Made to Be Broken (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

I dressed as fast as I could, then fled past them in the hall, murmuring, "I'll be in the lounge." I sat on a bar stool, longingly eyeing the rows of liquor bottles as I sipped my Coke.

Being found making out on a bathroom floor is, I suppose, cause for some blushing. Sure, I was thirty-three and single and we'd had every expectation of privacy, thinking we had the only key – but I'd always been very private in my sex life, so, yes, I'd been embarrassed.

Yet having
Jack
find me making out on a bathroom floor took the humiliation to a whole new level. Last fall, he'd made it clear what he thought of Quinn's flirting with me on a job. Unacceptably unprofessional. Now that he'd been generous enough to put aside personal feelings and agree to let Quinn in on this case, exactly how long had it taken before we were rolling on the floor?

Jack was pissed. And I didn't blame him one bit.

"Is this seat taken?"

I looked up at Quinn. He'd changed into a new disguise for the evening – a somber jacket and tie ensemble straight from his suitcase, dark contacts, and dark hair.

He waited until I nodded, then slid onto the stool next to mine and ordered "whatever she's having."

"You found me," I said.

"That's my specialty."

I smiled. "I heard something like that."

His brows rose. Then he said, "Jack, right? I should have figured he'd tell you." He took a Coke from the bartender. "So everything's okay? At least you're smiling."

"I'm fine. Just embarrassed."

"Kind of like having your parents walk in on you when you were sixteen?"

I sputtered a laugh. "Exactly like that, now that you mention it."

We sipped our drinks in silence.

"Can I talk to you?" He jerked his chin toward the booths.

I nodded. He led me across the nearly empty lounge to the farthest booth and we slid in.

"About what happened upstairs. I was pushing hard," he said. "Again."

"No, I – "

"You said you needed time. I knew that. I just..." A crooked smile. "Thought maybe I could speed the decision-making process along. Talking is good, and I'm damned good at it, but in some cases words aren't really my best friend. I'm more of an... action guy."

I laughed. "And damned good at
that"'

He laughed, but spots of color touched his cheeks, and as he nodded, his gaze dropped, as if that could hide his blush. Sitting there, looking at him, hands wrapped around his Coke, eyes downcast, that fascinating mix of confidence and uncertainty, I wanted to slide over and touch him. I wanted to kiss him and tell him that whatever he felt for me, I felt the same back.

"I think – " I began.

"No, let me guess," he said, eyes lifting to mine, that half-smile still playing on his lips. "You like me, but you think this isn't such a good idea. Not just here and now, which is a
really
bad idea, but in general. Maybe it could work, but it probably wouldn't, and you think we should just stay friends."

"Um, no. I was going to say 'I think we should go upstairs before Jack gets even more pissed off.' "

A sharp laugh. "Damn. I wasn't even close." He wiped condensation from his glass, hands still around it. "Still, maybe that isn't what you were going to say but..."

I took a deep breath. He tensed at the sound, bracing himself.

"The truth is that I have no idea what I want right now," I said. "Sadly, that's a damned good statement on my life in general these days. I know I'm making too big a deal out of this. We're single. We're adults. Go for it, have some fun, see what happens. But... It's been a while since I've had a relationship. Hell, since I've dated, if you want the full embarrassing confession. And, you know what? I'm okay with that. I've gotten used to it. I'm past – "

" – the point of looking for someone."

I nodded. "Which isn't to say – "

" – that you don't want to be with anyone, just that you're not so eager you'll jump at the first decent offer."

I laughed. "Keep that up and I'll think you
can
read minds."

"No, I'm just good at diagnosing a condition I've been living with myself." He pushed the glass away. "Have you ever been married?"

I shook my head. The one time I'd approached engagement, it had ended with Wayne Franco. My boyfriend had stuck by me during the fallout, but the moment I suggested maybe it would be better for him if we took a break, he fled like a lifer seeing a hole in the prison yard fence.

"Well, I was. College sweetheart, didn't work out, nothing ugly. It just... faded away. Old story. Anyway, it wasn't so bad that it soured me on women, just left me determined to find the right one. That was..." His eyes rolled up as he calculated. "Eight years ago. After two years of looking and not finding anyone, I slowed down. Then I had to deal with friends and family setting me up on dates. After two years of that, I said enough is enough. Between my friends and my job and my moonlighting, my life is full."

He stopped. Before I could say anything, he went on, "So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm not waiting for you to make up your mind so I can move on to the next woman on my list. I want you. But if you aren't ready, I'm not going anywhere. If someone else comes along, for either of us..." He shrugged. "We'll deal with it. No hard feelings. No expectations."

What could I say to that? It was the perfect solution... and no solution at all.

The trip back to Troy seemed to take triple what the clock said. I sat in the backseat and carried on some semblance of a conversation with Quinn in the passenger's seat.

We talked mainly about Montreal. How was his trip? Did he do any sightseeing? Had he been there before? Nothing related to his purpose for being there, just completely neutral conversation, but when I tried to include Jack by asking whether he'd ever visited, his sharp "no" told me I'd overstepped a boundary, and I withdrew into silence.

Jack was disappointed with me. I'd been unprofessional and, to him, there was no worse crime. If I was following Quinn down that road, then maybe I wasn't someone he should work with.

The situation probably wasn't that dire yet, but on that endless, uncomfortable drive, it felt like it was.

Jack stopped at a car rental agency. Quinn went inside to get a vehicle matching his specifications – full-size, neutral color, no obvious rental stickers. Jack stayed behind with me, making sure I knew how to use the wireless earpieces.

"Don't bother with the bugs. Concentrate on these." He waved the earpieces and the transmitter. "You want to add anything? Ask a question? Change our tactics? Just say so."

I nodded.

"No need to whisper. Just talk normally."

"Okay."

"Sure? Last chance for questions."

"I'm sure."

He opened his door.

"Jack?"

He glanced over his shoulder at me.

"I'm sorry."

He shut the door. "Nothing to be sorry – "

"Yes, there is. You're here, helping me with my investigation, taking risks for me, and I'm goofing off with Quinn – "

"Doesn't matter."

"It does and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for asking you about Montreal in front of Quinn. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just trying to make conversation."

He released the door handle and twisted in his seat, frowning as if trying to remember what I was talking about.

"Oh. That. Those damn left turns. Concentrating on them. Wasn't really listening. Montreal, right? Been there a few times. Had a job once. Middle of a fucking snowstorm."

I smiled. "They get those."

"In October?" He shook his head. "Wasn't prepared. Get right behind the guy. Pull my piece. Fucking gun's frozen."

I choked on a laugh. "A gun can't – "

"You telling the story? It was cold. Fucking cold. Did I mention that?"

"No, just the fucking snowstorm, which I'm sure, combined with the fucking cold, froze your fucking gun."

"Fucking right. Where was I? Right. Gun fails. But the guy hears something. Turns around." He shook his head. "Wasn't pretty." He squinted through the windshield. "Huh. There's Quinn. Better go."

He reached for the door handle. I grabbed his sleeve over the seat, then stopped, unsure, but when he turned, I saw the glitter of amusement in his eyes.

"How'd you pull the hit if your gun was supposedly frozen?" I asked.

"Grabbed an icicle."

"A what?"

"Icicle. You know. Long, sharp piece of ice..."

"Bullshit."

His brows shot up in mock offense, the eyes under them still dancing. "Don't believe me? Right in the neck. Perfect weapon. Melts. No evidence."

"No way."

"You don't sound so sure."

I searched his eyes but, as always, there were no answers there. He gave a dry rasp of a laugh and grabbed the door handle, then looked back over his shoulder.

"Okay?"

I smiled. "Thanks, Jack."

Fifteen minutes later, Quinn pulled a beige Crown Victoria into the Keyeses' driveway. He got out, stretching his legs as if it had been a long ride, then peered over his shades at the house. The sky was overcast, but with some disguises, you can get away with wearing sunglasses, just like you could get away with an earpiece that wasn't completely hidden.

As Quinn surveyed the house, Jack got out and adjusted the holster, making sure it would "accidentally" show if his suit jacket swung open. Again, just part of the disguise, not necessarily an accurate one, but sometimes expectation is more important than realism.

They proceeded to the door. A tiny woman with a dark ponytail answered their knock. From my vantage point down the road, I could only make out her size and hair color. Their voices, though, were clear, courtesy of the two-way earpieces.

"Leslie Keyes?" Quinn asked.

"Yes?"

"John Turnbull and Derek Walker, federal agents with the Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement."

Quinn machine-gunned the words, nearly too fast to distinguish, but bolstered with a weight of authority that dared you – ignorant layperson – to suggest there was no "Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement." He flashed a badge and a card, emblazoned with a logo mishmashed from several legitimate federal agencies.

When I'd expressed skepticism – after I'd stopped laughing – Quinn swore it worked. He'd been using the badge and ID for over a year, and never been questioned. The moment people heard the words "federal agent" from a big, solid-jawed guy in a suit and shades, the rest flew past in a jumble as they mentally scrambled to figure out what they'd done wrong.

Leslie Keyes certainly bought it, saying, "Yes, yes, of course" when Jack asked if they could come inside and ask a few questions. I watched the door close, then steered out to find a safer place to sit and listen.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Leslie led Quinn and Jack into the house, seating them in what was presumably the living room. A faint rattle crossed the transmission, then Jack's low laugh.

"I don't want to sit on this. Some little guy wouldn't be too happy if I broke it." Another rattle as he laid the toy on the table. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy. My friend's son. They were over yesterday. He must have left that there."

From the tautness in her voice, she was lying. Yet her response wasn't what we'd expected. Presumably, the Byrony Agency would have made the adoption as legal as possible. Legal enough to pass a federal inspection, though? Maybe she wasn't sure.

"Don't call her on it," I said. "Play it out."

"But you do want children, correct?" Quinn said. "That's why you engaged the services of the Byrony Agency."

A moment's silence, then, "Yes, we did. Is that what this is about? We're no longer with them, and we paid our bills – "

Quinn laughed. "We aren't bill collectors, ma'am."

"No, no, of course not. I just meant – "

"We're here on a routine check of the agency's procedures," Jack said.

"The agency? Have they done something wrong?"

"No, as I said, it's a routine check."

"Why?" Quinn cut in. "Did you have concerns about them?"

"Concerns? Not at all. They were wonderful. We just decided to pursue other options. But we'd recommend them, and we have. A great agency."

I said, "Okay, take it down a notch. She's already spooked and you don't want to push her into full-blown panic."

Jack took over. "Like I said, it's a routine check only. Private adoption can be a very tricky area, Mrs. Keyes, and we have to be absolutely certain no one – from the birth mothers to the agency to the prospective parents – misuses the system."

"Prospective parents? You think
we
misused the system?"

"At the moment, our investigation focuses entirely on the Byrony Agency."

In the moment of silence that followed, I could picture Leslie, looking from one "agent" to the other, not believing their "routine check" line. That was fine. We didn't want her to.

Quinn and Jack took turns asking about her ex perience with the agency. Most of the questions were mundane – how much advance notice was she given before the home visits, did she have any difficulty understanding the forms. But every now and then they'd toss in a zinger like, "Did anyone ever offer you additional services for an additional fee?" before swinging back to the general queries.

After ten minutes, I swore I could hear her heart pounding against her ribs. Then, as they reached the end, I
did
hear a sound – the distant fussing of a baby.

"Ignore it," I said quickly. "Unless the baby starts crying, pretend you don't hear anything. If it's Destiny, she'll fuss for a while before wailing. Finish up and get out of there. If she cries, you'll have to call Keyes on it, and I'd rather you didn't."

As Quinn finished the questions, Jack asked to use the washroom. In the silence that followed, you'd think he'd just demanded permission to conduct a full search of the premises.

"There's one right here on the main level," she said finally.

A low chuckle. "In a house this big, I hope so."

A few flustered words. Obviously, she'd mistaken Jack's request for a ploy to go upstairs, maybe investigate the gurgling and whimpering. That wasn't his intent at all. He just wanted to lay a bug.

While Jack was gone, Quinn asked the final questions, then chatted with Leslie, saying it seemed like a nice neighborhood, a great place to raise kids, he hoped that worked out for her and her husband... All benign small talk, but the woman was probably convinced she heard a note of sarcasm behind his words, that he knew she already had a child.

When Jack returned, she bustled them to the door.

"Oh, I left a card on the table," Jack said. "In case you need to contact us."

She thanked him and hurried them outside. By the time she realized the card wasn't on any table, they'd be gone.

The guys drove over and parked near me at the minimart. Quinn hopped in my passenger side, as Jack made his way, at half the speed, from their car to mine, across the minimart parking lot.

"Has she – ?" he began.

I motioned Quinn to silence, nodded, and turned up the volume as Leslie took that critical next step – placing a call to her husband. Jack hadn't had time to bug the phone, so we were limited to her side of the conversation. First came the rush of words, as she explained the visit from "the FBI"... having apparently completely blocked everything after the words "federal."

"They found Miranda's rattle and I know I shouldn't have lied – we have the papers – but I wasn't taking the chance, Ken. I won't lose her – "

A moment's pause.

"I'm not panicking," she snarled, sounding a lot less flustered than she had with Jack and Quinn, her protective instinct taking over. "They asked a lot of questions about the Byrony Agency, like whether they'd offered us anything different or special, but they didn't specifically say – "

A sharp intake of breath as he presumably cut her short.

"Damn it. Right. Okay I'll meet you – "

Pause.

"I'll be right there."

A click as the phone returned to the cradle.

"He told her to shut her mouth," Quinn said. "Prob a bly thinks the phone's bugged."

Jack watched the house through binoculars as we listened to footsteps pattering up the stairs, a baby crying, then Leslie quieting her as she came back down.

More noise, then the slam of the front door.

"Who's got the most experience tailing?" I asked.

"Probably Quinn," Jack said. "Switch."

We hoped Leslie was heading to see whoever had sold her the baby. Instead, she drove to an Applebee's down the road and met a man, presumably her husband, who hugged her and took the baby carrier. They went inside. Talking in a public place. Smart.

"Too bad we couldn't get a bug into her purse," I said.

"Did," Jack said. "But she left it behind."

Leslie carried only a diaper bag – probably having been too rushed to grab her purse. Damn.

I followed them inside, hoping to get a seat near enough to overhear their conversation. No such luck. Though it was still early for dinner, the place was filling fast.

I did manage to walk near the table, after Leslie had taken the baby from her snowsuit and hat. If asked earlier, I'd have said I'd never recognize Destiny – all babies looked the same to me. But the moment I saw that baby I knew, without a doubt, that Miranda Keyes was Destiny Ernst.

I retreated to the car, where we waited for close to two hours before the Keyeses finally emerged, hand in hand, Kenneth carrying the baby seat.

"Did he convince her she's overreacting?" I murmured. "Or that he'll take care of it?"

"Could go either way," Quinn said.

"Maybe I was wrong, getting you guys to back down. Maybe you should have pressed harder. Been more specific. More threatening." I glanced at Jack. "Okay, I'll stop fretting."

"Never said that."

"You don't need to."

We watched them get into their separate cars.

"So who do we follow?" I asked.

"Dad," Quinn said.

It didn't matter. They went to the same place. Home.

Jack and I spent the next hour monitoring the house as Quinn returned the rental car. Then Quinn caught a cab back, and we waited two more hours. Leslie put the baby to bed, the couple talked about their respective days, watched a pretaped episode of
Desperate Housewives,
and, at ten-thirty, headed off to bed without a single exchange about their visitors from earlier.

Quinn yawned. "Wake me up if they start having sex."

I cuffed him across the chest.

He opened one eye. "We probably wouldn't even notice anyway. Something tells me that bed doesn't see a lot of action. This has to be the most boring evening I've ever eavesdropped on. Are we done yet?"

Jack nodded.

So much for our hopes that the Keyeses would contact the Byrony Agency, spilling the details I needed to prove they'd bought their new daughter. There was still some hope from that quarter, but they were sleeping very soundly for a couple that believed their new baby was about to be ripped from their arms.

On then to the break-in portion of the evening. We stayed away until nearly midnight, only to discover the dessert shop was long closed, the theater presumably closed that night. And, with the actors taking the night off, our homeless guy was, too.

We arrived just as the cleaners were leaving. Twenty minutes later, we went in.