Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (14 page)

“You’re early,” she said.

“Anxious to get started. You know how I am at the start of a new project.”

“Planning, planning, planning,” she said.

“Are you going to be staying here with Dee?” he asked.

“She doesn’t really need me right now, so I’m going home for a while. What time should I come back here to pick you up?”

“You don’t have to come back, Patty.” Margaret moved closer to him, so close that her shoulder brushed his arm. “I’ll give Brady a ride home.”

“Wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,” he said.

“It’s fine. Besides, I want to be alone with you.”

“You do?”

She giggled as though he’d said something clever. “I need to talk to you about a portrait of my son.”

He’d been doing his best to ignore Margaret’s attention, but her approach was becoming aggressive. She’d gone from timid to blatant—rubbing up against him and growling under her breath like a cat in heat.

Petra linked her arm through his. “My husband loves painting children’s portraits.”

“It’s a shame you don’t have any kids,” Margaret said.

“We will when it’s the right time. We agree on everything, don’t we, darlin’?”

Standing between these two women, he recalled the talk he and Petra had about jealousy. Though she’d quoted Gandhi, he sensed that she was at least a little bit possessive. Right now, she seemed to be asserting her claim on him. Stroking his arm, she purred, “We’re totally on the same page. Aren’t we?”

“That’s right.”

“Surely not,” Margaret said. “Brady is an artist. An independent thinker.”

“My husband—” Petra emphasized the
my
“—is always thinking. He’s full of ideas, and he shares everything with me.”

“Do tell.”

He was getting the distinct impression that they might each grab an arm and rip him in half. Not that Petra was serious. She was only playing her undercover role as his wife…and giving a damn good performance. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was a jealous wife.

He stepped free from the female sandwich. “I’d better get inside. Something tells me that Francine doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Petra nodded to Margaret. “Please call me on my cell phone if Dee actually goes into labor.”

“Sure thing.”

After he grabbed his worn leather portfolio from the front seat, he followed Margaret toward the veranda. His plan was to plant a couple of bugs in the house. These high-tech transmitters—about the size of a matchbox—were capable of communicating with the receiver he’d hidden in his home art studio, twelve miles away.

From what he’d seen of the layout on the main floor, the right half of the house was a common area with living room and dining room leading to the kitchen. Margaret directed him to the left, and they entered Francine’s office.

Giving him a seductive glance through her lashes, Margaret said, “Patty seemed a little bit upset.”

“Did she?”

He wanted to distract Margaret so he could place the listening device. His task was complicated by the possibility that Francine might have surveillance cameras in the office. It seemed likely that she’d want to be able to keep an eye on her charges. Unfortunately, mini-cams were so small that he couldn’t hope to spot them without a thorough search.

Margaret whispered, “I don’t think Patty appreciates you.”

Encouraging her was just plain cruel, but he needed every edge he could get. And he reminded himself that Margaret wasn’t a total innocent. She was closely associated with Francine and had to realize that these babies weren’t headed toward bona fide adoptions.

He whispered back, “I shouldn’t say this about my wife, but you know how it is when you’ve been married for a while. You start to take each other for granted.”

“If I were married to someone like you,” she said as she turned to face him, “I’d make you feel special.”

He took advantage of her closeness to bump against her and drop his portfolio. Bending down to pick it up, he used a subtle sleight of hand to affix a bug to the bottom side of Francine’s desk. Mission accomplished.

A door at the rear of the office pushed open, and Francine stepped through. “What’s going on out here?”

“Nothing.” Margaret jumped back. “I was escorting Brady here for your sitting, Miss Francine.”

“Leave us.”

After Margaret had scuttled from the office and closed the door behind her, Francine struck a noble pose. She wore a sleek black wig in a chin-length bob, and she was dressed in equestrian gear—high boots, jodhpurs and a white blouse unbuttoned to show cleavage. Completing the costume, she carried a riding crop. The look was appropriate for a lady of the manor—maybe Lady Chatterley.

“That’s a dramatic outfit,” he said.

“I might like a portrait with one of the horses.”

“Do you ride?”

“Of course.” She slapped the crop against her thigh. “Come with me. We’re going to the horse barn.”

As an artist, he would advise against using the barn for a setting. As an undercover agent, he welcomed the opportunity to check out another building on the property. “Right behind you.”

Together, he and Francine trekked across the front yard toward the tall, gray barn. He noted that the double doors were plenty large enough for a semi. If Lost Lamb was a stopping point for human trafficking, a big rig could be hidden here.

Digging for information, he said, “This is quite an operation you’ve got here.”

“My portrait should be classic. Nothing cheap.”

“Just what I was thinking.”

His smile was wasted on her. Even though Francine radiated sexuality, she wasn’t interested in him that way. He figured that she saw people based on how she could use them. His job was to immortalize her in a portrait.

He noticed the track of heavy-duty tires in the dirt outside the barn, which confirmed his earlier suspicion about the big rigs. A couple of days ago, when he’d questioned Miguel’s mother, she’d told him that they were transported in a big truck. And she mentioned that one time when they were stopped, she heard horses.

When they entered the barn, two cowboys who had been sitting on a bench leaped into action. Brady recognized them from the Royal Burger, and he called out a greeting.

They gave him a nod but said nothing to Francine as they hustled out an open door at the rear of the barn. Their deference to her made it obvious who was in charge.

She strode to the stalls at the left side of the barn where a well-groomed black stallion nickered a greeting. Francine reached up to stroke his nose and to tell him that he was a good boy. His gleaming coat matched her hair.

“He’s a beauty,” she said. “If I have him in the portrait, he might draw too much attention away from me.”

“It would be a different sort of picture,” Brady said. “The barn might not be the best setting. The light in here isn’t great.”

“What do you suggest? The main thing is that I don’t want to look stiff and posed.”

He held up his portfolio. “I brought along samples of my work to give you some ideas.”

She stalked to a workbench at the rear of the barn and pushed aside the tools littering the tabletop. “Show me.”

Before he could spread out his sketches and watercolors, he heard a cough and turned toward the sound. In a darkened corner of the barn, he saw two pregnant women. He’d seen one of them last night. He recognized the other from her photo in the Missing Persons file.

According to information from Cole, this girl had disappeared from the streets of Denver. If she’d been kidnapped or forcibly brought here, it was enough to shut down Lost Lamb and put Francine out of business.

This wasn’t the first incident during his time on the task force that Brady had been able to close down part of the human trafficking operation, but he was done playing Whack-a-Mole. He wanted more. He wanted to identify the people who were running this scheme and destroy their whole operation.

Francine glared at her charges. “Get back in the house.”

“But we love the horses.”

“It’s dangerous for you to be here.”

Grumbling, the two of them waddled out the barn door. The woman who had been reported missing turned her face up toward the sun and smiled. She didn’t seem to be under any kind of restraint. If she’d wanted to escape, she could.

This missing woman had chosen to be here, and he couldn’t blame her. Lost Lamb Ranch offered fresh air, food and shelter. She could even hang out in the barn with the horses. But this was a short-term solution. In exchange for this brief security, she was giving away her future and her freedom.

Brady had to close this place down before anyone else was lost.

* * *

T
WO HOURS LATER
, M
ARGARET
drove Brady back to his house. Earlier, she’d introduced him to her three-year-old son, Jeremy—a quiet, sweet-faced kid who looked a lot like his mother. He’d make a good subject for a portrait, and Brady said he’d do it for free. It was a damn good thing that he wasn’t trying to make a living as an artist.

During the brief drive, Margaret offered her friendship and a lot more. Talking to her was like walking a tightrope, trying not to reject and not to encourage at the same time.

He was glad to be home, especially when he walked through the front door and Petra came charging down the stairs with the fake wedding photo in her hands. She held it in front of her chest. “This is really good.”

“Photoshop,” he said.

“I remember this picture. I was at the beach, looking out at the waves. Now, I’m looking adoringly at you.”

“Lucky for me, you were wearing a white muslin dress. Not exactly a standard wedding gown.”

“But perfect for me.” She placed the photo on the mantel and turned back to face him. “You’re very talented. Why didn’t you mention that you were the one who did the artwork?”

He didn’t consider himself to be an artist. His portraits were a hobby, something he did to relax. “I meant to show you this morning, but we got rushed out the door too fast.”

“You showed Margaret first.”

“Jealous?”

“Hardly,” she said. “But it came as a shock when I figured out that you were the painter. I might have blown our cover.”

Even though he was anxious to hear what she’d learned from Dee and to start making plans, he couldn’t resist taking a couple of minutes to tease. “Say what you want, but I know the truth. You’re possessive about me.”

She scoffed. “Am not.”

“You don’t want other women talking to me.”

“Because I’m afraid they’ll be squashed when you roll out your gigantic ego.”

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Keep it up, smart guy. You know I’ll get even.”

“I’m done.” He threw up his hands.

“That’s good, because we need to take action. Lost Lamb needs to be shut down as soon as possible.”

“I agree.” Did she know something he didn’t? “Why do you think so?”

“Dee is going to have her baby very soon, and I can’t bear the thought of having that infant swept into an uncertain future. When she told me she was a surrogate, I thought maybe the baby would be all right, but then—”

“A surrogate?” This was a twist he hadn’t heard before. “Are you sure?”

“Dr. Smith confirmed it. By the way, I should tell you that I’m all in favor of surrogacy. It’s a good solution for a lot of couples trying to have a baby.”

“I’m guessing that those aren’t the couples who got involved with Lost Lamb.”

“In most states, it’s not illegal,” she said. “The parents of a surrogate baby have the same rights as biological mothers and fathers. They don’t have to take a test to prove they’ll be good parents.”

“Maybe they should.” He thought of his own abusive father. “The world might be a better place if all parents were required to show they were worthy of the job.”

“Dee is being paid, and she seems to be happy with the arrangement. Why is Lost Lamb using surrogates?”

“It’s a big bucks business. And it dovetails neatly with human trafficking. Don’t forget that these pregnant women and their babies are nothing more than human chattel to these people. After the mothers are used up as breeders, they might be forced into prostitution. Their children might suffer the same fate or be used for kid porn.”

A shudder went through her. “It’s hard to believe that can happen in this country.”

“Cruelty is international. It’s everywhere.”

The crimes he’d witnessed while working on the human trafficking task force defied human decency, especially the horrors perpetrated against children who were forced into servitude, trained as mercenaries or raised to do whatever their minders demanded. It had to be stopped. He and Petra were the spearhead for law enforcement. If they could pierce the veil of secrecy surrounding the bosses, they might make a difference.

And they needed to get started. Much had happened since they left the house this morning and went their separate ways. He didn’t want their information to be jumbled together in a rambling, emotional conversation. They needed a coherent sense of direction.

He went into the kitchen, flipped open his portfolio and took out a sketchpad. “We’re going to sit at the table, have coffee and debrief. Then we’ll come up with a plan of action.”

“Coffee is necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

She went to the counter to prepare a fresh pot. “Figure out all the plans you want.”

He opened the sketchbook on the table in front of him and wrote the number
1
.

Chapter Thirteen

“I want to talk about Dee first,” Petra said. “Can we put her name under number one?”

“She’s not our top priority.”

“For me, her baby is the most important thing.”

“There’s a broader goal,” Brady reminded her.

Petra wasn’t big on planning; she usually went with her feelings. Right now, her heart was telling her to save Dee’s unborn child. As she measured grounds into the basket filter of the coffeemaker, she tried to explain. “I understand what you’re saying. If we arrest the bosses, we can shut down the entire operation. But if—”