He was exactly four weeks old today. Had he survived his ordeal? Where had they taken him? The FBI had sent notices to all local police, hospitals and clinics about the case and regularly followed up. They had DNA from the deceased mother and Lucy could get a court order for DNA of any infant who fit John Doe’s description.
Siobhan hung up her cell phone and said, “That was Noah. He wanted to tell me he liked my article. Isn’t that nice?”
“He’s a good guy,” Lucy said, though she thought it was odd that he would call Siobhan when he knew he’d see her that afternoon.
“Do you think this lead is solid?” Siobhan asked them. They were driving to Austin to meet a pediatrician who had contacted them about one of his patients, who Lucy was hoping and praying was Baby John, as Lucy thought of him.
“It’s the only lead we’ve had about Baby John,” Lucy said. “I talked to the pediatrician yesterday. He wouldn’t give me any real information over the phone, but he seemed genuinely worried about his patient and willing to meet with us once he sees our credentials. Medical records are practically sacrosanct, but if a child is in danger we have some leeway. And Noah can get a warrant quickly—we have the AUSA on board with us, considering the circumstances.”
“We’ll talk to the doc first,” Ryan added. “He wouldn’t have called in if he didn’t think he had something. If we have any hint that the infant is Baby John, we’ll get a warrant for DNA.”
“You’re at thirty-one recoveries now, correct?” Siobhan said, looking through her notes.
“Yes,” Lucy said.
“But there were thirteen babies born to the nine surviving women, and none of them have been found.”
“Yet,” Ryan said. “We’ll find them. We’re not the only FBI office working the case. We have a forty percent recovery rate in a month. I’d say that’s pretty good.”
Maybe it was, but Lucy hadn’t been sleeping well. She was so worried about the babies, about the surviving women, about Sean and his newfound son, Jesse. Sean was in pain, and Lucy couldn’t fix it. Sean couldn’t even have a real relationship with his son. Carson Spade was in witness protection and had taken his wife and stepson with him.
Lucy had suggested they postpone the wedding. Or elope. Something small and quiet without the big party.
“You’re the only light in my life, Lucy. I’m not canceling or postponing or changing anything. If I could marry you right this minute I would.”
The ironic thing was that Sean had always been her light, her anchor. When she was living in the darkness, he had brought her out. Always. She would do everything in her power to help him through this impossible situation with Jesse and the Spade family. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to get married, but Sean was her life.
She’d realized over the last few weeks that Sean, the epitome of self-confidence, was insecure about their relationship. She didn’t know why, exactly, but if being married gave him peace they would get married as planned.
She loved him. It was as simple as that.
“How are your boys?” Lucy asked Ryan.
“Good. Growing. I miss them.” He frowned. “I was thinking about applying to transfer to the Austin Resident Agency—it would be a lateral move, but I’d be closer to the boys. But with Juan still out and maybe not coming back, and your buddy Noah leaving, and a new SSA coming in and filling two new agent spots, I don’t think I’d get approved.”
“Maybe it’s the best time to ask,” Lucy said. “I don’t want to see you leave—I really like working with you. But these are your kids. You may not be living in the house, but they need you around.”
“I know. San Antonio isn’t too far,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
“But if you were living in Austin, you could see them more often, right?”
“Depends. Probably.”
Lucy would miss Ryan—he’d been the first to really reach out to her and accept her into the squad. Nate too, but Ryan reminded Lucy of her brother Connor—all cop, a bit of a temper, a little rough around the edges. With Ryan, you always knew exactly what he was thinking and why. That kind of blunt honesty could be hard for some partners, but Lucy went out of her way to work with Ryan because there were no games, no secrets, no doubts.
He turned into the medical complex where pediatrician Carl Calvert had his practice along with two other doctors. “Take the lead, Luce, you know more about this case than I do.” He turned to Siobhan. “Stay put. The doctor may not like a reporter in the interview.”
She smiled. “I get it. I have plenty of work to do.” She glanced around. “I’ll sit on that bench over there, in the shade. Don’t forget me.”
Ryan and Lucy walked into the waiting room and Lucy identified them both to the nurse. Though the office seemed full, they didn’t have to wait long before the nurse escorted them to Dr. Calvert’s office. Calvert was in his sixties, short and trim, with a quiet manner.
“We know you’re busy, Doctor, so we’ll get right to the point,” Ryan said after introducing himself and Lucy and showing identification. “You contacted the FBI after you read the article in the Times and said you may have information about one of the black-market babies we’re looking for.”
He nodded. “One of my new patients is a four-week-old male who was both adopted and born prematurely. I’ve seen him four times, the first shortly after his birth. He had serious breathing issues and I wanted to hospitalize him, but the mother refused. She was willing to do what it took to stabilize him, and within forty-eight hours he turned around.”
“Can a mother refuse medical care if it puts her child at risk?” Lucy asked.
“Yes—and no. It’s a gray area, and hospitalization was a precaution more than anything. I had his birth records, but because it was a closed adoption, I had no information about the birth mother.”
“You still have his birth records? What hospital?”
He hesitated. “Agent Kincaid, this is a gray area for me. Medical privacy laws are such that I would be subject to fines and possibly lose my license if I reveal private medical information about one of my patients. However, because the child may be at risk, I wanted to meet with you. I can provide complete medical records if you have a warrant, and in fact have already prepared them for you.”
“Excuse me,” Ryan said, and stepped out of the office.
“He’s going to call our boss. We can expedite the warrant now that we have more information,” Lucy said.
“Good.”
“You really think this child is in danger.”
“No—I mean, I don’t think he’s in danger from his adoptive parents. The mother is older, had been trying to conceive for more than ten years. I believe she is a good and attentive mother. I met the father once, at the second appointment, and he too seemed very concerned about his son’s health and welfare. However, there are some … areas of concern. I’ve already contacted the hospital where the child was born to speak to the doctors on staff and to confirm the information I have in the files, and am waiting to hear back. I hesitate to say this, but I was surprised that they released him so quickly. The hospital is out of state, which isn’t unusual in adoptions. According to the records, he was released in forty-eight hours. He wouldn’t have been cleared to fly at that point—most airlines won’t allow infants under the age of two weeks to travel commercially. But the parents are wealthy, they could have chartered a plane. I saw him seventy-two hours after his birth, wanted to hospitalize him as a precaution, but he was doing remarkably better two days later. He seems healthy for a preemie.”
The doctor certainly looked conflicted. “I don’t know exactly what inspired me to call,” he continued. “I really hope I’m wrong. There was a reason I asked you to meet me at eleven this morning. The mother has an appointment.”
Lucy looked at her watch. “It’s eleven fifteen.”
“She hasn’t shown.”
They were running. Lucy was certain of it. The so-called adoptive parents had seen the Times artic
le and recognized that their illegally adopted child fit the description of the baby torn from Eloisa’s womb.
“Dr. Calvert, your instincts told you that there’s something suspicious about this family, otherwise you wouldn’t have called,” Lucy said. “The baby we are looking for was cut out of his dying mother’s womb, then sold on the black market. The adoptive parents are accessories to murder. All I need is the DNA of the infant and then I can expedite DNA tests. This is a priority for the FBI, and for me personally.”
“I want to help, but the rules are there to protect everyone.” He glanced at his clock.
“Did she call to cancel?”
He shook his head.
Ryan stepped in. “A warrant is being printed right now, but will you take an electronic copy until we get it here?”
“Yes,” Calvert said without hesitation.
Ryan showed Calvert the warrant on his phone. “The original will be here within the hour. Our Austin field office will deliver it personally.”
Calvert unlocked his desk drawer and took out a file. “Here’s a complete copy of Joshua Morrison’s medical file. Please let me know what happens, and if you need anything else.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Lucy took the file. Her hand was shaking. This child was Baby John. She was certain of it.
* * *
Tom and Danielle Morrison lived in an upscale gated neighborhood ten minutes from the medical center. Lucy reviewed the records quickly and called Zach Charles, the squad analyst, to follow up on Dr. Calvert’s concern that the hospital birth records might have been falsified.
Someone had cared for Baby John after he was born. According to the hospital in California, the baby was born on Tuesday morning, four weeks ago—a full day after the baby was actually cut from his mother’s womb. The records said his birth mother had delivered at thirty-five weeks. Possible, Lucy supposed, but the coroner believed that the baby was at thirty-one to thirty-three weeks gestation based on the mother’s autopsy.
According to the records, they discharged the infant to the legal adoptive parents, Tom and Danielle Morrison, forty-eight hours later. They named the baby Joshua Thomas Morrison. Baby John—Joshua—weighed four pounds, one ounce when born and four pounds, three ounces when discharged. On his last appointment with Dr. Calvert, he weighed five pounds, twelve ounces—having gained approximately half a pound a week. That would put him just over six pounds now if he kept the same growth pattern.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Siobhan said from the backseat.
“You can’t put any of this in your article,” Lucy said. “You need to get it cleared by headquarters.”
“I know—the PIO lectured me and made me sign a gazillion confidentiality and liability agreements before he agreed to let me ride along with you for a few days. But … you seem confident.”
“It’s him,” Lucy said. “And I think they bolted.”
“So fast? Did the doctor tip them off?”
Ryan said, “Most likely, they read your article.”
Ryan pulled up to the security gate outside the Morrisons’ community and rolled down his window. He showed his badge and identification to the guard. The guard wrote down the information and Ryan’s license plate number and then let them in.
The Morrisons’ house was on a bluff with a view. It was stately and a bit too ostentatious for Lucy’s taste, but the neighborhood was clean, with established trees and meandering walking trails.
“Million-dollar homes,” Ryan said. “Not all of Austin is like this, but this development began about fifteen years ago and built out quickly before the housing crash. Maintained the values, for the most part.”
Ryan turned into a circular drive and parked in front of steps leading to a narrow porch and towering main entry.
“Stay,” Ryan told Siobhan before he and Lucy got out of the car. Lucy noticed that Siobhan had her camera out. She’d already been forbidden from showing any agents in her photos, as a condition of the FBI cooperation with her series of articles, unless she had explicit permission, so Lucy wasn’t worried about the exposure.
They glanced around, saw no one out except a gardener working on the house across the street.
“Quiet,” Lucy said.
She rang the bell. Ryan stood next to her at an angle, watching her back and the street. They’d both been in difficult positions, and even in nice neighborhoods desperate people might stage an ambush. She didn’t particularly like being paranoid on the job, but taking precautions wasn’t paranoia, she figured, any more than Sean’s recent upgrade in security was paranoia.
No one came to the door. They rang again. Silence. No dog barking, no sound of footsteps.
Ryan walked around to the garage. He returned a minute later and said, “There’s a sporty Mercedes in the garage which is registered to Thomas Morrison, but the SUV registered to Danielle Morrison is missing.”
“We should talk to the neighbors.”
“You do that. I’ll call Morrison’s employer.”
While Ryan was on the phone, Lucy crossed the street and spoke to the gardener. He didn’t speak English, so Lucy switched over to Spanish. She knew several languages but was most comfortable with Spanish because she’d learned it simultaneously with English while growing up. “Do you know the Morrisons?”
He nodded. “Sí, senorita. I care for their yard on Thursdays.”
“Did they cancel this week?”
He looked confused. “No. But they may have left a message. I started at six this morning.”
“Did you see either of them today?”
He shook his head again. “The señor works, the señorita has a new baby. I’ve seen her walking with stroller, but not today.”
“Do you know if any of the neighbors are home?”
He pointed to the house two over from the Morrisons’. “I also work for them, the Guiterrezes. They referred my business to the Morrisons when they moved here. They’re good people, always remember my family at Christmas. Been here since they built the house. Miz Guiterrez might be able to help you.”
“Thank you.”
Lucy waited for Ryan to meet her back at the car. “Morrison works for a law firm,” he said with a scowl. “They won’t tell me shit over the phone. Took a message. I left one, too. Let him know the fucking FBI is looking for his ass.”
Lucy filled Ryan in on what the gardener had said, then they walked over to the corner house. The yard was a little more to Lucy’s liking, tastefully decorated, a bit cluttered, and not as sterile as the Morrisons’. She rang the bell. Immediately a large dog barked and she heard a distant, “Spartacus! Quiet!”
The dog barked once more, then whined on the other side of the door.
“Back!” they heard, then the door opened. A woman was holding a huge black Lab by the collar. “He doesn’t bite,” she said, “but he might lick you to death.”
The Lab wagged his tail so hard Lucy was surprised it didn’t fly off.
They showed their IDs and Lucy said, “We need to talk to the Morrisons, but they aren’t home and Mr. Morrison isn’t at work.”
Mrs. Guiterrez’s face fell. “Oh, God, is something wrong?”
“We don’t know yet, which is why we need to speak with them,” Ryan said.
“May we come in? We have a few questions, and I would hate for your dog to escape,” Lucy added.
Mrs. Guiterrez hesitated, then nodded and opened the door. “I’ll just put him in the backyard. Have a seat in the living room.”
She motioned to a room that didn’t look used. Down the hall, Lucy could see a well-used family room with multiple gaming systems and Dora the Explorer playing on the television. That’s when she noticed a little girl with dark curly pigtails pop up around the corner. She couldn’t be more than four.
“Hi,” the girl said.
“Hello,” Lucy said. “What’s your name?”
“Melissa. What’s your name?”
“Lucy.”
“We had a dog name
d Lucy and she died and then we got Spartacus.”
Lucy didn’t quite know what to say to that.
“Missy Sue,” her mom returned, “you didn’t finish picking up your puzzle. Remember what I said?” She raised an eyebrow.
“But we have company.”
“All the more reason to clean up your mess.”
The little girl sighed and walked back down the hall.
“Sorry about that. I don’t have a lot of time. I have errands to run, then pick up my other two kids from school. Then it’s gymnastics for Missy and soccer practice for the boys.”
“We won’t keep you long,” Lucy said. They sat down in the living room. Mrs. Guiterrez sat stiffly. Worried. Suspicious? Did she know anything?
“Do you know the Morrisons well?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, ever since they moved in a couple years ago. The other family who lived there—Shelley was my best friend. Her husband was transferred to North Carolina, bless his heart. Better job, benefits, but Shelley was irreplaceable. Her youngest and my oldest are thirteen, they’ve been best friends since they were born. In fact—” She stopped herself. “Anyway, Tom and Danielle bought their house. We became friendly.”
“But not like Shelley,” Lucy prompted.
“You know how it is.”
She did but needed to get Mrs. Guiterrez focused. “When was the last time you saw the Morrisons?”
“Saturday. Teddy had a soccer game in the neighborhood, so she walked over with the baby.”
“Her baby?”
“Yes, precious little boy. Joshua was premature, has some health issues, but is doing very well.”
“What do you know about their adoption?”
Now she was worried. “Is that what this is about? Does the birth mother want the baby back? It was a closed adoption. The birth mother isn’t supposed to know where he is. And it’s not right that they can just come in and claim the baby months after he’s born. Poor Danielle.”
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