“Check the door,” she said.
“What?” Blake turned to her and lifted an eyebrow. “Abby, what’s the matter? You’re shaking from head to toe.”
“Dr. Miles, I think he’s the same doctor I—I saw... I think he’s the same doctor that—”
Blake put a hand on her trembling shoulder. “Shh.”
“Try the door.”
Blake put his hand on the knob. It wouldn’t turn. “He locked us in?”
“He locked us in. Of course he locked us in. He’s a killer!”
“Hold on,” Blake said, pulling a credit card from his wallet.
“You really think that will work?” Abby asked.
“I hope so.” Blake inserted the card through the crack between the door and the doorframe. He pulled it down and wiggled the doorknob. Abby held her breath.
Click!
It worked. Blake pushed the door open, grabbed Abby by the hand and raced out of the room. At the end of the hallway was a fire-exit stairwell. They ran for it and dashed out of the hallway as fast as they could. With his free hand, Blake dialed Detective Langer. “We’re coming out of the building. Pick us up!”
EIGHTEEN
“Whew! That was close.”
A few minutes later, they were safe inside an unmarked police vehicle and talking on the phone to Agent Day.
“It was him. I’m sure of it.” Abby clutched the phone in her shaking hands. “Dr. Miles, he was the man with Hancock in the empty wing of Fairview. He’s the one who killed Hancock and then tried to kill me. He hid it at first with his phony smiles and jovial attitude, but the second he became angry, his eyes gave him away.”
“Okay. Okay.” Blake could hear Day’s voice over the line loud and clear. “I’ll get our people on that angle. He wasn’t even on our radar but we will definitely look into it ASAP. We’ve been so busy focusing on the doctors at the hospital and Granger that we hadn’t—”
“Tell her that Miles may have worked at Fairview at one time—or at least that he worked for people who worked at the hospital. He said so himself. That would have been thirty years ago, but he’d still know his way around the building.”
Abby nodded and passed on the information. After a few more of Day’s questions, she disconnected and put the phone away. Langer was taking them to the address for Philippe Daveux, aka Lyle Morris—their last visit of the day.
“Are you sure you’re up for this visit to Mr. Morris?” Blake asked. “I’m sure you could sit with Langer while I go to the apartment.”
“No way. I want to go with you. I want to see this guy who prints lies and tries to ruin other people’s lives.”
The drive to the apartment was a long one, all the way to the Upper West Side. Even Blake was surprised to find that the address took them to a lovely brownstone not too far from Central Park.
“I suppose writing freelance articles is a pretty good living,” Blake said. After a nod to Langer, he followed Abby up the front steps, joining her just as she rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded up to the front door, which slowly cracked open but only as far as the chain lock would allow.
“Mrs. Morris?” Blake said.
“Who’s asking?” The woman was a caramel blonde, mid-forties with large dark circles under her eyes as if she’d been sick for a long time. Her accent was thick, French, perhaps.
“I’m Abigail Miller and this is Dr. Blake Jamison.” Abby stepped forward, thinking she might be a little less intimidating to the woman than Blake in his stiff, starched shirt. “We just came from New York Way magazine after talking to the managing editor, Mr. Bain. There’s a really important article we’d like to discuss with Lyle Morris. We tried his cell phone and couldn’t get an answer.”
The woman let her words sink in. She looked at Blake. “You look familiar, non?”
“Yes,” Blake said. “Your...husband? Mr. Morris has written a few articles about my family.”
Mrs. Morris hesitated again, her eyes stuck on Blake. At length, she shut the door, unfastened the chain lock and reopened it. “I don’t know what to tell you. Lyle left last week to follow a story. I haven’t heard from him since. I thought he would be back by now. Maybe tomorrow he will be here. I don’t know. If you want to leave your number, I can have him call you when he returns.”
“This really can’t wait.” Blake pressed her. “You must have some way to get in touch with him. In case of an emergency?”
“I don’t.” She shrugged. “He doesn’t like to be bothered while he’s working. And we are all fine here, as you see.”
Abby scratched her head, unable to understand the arrangement the Morrises seemed to have. “Do you know what sort of story he was working on? This is really important. Dr. Jamison’s foundation for children with medical needs and his own career are at risk. If you can help us...”
“I only know that he was traveling.” She tilted her head to the side. “So this story you want to talk to him about—it is about you, Dr. Jamison? I know about your foundation. My husband and I, of course, have great interest in it. Our oldest son was born with a birth defect. Your foundation funded a special operation for him that our insurance would not pay.”
No wonder the man had devoted a webpage to Blake and his family and written so many articles about the foundation. He was personally invested in it.
“I would love to hear his story,” Blake said.
Again, the woman hesitated, but then she stepped aside and motioned for them to come in.
They followed Mrs. Morris down a narrow hallway lined with amazing black-and-white photos in simple gray frames.
“Your husband took these?”
“Yes.”
“He is very talented.”
“But this work does not bring money. Everyone, they want a scandal. Everyone wants to read about someone else’s dirt. I do not understand this. But I am not American.”
“Well, I am American,” said Abby. “And I don’t understand it, either.”
“Here. Have a seat. I’ll look at Lyle’s desk calendar. If there are any notes about where he might be, they would be there.” Mrs. Morris gestured to a small brown couch.
The living space was cramped with overstuffed furniture and more framed black-and-white photos. “Are these your sons?”
“Yes. Freddy and Nate. They are at school.” Mrs. Morris scooted behind the couch to a hidden alcove.
Abby continued to study the images of the boys that were hung all along the opposing wall. Blake, too, seemed fixated on a set of photographs—another series that was displayed neatly across the end table on his side of the sofa.
They could hear her riffling through files and papers on her husband’s desk. “I don’t see anything.... Wait...here is something...maybe...”
While Mrs. Morris spoke, Blake’s hand reached back and took hold of Abby’s wrist.
“I think I know where Lyle Morris is.” He turned his head to her and spoke in the lowest whisper.
“Where?” Abby’s eyes grew wide.
“In the morgue.” Blake pulled one of the small photos off the side table and handed it to her.
Abby shivered as she recognized the round, bald-headed face of Nicolas Hancock. No wonder Mrs. Morris hadn’t heard from her husband in several days.
He’d been murdered. And she had no idea....
* * *
Blake’s head was swimming. Should they call Langer first? Tell Mrs. Morris and call in Agent Day? The look on Abby’s face showed that she was considering a similar set of anxious thoughts. She’d gone pale when she’d seen the picture, and he was struck by how tired and strained she looked. But really, what else could he have expected? She was still shaking from the visit to Dr. Miles’s office. Not to mention the burns on her arms had to be throbbing even with the ibuprofen he’d
convinced her to take.
Mrs. Morris, still scavenging through her husband’s desk in the alcove behind them, was obliviously content, thinking her dear husband would be home any minute with a million-dollar story. This was the worst part of being a doctor—the moment when you had to tell someone that it was time to give up hope.
“Oh...here. I found something,” she said.
Blake pulled his eyes away from Abby and replaced the picture of Morris, aka Hancock, on the side table.
“It’s about your family, Dr. Jamison.” She scooted out from the desk and returned to the sitting area, handing him a fistful of crumpled papers. “I can’t tell if it’s old or new.”
Blake took the papers, no longer interested in the hospital story against him but only in how to talk to Mrs. Morris about her husband, who wasn’t coming back home.
“Would you like a coffee, perhaps? Tea?” she offered. “I always take espresso this time of day. And my boys will be home soon. I’d like to introduce you to Nate, since he used your facility. I think he would like very much to meet you.”
“Please,” Abby said. “Some coffee would be very nice. Thank you.”
Mrs. Morris disappeared around the corner. Abby let out a great sigh.
“What do we say?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess we should notify Agent Day.” Blake handed the papers from Morris’s desk to Abby so that he could retrieve his cell phone.
“Or Langer. What if we’re wrong?”
“Good point.” Blake used his phone and took a picture of the portrait on the side table. He sent the picture to Langer. The accompanying text read:
Lyle Morris, aka Nicolas Hancock?
He looked to Abby for her approval. She nodded. He hit Send. Now they had time to look at the pages that Mrs. Morris had taken from her husband’s desk. Abby straightened the papers on her lap and glanced down at the first sheet.
“This is all about you,” she said.
They could hear Mrs. Morris making espresso in the next room. The high-pressure machine whistled and dishes clanged. Still, they spoke at a whisper.
“What do you mean it’s all about me?” Blake said.
“Here.” Abby handed him the first two pages that she’d already looked through.
Blake felt his hands begin to shake as he recognized the documents. “This is a copy of the file from my mother’s lawyer. How would Nicolas Hancock, I mean Lyle Morris, get his hands on this?”
“It’s about your adoption, isn’t it?” Abby handed him the rest of the pages.
Blake nodded. He could feel his pulse racing as he scanned through the rest of the papers from Lyle Morris’s desk. “Yes, it’s all here. Copies of my mother’s letter and the notes from the doctor. This is a copy of the birth record that I found in Lancaster.”
“Wow. I guess we know why Hancock was killed. He was after the same information that you’re after. It really is all connected.”
“So, Dr. Miles maybe had something to do with my adoption and he was willing to kill to keep it a secret?”
Abby shrugged.
Blake saw his cell phone vibrate on the table. It was a response from Langer. The text read:
Yes. Morris is Hancock. FBI confirmed. Will be there in 20 with FBI agent.
Blake held the cell phone so that Abby could also read the text. Blake typed Okay and reset the phone on the coffee table but the question still remained—should they tell Mrs. Morris the truth before the FBI arrived?
“So, what do we do? Wait?” Abby asked.
There was no chance to respond to her question as Mrs. Morris entered the room holding a large tray with coffee and cookies, which she then placed on the coffee table. Taking the first cup and saucer for Blake, she poured a small espresso for him.
“Would you like sugar?”
“Please.” Blake could hardly speak, thinking of what horrible news awaited this poor woman.
She did the same for Abby, then poured a cup for herself and took a seat across from them in a high wing-backed chair.
“We couldn’t help but admire all of the photos,” Abby said as she sipped her coffee.
“Oh,” Mrs. Morris said. “These are just a few of the family, the boys, Lyle and me.”
“Is this your husband?” Abby gestured to the photo on the table next to Blake.
“Yes, it was taken just last fall while we were on vacation in the Catskill Mountains. That was just after Nate’s surgery. We were celebrating its success. I can’t tell you how thankful we are for your foundation, Dr. Jamison.”
Blake and Abby both squirmed uncomfortably at her praise.
“Did you find anything interesting in those papers from Lyle’s desk?”
“Actually, we did. Somehow your husband has copies of some of my personal and private legal files. I didn’t give them to him.”
Mrs. Morris’s expression darkened. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Lyle.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Blake said. “In fact, these papers seem to be in high demand. The same ones were stolen last night from my hotel room.”
“But that’s impossible. Those papers have been here since last week. I’m sure of it. As I told you, my husband hasn’t been home. He’s working on a story, so these must have already been here before he left.”
“Oh, we believe you, Mrs. Morris. We don’t think your husband stole the papers from my hotel room. We think he’s had them longer than that. Anyway, these are copies. Mine were originals.”
“This isn’t sounding very good,” said Mrs. Morris. “I hope my husband isn’t in any trouble. I said earlier that I don’t hear from him sometimes when he’s working on a story, but usually that’s only a day. Maybe two at most. This has been five days.”
“I’m afraid we do have bad news.”
“The worst kind,” Abby said, picking up where he’d left off. “There’s an FBI agent and a Lancaster police detective on their way here to talk to you.” Blake was just about to tell her about her husband’s untimely death when two middle-school-aged boys came busting into the room with their backpacks. They stopped short when they saw that their mother had visitors.
“Bonjour, mes fils.” She stood and kissed each of them on the cheek.
“Bonjour, Maman.”
“I want to introduce you to Dr. Jamison. He runs the foundation where you had your surgery, Nate.”
Blake stood and shook hands with both the boys. He introduced Abby and they passed a few pleasantries. Blake asked many questions about Nate’s surgery, all the while feeling like a liar for not telling them about their loss. But at this point, he couldn’t imagine telling them—not only that their father had died, but that he’d been murdered. They shouldn’t have to hear it from a stranger, and their mother should have a chance to process the news before sharing it with her sons. After a few minutes, Mrs. Morris sent her boys to get a snack in the kitchen and start their homework.
“Have you met my dad?” Nate asked as he was leaving the room. “He’s written a lot of articles about you and your foundation.”
Blake swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. “I haven’t had that pleasure.”
After the boys had settled away from the living area, Mrs. Morris finished her espresso. Leaning over the coffee table, she spoke in a whisper. “I’m guessing Lyle must be in a lot of trouble if an FBI agent is coming over to the house.”
At that moment, there was a knock at the front door. Detective Langer and the FBI agent had arrived. Mrs. Morris looked nervous as she stood and headed for the door. When she returned, she was crying hysterically. She looked up at Blake and Abby. “You already knew, didn’t you?”
Blake dropped his head in shame. There was no way he could not feel some of the guilt at the loss of Lyle Morris.
&nb
sp; He had no excuses to offer or justifications to share. He simply stammered out a few broken words of condolence, and then he and Abby quietly took their leave.
NINETEEN
Abby and Blake were not allowed to return to Lancaster that night. The FBI put them up at the Waldorf Astoria in a large suite with Detective Langer as their guardian. Abby had never seen anything quite like the hotel as they sat on the fanciest sofa she’d ever seen and had a room-service dinner. Her first ever.
“Your trip to New York was pretty productive,” Langer said. “We might never have figured out this ring of adoption scandals if it hadn’t been for you two. There may still be some other people involved but the FBI is pretty certain they’ve got the three main players, Dr. Miles, Mr. Linton and Mr. Pooler.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Abby. “How did it all piece together?”
“Well, first,” said Detective Langer, “you recognized Dr. Miles as Hancock’s—Morris’s—murderer. We caught up with him at the Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. He was getting ready to leave the country after you came to his office and scared him. The FBI is certain after going through his home and office that they will have more than enough incriminating evidence to put him away for murder and kidnapping.”
“Okay, I understand the murder charges—he killed Morris. But kidnapping? Who was kidnapped? Do you mean to tell me that he gave away a baby that wasn’t really up for adoption?”
“Exactly,” said Blake, who had gotten more of the details out of Langer while Abby had been freshening up. “He stole me and other Amish babies. He would deliver us, then whisk the baby away, apparently telling the family the infant had a terrible disease and needed special treatment. Later, he’d tell them the baby had died and had to be cremated because of risk of infection. He would then sell the baby to rich couples in New York for millions.”
“And the lawyers helped make the connections?”
“Right. Linton and Pooler, who are brothers—which explains why I confused them. They all took a cut of the million-dollar adoptions. For thirty years they’ve been doing this—abusing the most unsuspecting people, the Amish, knowing that they would not be likely to question any doctor’s authority.”
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