the barrel of the gun against the glass and aimed between the young girl's eyes. At the last second, Tatiana tried to veer away. Too little, too late. The bullet went clean through the glass and into Tatiana's right eye. Blood appeared. Lydia fired again, automatically tilting the gun downward. It caught the falling Tatiana in the top of the forehead. But the second bullet had been superfluous. The first shot, the one in the eye, had ripped into the brain and killed the young girl instantly.

Lydia hurried away. She risked a glance behind her. No one. When she reached the neighboring mall, she dumped the wig and the white coat. She found her car in a lot another half mile away.

 

I called Rachel when I arrived at MetroVista. She was parked down the street from Denise Vanech's house. We were both ready to go.

I'm not sure what I expected to happen here. I guess I figured that I would explode into Bacard's office, stick my gun in his face, and demand answers. What I hadn't foreseen was a regular, state-of-the-state office setup—that is, Steven Bacard had a well-appointed reception area. There were two people waiting—a married couple, by all appearances. The husband had his face stuck in a waiting-room-laminated
Sports Illustrated
. The wife looked to be in pain. She tried to smile at me, but it was as if the effort would wound her.

I realized how shoddy I must look. I was still in my hospital scrubs. I was unshaven. My eyes were undoubtedly red from lack of sleep. My hair, I imagined, was probably sticking up in a textbook case of bedhead.

The receptionist was behind one of those sliding glass windows I usually associate with a dental practice. The woman—a small nameplate read
AGNES WEISS
—smiled at me sweetly.

“May I help you?”

“I'm here to see Mr. Bacard.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She kept the tone sweet, but there was a rhetorical twang there too. She already knew the answer.

“This is an emergency,” I said.

“I see. Are you a client of ours, Mr. . . . ?”

“Doctor,” I snapped back automatically. “Tell him Dr. Marc Seidman needs to see him immediately. Tell him it's an emergency.”

The young couple was watching us now. The receptionist's sweet smile began to falter. “Mr. Bacard's schedule is very full today.” She opened her appointment ledger. “Let me see when we have something available, okay?”

“Agnes, look at me.”

She did.

I gave her my gravest, you-might-die-if-I-don't-operate-right-away expression. “Tell him Dr. Seidman is here. Tell him it's an emergency. Tell him if he doesn't see me now, I will go to the police.”

The young couple exchanged a glance.

Agnes adjusted herself in the chair. “If you'll just have a seat—”

“Tell him.”

“Sir, if you don't step back, I'll call security.”

So I stepped back. I could always step forward again. Agnes did not pick up the phone. I moved to a nonthreatening distance. She slid the little window closed. The couple looked at me. The husband said, “She's covering for him.”

The wife said, “Jack!”

Jack ignored her. “Bacard ran out of here half an hour ago. That receptionist keeps telling us he'll be right back.”

I noticed a wall of photographs. Now I took a closer look. The same man was in all of them with a potpourri of politicos, quasi celebrities, gone-to-flab athletes. Steven Bacard, I assumed. I stared at the man's face—pudgy, weak chinned, country-club shiny.

I thanked the man named Jack and started for the door. Bacard's office was on the first floor, so I decided to wait by the entrance. This way, I could catch him unawares on neutral ground and before Agnes had a chance to warn him. Five minutes passed. Several suits came and went, all harried from their days of printer toner and paperweights, dragged down by briefcases the size of car trunks. I paced the corridor.

Another couple entered. I could tell right away by their tentative steps and shattered eyes that they, too, were heading for Bacard's
office. I watched them and wondered what path they had taken here. I saw them getting married, holding hands, kissing freely, making love in the morning. I saw their careers begin to thrive. I saw them feel the pang and segue toward the initial attempts at conceiving, the wait-till-next-month shrug when the home tests were negative, the slowly blossoming worry. A year passes. Still nothing. Their friends are starting to have children now and talk about them incessantly. Their parents are wondering when they'll have grandkids. I see them visiting the doctor—“a specialist”—the endless probing for the woman, the humiliation of masturbating into a beaker for the man, the personal questions, the blood and urine samples. More years pass. Their friends drift away. Making love is now strictly about procreation. It is calculated. It is always tinged with sadness. He stops holding her hand. She rolls over at night unless it's the right time in her cycle. I see the drugs, the Pergonal, the ridiculously expensive in-vitro fertilization, the time off from work, the checking of calendars, the same home tests, the crushing disappointments.

And now they were here.

No, I didn't know if any of this was really the case. But somehow I suspected that I was close. How far, I wondered, would they go to end this pain? How much would they pay?

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

I jerked my head toward the scream. A man banged through the door.

“Call nine-one-one!”

I ran toward him. “What is it?”

I heard another scream. I ran through the door and outside. Yet another scream, this one more high pitched. I turned to my right. Two women were running out of the lower-level parking garage. I sprinted down the ramp. I slipped past the gate where you pick up your parking ticket. Someone else was calling for help, begging people to call 911.

Up ahead, I saw a security guard shouting into a walkie-talkie of some sort. He broke into a full gallop too. I followed him. When we turned the corner, the security guard pulled up. There was a woman next to him. She had her hands on her cheeks and was screaming. I ran next to them and looked down.

The body was jammed between two cars. His eyes stared open at nothing. His face was still pudgy, weak chinned, country-club shiny. The blood flowed from the wound in his head. The world teetered again.

Steven Bacard, maybe my last hope, was dead.

Rachel rang the
doorbell. Denise Vanech had one of those pretentious chimes that ring up and then down the scale. The sun was all the way up now. The sky was blue and clear. On the street, two women power-walked carrying tiny mauve dumbbells. They nodded at Rachel, never missing a step. Rachel nodded back.

The intercom sounded. “Yes?”

“Denise Vanech?”

“Who is this please?”

“My name is Rachel Mills. I used to work with the FBI.”

“Did you say, used to?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk, Ms. Vanech.”

“About what?”

Rachel sighed. “Could you please just open the door?”

“Not until I know what this is about.”

“The young girl you just visited in Union City. It's about her. For starters.”

“I'm sorry. I don't discuss my patients.”

“I said, for starters.”

“Why would a former FBI agent be interested in any of this anyway?”

“Would you prefer I call a current agent?”

“I don't care what you do, Ms. Mills. I have nothing else to say to you. If the FBI has questions, they can call my lawyer.”

“I see,” Rachel said. “And would your lawyer be Steven Bacard?”

There was a brief silence. Rachel glanced back at the car.

“Ms. Vanech?”

“I don't have to talk to you.”

“No, that's true. I'll start going door-to-door maybe. Talk to your neighbors.”

“And say what?”

“I'll ask them if they know anything about a baby-smuggling operation that runs out of this house.”

The door opened quickly. Denise Vanech with her tan skin and white hair pushed her head through the door. “I'll sue you for libel.”

“Slander,” Rachel said.

“What?“

“Slander. Libel is for the printed word. Slander is for the spoken. You mean slander. But either way, you'd have to prove what I'm saying is untrue. And we both know better.”

“You have no evidence I've done anything wrong.”

“Sure I do.”

“I was treating a woman who claimed to be ill. That's all.”

Rachel pointed up the lawn. Katarina stepped out of the car. “And what about this former patient?”

Denise Vanech put a hand to her mouth.

“She'll testify that you paid her money for her baby.”

“No, she won't. They'll arrest her.”

“Oh sure, right, the FBI would much rather crack down on a poor Serbian woman than break up a baby-smuggling ring. That's rich.”

When Denise Vanech paused, Rachel pushed open the door. “Mind if I come in?”

“You have it wrong,” she said quietly.

“Cool.” Rachel was inside now. “You can correct me on all my misgivings.”

Denise Vanech seemed suddenly unsure what to do. With one more look at Katarina, she slowly closed the front door. Rachel was already heading into the den. It was white. Totally white. White sectional couches against a white carpet. White porcelain statues of naked women riding horses. White coffee table, white side tables, and two of those white ergonomic-looking chairs with no backs. Denise followed her in. Her white clothes blended into the background, camouflagelike, making it look like her head and arms were floating.

“What do you want?”

“I'm looking for a specific child.”

Denise let her eyes wander toward the door. “Hers?”

She was talking about Katarina.

“No.”

“It wouldn't matter. I don't know anything about placement.”

“You're a midwife, correct?”

She folded the smooth, muscular arms under her bosom. “I'm not answering any of your questions.”

“See, Denise, I know most of it. I just need you to fill in a few blanks.” Rachel sat on the vinyl couch. Denise Vanech didn't move. “You have people in a foreign country. Maybe more than one country, I don't know. But I know about Serbia. So let's start there. You have people there who recruit girls. The girls come over pregnant, but they don't mention that at customs. You deliver the baby. Maybe here, maybe you have another spot, I don't know.”

“You don't know a lot.”

Rachel smiled. “I know enough.”

Denise put her hands on her hips now. Her poses all seemed unnatural, as if she practiced them in front of a mirror.

“Anyway, the women have the babies. You pay them. You turn the baby over to Steven Bacard. He works for desperate couples who might be willing to bend the rules. They adopt the child.”

“That's a nice story.”

“Are you saying it's fiction?”

Denise grinned. “Total fiction.”

“Cool, fine.” She took out her cell phone. “Then let me call the feds. I'll introduce them to Katarina. They can go down to Union City and grill Tatiana. They can start going through your phone records, your finances—”

Denise started waving her hands. “Okay, okay, tell me what you want. I mean, you said you're not an FBI agent anymore. So what do you want with me?”

“I want to know how it works.”

“You trying to cut yourself in?”

“No.”

Denise waited a beat. “You said before that you're looking for a specific kid.”

“Yes.”

“You're working for someone, then?”

Rachel shook her head. “Look, Denise, you don't have a lot of options here. You either tell me the truth or you do serious jail time.”

“And if I do tell you what I know?”

“Then I'll leave you out of it,” Rachel said. It was a lie. But it was an easy one. This woman was involved in baby selling. There was no way Rachel was just going to let that go.

Denise sat. The tan seemed to be leaving her face. She looked suddenly older. The lines around her mouth and eyes deepened. “It's not what you think,” she began.

Rachel waited.

“We aren't hurting anyone. The truth is, we're helping.”

Denise Vanech picked up her purse—white, of course—and dug out a cigarette. She offered one to Rachel. Rachel shook her off.

“Do you know anything about orphanages in poor countries?” Denise asked.

“Just what I see on PBS documentaries.”

Denise lit the cigarette and drew a deep breath. “They are beyond awful. They may house forty babies to one nurse. The nurse is uneducated. The job is often a political favor. Some of the children are abused. Many are born drug dependent. The medical care—”

“I get the picture,” Rachel said. “It's bad.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And we've found a way to save some of these children.”

Rachel sat back and crossed her legs. She could see where this was going. “You pay pregnant women to fly over and sell you their babies?”

“That's hyperbole,” she said.

Rachel shrugged. “How would you put it?”

“Put yourself in their position. You are a poor woman—and I mean poor—maybe a prostitute or somehow involved in white slavery. You are dirt. You have nothing. Some man knocks you up. You can abort or, if your religion forbids that, you can stick the kid in a godforsaken orphanage.”

“Or,” Rachel added, “if they're lucky, they end up with you?”

“Yes. We will give them adequate medical care. We will offer financial restitution. And most importantly, we will make sure that
their baby is placed in a loving home with caring, financially stable parents.”

“Financially stable,” Rachel repeated. “As in wealthy?”

“The service is expensive,” she admitted. “But let me ask you something now. Take your friend out there. Katarina you said her name was?”

Rachel kept still.

“What would her life be like right now if we hadn't brought her here? What would her child's life be like?”

“I don't know. I don't know what you did with her child.”

Denise smiled. “Fine, be argumentative. But you know what I mean. Do you think the baby would be better off with a dirt-poor prostitute in a war-torn hellhole—or with a caring family here in the United States?”

“I see,” Rachel said, trying not to squirm. “So you're sort of like the world's most wonderful social worker. This is charity work you're doing?”

Denise chuckled. “Look around you. I have expensive taste. I live in a ritzy neighborhood. I have a kid in college. I like to vacation in Europe. We have a house in the Hamptons. I do this because it's incredibly profitable. But so what? Who cares about my motives? My motives don't change the conditions in those orphanages.”

“I still don't understand,” Rachel said. “The women sell you their babies.”

“They give us their babies,” she corrected. “In return, we offer financial restitution—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You get the baby. They get money. But then what? There has to be paperwork on the child, otherwise the government would step in. They wouldn't just let Bacard keep running adoptions like this.”

“True.”

“So how do you work it?”

She smiled. “You plan on busting me, don't you?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do.”

She was still smiling. “You'll remember I cooperated, right?”

“Yes.”

Denise Vanech pressed her palms together and closed her eyes. It looked as if she might be praying. “We hire American mothers.”

Rachel made a face. “Excuse me?”

“For example, let's say Tatiana is about to have the baby. We might hire you, Rachel, to pose as the mother. You'd go to vital records at your town hall. You'd tell them you're pregnant and going to have a home birth, so there won't be a hospital record. They give you forms to fill out. They never check to see if you're really pregnant. How would they? It's not like they can give you a gynecological exam.”

Rachel sat back. “Jesus.”

“It's pretty simple when you think about it. There is no record that Tatiana is going to have a baby. There is a record that you are. I deliver the baby. I sign as the attending witness to your child being born. You become the mother. Bacard has you fill in the paperwork for adoption. . . .” She shrugged.

“So the adopting parents never learn the truth?”

“No, but they don't look too hard either. They're desperate. They don't want to know.”

Rachel suddenly felt drained.

“And before you turn us in,” Denise went on, “consider something else. We've been doing this for almost ten years now. That means there are children who've been happily placed with families that long. Dozens. All of those adoptions will be considered null and void. The birth mothers can come over here and demand their children back. Or take a payoff. You'd be ripping apart a lot of lives.”

Rachel shook her head. It was too much to consider right now. Another time. She was getting off track. Had to keep her eye on the prize. She turned and squared her shoulders. She looked Denise deep in the eye.

“So how does Tara Seidman fit into all this?”

“Who?”

“Tara Seidman.”

Now it was Denise's turn to look confused. “Wait a second. Wasn't that the little girl kidnapped in Kasselton?”

Rachel's cell phone rang. She checked the Caller ID and saw it was Marc. She was just about to press the answer button when a man stepped into view. Her breath stopped. Sensing something, Denise turned around. She jumped back at the sight.

It was the man from the park.

His hands were huge, making the gun he now pointed at Rachel look like a child's toy. He wiggled his fingers in her direction. “Give me the phone.”

Rachel handed it to him, trying her best to avoid his touch. The man put the barrel of the gun against her head. “Now give me your gun.”

Rachel reached into her handbag. He told her to lift it into view with two fingers. She complied. The phone rang for the fourth time.

The man hit the answer button and said, “Dr. Seidman?”

Even Rachel could hear the reply. “Who is this?”

“We're all at Denise Vanech's house now. You will come here unarmed and alone. I will tell you all about your daughter then.”

“Where's Rachel?”

“She's right here. You have thirty minutes. I will tell you what you need to know. You have a tendency to try to be cute in these situations. But not this time or your friend Ms. Mills dies first. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

The man hung up the phone. He looked down at Rachel. His eyes were brown with a gold center. They looked almost gentle, the eyes of a doe. Then the big man swung his gaze toward Denise Vanech. She flinched. A smile came to the man's lips.

Rachel saw what he was about to do.

She shouted, “No!” as the big man aimed the gun at Denise Vanech's chest and fired three shots. All three hit dead center. Denise's body went slack. She slid off the couch and onto the floor. Rachel started to stand, but now the gun was pointed at her.

“Stay put.”

Rachel obeyed. Denise Vanech was clearly dead. Her eyes were open. Her blood streamed down, the color startlingly red against a sea of white.