Swift Justice (18 page)

“He was going to rape her?”

Linnea shrugged. “Who knows? Beth could be a little melodramatic.”

“Did she tell her parents?”

Linnea raised an eyebrow. “What would be the point?”

Indeed. I tried another line of questioning. “Did she say anything to you about making a deal with some couple to give them her baby?”

Linnea looked down, studying a scratch on the tabletop. “She was going to be a surrogate mother for this couple that couldn’t have their own children.”

I rocked my chair back on two legs, staring at her. “A surrogate? Good God, how’d she come up with that?” I tried to dredge up what I knew about surrogacy. Not much. I thought the surrogate mother underwent in vitro fertilization and then birthed the baby for some desperate, rich couple.

“She saw a show on
Oprah
and thought it would be a good way to make some money. I told her it was a dumb-ass idea,” she said finally. Her eyes met mine. “It’s a form of prostitution, you know? Selling your body is selling your body, and I told her she was too smart for that, that she could get a regular
job and save up to move away. But she said that working at Mickey D’s or something would take too long, that she needed to get away
now
.”

“Why now?”

“I think because her stepdad was pushing really hard for her to marry the guy from church. She was afraid he’d force her into it. She thought the guy had promised her stepdad a big donation for the church and he was desperate to get it. He wanted to get into television ministry to ‘reach out to more poor souls in need of salvation.’ ” Her face twisted in distaste.

My dislike for Pastor Zach continued to grow. Warm air burped into the room from the opened door as a pair of young moms, each pushing a stroller, walked in. The barista took their orders and set a couple of machines to hissing.

“How much was she getting?”

“Fourteen thousand dollars, plus all her medical expenses,” Linnea said, a trace of awe in her voice despite her opinion of women selling their bodies.

I was less impressed, having a better idea than the teenagers of the cost of funding an apartment, food, utilities, and other necessities of life. Fourteen thousand wouldn’t have lasted long. I wondered where the money was now and made a note to look into it. “Do you know how she found this couple, the Falstows?”

“Some Web page. I don’t know which one. She was really psyched about the money, though.”

“She wasn’t worried about having to give up the baby?”

Linnea hesitated. “Not at first. Then, well . . . you know she was adopted?”

I nodded.

“I think she was having second thoughts. That’s why she decided to not go to the hospital to have the baby.”

“You talked to her after she had the baby?” I straightened, my antennae on alert. Linnea must have been one of the last people to see Elizabeth alive, since she seemed to have disappeared very shortly after depositing the newborn on Melissa Lloyd’s doorstep.

“I was there,” Linnea said, her pale skin going blind-cave-fish white at the memory. “I helped her have the baby.”

I stared at her. “You were at the apartment? You helped with the delivery?”

She nodded, fidgeting with the dangling skull. “Yeah. She called me on a Saturday night, told me she thought she was in labor and asked me to come over. I borrowed my mom’s car and drove over there at about midnight. She was in pain, but not like later. Before it got too bad, I looked up home births on the Internet and ran out to Walgreens to get some supplies. The baby came at about six Sunday evening. I cut the umbilical cord,” she said matter-of-factly, “with sewing scissors I sterilized in boiling water.”

“You’re a very brave girl,” I told her, “and a good friend.” I’d accompanied an Air Force friend to an abortion clinic once and sat with her while she cried all night, but that wasn’t on a par with this. I hadn’t been sixteen, either.

“I thought it would be gross,” she said, “but it wasn’t. I mean, yeah, it was bloody and everything, and the baby was all slippery and sticky, but when she opened her eyes and looked up at me while I was sponging her off—she seemed so
serious—it was like fireworks went off in my head. I’ve always planned on being a doctor, and now I know I want to specialize in obstetrics.”

Conviction rang in her voice, and I had no doubt she’d succeed. “What did you do then?”

“Went home. Was my mom ever pissed about my keeping the car out so long!” She batted at the skull earring and set it swinging.

One of the young mothers seated several tables away got up for a refill, and her baby flung his rattle across the room. The kid had an arm. It rolled to a stop five feet from me, and I picked it up, noticing Linnea’s bulky backpack under the table and a pair of incongruous flip-flops on her feet. Black, of course. I handed the Elmo rattle to the exasperated mother. She thanked me and returned it to the baby who promptly flung it again. This time, when she picked it up, the mother tucked it into the diaper bag. The little Cy Young wailed.

“I’ve got to get back to class,” Linnea said, slipping her arms through the straps of her backpack and shrugging into it. It bowed her slim shoulders forward.

“Do you want a ride back to school?” I asked, thinking the SPCA would get a call if anyone made a pack mule carry that much weight.

“Nah. I’m in good with Mr. Anderson, my calc teacher. He won’t care if I’m late.”

“Look, I’ve still got some questions,” I said. Like, why did Elizabeth leave the baby with Melissa Lloyd? How did she get along with the Falstows? Did her father ever abuse her? “Can I call you at home later?”

She looked reluctant. “My mom would have a cow if she knew about all this.”

“Well, how about if you call me? Would that be okay?” I gave her one of my cards.

She studied it for a moment, then nodded. “I guess.”

We walked to the door together and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She turned to me as the sunlight glittered into our eyes and said, “Elizabeth asked me to be Olivia’s godmother.”

I wasn’t sure what sort of response she was looking for, so I said nothing.

“I don’t even believe in God, but I said yes. How stupid is that?” She held my eyes for a moment, then turned away, her flip-flops thwapping as she headed north to the high school.

The Falstow home was faux Mediterranean or something similar. Architectural styles are not my forte, but this house was tan stucco with a tile roof and a terra-cotta courtyard brimming with flowers that were definitely not native to Colorado. A small fountain splashed in the middle of the courtyard, attracting twittery sparrows. The smell of newly mown grass hung in the air, and a lawn mower buzzed from across the cul-de-sac. Parking my car on the street, I walked up the circular driveway, already feeling the heat of a late August day. Melodious chimes sounded when I pressed the doorbell, but no one came. Damn. That was the problem with my preferred tactic of not warning someone by calling ahead—sometimes I wasted a trip.

I backed up close to the fountain, the cool water misting my bare arms, and craned my neck to either side. A wrought-iron fence ringed the backyard, allowing glimpses of an emerald lawn that undoubtedly sucked up more water than Colorado’s reservoirs had to spare, and a pool. I spied a gate’s hinges and headed to the left.

“Hello?” I called, swinging the gate open. I thought I heard music coming from the back and followed the stone path around the side of the house to an oasis with a kidney-shaped pool surrounded by blue tile. A woman wearing a broad-brimmed sun hat sat in front of a laptop computer on a poolside table. Long, tanned legs descended from a pair of tobacco-colored shorts, and a coral bandeau allowed her shoulders and chest to soak up more sun. “Hello?” I said again, keeping back so as not to make her feel threatened.

She looked up, startled, and pulled ear buds from her ears, turning off the MP3 player lying on the table. “Who—”

Despite the Jackie O sunglasses she wore, I recognized the auburn hair. “Mrs. Falstow, I’m Charlie Swift. We met briefly at Patricia Sprouse’s?” Okay, “met” was stretching it, but I wanted to establish a connection.

“Oh, oh yes! You must be here about Roberta. I knew that woman was lying when she said she didn’t know where she was.” A midwestern twang of some kind stretched her vowels. “Where is she? When can we have her?” As she spoke, she stood, topping my five foot three by at least six inches.

“Roberta?” What the hell was she going on about? Then it clicked. “You mean Olivia?”

Her salon-shaped brows drew together. “The baby’s name will be Roberta. Roberta Justine, after my father and Stefan’s.”

“I am here about the baby,” I conceded. Maybe not in the way she was hoping for, but I wasn’t lying. “May I sit down?”

“Of course. Coffee?” She gestured to a cafetière on the table, seated herself, and refilled her mug.

“No, thanks.” I pulled out a webbed chair and sat. “Mrs. Falstow—”

“Please, call me Jacqueline. Would you like to see the nursery?”

Before I could answer, she sprang up again and headed for French doors. Either she’d had enough caffeine to rev up a Formula One vehicle, she was the poster child for ADD, or she was nervous about something. I pushed back my chair and followed her. She was halfway up a grand staircase of some exotic wood, sunglasses in her hand, before I caught up with her.

“In here,” she said breathlessly, pushing open the door to a fairy-tale bower. A round crib, big enough for quintuplets and lined with pink satin, occupied pride of place in the middle of the room. Dressers, a changing table, a diaper pail, a wipes warmer, and every other infant accessory available to people with too much money lined the walls. A rocking horse awaited a young rider in one corner, and fairies frolicked in a woodland mural. Pink gauze hung from a ring on the ceiling, muting the light from the large window. I knew if I looked in the bureau drawers or opened the closet I’d find enough precious princess clothes to outfit every female infant between here and Pueblo.

“Isn’t it splendid?” Jacqueline asked.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You can see we love Roberta already,” she said, turning a pleading face toward me. “I can’t wait to hold her.” She mimed rocking a baby in her arms and hummed a snatch of lullaby.

This was a woman who really, really wanted a baby. I didn’t want to be around if she found out she couldn’t have Olivia. I suspected a judge would end up making that decision.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m a private investigator, and I’ve been hired to find Olivia’s father. I understand that might be your husband?”

“What? How dare you!”

She went from loving mommy to Mommy Dearest in a heartbeat. The fury in her face pushed me back a step.

“Stefan has always been completely faithful. He would never— Especially not with a teenager young enough to be his daughter. Get out!” She pointed a rigid finger toward the door.

I held up my hands in apology. “I’m sorry. Please wait. Someone told me that Elizabeth had agreed to be a surrogate mother for you and your husband. If—”

“A surrogate?” The flush of anger slowly faded from her cheeks. “Who told you that? She was pregnant when we met her. Our lawyer set up the introduction, arranged for the private adoption. We signed a contract with Elizabeth, but it was for an adoption, spelling out how we’d cover the medical costs and some incidental living expenses—”

Yeah, fourteen thousand dollars of them, if Linnea was right.

“—and she’d turn the baby over to us when she was born.”

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. If Elizabeth was pregnant when you met her, I don’t suppose you know who the father was?”

She looked ten years older as her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. “Do I know who the semen contributor was? No. Stefan and I are her parents. That baby is legally ours. We have a contract.” She rushed out of the room again, bare feet slapping on the wood floors, and darted into a door on the left. Feeling like Alice trying to keep up with the White
Rabbit, I found her in an office, flipping through folders in a file cabinet. “Here,” she said triumphantly, thrusting a sheaf of papers at me. “The contract.”

I didn’t reach for it. “I really have nothing to do with that,” I said, “but is a contract signed with a sixteen-year-old legally binding?”

Alarm flared in her eyes. “Sixteen? She told us she was nineteen!”