Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (14 page)

G
eorgia bolted from her bedroom, so much adrenaline pumping through her that she wasn’t sure what to do first. She hurried to her desktop and began to search online. It wasn’t something people talked about much, but illegal baby-breeding rings, also called baby factories or baby farms, were a burgeoning industry. They catered to couples who’d been rejected from legitimate adoption agencies or were so desperate for a child they elected not to go through the system.

She pored through the references on Google. Most couples who did go through the system adopted from Africa, Central America, or China. White couples who wanted their babies to resemble them biologically got babies from Russia and Eastern Europe. But Russia closed its doors at the end of 2012, and adoptions from Eastern European countries had dropped sixty percent in the past few years.

Was that what Savannah was caught up in? Not a sex-trafficking ring, but a baby-breeding operation? Actually, it might be both, she realized as she read on. Once the babies had been born and sold, the girls who birthed them were often thrown into forced prostitution. She ran a hand through her hair.

Most of the baby rings were overseas and run by organized crime. But those were the rings that had been busted. What about those that hadn’t been? There was no reason why a ring couldn’t be operating here in the US. Even in Chicago.

Georgia tapped her fingers on the desk: one, two, three, four. That might explain why a lawyer like Chad Coe was involved. Contacts had to be made, buyers found, birth certificates forged, documents prepared. Money needed to change hands. And it all had to appear legal. Was that what Chad Coe was doing? Applying a brush coat to the paperwork so it looked authentic? Most of his “clients” probably wouldn’t check to see that everything was legal. He was a lawyer; they’d assume it was.

How much would it cost to buy a baby? The girls had to be housed and fed for nine months. They had to have medical care and checkups. The babies couldn’t be delivered in a hospital, so the ringleaders had to have either their own facility or access to one. They would need a doctor or a midwife. Then, of course, there were the legal fees. And that was before any profit.

She pored through legitimate adoption websites, but the dollar figure was hard to ballpark; there were too many variables: whether the adoption was open, closed, local, domestic, or intercountry, private, licensed, or unlicensed. She went back to the baby-farm articles. One estimated that adoptions could cost up to fifty thousand dollars. But the article was written eight years ago. She mentally added twenty-five grand to the price. Which meant if the ringleaders had fifteen or more girls delivering babies, they could be grossing more than a million a year.

Not too shabby.

She tapped her fingers on the desk again. She wouldn’t be surprised if some couples paid more than a hundred thousand for a baby.

By the time she finished reading, it was nearly three in the morning. She printed out the articles. She would go through them again tomorrow. As she got ready for bed, it occurred to her she hadn’t heard from Jimmy.

“E
llie Foreman.”

“Georgia Davis.” It was barely eight in the morning, but Georgia was too wired to sleep. She had already downed two cups of coffee.

“Hey, Georgia. Good morning. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, you?” She forced herself to engage in the necessary conversational niceties. They were important to Foreman. “How’s Rachel?”

“When I hear from her, which is about once a quarter, she’s fine.” Ellie’s daughter was now in college, but Georgia had known Rachel before Foreman. Georgia had been the youth officer on the force, and Ellie’s teen daughter had needed some “guidance.”

“So how is he?” Ellie asked.

“How is who?”

“Don’t play coy. Jimmy told us he was taking you to dinner the other night.”

Georgia blinked. “He did.” An awkward silence followed.

“Well,” Ellie said after a few beats, “I guess that’s all I’m going to hear.”

Georgia kept her mouth shut.

Ellie cleared her throat. “So what can I do for you?”

“Ellie, I’m working on…a case, and I need to talk to a lawyer who handles adoptions. For couples who—live around here.”

“Around here?”

“You know, on the North Shore.”

“You mean couples who have money.”

“Would you happen to know someone like that?”

She laughed. “It would be hard not to. Know people with money, I mean.” She paused. “As for a lawyer, you’re in luck. The lawyer who handled my divorce handles adoptions too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She gets them coming and going.” Another chuckle. “Actually, that’s not fair. She’s a good lawyer. I like her.”

“Can I call her?”

“Of course. Her name is Pam Huddleston. She has an office downtown, near the Daley Center. Plus a satellite office in Winnetka.”

“That’s convenient.”

“She thought so too. Oh—be prepared.”

“For what?”

“Pam doesn’t mince words. She’ll tell it to you straight. And she swears like a sailor.”

“I think I can handle it.” Georgia wrote down the number Foreman gave her. “Hey, thanks, Ellie. I owe you.”

“Okay. How about this?”

“Excuse me?”

Ellie’s voice went flat. “How about you remember that Jimmy Saclarides is one of Luke’s best friends?”

It sounded like a warning. Georgia ended the call.

P
am Huddleston’s Winnetka law office occupied the first floor of a small building on Green Bay Road near Elm. In the waiting room Georgia took in the thick oriental rug, a coffee table with a fan of today’s papers, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Except for the vacant receptionist’s desk—their concession to the weekend, no doubt—it could have been someone’s living room.

She sat on an upholstered chair, listening to muted conversations floating out from two offices. The office door nearest the waiting room was open, revealing the profile of a man in a sweater-vest, sleeves on his blue shirt rolled up. He was on the phone, his feet kicked up on his desk. The door to the other office was open only a crack, but Georgia could hear a woman murmuring in hushed tones. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but she assumed it was Huddleston and that she was delivering bad news, until the mood was abruptly shattered by a raucous laugh.

Never assume.

The woman who emerged from the office five minutes later had short curly dark hair and ruby-red lipstick. She wore a beautifully tailored pants suit, subtle but expensive-looking jewelry, and stylish boots. Ellie hadn’t told her Pam Huddleston was so attractive. Georgia felt underdressed in her jeans and blazer.

“Hi, Georgia.” The lawyer extended her hand. “So nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for squeezing me in, Ms. Huddleston. Especially on a Saturday.”

“It’s Pam. Don’t mention it. I was up here.” She smiled. “Anyway, Ellie said I needed to see you ASAP.”

Georgia returned a cautious smile. The lawyer led her into her office.

The office matched her style, subtle but expensive. Oak desk. Executive chair, another oriental rug, nice bookcases, and two sculptures of women that looked vaguely African.

“So,” Huddleston said after she settled behind her desk. “Ellie said you were interested in adopting?”

“Well, not me personally.”

“Good. Because I don’t do them anymore.” She paused. “But I can refer you to someone who does.”

“That’s all right. I’m just looking for information.” Georgia tipped her head to the side. “Why did you stop?”

Huddleston shrugged. “The laws governing adoptions in Illinois changed a few years ago. I haven’t kept up.”

“How did you get into it?”

“It’s funny. I kind of fell into it. I would hear about someone who was looking for a baby. Then, as if by serendipity, a young pregnant woman would pop up.”

“Pop up? From where?”

Huddleston smiled. “You’d be surprised…housekeepers…daughters of friends who get into trouble, people who wanted to know their babies, or their daughters’, or their nieces’ would be placed in a good home. Sometimes, a priest or rabbi would call me about one of his flock. It happens.”

“So you’d be the agent—the broker?”

“I was the lawyer who put the parties together.”

“And you’d do the paperwork?”

“Such that it was.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as you know, selling babies is against the law. So there was never any contract. It was usually done on a handshake.”

“But money changed hands.”

“The would-be parents typically paid for the birth mother’s maternity expenses. Sometimes it even worked out.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that the girl—the birth mother—could change her mind at any time. Happens a lot after a baby is born. Mom decides she wants to keep it.”

“Then what?”

Huddleston flashed her a rueful smile. “Then everyone is up shit creek. There’s really nothing anyone can do. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do them anymore. It’s too fucking emotional. But, like I said, I can refer you to someone who does.”

“That’s okay,” Georgia said. “I thought there were some bureaucratic procedures, too. Doesn’t Cook County get involved?”

“Sure. In every adoption, the parents file a petition. The birth mother has to consent; then the court does a cursory investigation. They appoint a guardian
ad litem
to make sure the baby is going to a good home. If everything’s kosher, an order of adoption is entered.”

“What if a couple was—or knew they would be—turned down?”

Huddleston frowned. “Meaning?”

“What if the couple was older, or same sex, or in some way more desperate for a baby than others? What if they were turned down from legally adopting?”

Huddleston sat up straighter, her face a cloud of suspicion. “What are you getting at?”

“Well…” Georgia cleared her throat. “What if—hypothetically, of course—there was a service that took all comers? Even though it’s against the law?”

“Are you talking black market babies?”

Georgia nodded.

Huddleston didn’t answer for a minute. Then she laced her fingers together on the desk. “I’m not gonna lie to you. The thing you have to realize is that children are considered a commodity these days. There is a growing, almost frantic need to parent. At the same time there’s a dwindling number of healthy babies available.”

“So I hear.”

“And there will always be people with a blank check. A rich trader…an elderly man with a younger wife…a—”

“So it’s possible,” Georgia said.

Huddleston nodded. “That’s another reason I got out of the business.”

“Ethics?”

“If it’s an illegal adoption, someone has to forge the papers—the birth certificates, adoption papers, and such.”

“Presumably a lawyer.”

Huddleston nodded. “They’d have to show receipts for payments—I mean expenses—time spent on the arrangements, crap like that.” She flipped up her palm. “Too risky.”

“So, basically, what you’re saying is whether it’s a legal adoption or illegal, chances are the parties would benefit from having a lawyer.”

“You bet.”

Georgia hesitated. Then, “Have you ever heard of a lawyer named Chad Coe? From Riverwoods?”

“No, but like I said, I’m out of the loop. Did you check ARDC?”

“All I could find out was that he’s active.” She paused, then dug out a business card. “If you hear anything, could you let me know?”

Huddleston took the card, then shifted in her chair. “Georgia, you seem like a straight shooter to me. And I know Ellie is. So I have to ask. Why are you chasing this down? Why not turn it over to the police?”

Georgia didn’t answer.

“If it turns out to be a black market baby ring, you could end up tangling with some very nasty people.”

Georgia hesitated. “I have a sister who is pregnant and might be involved with them.”

Huddleston kept her mouth shut. For a lawyer it was a rarity.

G
eorgia drove to Riverwoods the next morning. Her route took her past the forest preserve, where sparkling trees were frosted with a dusting of white. Further on, the sun poured through a stand of elms, creating a halo effect that made her think God approved of her mission. He should only know the evil that clung to the dirt underneath.

Chad Coe lived on Portwine, a street with houses so rustic they could have been carved out of the forest around them. Coe’s house was recessed from the road, with a long driveway in front. The lot itself must have covered several acres and was so thickly wooded that it gave the feel of a retreat. Georgia slowed and peered up the driveway. A black Beemer was parked at the far end, next to one of those monster SUVs that North Shore mothers liked to drive. A quick glimpse of the house revealed a redwood exterior that blended well with the surroundings.

She turned around and parked about fifty yards north of the house. As she peeled the lid off her coffee, steam fogged the windshield. She cupped her hands around it, grateful for its warmth. Stakeouts were always a crapshoot, and this was Sunday, so she figured she’d familiarize herself with Coe and his family, then come back on Monday. Of course, she might luck out. This was the North Shore and work was king, even on weekends.

She ran the heater intermittently, trying to stay warm while she checked out the neighborhood. With the woods a natural barrier between homes, the giant lots, and the rustic setting, this seemed like a wonderful place to live. Quiet, tranquil, and soothing. A lone bird took flight and climbed high in the sky. She didn’t know whether it was a hawk or a vulture, but she watched it soar until it was just a black speck against bright blue. She was so captivated she almost missed the monster SUV backing out of the driveway. Dark red. Illinois plates. A female driver. Someone in back.

She started up the Toyota. The van turned and headed back toward Deerfield Road. She followed and stopped in back at the light. She could just make out a little person in a car seat.

For some reason, she hadn’t envisioned Chad Coe having a child. It struck a discordant note. How could the father of a toddler be involved in a black market baby ring? Didn’t the man have any scruples? Or maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe Chad Coe was simply working divorces and real estate deals.

She let the SUV pull a few cars ahead. No sense calling attention to herself. She tried to square the thought of Chad Coe, baby dealer, with the image of Chad Coe, father. Her former boyfriend, Matt, had been an observant Jew. He’d also been a homicide detective. Somehow he’d been able to separate the strands of his life and compartmentalize his values so they never clashed. For all she knew, Jimmy was the same way. Maybe most people were. She could work through how a man might rape a woman, then help a lost child find its mother without missing a beat.

She was a mile from Riverwoods when she decided to stop tailing the wife and kid. They weren’t her targets. She headed back to the house and waited. Two hours later the SUV returned, only the wife in the car. Was the child at a play date? A class? Georgia didn’t have time to ponder it because a few minutes later the Beemer appeared at the end of the driveway. Georgia straightened. A man was behind the wheel. She started her engine.

Coe drove south on Waukegan Road, then west on Shermer into Northbrook. Georgia followed a discreet distance behind. He wove around a couple of residential streets and stopped at a ranch house that was identical to every other house on the block except for the side to which the garage was attached. Georgia drove past the house, turned around, and backtracked. By then, the front door was just closing. She aimed her binoculars at a large front window, but the curtains were drawn. She jotted down the number of the house and plugged it into the Assessor’s Office website on her tablet.

The house was owned by Dr. Richard Lotwin. She quickly opened up FindersKeepers. Lotwin was a general surgeon. He’d been affiliated with Newfield Hospital for nearly twenty years, 1988 through 2007. Did that mean he wasn’t there any longer? If so, where was he? She started to Google him but had to stop when Chad Coe emerged from the house and headed back to his Beemer.

It was her first chance to take a good look at him. He had tight, curly dark hair, a thick nose, and bug eyes that flitted everywhere, never lighting on one spot for more than a second. He looked soft and round, not buff, and was casually dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. His only concession to the frigid weather was a muffler around his neck. Probably cashmere. He didn’t carry a briefcase; instead he had a combination backpack and satchel that trendy professionals carried.

Georgia slouched down in the driver’s seat. Coe pulled out of the doctor’s driveway and turned in her direction. When he passed, she averted her face as if she was rummaging in the glove compartment. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen her.

Once he reached the end of the block, she tailed him again. What business did Chad Coe have with a surgeon? If he was running a baby-breeding ring, shouldn’t he be dealing with an ob-gyn? Of course, he might be, and his visit to Lotwin was a different matter altogether. She checked the time. Whatever its objective, the meeting didn’t take a lot of time—less than twenty minutes.

Coe drove southeast to Skokie, a village in which Indians, Vietnamese, Jews, Hispanics, African Americans, and Middle Easterners elbowed one another in apparent harmony. It hadn’t always been that way. Thirty years earlier, a group of neo-Nazis were given a permit to march through what was then primarily a Jewish neighborhood. The sight of men in uniform goose-stepping past Holocaust survivors made for tense moments, which, of course, was what the marchers wanted. Long since ended, the marches were now part of the lore of Chicago history.

She tailed Coe to a block of small apartment buildings whose front yards were surrounded by chain-link fences. It was a utilitarian rather than pretty neighborhood, the faded yellow-brick buildings no taller than three stories, and their lawns littered with children’s tricycles, cars, and toys. Coe parked across from one of the buildings.

Georgia watched him go inside and swore softly. This wasn’t a single-family dwelling, which meant she couldn’t check out the occupants online. They were renters and wouldn’t be listed on any property records. She’d have to nose around the old-fashioned way. She realized how dependent she’d become on technology for sleuthing. Then she unwrapped a PB and J sandwich she’d slapped together before she left and wondered whom Chad Coe was visiting.

Her cell vibrated, startling her. The caller ID said Jimmy Saclarides. Her stomach flipped.

“Hey.” She smiled in spite of herself.

“It’s Jimmy.”

“I know.”

“Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

She wanted to tell him she was sorry for pushing him away. That she hoped he’d give her another chance. Instead, she said, “It’s okay. I know you must be busy.” She winced at how trite she sounded.

“Always…” He paused. “But I’m about to check out for the day. I know it’s late, but do you want to get together tonight? I can drive down.”