The Cradle Will Fall

by Maggie Price

  Which didn’t really matter, since she no longer wanted Mark Santini.

  Didn’t want any man at the moment. She readily admitted that the black, vicious grief she’d felt over losing Ryan—and later the child she carried—had sent her burrowing into a numbing emotional cocoon. If she ever got brave enough to peel off the protective layers and look for another man, she would set her sights on someone like Ryan. Her husband had been easygoing, as dependable as the sunrise. Mr. White Picket Fence who’d wanted to settle down and raise a bushel of kids. Again, she felt the bitter, dragging regret. She had never once thought of Ryan as a rebound love. Yet, when he overheard a conversation after he and Grace married about the reason she’d made the visit to Virginia to see Mark, that’s exactly how Ryan had viewed himself—as the man she’d turned to on the rebound. The man she’d settled for.

  She and Ryan had barely started dating when she’d made that trip. She’d recognized something special about him, yet even then she’d known she couldn’t move on until she resolved things with Mark. So she’d gone to Virginia on the chance she and Mark might somehow be able to meld their lifestyles. There she discovered he’d already moved on with the leggy White House staffer.

  She would regret for the rest of her life Ryan’s overhearing that conversation. Regret how deeply he’d been hurt. He had been dead nearly three years, yet the regret continued to hang over her like clogging, black smoke. What she did not need—did not intend to create—were additional regrets over Mark Santini.

  So she would ignore the unrelenting, maddening chemistry that pulled her toward him, and do her job. Then watch him leave.

  Again.

  “Here’s hoping this goes smooth,” Mark said as he pulled the building’s front door open for her.

  Nodding, Grace stepped past him into the lobby, an arty rectangle decorated in soft hues. She knew he wanted things to go without a hitch because the smoother they went, the sooner he could head to his next assignment. Unbuttoning her coat, she blamed the dry ache that settled in her throat on the sudden transition between the frigid outdoors and the warmth inside.

  Loving Arms Adoptions was located in a multiroom suite with coral carpets and leather furnishings. A thin, fortyish woman in a gray suit sat at a well-organized desk, typing on a computer. She looked up when Mark and Grace walked in, turned from her computer and gave them a mild smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  They displayed their badges, then Mark asked to speak to the agency’s director.

  “Do you have an appointment with Mrs. Quinton?”

  “No, we have a subpoena,” he said politely. “If your boss is too busy to see us, we’ll serve the subpoena to you.”

  “Wait here.” The woman popped out of her chair like a cork from a champagne bottle and hustled down a carpeted hallway.

  Grace slid Mark a look. “You always did have a knack for getting a woman’s attention, Santini.”

  He gave her a quick, smug grin. “It’s a gift.”

  Grace tried to ignore the instant hot ball of awareness that all-too-familiar grin lodged in her belly. Dammit, the man was like a force field, hauling her closer, when all she wanted was to keep her distance.

  Just then the receptionist reappeared and escorted them into a large office. Centered in the room was a dark wooden desk behind which a gray-haired woman with vivid blue eyes sat, taking them in.

  “I’m Patsy Quinton,” she said, gesturing them to chairs in front of the desk. “Now that you’ve put my secretary in a tizzy, officers, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking for a baby,” Mark said.

  The woman nodded. “Most people who come to Loving Arms are.”

  “A girl,” he continued, then gave the date Andrea Grayson had given birth. While he explained the facts of the case, Grace handed Mrs. Quinton a copy of the form Andrea had signed at the clinic authorizing her daughter’s adoption. “If the infant has already been adopted, we’d like to know by whom,” Mark finished.

  The woman studied the form, her eyes sharpening after a moment. “I need to check something,” she said, then turned to her computer and began tapping keys. After a moment she eased out a breath. “I can’t help you.”

  “We have a subpoena for your records on the child,” Mark said. “Also the written approval of the infant’s natural grandfather to view those records. If necessary, Sergeant McCall can contact a judge who will authorize a warrant for us to search your files for the information we need.”

  Mrs. Quinton didn’t look impressed. “You and Sergeant McCall can serve me with a hundred legal documents, Agent Santini, but they won’t get you the information you’re looking for. We simply have no record on that infant.”

  Grace leaned forward. “You mean the adoption is finalized and the record is sealed?”

  “I mean we don’t have a record. That particular adoption was not handled by Loving Arms.”

  Mark gestured to the copy of the form Quinton had previously scanned. “The form filled out at the clinic where the child was born states the adoption was handled by your agency.”

  “Their paperwork is in error,” Mrs. Quinton said, concern clouding her blue eyes. “In more than one area, I’m afraid.”

  Grace felt her shoulders tighten as her cop instinct clicked in. Something was wrong. Very wrong. “What areas?” she asked quietly.

  “As I stated, Loving Arms did not handle the placement of this child. And there’s a problem with the signature at the bottom of the form. It can’t be right.”

  Shifting forward, Mark studied the woman, his eyes giving nothing away. “There are two signatures on the bottom of the form,” he said. “The doctor who treated Andrea Grayson and the social worker from children’s services who picked up the infant from the clinic. Which signature can’t be right?”

  “The social worker’s,” Patsy Quinton replied. “The woman whose signature is on that form quit her job about two years ago and moved out of state.”

  Hours later Mark sat beside Grace in yet another office while warning blips pinged in his brain. He had learned long ago to listen to his instincts. They were currently sending the message that it wasn’t a paperwork snafu that had caused Andrea Grayson’s baby to seemingly disappear off the face of the earth.

  The infant was gone.

  Her mother dead.

  Coincidence?

  Mark checked the clock that hung on the wall of the small, cramped office. He needed to call D.C. to find out if the autopsy on Andrea Grayson’s body had been performed as scheduled. If so, he had some pointed questions for the pathologist. Right now, though, he wanted some answers from the doctor who’d delivered Andrea’s child.

  “I don’t know how this could be.” Dr. Thomas Odgers sat behind a desk inches deep in paper, staring down in disbelief at the contents of a file folder. He was a balding, bearded man in his sixties with a baritone voice and wire-rim glasses.

  At present, his face was as pale as his starched white lab coat. “I just… I simply don’t understand.”

  Mark started to speak, but held back when Grace rose and moved to the desk. “How about I tell you what I understand, Dr. Odgers?” she asked in a mild voice. “You delivered a baby girl at this clinic whose mother subsequently died under your care. This clinic—of which you are the director—has paperwork stating the baby was picked up by a caseworker from children’s services for an adoption to be handled by the Loving Arms Agency.”

  “Yes.” Adjusting his glasses, Odgers glanced down at the paperwork, then looked back up. “That’s correct.”

  “One thing that is not correct is the caseworker’s signature,” Grace continued, gesturing at the form.

  “Are you sure of that, Detective McCall?”

  “Sergeant McCall, and I’m positive. Agent Santini and I spent quite a lot of time this morning at the adoption agency and then at the state’s children’s services office. Someone at this clinic forged the name of a caseworker who quit her job two years ago.”
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  “Dear God.”

  “Another thing that isn’t correct on your form is the name of the agency slated to handle the adoption. Loving Arms has no record of this infant.”

  His fingers steepled in front of his chin, Mark kept his eyes on Grace. They’d met while working on the Midnight Slasher task force, investigating the murders of a series of teenage prostitutes. He and Grace had teamed up to conduct interviews with several subjects. Mark had been impressed with her intuitive, no-nonsense interrogation skills and an intense passion to get to the truth. He was still impressed.

  Just as he still felt the pull that had always existed between them. Would forever feel it, he supposed.

  Six years was a long time, and he knew there was no sense in dredging up the past when the present demanded all his energy and attention. Yet, watching Grace, he wondered what their lives would be like now if she had moved to Virginia with him. If he’d had something more to offer her than just shreds of time.

  “The state has contracts with three different adoption agencies,” Odgers pointed out nervously. “I feel certain our listing Loving Arms on the form was a clerical error. We named the wrong agency, that’s all.”

  “That’s not all,” Grace persisted. “Agent Santini and I have checked with the other two adoption agencies that have contracts with the state. None of them handled this child.”

  “I…don’t know what to think.” Odgers slicked a palm over his nearly bald head, now glistening with sweat. “I don’t know.”

  Mark rose and moved to the side of the desk opposite Grace, a symbolic closing in on their quarry. “I suggest you come up with something, Doctor,” he said quietly. “As Sergeant McCall pointed out, the trail to Andrea Grayson’s infant starts and ends here.”

  “I can only tell you what I know. I delivered the baby, then examined her again just before the social worker was due to pick her up.” Odgers looked back at the file, and Mark saw the face of a man whose mind was racing to find an explanation. “That’s the last time I laid eyes on that infant. I swear.”

  Grace gazed down at him. “Did you see who picked up the baby?”

  “No, but it’s rare I ever see the social workers. I’m either in exam rooms with patients or in here dealing with paperwork.” He held out a hand, palm up. “I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for the child’s whereabouts.”

  Mark leaned in. “I hope so, Doctor.” He waited a beat, watching the man sweat. “If a social worker walked into the clinic right now to pick up a baby, who would that person deal with?”

  “Today it would be Yolanda.”

  “Today?” Grace asked.

  “That’s because Iris is off. Iris Davenport. Her sister had surgery, so she’s staying with her during her recuperation. Iris usually deals with paperwork on all adoptions.” Odgers rechecked the form. “I remember now. Iris assisted with the birth of the child in question.”

  Grace frowned. “You had a clerk assist you during a delivery?”

  “No.” Odgers blinked several times. “Heavens, no. Iris is an RN, a very good one. The office staff is buried in Medicare, insurance and numerous other forms, not to mention patient records. Iris takes care of the adoption forms, and the office staff is glad to have her help.”

  Wanting a clear view of the man’s face, Mark returned to his chair. “Doctor, if you know what happened to Andrea Grayson’s child, you’d better tell us now.”

  “I don’t know.” The man’s hands fisted. “I felt awful when the mother died. The delivery had been an easy one, and she seemed fine. Minutes later, she began hemorrhaging. I tried to save her. I’ve been a doctor for forty years. I’m in the business of keeping people alive.” He pulled off his glasses, his eyes locked on Mark’s as if he were his only lifeline. “I don’t know what happened to the infant, but it’s crucial she be found. You have my full cooperation in this matter.”

  Mark intended to run a thorough background check on the doctor, even though his gut told him the man was telling the truth. And his instincts were usually on target. He exchanged a look with Grace, and he could tell she agreed with him. He shifted his attention back to Odgers.

  “Doctor, have there been similar deaths here?”

  Odgers’s already-pale face turned gray. “Surely you’re not suggesting…”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Mark said. “I’m asking a question, one of many you’ll have to answer. Have any other women hemorrhaged to death after giving birth here?”

  “One. Nearly a year ago, I think. The young woman wasn’t my patient, so I’m hazy on details. I do know she’d been seeing Dr. Normandy. Frank Normandy. The patient delivered a healthy baby, then later bled to death.”

  “What happened to her baby?” Grace asked.

  “I…have no idea. I’ll have to pull the file.”

  “Do that,” Mark said. “We’ll want to see Dr. Normandy.”

  “He quit some time ago. Took a hospital job in Chicago to be closer to his wife’s family.”

  “We need his personnel file.” Mark paused. “What nurse assisted Normandy when the woman died after delivery?”

  “I’ll have to check.” Odgers swiveled in his chair toward his computer. Using his index fingers, he tapped on the keyboard. A moment later, he closed his eyes. “Iris,” he said quietly. “Iris Davenport assisted during that birth, too.”

  “You didn’t get your wish,” Grace said as Mark followed her across her house’s shadowy front porch. The early-evening gloom was quickly transforming into a frigid darkness, so she had to squint to get her key into the lock. Neither Morgan nor Carrie had made it home yet, so no one had turned on the porch light.

  “What wish?” Mark asked, his breath a gray puff on the freezing air.

  “This morning you said you hoped things went smooth.” She caught the fresh pine scent of the Christmas wreath as she pushed open the door and stepped into the warm, inviting hallway.

  “We definitely didn’t get smooth,” he agreed, his voice grave as he closed the door behind him.

  The sense of dread that Grace had first felt during their interview at the adoption agency had intensified throughout the day and now felt like an anvil in her chest. “What we got were too many questions that no one seems to have the answers to.”

  “Someone always has the answers.” Mark slid his gloves into the pockets of his black wool coat. “We just have to figure out who that someone is, then go after them.”

  “You’re right.” She pulled off her gloves and coat, then opened the door to the small closet near the front door. “I’ve worked child abduction cases, but they were mostly one parent snatching a child from the other. Even though the child was missing, I was pretty sure he or she was safe. Being cared for.”

  Mark gazed down at her, his face somber. “That’s not the type of child abduction case I get called to. There are a lot of sick scum out there.”

  Saying nothing, Grace hung up their coats. She and Mark had been cops a long time and they’d seen too much evil. Still, she always hoped for a happy ending. Considering the nature of his job, she doubted Mark ever expected a rosy outcome.

  When she turned, she saw he had moved a few steps down the hall and now stood at the arched entrance to the living room, the file folder he’d carried in from the car clutched in his hand.

  “Is this where you want us to work?” he asked.

  Stepping beside him, she reached for a wall switch, flipped it on. The lights on the Christmas tree winked on, looking like tiny white stars trapped in its limbs. What they’d found out today had left her in no mood for holiday cheer.

  “No, not here.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Until the information we requested starts coming in, all we can do is brainstorm. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s do that in the kitchen while we eat. I’m starving and you should be, too, since you hardly ate anything at lunch.”

  “I had soup.”

  “Broth. You h
ad broth, Santini.” She headed down the hallway, crooking a finger at him. “Follow me, and I’ll show you the difference between broth and soup.”

  Twenty minutes later they sat side by side at the butcher-block island, steaming bowls in front of them.

  Mark slid her a look. “So, this is soup,” he said, spooning up another bite.

  “Didn’t take long for a sharp guy like you to spot the homemade noodles, chunks of chicken and other nutritious stuff.”

  He nodded gravely. “I’m a professional investigator. I sleuthed out the nutritious stuff right off.”

  “’Atta boy, Santini.”

  He’d taken off his suit coat, loosened his crimson tie and unbuttoned the neck of his starched white shirt. Grace knew this was the first time she’d let herself relax since they walked into the adoption agency that morning, and she sensed the same went for Mark.

  Sensed, too, that she had probably been nuts to bring him back to her house since she intended to keep their relationship on a professional level. The smart thing would have been to go along with Mark’s suggestion to wait at her office for the information they’d requested. It was just that the more time she’d spent in his presence, the deeper the lines of exhaustion in his face seemed to be etched.

  So, why did she care if he looked tired? she wondered. Why give special consideration to a man who’d walked away so effortlessly six years ago?

  With no answers to those questions forthcoming, she slid a hand into the wicker basket next to her plate, tore off two pieces of the crusty French bread she’d heated and handed one to Mark. “Butter?”

  “No, thanks.” His gaze swept the kitchen. “Bran mentioned the remodeling of this place was a McCall family project. From what I’ve seen, you did a great job.”