Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)

by Sherman, Scott

  “We guarantee placement within a year.” Ms. Peterson was serene.

  My mother picked her purse off the floor and placed it in her lap. “That’s not good enough, Amy. You hear that ticking? It’s not my biological clock, just the regular one. Always running. Remember what I said before? Fish? Bait? This isn’t the time to dawdle, darling.”

  Ms. Peterson placed her hands faced flat against the table, a poker player about to show a winning hand. “We do offer an . . . expedited process. For the small group of birth mothers who won’t be satisfied with anything but the best. They require an even higher level of service.” She spun her Aeron Chair around and withdrew two new forms from the top drawer. These were simpler menus of services. Black type on white paper. The agency’s name didn’t appear on them.

  As for the prices, just double what I described earlier. Except for the “processing and administrative forms,” which skyrocketed from $50,000 to $250,000.

  My mother noticed the same thing. “Listen,” she said, “I get it. If I want my dry cleaning back on the same day, it costs an extra buck fifty. I don’t see why a baby would be any different. But an extra $200,000 for paperwork? What, you go through extra secretaries because they keep breaking their fingers trying to type that fast?”

  A patronizing smile this time. “I wish it were that simple. The sad truth is, not everyone is as committed to building happy, healthy families as we are. There are government agencies—faceless bureaucracies, really—whose sole purpose is to interfere in your private affairs. The only way they can maintain their existence is by making things more complicated and intrusive than they need to be. They live to slow things done, erect hurdles, and delay, delay, delay. They say they want to protect the children, but”—she sighed and turned her palms up as if toward God—“all they really want to protect are their jobs.

  “Those extra fees help us . . . grease the wheels, if you will. Keep things moving.”

  My mother looked at her blankly. “Huh?”

  “You know.” Ms. Peterson arched an eyebrow. “That money . . . incentivizes those state employees not to look so deeply at everything. To accelerate the approval process.”

  “In what way?” my mother asked.

  Ms. Peterson looked frustrated. I knew how she felt. Surely, my mother knew what Ms. Peterson was implying.

  Then, I understood. My mother knew exactly what Ms. Peterson was implying. What she was trying to do was to get Ms. Peterson to come out and say it. On tape.

  Everything Ms. Peterson had done so far was open to interpretation. Sure, she seemed to indulge a lot of my mother’s objectionable comments, but she could always later claim that she was just being polite to avoid a confrontation. She could make a credible case that she was merely indulging a crazy woman so she could get her out of her office.

  She might even be able to defend her exorbitant costs and Park Avenue birth mothers.

  But my mother wasn’t as clueless as she seemed. This was her opportunity to get Ms. Peterson to admit to an undeniably illegal act. On tape.

  I turned my body to face my mother, aiming my tiepin straight at her. If she could pull this off, she deserved to be captured on video.

  Ms. Peterson looked at my mother’s mask of confusion, then at my even blanker expression. You could see her thinking Do I have to spell it out for these idiots? Every day, she met with couples of considerable wealth who came to her knowing her agency’s reputation. They were sophisticated people who knew how to read between the lines. What was wrong with us?

  She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. “Ms. . . .”Another look at the file. “Heffelbergen. I don’t know how to say it clearer. . . .”

  “Well, then, I suppose we’re done,” my mother surprised me by saying. She stood up abruptly. “We’re not stupid, Amy. My Murray is a very rich man. He didn’t get that way because he’s a dummy, did you, darling?”

  “Glrff,” I replied.

  “See? I am not a cheap woman. But if someone wants to sell me something, I expect them to have the decency to tell me what my money is buying.” She put the second form Ms. Peterson had given us on her desk, jabbing at the “processing and administrative” line with an angry finger.

  “Otherwise, I assume they’re ripping me off. Especially if it’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Amy. I think I have the right to know where my quarter million is going.”

  She put her hands on Ms. Peterson’s desk and leaned forward, her face inches from the rapidly flushing adoption director’s. “I don’t think you can blame me for expecting a straight answer.”

  Ms. Peterson’s face was blazing. I suspected the last time she was that red was after her last chemical peel. Her eyes drew together like a snake’s about to strike.

  “The money goes to the state agencies. To the people whose approval we need—you need—to get you your baby. It takes that kind of money to get their stamp of approval with no questions asked.”

  “Oh, I see!” My mother smiled and sat back down. Ms. Peterson’s shoulders relaxed. The heat started to drain from her cheeks.

  “So,” my mother summarized, “you’re saying I need to make a contribution to the agency. Like to a charity. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? That I understand. I have no problem with that at all. But, why don’t I just make it directly so that it’s tax-deductible?”

  My mother smiled serenely and reached into her purse, extracting a checkbook. “Now, should I just make it out to the New York State Adoption Services, or does it go by another name?”

  Ms. Peterson’s right eye began to twitch as the left side of her lip slid downward. I wondered if she was about to have a stroke. She once again assumed the scarlet coloring of a freshly steamed lobster.

  “No, you . . . you.” I could see how much she wanted to insult my mother, but the sight of that checkbook, and my mother’s willingness to write a $250,000 check with not a moment’s hesitation, made her hold her tongue. She had to be thinking that if she could string her along a little longer, she could probably make a fortune off this silly, careless spender.

  Ms. Peterson drew in a deep breath. “The money doesn’t exactly go to the agency, Ms. . . .” She didn’t bother looking up the name again and just let her voice trail off. “The money goes directly to the official whose signature we need.”

  “Well, what’s his name, then?” my mother asked cheerily, pen in hand.

  “We don’t give him a check, dear. There can be no trail. It’s all . . . off the record.”

  “Like a . . .”

  “Yes!” Ms. Peterson said.

  “What’s that word?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Murray.” My mother turned to me. “What is she trying to say, dear?”

  “Klurm?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “The word doesn’t matter, dear.” Ms. Peterson’s left eye began to twitch in counterpoint with her right, as if they were taking turns winking. “Let’s just focus on the results, shall we?”

  “It’s on the tip of my tongue,” my mother said, pretending to be oblivious. “It’s a . . . oh, dear, this is going to keep me up all night.” My mother bit her lip as if deep in thought. “I give you the two hundred and fifty thousand, and you give it to the person whose signature you need as a . . . bait? Bail? No, that’s not it. It’s a—”

  “It’s a bribe!” Ms. Peterson shouted. I ducked, thinking there was a real possibility her head might explode right then and there. “We pay him to stamp your application as approved and get you your goddamn baby. How else do you think a woman like you would be able to adopt? You, or . . . mumble-mouth over there.” Rather rudely, she jabbed her finger toward me.

  I nodded back, but in a friendly acknowledgment. My obliviousness seemed to upset her even more.

  “And in exchange for a quarter million in cold, hard cash,” she continued to rant, her voice getting louder and higher-pitched with each clipped word, “he looks the oth
er way and ignores everything about you that makes you an unsuitable parent. Although, in your case, we might have to double his payment, as he’d not only have to close his eyes but hold his nose and plug his ears, too.” Her entire body shuddered with release, like she was having a particularly strong orgasm.

  She was obviously the kind of woman who kept her feelings bottled up. It probably was quite gratifying for her to let loose like this. Maybe this experience would do her some good.

  “Well,” my mother said, standing up again. “I think we’re done here. Kevin, let’s get out of here.”

  “Kevin?” Ms. Peterson asked. “Who’s Kevin?”

  “As for you,” my mother said to the director, “any person who would place a child with a woman as obviously unsuitable as I am, is a real piece of, pardon the expression, shit. You already have the blood of at least one little boy on your hands. Tell me, Ms. Fancypants, with your pretty little office and your pretty little pictures on the walls, how does someone like you live with yourself?”

  “I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ms. Peterson stuttered, rising to stand. She crossed her arms over her flat chest, straightening up to her full height. She remembered who she was—an accomplished businesswoman of good breeding. Whereas the woman challenging her had the class and style of a low-rent streetwalker. “And who are you to talk to me like that?”

  “I’m certainly not Zorah Heffelbergen, you tight-assed, stuck-up baby-seller. Had you done even the slightest bit of due diligence before jumping at the chance to earn a few sheckles by placing an innocent baby into my arms, you’d have discovered Zorah Heffelbergen doesn’t even exist. I’m the woman who’s going to expose you to the world as the disgusting pimp you are.”

  Ms. Peterson lost a bit of her rediscovered confidence and took a step backward. My mother moved in for the kill.

  “I’m the ghost of Adam Merr. And I’m going to haunt your ass until you’re out of business.”

  “Adam Merr,” Ms. Peterson said, her voice shaking, “isn’t dead. Yes, what happened to him was . . . unfortunate. But it wasn’t my fault. I’m sure he’ll be fine. These things happen. I’ve devoted my life to helping children find their way to the best possible parents they could have: the select few who can afford our services. The children we place will be raised by families of wealth and privilege. They’ll have every advantage in life.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” my mother said, “you’re as stupid as you are greedy. That you actually believe a child needs money more than he needs love. Or proper guidance. Or a safe home. Maybe you really are so shallow that it doesn’t trouble you that even a cursory background check would have revealed the father you placed Adam with had two prior arrests for child endangerment.

  “Not to mention that had you done even one of the quarterly post-placement home visits your rate list requires, at fifteen hundred dollars a piece, mind you, you might have noticed that the boy was living in a cage.”

  “Those visits”—Ms. Peterson collapsed into her chair—“can be done by phone.”

  Thus giving new definition to the term “home visit.”

  “Yeah,” my mother said, “bet you still charge the whole fifteen hundred, though, don’t you? Because that would be the most important thing.”

  Ms. Peterson’s eyes glazed over like those of a dying woman watching her life flash before her.

  “No,” my mother said, “Adam Merr isn’t dead. But parts of him were killed. His childhood. His innocence. Maybe any chance he’ll ever have to love and be loved, to trust another person, to enjoy a normal life.

  “And, you know what, Amy? When I bring what you just admitted to me about bribing state officials to the district attorney’s office, and they start looking into your little operation here, I have a feeling that Adam isn’t the only child they’ll find you’ve put into an house of horrors to suffer a life of abuse and neglect. I think there’s a reason people like the Merrs are willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to get a child with ‘no questions asked.’

  “When the answers come, I pray to God they’re not as bad as I fear they might be.

  “Enjoy this pretty office while you can, Amy. Enjoy your pretty home and your pretty clothing and your pretty little bank account, too.

  “Because they all came at a price that I’m not sure a woman like you will ever understand. A price paid by innocent babies. A debt you can never repay.”

  Ms. Peterson burst into sobs.

  My mother turned her back and walked away.

  At the door, she turned for one last jab. “If I thought even one of those tears was for the children,” she said, “I might be feeling a little sorry for you right now. As it is, I’m going to enjoy taking you down.”

  Ms. Peterson raised her tear-streaked face. “Who are you?” she asked again.

  “Who am I?” my mother asked. “I’m your worst nightmare. A loudmouth Jewish mother with her own talk show and a burning hatred for anyone who would hurt a child.

  “I’m Sophie, you despicable bitch.

  “Stay tuned.”

  35

  Busted

  We entered the van to cheers and applause. Except from Roni, the segment producer, who was weeping. She threw her arms around my mother.

  “You did it,” she cried. “You got her. That horrible, horrible woman. What she allowed to happen to those children . . .” She couldn’t get out any more words.

  “That was brilliant,” Andrew said. “Getting her to confess to bribery like that. That has to be the final nail in her coffin.”

  Steven the makeup genius kissed my mother on the cheek. “I knew we were making a show today,” he said, “but now I see we’ll be making a difference. You done good, boss.”

  I stood back, letting the other staffers have their chance.

  A fact not unnoticed by the diva herself.

  “My own son?” my mother asked. “Nothing to say?”

  “What do you think?” I asked. “You did great. You know that. I’m proud of you.”

  My mother raised a hand and waved me over. “Come here.”

  I stood to give her a hug but she stopped me. She looked at my face, licked her thumb, and started wiping off my makeup while she talked.

  I remembered her doing that when I was kid. Cleaning me with her spittle like that, although generally with a handkerchief or tissue. “That’s gross,” I’d cry, trying to squirm away.

  “You have a little schmutz there,” she’d say. “Stand still.”

  “You’re rubbing your spit into me. That’s disgusting.”

  “A mother’s spit isn’t disgusting,” she’d instruct me. “A mother’s spit is love. Everything that comes from me to you is love.”

  She never convinced me of that when I was growing up. Now, I wondered if there was more to it than I knew.

  “You asked me why I wanted you there today, baby. You want to know the real reason?”

  “Sure.”

  “Because I was scared. What business do I have being an ‘investigative reporter’? What do I know about interviewing someone ‘the right way,’ to ask the kinds of questions I needed to ask? I was afraid I’d blow it. What the hell qualified me to go in there like that?

  “I didn’t have what I needed here.” She tapped her temple. “I had it here.”

  She put a hand on her chest. “The instincts of a mother. All I had to do was imagine what I’d do if anyone ever hurt you like they hurt Adam Merr. I knew if I could keep that in mind, the words would come to me. That’s why I needed you there. To remind my heart what it needed to say.”

  Wow.

  “Whatever you did, it worked. You nailed her, Mom. You probably saved some kids while you were at it. You even made for some Must-Watch TV. I think you might get that Emmy after all.”

  I thought I’d seen every expression my mother’s face was capable of displaying. But the one she wore now—love, pride, and accomplishment, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness—w
as new to me.

  My mother was always “on.” I couldn’t remember a time she wasn’t calculating how she looked or came across to others.

  But not now. Not in this one particular moment. She was just there. Herself, unguarded, open. In this single instance of selflessness, something shone from her, a light that warmed me even before she pulled me into her arms for an embrace so sincere, so loving, that it felt like I was being hugged for the first time in my life.

  “Bubeleh,” she whispered in my ear. “Emmy, schmemmy. Who needs an Emmy?”

  It was after nine and Tony still wasn’t home. I missed him.

  Between my amateur sleuthing and his legitimate investigating, I felt like we never saw each other.

  I missed him.

  It’d been a strange couple of days. Brent. Lucas. Adam. Even Rafi.

  All these Lost Boys.

  Okay, maybe not all of them were lost. There was still some hope for the first two. People can change. They can be saved or they can save themselves.

  But what about the little ones? If the grown-ups in their lives couldn’t pull their acts together, what hope did the kids have?

  For that matter, Brent and Lucas had been kids at one point, too. Thinking about it, they hadn’t been lost as much as thrown away. Rejected by families that hadn’t deemed them fit.

  My mother’s hug earlier today came back to me as a sense memory.

  Would anyone hold Adam and Rafi like that?

  Would it make a difference?

  I love kids. I do. But when I’m with Rafi, there’s a part of me that’s always holding back. Things are too unsure between me and his father for me to allow myself to get too attached. I don’t want him to get hurt, either.

  I thought I was being smart. Now, I wasn’t so sure. The more time I spent around these Lost Boys, or thinking about them, the more convinced I became that, whatever their problems were, being loved too much wasn’t one of them.

  Which brought me back to Tony. In his way, he was another Lost Boy. But he wasn’t a throwaway—he’d gotten lost by himself when he decided to hide his true self and couldn’t find his way back.