Whirlwind (13 page)

25

Chicago, Illinois

L
ake Michigan stretched north against a crystal sky, but Hedda Knight was blind to the view from her seventy-fifth-floor law office in the Aon Center.

All she saw was a sea of problems.

One of her mothers had disappeared weeks before she was due to deliver, jeopardizing Hedda’s biggest deal.

Tapping her pen to her desk she pressed her phone to her ear as Ed Bascom, the senior agent with the private investigative agency she’d hired, gave her an update.

“We’ve confirmed that an ambulance was dispatched to Remy Toxton’s residence in Texas and that she was taken to hospital.”

“Where is she?”

“We obtained a new lead that she was transported out of state.”

“Where?”

“Arkansas.”

“Arkansas? What’d you find out in Arkansas?”

“Nothing, our investigation there dead-ended. We don’t know what hospital or which city. We suspect we were fed bad information by the church people supporting her boyfriend, Mason Varno. They’re protective.”

“I don’t care. Did Remy have the baby or not?”

“We haven’t confirmed it.”

“Why not? What’re we paying you for?”

“Did you ever consider that they could’ve been victims of the tornadoes?”

“Yes, but they live in Lufkin and from my read of the news Lufkin was not touched by the storms.”

“What if they happened to take a trip to Dallas the day the storm hit?’

“That’s your job to find out.”

“Can your nurse who was assigned to their case recall anything more?” Bascom asked.

“No! She’s told you everything. She went to the apartment and they were gone. Remy didn’t answer her phone, her emails. They left no forwarding address, no contact information, nothing. We’ve been over this.”

“They’ve covered their tracks,” Bascom said. “We still have no credit card or banking trail on Toxton or Varno.”

“Damn it, Ed, you’re no closer to finding them than when you started looking. Is there anything you can do, or should I hire someone else?”

“We’re working on another lead. Varno’s an ex-con.”

“An ex-con. Oh, that’s great.”

“He’s got a meeting with his parole officer coming up. We’ll surveil the office for him and he’ll lead us to Toxton.”

“Do that. I want that baby. But find Remy quietly. We don’t want anyone going public on this, or to the police. You got that?”

Hedda heard muttering.

“Ed? You got that?”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Hedda hung up, tossed her pen on her desk, turned to her computer screen and studied the file showing the photographs of Remy Toxton and Fyodor Gromov, the biological parents of a Caucasian baby.

Where’s Remy?

Hedda knew the likely scenarios. Remy could’ve lost the baby, grown fearful and fled to pocket the remainder of her fifteen-thousand-dollar signing payment. She could have changed her mind and decided to keep the child. Or she might be working with another agency for more money.

Hedda didn’t care. If that baby was alive, she wanted it. Needed it.

Calm down. Be careful,
she told herself.

She had to remember her own rules. Never pressure the girls. Each case was delicate. Each case had its own complications. No two were ever the same. Most ended well but when it was time to deliver, you could not predict how some mothers would react. A few became emotional. But Hedda always worked things out. She kept the mothers happy so that they wouldn’t even consider going to the authorities. Hedda could never let that happen, especially now when she was on the brink of taking her surrogacy and baby adoption enterprise to a mind-blowingly lucrative level.

Thinking back, Hedda remembered a different time when her life was guided by a different dream.

She’d grown up in Virginia, just outside of Washington, D.C. Her parents were both federal lawyers. Hedda, a high achiever, studied law at Yale, where she met her future husband. As young, rising stars they joined firms in New York. When Hedda began talking about starting a family, her husband confessed that he’d fallen in love with another woman.

Hedda’s dream died.

Her marriage over, she quit the firm, left New York and drifted to Los Angeles, where she found work specializing in adoptions. She became an expert in the adoption and surrogacy laws of every U.S. state, and most countries around the world. She knew the nuances, the gaps, the loopholes and the murky zones.

Moreover, Hedda knew that there were more parents seeking healthy babies than babies to meet the demand. Recognizing an opportunity, she set up her own firm in a low-rent strip mall in Long Beach, where she worked tirelessly to build a network of contacts across the country and around the world.

Hedda’s agency advertised a range of adoption and surrogacy services to people desperate for a baby. At the same time, she advertised online for surrogates. Candidates were university grads, supermarket cashiers, hairdressers and stay-at-home moms.

Hedda explained to them how her agency did things a bit differently because of its international connections. After recruits signed a surrogacy agreement, they would undergo an embryo transfer or insemination in Europe because her agency had arrangements with leading specialists there.

Hedda assured the candidates that everything was in accordance with all laws, that all costs were covered and that she would provide a medical team to monitor the pregnancy. The surrogates would never have to meet the parents. Hedda’s policy was unconditional on that front.

Each surrogate would receive a total $60,000—$15,000 on signing then $45,000 upon delivery. The payments were conditional to certain terms, chief among them being delivery of a healthy baby. However, payments would not be made if the pregnancy was unsuccessful, and Hedda always hinted that under certain conditions, the surrogate might be required to return a portion of any advance payment—although Hedda would never dare enforce that aspect out of fear a surrogate would go to authorities. She only hinted at it as psychological leverage for the women who might change their minds.

Again, Hedda would stress that the entire enterprise was all legal.

But it wasn’t.

In order to circumvent various state surrogacy and adoption laws, Hedda would mislead the surrogates and the expectant parents about the circumstances of the parties involved. She would seek out hopeful parents and guarantee them the baby of their dreams, a newborn girl or boy of nearly any race. Then she would create fraudulent documentation that made the arrangements appear to be in accordance with adoption or surrogacy laws. But what Hedda had really done was create an illegal process of making and selling babies. She was hiring women to get pregnant for the sole purpose of selling the baby to those who could afford her price.

She was now getting $200,000 for each baby.

As Hedda’s business grew, she moved to Chicago, to be more central. And she was careful to manage any risk or exposure to scrutiny. At the same time, she was driven by a desire to find wealthier clients, to become the number one, albeit black market, baby broker in the world. Hedda knew that there were people who would give any amount of money for a healthy baby.

And Remy’s baby was the ticket to a client list that would pay more.

So much hinged on this deal.

Normally, Hedda would have another baby available but with this case she’d encountered one problem after another.

So what the hell happened?

It was going well until Remy disappeared. I can’t go to another mother for a baby to fulfill this critical order. It’s already overdue and I have no other suitable babies available. Two of my other surrogates just lost theirs. Two. I’ve got no Caucasian boys coming for over two months. Everything depends on Remy’s baby.

Hedda clicked her mouse and reread the email from her client.

Chelsea Drew-Flynn, forty-nine-year-old heiress to a gold-mining empire who lived in Denver. She wrote:

What’s the status on delivery, Hedda? Did she have the baby? We’ve surpassed the delivery date range.

Now, after consulting Ed Bascom, after absorbing the circumstances and the stakes, Hedda crafted a response.

Some routine medical issues are delaying delivery a little bit. I assure that everything is fine.

Hedda pressed Send then gazed at the lake, weighing all the stakes. Everything was riding on this one. Chelsea Drew-Flynn was going to exceed Hedda’s rate by paying $250,000 for a baby boy. But this deal held an even greater value. Chelsea had indicated to Hedda that she knew women, wealthy women, in her social circles around the world, who would be interested in using a surrogacy agency. Hedda interpreted that to mean that if all went well with Chelsea’s baby boy, she would introduce Hedda to a whole new level of potential clientele.

Hedda’s computer chimed with a response.

Just so we understand each other, Hedda. I trusted you to deliver my baby to me as promised. Heaven knows how I might react if you break that promise.

Hedda cursed to herself and looked out at the vast lake.

I’ve got to find that baby.

26

Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

K
ate’s Chevy Cobalt drove westbound on Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway.

There were more shelters she needed to check out.

As the road rolled under her wheels she took stock of the past twenty-four hours, accepting the ebb and flow of a live news story.

Elements were in constant flux. There was little she could do.

While waiting for the many calls she’d made—to Frank Rivera, to Jenna Cooper and her sister, Holly— to be returned, she’d arranged for Newslead to obtain Tony Valdez’s dramatic footage of the tornado destroying the Saddle Up Center. The news agency posted it on its site with a warning about disturbing content. The video went viral, pleasing Chuck and New York.

Late yesterday, Kate had gone to the shelter at the Rivergreen Community Hall to find Jenna Cooper. Volunteers and other tornado survivors had told her that Jenna, Cassie and Holly had left.

No one knew where they’d gone.

Kate ended the day feeling somewhat baffled, and last night she got online and talked with her daughter. Filled with guilt, Kate ached to hold Grace as she showed her pictures of birds that she’d drawn.

“This one’s an owl.”

“I see. It’s very good, honey.”

It was this morning, as Kate stepped from the shower, that her phone rang with an overdue call back from Frank.

She froze, water dripping from her as he brought her up to speed on the horror Jenna and Blake Cooper had endured yesterday in a high school gym.

“Last night, with the help of Dallas police, the deceased baby’s parents were located and they identified him,” Frank said. “They’re tourists from Switzerland. They were in a park when the storm hit.”

Tears stung Kate’s eyes.

“Oh no, that’s so sad.”

“They’re making arrangements to fly home with him and aren’t talking to the press.”

“I’m so sorry for them.” Kate searched for a tissue then used her towel. “What about Jenna and her husband? How are they doing? I’d like to interview them.”

“Not so good. They spent last night in a hotel with Jenna’s sister. I don’t think they’re in a frame of mind to talk to anybody. They were informed that time is running out on the odds of finding their son alive.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Okay. Thanks, Frank.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, give me a call.”

After Kate dressed, she went online to search for news and ideas to pursue the story. The updated overall figures for the tornadoes that had hit Texas, Alabama, Arkansas and Mississippi, were sobering. The death toll had risen to seven hundred, most still in the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex. The number of reported missing in all the states was now fourteen hundred, most around Dallas. The number of injured had risen to seven thousand people and the estimated number of homes, businesses and properties destroyed was now at least twenty thousand.

“Stay on the missing baby story,” Chuck told her when she’d called the bureau for her assignment. “New York likes it. It represents the human struggle against the storm. A baby ripped from its mother, a hardworking family holding out hope. It doesn’t end until you find out what happened to their son, Kate.”

All right, she would keep digging.

This morning she’d set out determined to continue investigating the chain of events leading up to and after Caleb’s disappearance. Above all, she’d needed to find the people who were closest to Caleb before he vanished.

It all comes down to those mysterious strangers who tried to help.

Paging through her notes Kate again zeroed in on the words Jenna had used to describe her encounters with them.

They’re complete strangers. I never saw them before in my life, but the woman seemed kind of forward, kind of infatuated with Caleb.... Then we saw them in the center, I mean they were just there....

The Valdez video was intense, but Tony and his mother, Dolores, didn’t recall seeing Jenna and the strangers. Neither did any of the other vendors Kate had reached for help.

“Most of the people who got out alive just scattered. They left,” Tony Valdez had told Kate. “They went home, or to schools to check on their kids or to other shelters to look for family in other parts of town. It was just chaos.”

So all morning Kate worked on her story the old-fashioned way.

With legwork.

In the back of her mind she continued weighing the possibility that the strangers may have abducted Caleb. But there was no evidence. She’d hit every shelter she could, telling volunteers about Caleb and the woman and man who were last seen near him. She asked them if anything sounded familiar, or whether anything had surfaced that might be linked to them.

She’d checked out shelters in Hutchins, Lancaster and DeSoto.

In each case Kate struck out.

Duncanville was next.

27

Duncanville, Texas

M
ost of the trees lining James Collins Boulevard had survived the storm.

As Kate drove by them, she took a hit of water from her bottle, parked, then went into the Duncanville Recreation Center, which was serving as an emergency shelter.

One more on the list and I’m getting farther and farther away from the flea market. Don’t expect to learn anything here.

“Hi.” Kate presented her ID to one of the older women at the entrance information table. “Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.”

“And how can we help you?” The woman smiled over her bifocals.

“I’m doing a story on a family searching for their baby who went missing in the storm.”

“Goodness, there’ve been so many tragedies. Too many.”

“Would you mind if I walked around, talked to people in the shelter to see if anybody might know something connected to this case?”

“By all means, if it’ll help.”

“Thanks. Maybe I could start with you and your people at the table here? I’m guessing you see everybody that comes in for help.”

“We sure do.”

Kate reached into her bag for her notebook, recorder and a flyer Frank Rivera’s people had distributed for the Cooper case. She summarized the circumstances of what happened at the Saddle Up Center in the Old Southern Glory Flea Market.
As the older woman studied the flyer, she flagged the attention of other nearby volunteers.

Kate ran through the details on the strangers who’d helped Jenna Cooper. “They were a white couple in their twenties. The woman had short spiky red hair, a low-cut top, jeans and maybe a tattoo below her neck of a butterfly or bird,” she said. “The man was about six feet, muscular build. He had jeans and a T-shirt with a motorcycle or a dog, tattoos on his arms, possibly flames. and stubble. He was kind of soft-spoken.”

The women started shaking their heads.

“They might’ve been traveling with the baby,” Kate added, sensing that it was going to be futile.

“We’ve helped a lot of people with babies,” the woman said, “but I don’t recall anyone fitting those descriptions. But then, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“We had that couple with the baby yesterday morning,” a ponytailed teenage girl standing behind the woman said.

“That’s right, Mary Jo, and you helped them.”

“How old was the baby?” Kate asked the teen.

“Six months, a year,” Mary Jo said. “They said it had a bump on the head from the storm, and I took them to the medical unit. But the woman had dark hair and glasses.”

“That’s right,” the older woman said, remembering. “They said they were from out of state. The young fella did.”

Kate bit down on her bottom lip, thinking. “Maybe I’ll talk to the people in the medical unit.”

“It’s down that way,” Mary Jo said.

Heading to the area, Kate cast a glance to the activity in the double gymnasium. The floor was lined with rows of cots for people who’d lost their homes. The medical unit, with its curtained treatment stations and waiting area with folding chairs was not busy when she arrived.

Kate identified herself to a young woman in her twenties named Maggie Prentice. She was holding a clipboard, and Kate figured her to be a coordinating assistant.

Kate explained the situation, reciting details by rote.

“That’s terrible,” Maggie said. “But nothing comes to mind. We’ve treated so many people since we set up here after the storm.”

“I see. Well, the other volunteers up front had mentioned that a couple came to you yesterday with a baby, six months to a year old for treatment for a bump on the head. Can you tell me anything about them?”

Maggie unconsciously moved the clipboard in front of her, hugging it, shielding its contents as if they were a secret.

“We have to respect patient confidentiality, so we really couldn’t tell you anything.”

“What’s this about?”

A woman in her thirties wearing a flowered smock, her hair in a bun, and a stethoscope around her neck, emerged, exuding authority and sipping coffee from a mug.

“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead.”

“Dr. Charlene Butler. What is it you’re looking for?”

Kate launched into another round of explanation, ending it by giving a flyer to the doctor, who studied it for a long moment, convincing Kate that she was actually absorbing the information.

“We’ve seen nothing that fits this,” Butler said. “Even if we did, we couldn’t disclose patient information. It’s confidential.”

“I respect that,” Kate said. “I also understand that the Missing Person Emergency Search System is working with shelters, hospitals and search-and-rescue efforts.”

“Absolutely. We’ve had several cases of dislocated and disoriented patients brought here from other disaster sites and we’ve alerted the Search System folks. It’s resulted in a couple of happy reunions.”

Kate nodded.

“Did you talk with the Missing Persons team?” Butler asked. “They’re set up across the floor here.”

“I will, but could you tell me in generic terms—no names or addresses, that kind of thing—about the baby you treated yesterday and the couple?”

Butler smiled a warm friendly smile. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I guess not. I feel pretty connected to this story.”

“Okay, let me see.” Butler exhaled and glanced to the ceiling. “Well, in generic terms, not disclosing names, that baby was three months old. A big three months.”

Kate nodded, taking notes. “And the mother and father?”

“Twenties, but no red hair on the mom. Dark hair and glasses.”

“What about the father—any tattoos?”

“I didn’t see any. Did you, Maggie?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Look,” Butler said. “I think this is futile.”

“Well, I’m just checking,” Kate said. “Are you sure there’s nothing more about them that sticks with you?”

“No. Well, there was—” She started then stopped. “No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It has to be something.”

“There was something just a bit
off
about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“First, the baby was big for three months. I would’ve bet he was older.”

“Like five months?”

“Could be five, yes.”

“Anything else?”

“She said she had him on solids, which I thought odd for a baby that age. And when I asked about how the baby got the little scrape on his head the mother seemed detached, vague, only for a moment.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Could’ve been trauma from the storm. We’ve seen a lot of that.”

Kate thought for a moment. “Do you remember what the baby was wearing when you treated him?”

“A romper. A white one.”

“It had stripes,” the younger woman said.

“Blue?”

“I don’t know.”

Kate stared at Maggie, then the doctor, piecing the details together, processing their potential meaning.

This could be nothing. This could be everything.

“Can you tell me anything more, about where they’re staying or where they went? I understand they were from out of state.”

The two women looked at each other.

“I’m afraid not,” the doctor said. “Confidentiality comes into play. Besides, your case happened in Wildhorse Heights. That’s what, twenty miles from here? What are the odds of the baby coming here with strangers?”

“I think they left the baby’s romper here,” the younger woman said.

“What do you mean, they left it?” Kate asked. “Left it where?”

Maggie nodded to an area across the floor.

“After they were done with us, they went to the section where people had donated clothes. I walked behind them to get a tea on my break.”

“What did they do with the romper?”

“I think they tossed it and took some donated clothes for the baby. It had bloodstains on it, right, Doctor?”

“Bloodstains?” Kate asked.

“Very tiny, from the scrape on the head,” Butler said. “The baby must have touched his head then himself.”

“Show me where they left the romper. I need to find it.”

Maggie led Kate and Butler to the tables against the wall that were topped with heaps of children’s clothes in boxes, plastic baskets and tubs. She took them to the area marked Baby 0-12 Months.

“I’m pretty sure I saw them leave it here yesterday and select some new clothes, but then I walked by fast.”

Kate began sifting through the containers starting with the first one at the end of the row. When she saw that Maggie and Butler had joined her, she repeated the details.

“It would be a white romper with blue stripes and a little elephant on it. The details are in the flyer.”

In all, Kate estimated about twenty containers each the size of a laundry basket. Guided by the romper’s colors they went through them all quickly.

Their search yielded nothing.

Kate absorbed the setback and was in the process of thanking Butler and Maggie for their help when a weary-looking woman hefted a tub from the table.

“Excuse me. Are all the donated clothes kept here?” Kate asked.

“No, we have another table along that wall there for laundry. It takes time but we wash them all first. See that line of baskets?” The woman gestured and Kate saw six hampers.

“Yes.”

“Those have not been washed yet. Did you need to go through them?”

“Yes.” Kate and the others rushed to the table.

Butler saw it first—a blue-and-white pattern bulging from the first basket’s lower ribbing. Carefully, she extracted a balled romper, unfurled it and held it up. It was white with blue stripes and had a little elephant on it. She looked at the tiny browned bloodstains.

“This is it,” she said.

Kate’s pulse quickened. She pulled her phone from her bag.

“I need to make some calls. No, wait. First I need to take a picture of this romper and send it to someone. Could you please hold it up again, Doctor?”