The Pied Piper (57 page)

Boldt picked up Daphne at the door to baggage claim at 11:15
P.M.
, Central Time. She carried a hanging bag, a purse and a leather briefcase.

Boldt drove.

“I never want to go through that again,” she said. “I'm not a very good liar.”

“It worked?” he asked.

“They believed me. They bought into it. They trusted me.” She glanced over at him, the oncoming headlights pulsing across her face. “Has it occurred to you that we've stooped to being exactly like them, like the Crowleys? You and me. We're con artists. We lie to people. We cheat them. I threw up during the flight. It wasn't air sickness.”

Cars cried past in a whine of rubber and engine.

“But they bought it?” he asked, repeating himself. He wanted every detail.

“I walked into their home, flashed my badge too quickly for them to get a look and reintroduced myself as being with Health and Welfare. I visited their child asleep in the nursery. It was Rhonda Shotz.”

Boldt glanced over at her, and back to the highway.

“I inspected the house, including their bedroom, the kitchen, the garage—even the child seat. I played my role.”

“Paperwork?” he asked.

“Chevalier brokers the adoptions. My guess is that the Hudsons have no idea what they're into. They think they bought off an attorney to move them up a list. I worked the money issue. They were well rehearsed. I was shown a single check made out to one Gloria Afferton in the amount of her medical expenses: nine thousand and change. A second to Chevalier for services rendered: five thousand, the maximum allowed for a private adoption in Kentucky. I suppose the rest was cash or stocks or bonds. Who knows?”

“Their impression of Chevalier?”

“He's a little slick for their tastes. The wife believes their child is an unwanted baby from a prominent family, just as Chevalier represented it. They don't care. They would have bought any explanation. The rest of the process fit with Kentucky law for interstate adoptions: a Louisiana social worker, a woman, phoned several times with questions for them.”

“Lisa Crowley,” Boldt supplied.

“Probably.” She spoke quietly, clearly rattled from the interview. “They sent the social worker videos of their home and their neighborhood; they notarized documents; they mailed their checks; they waited.”

“Were they asked for photos of themselves? Videos?” Boldt asked. The issue was crucial to Daphne's plan.

“They claimed not. It makes sense. An adoption can't be refused based on how an adoptive parent looks. If anything, such a request could appear discriminatory.”

Since it was critical to their success, Boldt hoped no photos had been sent. “Delivery?”

“The baby was brought to Chevalier's office by the social worker. They were in and out in less than an hour.”

“Judge Adams?”

“They never met him, no. But his name is on the documents.” She hesitated. “I saw the documents. As far as I could tell, they're in order, Lou. I think the Hudsons have what would pass as a legitimate adoption.”

“Chevalier kept it all in order,” he said. “He let them be the ones to transfer the child across interstate borders. Someone delivers the child to the city, the adoptive parents take the child away. He's careful.”

“And Rhonda Shotz?” he asked.

“Peaceful. Asleep in her nursery. I gave them a clean bill of health and went my way. And you'll love this: They asked me to pass along their best wishes to Miss Chambers, the social worker. Lisa Crowley evidently makes a good impression.”

“It's a living,” Boldt said sarcastically.

“And the Brehmers?” she asked.

“They have a nursery all set up. Nothing's been used. Diaper Genie is empty. Most of the outfits still have their tags on them—haven't been washed yet. It's a nursery in waiting.”

“That's it? That's all we have?”

“Calendar by the phone in the kitchen has a line through the weekend, the word NO underneath. Caps. New Orleans. It's them. Couldn't find the March phone bill, might not be there yet, but February they were calling Chevalier's office about once a week. It's them,” he repeated. “Trudy Kittridge,” he muttered.

“Damn,” she said, turning away and rolling down the window to allow the air inside. “Awful business.” Her shoulders tightened and he thought she was crying.

His cell phone vibrated and he answered it, met by a woman's distinctive voice that spoke the words, “Skagit County.” Theresa Russo, the computer expert he had consulted on Sarah's ransom video.

“Come again?”

“The cable company that boxed in the severe weather notice around CNN. It provides service to Skagit. The notice concerned a flood warning.”

“You're working late.”

“Message was buried on my E-mail. Thirty-five new messages. It's been there two days, I'm afraid. Sorry about that. Thought you'd like to know.”

“Skagit?” he asked. “We're certain about that?”

“Positive,” she said. “It's good for your investigation, isn't it? I mean, how many FedEx trucks can be assigned to Skagit? A hell of a lot fewer than in downtown Seattle, I'll tell you that.”

“Any contacts at FedEx?”

“I may know someone who knows someone in data processing,” she said. “It's a pretty small community. We may even supply them—I'd have to check.”

“Check,” he said. “Data processing should have all the logs and manifests. That's what we're after.”

“You want me to try, or do you want to do it?” she asked.

“You mind?”

“No problem. Routes and times for all Skagit deliveries?”

“March twenty-fifth.”

“I've got that already.” He could feel her hesitation before she asked, “How is Liz? I heard she's out, isn't she?”

The way she said it, it sounded to him more like a jail sentence. Maybe that was right. “She's home,” he confirmed. “Doing fine.” He glanced at the car's clock. He had promised to call but couldn't remember when they had arranged. He had no idea if she was doing fine or not. He said, “At the risk of sounding like a jerk, the sooner—”

“Understood. What do I do if I get something? E-mail it to you?”

“How about dropping it off with Liz?”

“Done. I'd love to see her anyway.”

He thanked her and disconnected.

“Anything important?” Daphne asked, working a tissue at her nose.

She knew his voice too well, knew him too well. She had discerned his excitement, his anticipation. He had not told his team about the FedEx truck; he had kept that one to himself, though he wasn't certain why. More lies. They didn't bother him anymore. He knew he was in trouble.

He was saved from any discussion. The Brehmers' house appeared on their left.

Boldt parked the rental on the street, certain that the next twenty to thirty minutes were crucial to the rescue of Trudy Kittridge and, thereby, Sarah. Together, he and Daphne climbed the slate steps toward the front door in silence, each reflecting on the importance of their performances. “You understand—”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “I do. Perfectly well.”

Boldt pushed the doorbell, which to him felt more like pulling a trigger. Brad Brehmer peered through the crack in the door—baby-faced but handsome.
Honest looking
. Boldt thought. A
churchgoer
, thought Daphne. He had dark hair, a sharp jaw, a sardonic smile. He wore khakis and a button-down blue Oxford shirt. It was past eleven. The news played in the background. “Help you?” he asked, with only a hint of a southern accent.

“This is Lt. Lou Boldt,” she introduced. “I'm Daphne Matthews. We're police, Mr. Brehmer.” They produced their identification, but quickly, hoping the man might miss their jurisdiction.

“SPD?” Brehmer inquired, his throat dry like the air. He hadn't missed a thing. “Where's that?”

“Seattle,” she answered.

“You're a long way from home.”

Boldt said, “It's late. Sorry about that.”

Brehmer hesitated. The moment was awkward. “You mind if I see those again? You mind passing them through?”

They did as he asked. Brehmer shut and locked the front door. A long sixty seconds later, he reopened it and invited them inside.

“Is your wife at home, Mr. Brehmer?” Daphne asked. “We'd like to speak to both of you if we might.”

“We were out tonight,” he clarified as if asked. Appropriately nervous and anxious. Daphne approved. “A celebration dinner.” The room looked bigger to Boldt with the lights on.

“Celebrating the adoption,” Daphne said, stinging the man. Above all things, she needed to maintain the upper hand.

“Cindy!” the husband called out somewhat desperately, “put something on and get out here.”

“Nice house,” Boldt said.

“You want to show us the nursery?”

“Cindy.”

Cindy Brehmer, a woman who would look twenty-five for the next ten years, entered the living room wearing a terry cloth robe that hung to mid-thigh. The moment she saw Boldt and Matthews, she reversed course abruptly. “My God, Brad!” she complained.

“Stay. They're police.”

“I don't care who they are. You will please excuse me,” she apologized, and beat a hasty retreat. Five minutes later, she returned with her face on, wearing jeans and a pajama top.

Introductions followed. Small, with a petite waist and frail hands, her large, expressive eyes and her dark coloring conveyed a demanding presence. With a thicker accent than her husband, she practiced her southern hospitality, enjoying the sound of her own voice as she prattled on about a visit she and a sorority sister had made to Seattle a decade earlier. She said, “I'm sure I've never had better crab cakes in my life.”

Boldt missed the crab cakes, the smell of the water, the vivid sunsets over the Olympics. More than anything, he missed little Sarah.

The resulting silence hung heavily in the room.

The husband said, “They mentioned the adoption, Hon.”

Daphne offered Boldt a side glance, drew in a deep breath and began cautiously. “It's a delicate matter. Confidential. We ask you to respect that.”

“We'll respect it a lot better when you tell us what it is you want,” Brad Brehmer said, impatiently. He knew how much they had paid Chevalier for the child. He sensed the trouble well ahead of his wife, who couldn't sit still.

Boldt explained, “We're investigating a series of kidnappings.”

Clearly confusing them both, Daphne added, “Our purpose here is to inform you, to warn you, to attempt to keep you out of criminal proceedings, which are almost certain to happen if you adopt this child.”

“Oh, God.” Cindy Brehmer understood then what her husband already knew. “You
cannot
do this to us! Do you know what we've been through? This is our baby—our first baby.”

Addressing the husband, Boldt said, “You have business relations with an attorney named Chevalier in New Orleans.” Their faces drained of color, and the wife's theatrical smile faltered. “Before you go forward with this adoption, you need to be aware of the facts.”

“There is still time to avoid criminal charges,” Daphne reminded.

“This is
our
baby,” the woman complained.

“No,” Boldt countered. “If she is who we believe she is, she was kidnapped, transported across state lines and delivered in New Orleans within the last twenty-four hours.”

“You're to take possession of the child in New Orleans,” Daphne informed them with a threatening certainty.

“This is not happening,” the husband said. “We've prayed about this. Chevalier was the answer to those prayers.”

Boldt said, “There are parents in Seattle who are praying as well.”