Susanna was determined to be the one to find that Jeep, and when she did, Robert would finally be free to move on with his life. Whether he chose to take Susanna with him, well, that remained to be seen. But at least he’d have the truth, and Susanna would be the one who’d found it for him, regardless of what it might cost her in the long run.
She paid for her breakfast and set off on her journey.
NINE
We’re going to find a new house today,��� Chloe sang as she climbed onto the bench seat at the restaurant in the lobby of the hotel where they’d been staying since their arrival in Conroy earlier in the week.
���I don’t know if we’ll find one, but we are going to look.��� Emme turned to the waitress who approached with a coffeepot in one hand and a booster seat in the other. ���Good morning, Marjorie. I think we’re going with the same old, same old this morning. Unless Chloe wants pancakes instead of waffles.���
���Waffles.��� Chloe nodded as Marjorie slid the booster across the seat for her. ���And bacon. And juice.���
���Okeydokey.��� Marjorie poured coffee into Emme’s cup then wrote the order down. ���Mom?���
���Just coffee for me, thanks.���
���I’ll be back in a jif.���
���She always says that, every day.��� Chloe wiggled into the seat. ������I’ll be back in a jif.������
���She means she’ll be back very soon.��� Emme fixed her coffee and took a sip. ���Jif is short for jiffy.���
���I thought that.��� Chloe nodded and rested her elbows on the table. ���Will our new house be big?���
���I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think we need a very big house just for the two of us, do you?���
���But we would for us and a dog.���
���We don’t have a dog, sweet pea.���
���We could have a dog if we had a house. With a yard.���
���We’ll see what houses the Realtor has to show us today. It may take us a while to find something we like, you know.���
���But we could find something we like today.���
���Yes, we could. And in the meantime, we have our nice room upstairs here, and we have Marjorie to be our waitress every morning for breakfast.���
���We’re going to look for a new house today,��� Chloe told Marjorie as their juice was served.
���You are?��� Marjorie wiped up a tiny spill. ���Well, I’d certainly miss seeing you every morning, Miss Chloe.���
Inside Emme’s bag, her phone began to ring. She retrieved it and held it to one ear and used one hand to cover the other ear to block out the ongoing conversation between her daughter and the waitress.
���Emme? Nick Perone.��� Without giving her a chance to return the greeting, he plowed on. ���As you suggested, I went through those boxes of Belinda’s that the sorority housemother sent a few months ago.���
Emme sat up straight, her interest immediately piqued.
���I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you found something you thought I should know about.���
���If you think the call records from Belinda’s old cell phone are something you’d like to know about, then, yeah, I did.���
���I thought the police already had the records for her cell phone.���
���They have the records for the phone she’d been using this year. But she’d gotten a new one last summer. Different model, different carrier.���
���But they transfer the call records when you get a new phone, right?���
���If you keep the same number with the same company. Belinda wanted a new number because she’d been getting calls from a guy she used to go out with who didn’t seem to understand what ���Stop calling me��� means.���
���Wait a minute. Who’s this guy? Where is he? Why didn’t the chief know about him?���
���The guy is in school in Montana, and she hadn’t heard from him since she switched phones, according to Belinda’s roommate from last year. She said that the guy wasn’t threatening, wasn’t abusive, he was just a pain in the butt.���
���Had she told the police about this?���
���The police never contacted her. She opted not to join a sorority, and she and Belinda just drifted apart this year. But she did give me the name of the kid who’d been calling, Clifford Steck.���
���Had she ever mentioned him to you?���
���No. This is the first I’ve heard of him.���
���I need to call him.���
���I already did. He says he hasn’t spoken with Belinda since last June, there’s been no contact there at all. Offered to send me copies of his phone bills. And I went one better than just calling Steck. Between last night and this morning, I called every one of the numbers Belinda called or received calls from over the past two years.���
���That’s a lot of calls.���
���You’re telling me. A lot of the numbers were repeats, some were to college friends, a couple were to old friends from high school, that sort of thing. At first the number of long distance calls seemed odd, but then I remembered that most kids brought cell phones to school that have their home area codes. There were calls to me, to my home, my business, my cell. Several of the numbers had been disconnected. A few may have been wrong numbers. I say may have been because after I dialed and the calls were picked up, I got several versions of the same story. The person who answered the phone insisted they’d never heard of Belinda Hudson. Or they just hung up. Odd, since each of those numbers appeared more than once, and the calls lasted as much as an hour.���
���Maybe someone other than the person who answered had used the phone.���
���I thought of that. Or they were outright lying. Or it could have been someone who’d gotten spooked when the police called the number right after Belinda disappeared.���
���Meaning those numbers were on the phone records for Belinda’s new phone as well as the old one. People she contacted last year and was still in contact with up until the time she disappeared.���
���Yeah. Seems like an inordinate number of misdialed calls, but we’ll let that go for now. There was one number that appeared several times over a two-week period in April of last year, then not again. I called it last night and got a recording. I called again this morning because I wasn’t sure I’d heard the recorded message correctly.���
���What was the message?���
���Thank you for calling Heaven’s Gate Fertility Clinic. Our hours are nine AM to six PM������
���Huh?���
���Yeah. That was my reaction, too. A fertility clinic outside of Reading. I looked it up on the map. It looks as if it’s about twenty or thirty miles from where you are. Does that sound right?���
���I don’t know. I’m new to the area. But why would Belinda be calling a fertility clinic?��� Emme poked her fork into the waffle Marjorie had just served. ���Maybe she needed money. I’ve read that some girls are selling their eggs to clinics to help pay for college. They’re worth a lot of money to infertile couples. Maybe Belinda thought that was a good way to pick up some extra money to help pay her tuition?���
���Wendy left Belinda very well off. Money was not an issue.���
���On the day she disappeared, she borrowed twenty dollars from Deb.���
���I’m sure she just hadn’t gotten to the ATM. I’ve seen her bank statements. She gets an automatic deposit monthly.��� He added, ���And yes, I’ve checked the recent statements. The deposits are still being made, but nothing’s been with
drawn.���
���So she wasn’t selling her eggs for the money, but maybe she thought it was a humanitarian thing to do, you know, to help out some infertile couples who wanted children.���
���Belinda was a great kid, but I just don’t see it.���
���Then what’s the connection?���
���That’s what I’m going to find out on Monday morning. Are you in?���
���Yes. Yes, of course I’m in. I’m the investigator, remember? As a matter of fact, I think I should probably go by myself. I can call you and-���
���Uh-uh. I’m Belinda’s legal guardian. Wendy was my sister. It’s likely they won’t tell you anything.���
She signed heavily. ���All right. Give me the address. I’ll meet you there.���
���Give me your address, I’ll pick you up. No point in us both driving out there. Besides, you’re on my way.���
Emme hesitated. She didn’t know how Robert would feel about one of their clients being directed to his home. She gave Nick the address of the hotel instead.
���I’ll see you at nine on Monday,��� she said before hanging up.
Having finished her breakfast, Chloe had patiently passed the time until her mother finished her call by making lemonade in her water glass.
���How many packets of sugar have you put in there?��� Emme asked.
After counting the empty paper packs with an index finger, Chloe announced, ���Six.���
���You think that might be enough?���
���Lemons are very sour,��� Chloe told her solemnly. Then without missing a beat, she asked, ���Mommy, what’s an infertile clinic?���
Emme searched for an age-appropriate response. ���It’s a place where people go when they need help having a baby.���
���Like the hospital when you got me?���
���No, it’s-��� Emme paused. Chloe never brought up the fact of her adoption. She’d been told but had never wanted to talk about it. ���What made you think about being adopted?���
���My friend Lily at school said I must be adopted because we don’t look alike. ���Cause I’m very dark and you are very light,��� Chloe related matter-of-factly Before Emme could respond, Chloe had already moved on. ���Isn’t Lily a pretty name? I think I would like to be called Lily, too.���
���Wouldn’t that be a bit confusing for your teacher with two Lilys in the class?���
���Uh-uh. There are two Madisons,��� she held up two fingers on her right hand, then two fingers on her left, ���and two Ryans.���
���Maybe you ought to ask Lily how she’d feel about sharing her name.��� Emme smiled and handed Marjorie the check and its payment. ���No change needed. Thanks, Marjorie.���
���We’ll see you tomorrow.��� Chloe extracted herself from the booster chair.
���And you can tell me if you found yourself a new place to live.��� The waitress patted Chloe on the head as the child bounced past.
���I will,��� Chloe said, and headed for the door.
���Chloe, wait up,��� Emme called to her.
���I’m not Chloe,��� Chloe said over her shoulder. ���I’m Lily.���
���Got yourself a live one there,��� Marjorie told Emme.
���You’re telling me.���
She caught up with her daughter at the door. ���Wait for me, please.���
���Lily.��� Chloe turned to her. ���Wait for me, please, Lily.���
Emme sighed and took her hand. After having convinced her daughter that it was okay for them to change their names, she couldn’t very well lecture her now.
���I’m Lily,��� the little girl insisted.
And Lily she remained, through the seven houses they looked at that day, and nine the next, all of which were unsuitable or unappealing or unaffordable.
���We’ll look again next week,��� Emme assured her as they headed back to the hotel after leaving the Realtor’s office. ���Maybe we’ll find something then, Chloe. Er, Lily.���
���Olivia.��� Her daughter strapped herself into her car seat.
���What?��� In the process of closing the back door, Emme paused.
���Olivia. Like the Realtor.��� Chloe smiled. ���I think I’ll be Olivia.���
This too shall pass, Emme reminded herself. And it did. By Monday morning, her daughter was Chloe again. But only because she couldn’t decide between Olivia and Chelsea, a name she’d heard on television the night before.
Emme dropped Chloe off at school and stopped by her office to bring Mallory up to date.
���You could have had him pick you up here,��� Mallory told her.
���I wasn’t sure if Robert would object.���
Mallory shrugged. ���It’s not like this is some undisclosed location. Robert even held his press conference here, if you recall.���
���I’d forgotten.��� Emme swung her bag over her shoulder. ���I’ll let you know what we find today.���
���It’s certainly intriguing.��� Mallory’s phone rang and she turned to answer it. ���What do you suppose Belinda Hudson wanted with a fertility clinic?���
���With any luck, we’ll have the answer to that in a few hours.��� Emme waved before leaving the office.
Ten minutes later, she had parked her car in the lot at the motel, and was walking toward the lobby, when she heard her name called. It always took her a split second to respond to Emme, to forget that she was Ann. Then again, she reminded herself, she wasn’t even sure that Ann was the name she’d been given at birth, if her mother had bothered to name her before abandoning her in St. Ann’s.
Move past it. You’re Emme Caldwell now. That’s the only name you need to know from here on out.
Nick Perone had pulled up to the entry to the motel lobby, opened the door of a red Firebird, and stood beside it.
���It’s been a while since I saw one of these.��� She approached the passenger’s side.
���Ah, you recognize it, then.��� He smiled and raised one eyebrow.
���I know it’s a Pontiac Firebird.��� She rested one forearm on the roof on her side. ���No clue on the year, but I know the make and model. Do I get points for that?���
���A few.��� He opened the driver’s side door and got in. ���It’s an ‘ 87.���
She got in and slammed her door, and took a long look at the interior.
���What, no four on the floor?���
���This particular engine only came with automatic trans.��� He turned the key in the ignition. ���It was the only carbureted V8 used in an F-body.���
���Too much information.���
Nick laughed and drove from the lot, making a right into traffic.
���So where in your background would we find an ‘87 Firebird?���
���A year or two ago, I arrested a pimp who drove a car exactly like this one.���
���Ouch.���
It was her turn to laugh.
���So is this machine yours, or does it belong to one of your customers?��� She settled into the bucket seat.
���You can adjust the seat,��� he told her.
Her hand under the seat, she nodded. ���Found it. Thanks.���
���The car’s mine, to answer your question. I always say she was my first love. I worked on every inch of her. Replaced every part.���
���Well, I’m sure she appreciates it.���
���Purrs like a kitten every time I turn her on.��� He patted the c
onsole.
���Have you always been interested in cars?���
���For as long as I can remember. My granddad was a farmer but his big love was classic cars, collecting them, restoring them. I used to spend my summers with him and my grandmother. We’d do farm work from six in the morning till around three or four in the afternoon, then we’d head to the garage and work on his latest project till dinner. We’d stop and eat, then head back to the garage again.���
���I’ll bet you wrote some interesting ���how I spent my summer vacation��� papers when school rolled around.���
���Hey, I was the envy of every guy in my class. The other kids would talk about two weeks at the beach, or a week in the mountains, but I’d had the entire summer to play mechanic with some very cool automobiles.��� He glanced at her again and added, ���Best years of my life.���
���Are they still farming? Your grandparents?���
���They both died years ago. They left the farm to Wendy and the cars to me. When Wendy died, the farm passed to Belinda.���
���Did she live there when she wasn’t in school?���
���No. She stayed at my place in Khoury’s Ford when she was on break. The farm’s too far off the beaten track for a kid. You know, nothing to do, no one to see. There’s another farm nearby, and the couple who own it keep an eye on the place for us. In return, we let them plant the fields.���
���What do they plant?���
���Mostly corn. Some years soybeans, some years potatoes, but mostly it’s always been a corn farm. There’s a small orchard there, a pond. It’s a great place.���
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