No, no, no. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This relationship was moving too fast.
But I’ll be leaving soon, so it needs to happen quickly. Oh God, she was so confused.
She drew a deep breath, hoping to calm if not uncoil herself. As long as what she shared with Ben was just physical, just sex, she’d be fine. Letting her emotions get entangled would be a disaster. And she’d already had enough disasters to last a lifetime.
Chapter 8
“Selling what?” SSA Rex Kelley bellowed at the three agents sitting around the table in his office Friday morning.
“Babies,” Ben repeated.
“Jesus Christ, does H have no conscience?”
No one responded to what was a rhetorical question since everyone already knew the answer.
“I’m not sure Manuel heard what he thought he did.”
“How’s that?”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Most of the details were more of a… sexual nature, not really black market baby sales.”
“Last I checked, you can’t make babies—for sale or otherwise—without sex.”
“Relax, Boss, that hasn’t changed,” Staci chimed in.
Rex shot her an unappreciative glare. “I’m married, Special Agent Hall. It hasn’t been that long.”
Ben covered a chuckle with a cough.
His boss’s gaze darted back. “Explain your comment, Alfren.”
“Manuel relayed mostly crude jokes by the coyote’s goons offering their personal services to… create the merchandise.”
“Goddamn fuckers.” Dillon muttered his first words of the meeting.
“Literally. What doesn’t smell right is there was no mention of stealing babies or buying them from welfare moms who can’t afford another mouth to feed.”
“Crap. I’m not really an ankle-biter person myself, but I can’t imagine a parent’s heartbreak at having their infant stolen. It must be unbearable,” Staci said.
Ben smiled at the softer side of Staci, the part that kept their friendship going. “You’re right. The trauma can also lead to divorce, especially if one parent feels responsible.”
“Get back to what your informant said,” Rex cut in. “If it didn’t sound like the baby trade, what did it sound like?”
Ben rolled his eyes. “A stud service.”
Dillon snorted. “What woman in her right mind would want a baby fathered by one of H’s goons?”
“True,” Staci said. “I can hardly stand one at the business end of my Glock. I can’t imagine one inside me.” Three stunned male faces turned to her. “What? It’s the truth.”
“TMI, Agent Hall, TMI,” their boss said.
“Obviously, Manuel thought he heard something worth reporting—” Dillon said.
“Yeah, ‘worth’ as in dinero,” Ben interrupted.
“Right, but he must’ve thought it sounded like a new business, because that’s what you told him to have his ears open for. Even if he misunderstood what the business is, something new is happening.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time an informant completely made up shit to get paid.”
“True,” Rex agreed. “Where did you leave it with Manuel?”
“I told him the info wasn’t actionable and didn’t pay him. If he wants dinero, he needs to get me concrete shit.”
* * *
At lunchtime on Friday, Amber sat on a park bench in Horton Plaza, not far from the SDSA office. She read the pink flyer for the hundredth time. How could the new competitor undercut her employer’s fees by “tens of thousands of dollars”? Was it just a come-on or a bait and switch?
When she’d shown her boss the flyer yesterday afternoon, Laura had shrugged off the claim as impossible. After paying all the direct expenses related to a surrogacy and the necessary overhead costs, SDSA’s profit was only a few hundred dollars. Laura revealed that the doctors were paid a minimal salary for their services, of course, but all profits were channeled back into the clinic.
Absently, Amber twisted strands of her ponytail around her finger. Something just didn’t smell right about Dream Makers’ claims. She resented the idea that the new clinic could be competing unfairly. Unfair was a pet peeve. But more importantly, she worried they could be putting surrogate mothers and unborn babies at risk by cutting medical corners. That possibility went way beyond a pet peeve. Meaning totally unacceptable. She had to do something for ethical reasons even if it didn’t save her job.
“Hello. Dream Makers. We make your dreams of a baby come true,” a pleasant woman’s voice answered Amber’s call.
“Hi. I received a flyer about your surrogate mother services, and I’d like more information,” Amber said.
“Certainly. Let’s set up an appointment.”
“Uh, could I speak to someone on the phone? This shouldn’t take long.”
“We offer such personalized services that an appointment is absolutely necessary. The subject of your baby is, after all, a very personal subject. Don’t you agree?”
The lady was good, emphasizing all the key words and adding a dash of guilt.
“When would be a good time for you?” she continued smoothly.
Damn, an appointment would be trickier, but she was committed now. “Saturday morning, say ten-ish.”
“You’re in luck. We have an opening at ten fifteen. Your name?”
“Uh… Moore. Amber Moore.”
“Great. We’ll see you and Mr. Moore tomorrow at ten fifteen.”
Mr. Moore? Huh? Damn.
All afternoon, Amber worried about the appointment and about how she was going to magically produce a Mr. Moore. The idea of using Ben Alfren came and went. Although she’d told him about her job insecurity, she hadn’t confided details about the reason. And did she know him well enough to expose him to a discussion of eggs, sperm, and uteruses? Not a chance.
Of course, there was Adam Wilson, the SDSA ultrasound technician. She and Adam were colleagues, office buds, but nothing more. At least he’d have the same vested interest in protecting SDSA as she had. And of course, he heard plenty about eggs, sperm, and uteruses every day. Yeah, Adam made a lot more sense.
At four thirty, she was cleaning up after an embryo transfer when her cell rang. She smiled as she glanced at the screen. Ben. He hadn’t wasted any time in using her number, which he’d coaxed out of her last night. Considering she’d been on the verge of sleeping with him, it seemed a small concession. Unfortunately, she hadn’t heard from him later as she’d hoped, which probably just meant he’d gotten home too late to come over on a weeknight. With any luck, he was calling now to make plans for tonight to pick up where they’d left off. She could always hope…
“Hi, Amber.”
“Hey, you.”
He hesitated. “Sorry I didn’t call last night. I didn’t get home until midnight, and your place was dark.”
“That’s okay. I was asleep by then.” She forced a smile into her voice and crossed her fingers. Her hopes inflated.
He sighed. “And I’ve got bad news for tonight. I’ll be working… late.”
Deflate, deflate, deflate.
“Oh.”
“I know it sucks.”
“I guess an FBI agent’s work is never done.”
“Something like that. This is an ongoing investigation, and these particular operations can only be done at night.”
“I see.” But seeing and accepting graciously were two entirely different things.
“I hope so. The good news is that I don’t have to work tomorrow night. Would you—”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “Sounds like you’re as eager to get back to where we left off as I am.”
Down, girl, down. “Maybe.”
Ben snorted. “Coy doesn’t suit you. Look, I gotta go. I’ll call tomorrow, and we can make plans.”
After disconnecting, Amber couldn’t stop smiling. The surge of anticipation sent her off to recruit A
dam’s help. She found him in the employee lounge, clocking out.
“Hey, Adam. Got any special plans for this weekend?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. My girlfriend and I are leaving early tomorrow morning to spend the day in Venice Beach. Then we have tickets for a concert at seven in LA. We might even spend the night up there instead of driving home. Have you got something planned?”
She sighed. “I did, but my plans fell through.”
* * *
Ben watched as the guards, johns, and hookers were taken into custody and transported away. He’d worked the raid on the downtown location and then hightailed it to Fallbrook to witness the wrap-up of this one. Just like the previous operations, tonight’s had done a lot of good—getting guards and johns off the streets and freeing enslaved women—but they hadn’t achieved the goal of finding Maria and the others. Again, no one recognized any of their pictures.
If they hadn’t been integrated into H’s whorehouses in San Diego County, had they been shipped out of the area? If so, the chances of finding them diminished exponentially. Damn, he hated the thought of making another disappointing call to Pedro in the morning.
Another disappointment had been his informant’s intel or lack thereof. Selling babies? Stud service? None of it made any sense. And a link to the missing women seemed improbable.
Ben settled in for the long drive back to Coronado. Late Friday night traffic this far out from the city wasn’t a problem, so he drove mostly on autopilot as his brain wrestled with the investigation.
Hermosillo believed in a fast buck. He’d steal babies to sell; he wouldn’t have his minions impregnate women to create inventory. Remembering Staci’s comment, he shuddered at the disgusting thought. Besides, there were legitimate surrogate agencies—like Amber’s employer—to help couples who couldn’t produce their own babies.
Surrogacy? Five young women. Could there be a connection? He frowned.
Ben didn’t know much about the surrogate mother industry, but it made sense that full payment by the parents wouldn’t be made until delivery—no pun intended. H dealt in quick cash flow. He’d never wait nine months for his money. And a woman could only give birth once a year, so inventory turnover would be equally slow. In addition, pregnant women required medical care. They might be able to double as hookers for the first few months, but once the baby bump appeared, not many johns would be interested. Nah, none of it sounds like H’s style.
Manuel needed to dig deeper for his dinero. If H did, in fact, have a new business, the information had to be available somehow, somewhere. The lazy informant might have to take a few risks for once.
As the BMW sped across the bridge, Ben’s gaze panned to the Coronado Beach apartments on the shore of the bay. Too late to see Amber tonight, but tomorrow, he planned for them to spend several hours together. Maybe they could hang out at the beach, cruise the Gaslamp Quarter, or take in a movie. A romantic dinner seemed appropriate. And if they ended up in bed together at the end of the day, he’d be a happy man.
A white Jeep Cherokee barreled out of the complex driveway just as Ben prepared to turn in. He slammed on the brakes. While the vehicle sped away, he zeroed in on the license plate, managing to catch four digits. In the dark, he couldn’t make out the state or design, but the colors were wrong to be a California plate. Not unusual, since out-of-state licenses were common in the San Diego area because military personnel stationed at the numerous bases and facilities often kept their vehicles registered in their home states due to frequent moves.
He was about to shake off the incident when an odd tingling sensation raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Marissa and her premonitions had taught him to respect and not to ignore inexplicable sensory reactions. Call it instinct, intuition, or ESP, the subconscious reacted to stimuli unnoticed by a person’s five regular senses.
After parking in his assigned spot and killing the engine, he sat, replaying the brief encounter. Then the significance hit him. The vehicle, not the license plate.
He’d seen a similar vehicle—but he couldn’t swear it was the same one—race off after he chased the man who’d been attacking the mailboxes in the wee hours of Wednesday morning.
Something told him there was a connection.
Chapter 9
On Saturday morning, Amber stood in front of the bathroom mirror, transforming herself into the person who’d gotten the Dream Makers flyer on Thursday. The man and woman she’d interacted with might not remember her or might only be sales reps and not actually work at the competitor clinic, but she preferred to be prepared.
She stuffed her hair into a hairnet and pulled on the short brunette wig. Her disguises had cost her plenty, but since they could mean the difference between life and death, she considered all the materials a great investment. After putting in the hazel contacts, she stared at the person in the mirror. Unlike wearing a wig, changing her eye color produced a surreal feeling. Many women dyed their hair and styled it differently on a regular basis, but few people altered the color of their eyes, especially ones who didn’t need to wear contacts in the first place.
She smeared on foundation, heavy eyeliner, and purple shadow. Extra-thick mascara lengthened her lashes. A black eyebrow pencil darkened her arched blond hairs. Skillful application of blush and powder created an illusion of more-pronounced cheekbones. She slid on the ugly black-rimmed glasses, which held plain glass lenses, as the final touch.
Amber Jollett stared into the mirror, and Amber Moore peered back at her.
The metamorphosis complete, she hurried into the bedroom. Since she’d worn yoga pants on Thursday, she chose them again but picked a pale blue sweater set to go with them this time. Flats instead of sandals finished the outfit.
“I can do this,” she whispered as she did a final check of her appearance in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. “I wouldn’t even recognize me.”
The drive across the bridge and into downtown went much faster than on weekdays with rush-hour traffic. She took slow, deep breaths to calm her jittery nerves. Wearing a disguise generally tied her in knots because she associated the process with hiding from Jeremy. Thankfully, today’s activity held a less chilling purpose.
Carefully navigating the one-way streets, she found the building housing Dream Makers with no trouble. The hard part was finding a parking space. After squeezing her Suburban into a too-small space, she paid for two hours.
She opened the clinic door at exactly 10:10. A quick sweep of the waiting area revealed a thirtysomething couple and a pair of men. She strolled casually to the receptionist’s window.
“Good morning. Welcome to Dream Makers. How may I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Amber Moore. I have a ten fifteen appointment.”
The woman referred to a handwritten appointment book and nodded. When she looked up, she angled her head to one side and then the other to peer past Amber. “Where’s Mr. Moore?”
Amber smiled brightly. “He was so disappointed when something came up this morning at work. He’s expecting me to bring him up to speed as soon as I get home.”
The receptionist’s expression lost its friendliness. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at a middle-aged woman working in the office area. “Uh, we really like both partners to be here. Maybe we should reschedule for—”
“Gee, when I visited the San Diego Surrogate Agency last Thursday while hubby was at work, they didn’t mind. In fact, they were happy to accommodate our busy schedules.” The comment produced the desired effect.
Her head whipped back around. “Of course, we can always make exceptions. Did you get one of our flyers?”
She pulled it from her purse. “Yes. It’s how we found out about your clinic. My husband’s really excited about the idea of paying less. That’s why he was so disappointed he couldn’t come today.”
The woman’s friendly grin returned. “Well, in that case, I’m sure Ms. Rodriguez won’t mind meeting with you… for a few minutes. Have a seat. I’ll let
her know you’re here.”
Amber chose a chair near the door. Surveying the waiting area, she catalogued one way this company cut costs: The furnishings were sparse, cheap, and uncomfortable. At SDSA, all the nonmedical rooms were decorated to feel homey. This room reminded her of the Department of Motor Vehicles. There wasn’t even any cheerful music playing.
Fifteen minutes passed before the woman who’d been working behind the receptionist opened a door and called Amber’s name. “Hello, Mrs. Moore. I’m Ms. Rodriguez. Right this way,” she said, gesturing down a narrow hallway.
As they approached a door on the right, a couple exited and almost bumped into her. She immediately recognized Mrs. Swanson, who had recently canceled her egg retrieval procedure. Passing the doorway, Amber glanced inside. Three young Hispanic women wore grim expressions as an older lady shook her index finger and leaned in as though scolding them. A fourth Latina was in tears. Were these potential surrogate mothers? Had the Swansons just finished a selection interview?
When Ms. Rodriguez noticed her peering into the room, she reached around and yanked the door closed.
Halfway down the hall, two women in scrubs hurried by, both unsmiling with eyes downcast. They didn’t greet her or Ms. Rodriguez, and they almost seemed to cower as they passed. A few steps later, Amber was ushered into a drab office. After shutting the door, Ms. Rodriguez sat down behind a desk and motioned for her to take one of the guest chairs.
“I’m sorry Mr. Moore couldn’t make this meeting,” she said in an admonishing tone. “It’s always best to talk to both partners.”
“He was disappointed also. If I’m interested in your services, I’m sure he’ll come next time,” Amber said, keeping her expression neutral.
As expected, Ms. Rodriguez reacted to the emphasized if. She pasted on a smile as she handed Amber a pamphlet from a pile on the desk. “I was told you’ve already visited the San Diego Surrogate Agency, so you’re familiar with surrogate mother services. Let me assure you: We provide the same quality services. The only difference is we don’t charge exorbitant fees.”
Hunted (FBI Heat Book 1) Page 7