“Their impression of Chevalier?”
“He’s a little slick for their tastes. The wife believes their child is an unwanted baby from a prominent family, just as Chevalier represented it. They don’t care. They would have bought any explanation. The rest of the process fit with Kentucky law for interstate adoptions: a Louisiana social worker, a woman, phoned several times with questions for them.”
“Lisa Crowley,” Boldt supplied.
“Probably.” She spoke quietly, clearly rattled from the interview. “They sent the social worker videos of their home and their neighborhood; they notarized documents; they mailed their checks; they waited.”
“Were they asked for photos of themselves? Videos?” Boldt asked. The issue was crucial to Daphne’s plan.
“They claimed not. It makes sense. An adoption can’t be refused based on how an adoptive parent looks. If anything, such a request could appear discriminatory.”
Since it was critical to their success, Boldt hoped no photos had been sent. “Delivery?”
“The baby was brought to Chevalier’s office by the social worker. They were in and out in less than an hour.”
“Judge Adams?”
“They never met him, no. But his name is on the documents.” She hesitated. “I saw the documents. As far as I could tell, they’re in order, Lou. I think the Hudsons have what would pass as a legitimate adoption.”
“Chevalier kept it all in order,” he said. “He let them be the ones to transfer the child across interstate borders. Someone delivers the child to the city, the adoptive parents take the child away. He’s careful.”
“And Rhonda Shotz?” he asked.
“Peaceful. Asleep in her nursery. I gave them a clean bill of health and went my way. And you’ll love this: They asked me to pass along their best wishes to Miss Chambers, the social worker. Lisa Crowley evidently makes a good impression.”
“It’s a living,” Boldt said sarcastically.
“And the Brehmers?” she asked.
“They have a nursery all set up. Nothing’s been used. Diaper Genie is empty. Most of the outfits still have their tags on them-haven’t been washed yet. It’s a nursery in waiting.”
“That’s it? That’s all we have?”
“Calendar by the phone in the kitchen has a line through the weekend, the word NO underneath. Caps. New Orleans. It’s them. Couldn’t find the March phone bill, might not be there yet, but February they were calling Chevalier’s office about once a week. It’s them,” he repeated. “Trudy Kittridge,” he muttered.
“Damn,” she said, turning away and rolling down the window to allow the air inside. “Awful business.” Her shoulders tightened and he thought she was crying.
His cell phone vibrated and he answered it, met by a woman’s distinctive voice that spoke the words, “Skagit County.” Theresa Russo, the computer expert he had consulted on Sarah’s ransom video.
“Come again?”
“The cable company that boxed in the severe weather notice around CNN. It provides service to Skagit. The notice concerned a flood warning.”
“You’re working late.”
“Message was buried on my E-mail. Thirty-five new messages. It’s been there two days, I’m afraid. Sorry about that. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Skagit?” he asked. “We’re certain about that?”
“Positive,” she said. “It’s good for your investigation, isn’t it? I mean, how many FedEx trucks can be assigned to Skagit? A hell of a lot fewer than in downtown Seattle, I’ll tell you that.”
“Any contacts at FedEx?”
“I may know someone who knows someone in data processing,” she said. “It’s a pretty small community. We may even supply them-I’d have to check.”
“Check,” he said. “Data processing should have all the logs and manifests. That’s what we’re after.”
“You want me to try, or do you want to do it?” she asked.
“You mind?”
“No problem. Routes and times for all Skagit deliveries?”
“March twenty-fifth.”
“I’ve got that already.” He could feel her hesitation before she asked, “How is Liz? I heard she’s out, isn’t she?”
The way she said it, it sounded to him more like a jail sentence. Maybe that was right. “She’s home,” he confirmed. “Doing fine.” He glanced at the car’s clock. He had promised to call but couldn’t remember when they had arranged. He had no idea if she was doing fine or not. He said, “At the risk of sounding like a jerk, the sooner-”
“Understood. What do I do if I get something? E-mail it to you?”
“How about dropping it off with Liz?”
“Done. I’d love to see her anyway.”
He thanked her and disconnected.
“Anything important?” Daphne asked, working a tissue at her nose.
She knew his voice too well, knew him too well. She had discerned his excitement, his anticipation. He had not told his team about the FedEx truck; he had kept that one to himself, though he wasn’t certain why. More lies. They didn’t bother him anymore. He knew he was in trouble.
He was saved from any discussion. The Brehmers’ house appeared on their left.
CHAPTER 62
Boldt parked the rental on the street, certain that the next twenty to thirty minutes were crucial to the rescue of Trudy Kittridge and, thereby, Sarah. Together, he and Daphne climbed the slate steps toward the front door in silence, each reflecting on the importance of their performances. “You understand-”
“Yes,” she interrupted. “I do. Perfectly well.”
Boldt pushed the doorbell, which to him felt more like pulling a trigger. Brad Brehmer peered through the crack in the door-baby-faced but handsome. Honest looking. Boldt thought. A churchgoer, thought Daphne. He had dark hair, a sharp jaw, a sardonic smile. He wore khakis and a button-down blue Oxford shirt. It was past eleven. The news played in the background. “Help you?” he asked, with only a hint of a southern accent.
“This is Lt. Lou Boldt,” she introduced. “I’m Daphne Matthews. We’re police, Mr. Brehmer.” They produced their identification, but quickly, hoping the man might miss their jurisdiction.
“SPD?” Brehmer inquired, his throat dry like the air. He hadn’t missed a thing. “Where’s that?”
“Seattle,” she answered.
“You’re a long way from home.”
Boldt said, “It’s late. Sorry about that.”
Brehmer hesitated. The moment was awkward. “You mind if I see those again? You mind passing them through?”
They did as he asked. Brehmer shut and locked the front door. A long sixty seconds later, he reopened it and invited them inside.
“Is your wife at home, Mr. Brehmer?” Daphne asked. “We’d like to speak to both of you if we might.”
“We were out tonight,” he clarified as if asked. Appropriately nervous and anxious. Daphne approved. “A celebration dinner.” The room looked bigger to Boldt with the lights on.
“Celebrating the adoption,” Daphne said, stinging the man. Above all things, she needed to maintain the upper hand.
“Cindy!” the husband called out somewhat desperately, “put something on and get out here.”
“Nice house,” Boldt said.
“You want to show us the nursery?”
“Cindy.”
Cindy Brehmer, a woman who would look twenty-five for the next ten years, entered the living room wearing a terry cloth robe that hung to mid-thigh. The moment she saw Boldt and Matthews, she reversed course abruptly. “My God, Brad!” she complained.
“Stay. They’re police.”
“I don’t care who they are. You will please excuse me,” she apologized, and beat a hasty retreat. Five minutes later, she returned with her face on, wearing jeans and a pajama top.
Introductions followed. Small, with a petite waist and frail hands, her large, expressive eyes and her dark coloring conveyed a demanding presence. With a thicker
accent than her husband, she practiced her southern hospitality, enjoying the sound of her own voice as she prattled on about a visit she and a sorority sister had made to Seattle a decade earlier. She said, “I’m sure I’ve never had better crab cakes in my life.”
Boldt missed the crab cakes, the smell of the water, the vivid sunsets over the Olympics. More than anything, he missed little Sarah.
The resulting silence hung heavily in the room.
The husband said, “They mentioned the adoption, Hon.”
Daphne offered Boldt a side glance, drew in a deep breath and began cautiously. “It’s a delicate matter. Confidential. We ask you to respect that.”
“We’ll respect it a lot better when you tell us what it is you want,” Brad Brehmer said, impatiently. He knew how much they had paid Chevalier for the child. He sensed the trouble well ahead of his wife, who couldn’t sit still.
Boldt explained, “We’re investigating a series of kidnappings.”
Clearly confusing them both, Daphne added, “Our purpose here is to inform you, to warn you, to attempt to keep you out of criminal proceedings, which are almost certain to happen if you adopt this child.”
“Oh, God.” Cindy Brehmer understood then what her husband already knew. “You cannot do this to us! Do you know what we’ve been through? This is our baby-our first baby.”
Addressing the husband, Boldt said, “You have business relations with an attorney named Chevalier in New Orleans.” Their faces drained of color, and the wife’s theatrical smile faltered. “Before you go forward with this adoption, you need to be aware of the facts.”
“There is still time to avoid criminal charges,” Daphne reminded.
“This is our baby,” the woman complained.
“No,” Boldt countered. “If she is who we believe she is, she was kidnapped, transported across state lines and delivered in New Orleans within the last twenty-four hours.”
“You’re to take possession of the child in New Orleans,” Daphne informed them with a threatening certainty.
“This is not happening,” the husband said. “We’ve prayed about this. Chevalier was the answer to those prayers.”
Boldt said, “There are parents in Seattle who are praying as well.”
“It’s all legal,” the husband insisted, jumping ahead. “We haven’t done anything illegal.”
“Not yet,” Boldt corrected. “But the moment you take possession of that child you will have. Knowingly or not, you are accessories to kidnapping.”
“Oh dear God, no!” Cindy Brehmer’s eyes clouded and she sprang up to save her face.
Daphne told Brehmer, “You’ll be asked by the court to explain what you thought you were paying all that money for, why so much money.”
Boldt contributed, “It’s a felony to overpay for an adoption. There are federal statutes as well as state. How carefully did you hide the money trail, sir? Were you creative enough to fool forensic accountants?”
He might as well have slapped the man across the face. Dazed, Brehmer sputtered, unable to complete a thought. A siren wailed in the distance; perfect timing, Boldt thought.
Daphne explained, “If you cooperate, we may be able to keep you from being charged.”
Boldt cautioned, “There are no guarantees.”
“When are you scheduled to pick up the child?” Daphne asked.
“You are not taking this baby from me!” the wife said, leaning against the hallway wall.
“Cindy,” the husband admonished. “They’re offering us a choice. A chance. We need to listen to this.”
The woman’s face collapsed into tears. She staggered to her husband, embraced him and sobbed.
Daphne asked, “How much did you pay?”
“Expenses plus fifty,” the husband answered matter-of-factly. “Three separate payments. About seventy in all.” He checked with both his visitors. “He told us it was a prominent family, that it would be done very quietly. We were paying extra to get a white baby. That was never spoken, but it was understood.”
“Have you ever met Chevalier?” Boldt asked.
“Never.”
“Did you videotape yourselves or send photographs?”
“The house,” the wife answered. “The neighborhood. Not us.”
“Spoken with him?”
“He has called a few times. Spoken with Cindy mostly. About the timing, the schedule.”
“The money?”
“That was with me,” he answered. “Early on.”
“How long ago?”
“Two, three months.”
“He wouldn’t necessarily know your voice then?” Boldt inquired.
“What is it you’re getting at?” Brehmer asked curiously, beginning to understand.
Boldt told them, “Chevalier called your home yesterday.”
Teary-eyed, the wife answered, “We’re booked on a flight in the morning.” She began to cry again. “We’re booked into a hotel. We honeymooned there. We’re to wait for his call.”
Boldt met eyes with Brad Brehmer and waited for the man to feel his intensity. Then he shifted the same attention to the woman and told them both, “If we bust Chevalier ahead of time, we might never recover the child. The child is our priority. Right? For all of us,” he said, including even Daphne. “The child comes first.”
The woman nodded.
“Good,” Boldt said.
“It’s important we understand one another,” Daphne added. “If this is to work, we need to communicate. We need to know you down to your core. Unfortunately, we need it now. Tonight. Before tomorrow morning.”
“You’re going to take our place,” the husband said, correctly guessing Daphne’s plan. “Is that what’s going on here?”
Boldt answered, “You might want to make some coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”
CHAPTER 63
The following morning at 11:22, Boldt and Daphne checked into the Soniat House under the name Brehmer. Deep in the French Quarter on a quiet side street away from the T-shirts and the smell of stale beer, away from the movie crews and tourists swollen with crawfish and hot sauce, the hotel’s office and courtyard were accessed through a single door painted kelly green. They stepped into another, older world, a New Orleans Boldt had not yet experienced, but one he quickly realized lingered beneath the surface glitz and souvenirs. Its cobblestone courtyard resplendent in a lush jungle of deep greens and sharp vivid colors, the Soniat House delivered the New Orleans of the nineteenth century.
The male receptionist wore a dark suit, looked Boldt in the eye and bowed his head slightly to Daphne. “We have a lovely room for you, Mr. and Mrs. Brehmer. Charles will show you the way. I note that your stay is open-ended. We will need notice day after tomorrow if you’re intending to spend the weekend with us.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Boldt paused a beat too long as he signed the guest slip, in part because he had to remember to sign Brehmer’s name-it was Brehmer’s credit card he was using-in part because the daily room rate was twice his rental car’s weekly rate.
As a couple they were shown through the courtyard and up a century-old set of winding wooden stairs, past a seven-foot-tall oil portrait of a southern general, and a smaller oil of a harlequin in full regalia. Boldt had no way of knowing how far Chevalier’s influence reached, or what kind of underground existed in this city, but it didn’t take an Intelligence officer to understand it was a place of influence peddling, of favors. For this reason, they had changed nothing about the Brehmers’ hotel reservation or the couple’s itinerary.
Charles keyed open the extremely narrow nine-foot wooden door and motioned for Daphne to lead the way. He heard her gasp as he followed into the long hardwood hallway, its walls covered with oil paintings, light sparkling from a cut glass chandelier. The hallway ended at a large bathroom all marble and brass. Through another pair of towering doors to the left was a sitting room with a crushed velvet love seat, two French chairs and three seven-foot windows that st
arted at floor height and led out onto a balcony with flowering baskets issuing green waterfalls of tendrils and runners and overlooking the narrow street and a nunnery beyond.
Charles, the bellman, explained in his warm affected voice that a century earlier city property taxes had been assessed according to the number of a building’s exterior doors, and so huge, double-hung windows had taken their place. He lifted one, admitting the sounds of the Quarter as a horse-drawn buggy passed and the driver’s voice was heard lecturing his passengers on the Soniat House’s place in the city’s history. Breakfast-biscuits, juice and coffee-would be served on the balcony.
The bedroom held a four-poster with a red satin duvet, flanked by antique end tables hosting leaded glass lamps. A telephone was the only fixture that brought the suite into the current century. Boldt tipped the man, whose footsteps faded down the impossibly long hallway. The door to room 22 bumped shut.
Any of the hotel staff could be on Chevalier’s payroll-bellhops, chambermaids-their every move might be monitored. They would maintain the impression of being a married couple. The Brehmers had a dinner reservation arranged in advance by Chevalier that Boldt and Daphne would honor. There was no saying to what extent Chevalier screened his prospective buyers. Certainly he conducted credit reports. Perhaps he placed the adoptive parents under surveillance for a day or two preceding the adoption; this would help explain his having made various arrangements for both the Hudsons and the Brehmers. Any such possibility required Boldt and Daphne to play along, at least on a superficial level-a married couple excited by the prospect of an adoption.
“We had better practice our signatures,” she said in a businesslike manner.
She ordered a mint julep from room service; Boldt, a ginger ale. When the waiter had come and gone, they sat out on the balcony in green wicker chairs with chintz padded cushions, the sonorous clip-clop of horse and buggy carrying up the cobblestone street. They worked on their forged signatures. Intricate shadows from the wrought-iron artistry played onto the decking, black and white and gray, like Chinese shadow puppets. After attempting a page of signatures, Boldt glanced over at her, his face flushed from the heat. He said, “Want some irony?”
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