“You’re saying she would have seen the story while she was still at her office.”
“Yeah. But she didn’t call me.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning it’s time Phyllis Corbin and I had a little face-to-face.”
22
Sarah’s apartment was in the Edgewater district, just north of Miami’s downtown. She called Marco as soon as she got out of the shower.
“I’m heading out in a minute. Bring me up to date.”
“Carlotta hasn’t told us any more than she told you. She knows the consul was murdered and she’s terrified. She thinks they’re coming for her next.”
“Is she right?”
“There is no way to know. Just to be safe, we’re moving her and her grandmother again. We’re taking them up north.”
“Good. What about Elias?”
“He seems more afraid. His avvocato has told our prosecutor that he will admit that Nelthorp paid him to switch the container loads, and to install the fake bolts. But he will only admit to those three containers we found. He insists Nelthorp never told him who he was working for. He says he will tell us the names of the port workers who helped him shift the loads, but only if the prosecutor gives him full immunity. He insists he knows nothing about baby smuggling.”
Sarah could feel frustration tightening her throat. “What about the orphanage? The search warrant? What did you find?”
“The Renault woman was there. She was alone. Her name is Sonia Sturzo. The building is a converted stable. It is now a three-bedroom residence. One bedroom is set up to be a nursery—it has three cribs and lots of supplies for babies. Based on what you said about seeing Nelthorp with two different nannies and babies, I thought we’d find one when we searched. But the nursery was empty. Sturzo told us she uses her home as a shelter for unwed mothers. She claimed she receives support from a Catholic charity. We checked. She was telling the truth.”
“A Catholic charity? Father Giardini won’t be happy to hear that.”
“When our officers told her she had been seen helping a woman with a baby board a freighter in Catania, she admitted that she had driven the woman there. She said the girl had been staying with her, and had asked for a ride to the port. She said the girl told her that the captain was her brother and he was taking her to stay with relatives in Genoa. She refused to say any more without advice from a lawyer.”
“What about her office? There was a filing cabinet. Tell me you found something!”
“Niente. No adoption files. Just the usual household paperwork—utility bills, bank statements, personal papers—and expense records for the charity that supports her.”
“She was warned. She knew you were coming.”
“It can only be that.”
“Thank you, Marco. I’d better get going.”
“To see your supervisor?”
“Yes. The ship was due in port this morning.”
“Good luck. Call me if you need anything.”
* * *
CBP’s Miami field office was housed in a functionalist concrete building on SE 1st Avenue, in the shadow of the Metrorail. Sarah’s sudden appearance in her section’s outer office was barely noticed. Every agent in the room was glued to a television mounted on the wall. On the screen was a street scene milling with law enforcement personnel. A huge truck held center stage, its front bumper jammed against the driver’s side of a sedan—a vehicle that was, in turn, shoved tight against a concrete wall. The sedan’s windows were riddled with bullet holes.
A reporter’s voice-over was supplying the details.
“… used this stolen refrigerator truck as a battering ram to intercept the vehicle and then execute its occupants. Channel 6 News has learned that the target vehicle was carrying a Port of Miami Immigration officer who had just been arrested for corruption. Witnesses say two men jumped from the truck, sprayed the vehicle with automatic gunfire, and then fled the scene in a car driven by a third man. The prisoner was being transported to Homeland Security’s field office near Dolphin Mall. He and his escorting officers died at the scene. Immigration officials have refused to comment on the reason for the officer’s arrest. They will only say…”
It took Sarah about three seconds to realize what had happened.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned.
“We’ve been waiting for you to show up.”
Phyllis Corbin was accompanied by a stiff-backed man in a dark suit. His “I’m-a-G-Man” posture was somewhat undermined by the jowly cheeks and the sag of a soft belly over his belt.
“This is Special Agent David Kemp.”
“ICE?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Corbin. “You know about the consul in Palermo?”
“I saw the press.”
“You saw the press and you didn’t call me.” She read Corbin’s face. “Right. You knew I’d be coming.”
“I know you pretty well by now. We flagged you on the system. I’ll deal with your insubordination later. Come with us.”
Sarah was in no mood for Corbin’s attitude. She followed them into Corbin’s office, and as soon as the door was shut, she turned on her boss.
“That officer who was arrested. He was the one, wasn’t he?”
Kemp gave the answer. “Yes.”
“Where’s the baby?”
“She and the nanny weren’t on the ship when it docked,” Corbin replied.
“What do you mean? I saw them go aboard! I saw the ship sail!”
Kemp said, “The officer our people arrested—his name is Selwyn Bailey. We figure he sent them ashore on the pilot boat.”
Sarah exploded. “The pilot boat? What the hell is the matter with you people? I handed you this on a platter. The Italian police bent over backwards to give us extra time!”
“Watch your tongue, little girl!”
Sarah wheeled on Corbin. “What did you say?”
Kemp intervened, raising his voice. “I know who you are, Agent.”
“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
“Your name’s got too much profile,” Corbin said, her tone suddenly conciliatory. “It attracts too much attention. I’m sure you understand that. We can’t take the risk that it will be leaked.”
This had a familiar ring. “Just a minute! We can’t take the risk? Who’s ‘we’?”
“Washington has a new assignment for you—they want you out in L.A.”
“That’s bullshit! I only booked my flight yesterday. Maybe you knew I was coming, Phyllis, but nothing in this department happens that fast. I’m being sidelined. Why?”
Corbin looked uncomfortable.
“Tell me!”
“These adopting parents. The ones from before, who already have their babies. The word is, some of them may be … prominent.”
“Black-market adoptions cost big money. So what you really mean is rich and prominent.”
Reluctantly, Corbin gave a nod.
“And, from the look on your face, politically connected. As in … Party donors?”
“All these people believed their new baby was an orphan. It’s not as if we can take the kids away and return them to their parents.”
“You don’t know what they believed. And you don’t know that their parents can’t be traced. The European police are interviewing witnesses, working their way back up the line.”
“The thing is, this needs to be handled carefully. You have a certain … reputation. Washington doesn’t want you in the middle of it. They don’t want the kind of attention you could generate if your identity became known.”
“Became known how?”
“Maybe by a judge ruling that you have to testify in your own name,” Kemp said.
Sarah was angry. Very angry. But, unlike many people, her rage helped her see more clearly. She knew she wasn’t going to win this argument.
She stared at Kemp, who was just sitting there.
Waiting for something.
; She looked at Corbin. “What do you want? From me?”
“Agent Kemp is in charge of the investigation. The conference room’s clear. Go with him. Walk him through everything that happened in Italy. Give him your Guardia contacts. We’ve agreed that you’re just here to brief him, not to provide a formal witness statement. None of his team will be present. When you’re finished, go home. Take a break. You’re on paid leave until the paperwork for your L.A. transfer is finalized.”
“And my ‘insubordination,’ as you called it?”
“We’ll keep that out of your file.”
There’s that “we” again.
The writing was on the wall, plain to see.
Sarah knew she had no choice.
So, she pretended to concede.
Pretended … because now she knew her instincts had been right and she had to finish this case. If that meant exposing cowardice in Washington—and chicanery in Miami—that wasn’t her concern.
Pretended … because her only concern was making sure this barbarous network of baby peddlers didn’t get a chance to start up again.
She went along with Kemp to the conference room. The blinds were already closed. She did as Corbin had asked and launched into a detailed briefing.
“This LaGuardia, is it—?”
Christ! Is this clown for real?
“It’s a police force, not an airport! It’s called the Guardia di Finanza. They’re responsible for all financial crime and smuggling investigations in Italy.”
“Okay. Got it.”
She had already decided to keep Marco’s cell number to herself, so she gave him the main number for the Guardia’s office in Catania.
She walked him through everything she knew about the baby-smuggling case, step by step, just as she had lived it.
Word for word, just as she had related it to Marco.
She only held back one word.
A name.
Eden.
23
It took a couple of days, but Dickie came through. Again.
“You didn’t give me much to work with.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“I think I deserve a French kiss for this one.”
“Because you never got one when we were kids.”
“That’s right.”
“My lips are chapped.”
“Always the excuses.”
“They could be healed by the next time we get together … depending on what you’ve got for me now.”
Dickie laughed. “I thought about those parameters you gave me: last name Eden, rich older couple; no kids; significant financial support for a serving congressman or senator; probably living in Florida or the Southeast.”
“That’s right.”
“I thought of a few more. Statistics show that conservatives seeking to adopt tend to request boys to carry on a family name. This couple accepted a girl, so they’re probably registered Democrats.”
“Okay.”
“And they would have tried to adopt through the usual channels before turning to the black market, so you’re looking for a Mr. and Mrs. Eden who suffered serial rejections by their home state agencies.”
“Not necessarily. Some people just have no tolerance for red tape.”
“True, but these folks are liberals, remember? They created most of it. Anyway, I found them. Their names are Kenneth and Darlene Eden. He’s fifty-one, she’s forty-two. Second marriage for both of them. He made his first fortune when he was twenty-one in that leveraged buyout boom back in the eighties. These days he’s heavy into green energy. But he’s had two drunk driving convictions, and the wife once did eight months at Lowell Correctional for forgery. Since the beginning of this year, three different Florida adoption agencies have rejected them on medical and good character grounds. I’ll need to do more work to get the details on the medical grounds.”
“No need. You’re saying they applied in Florida?”
“Yup. Want their address?”
* * *
As the seasonal home to a few dozen American billionaires, along with a handful of post-1990 Russian oligarchs, Palm Beach was well known as a prestige address for the moneyed few. Despite that reputation, the Eden residence on Chilean Avenue was modest by the standards of any wealthy couple. The house was a stuccoed, flat-roofed tribute to understatement, enhanced only by a touch of ornate ironwork and a terracotta fountain on the manicured front lawn. The single concession to affluence was a late-model Mercedes parked on the redbrick driveway.
It was just past eight in the evening when Sarah knocked on the door.
She heard footsteps inside. Then, silence. She sensed a suspicious eye examining her through the peephole. A second passed. Another.
She held up her badge.
The door opened, revealing an exquisitely dressed woman. Slender figure, green eyes, blond hair, pert mouth … if this was Darlene Eden, she was aging well.
“Darlene Eden?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Sarah Lockhart. I’m with the Department of Homeland Security.”
“May I see that badge, please?”
Sarah showed it to her.
“This says ‘Customs and Border Protection.’”
“Look at the crest below that. Homeland includes both Customs and Immigration. I’m here to talk to you about an Immigration case.”
Sarah didn’t miss the woman’s nervous swallow. Dickie had found the right people.
“May I come in?”
The woman peered past Sarah, searching the night. “You’re alone?”
“Yes, Mrs. Eden. This is an informal visit.”
Was that a flash of relief?
As Sarah stepped into the foyer, a man wearing pressed slacks and an open-necked dress shirt materialized in an archway to her right. She recognized Kenneth Eden from a photo she’d found on the internet.
“Darlene? What’s going on?” He saw the look on his wife’s face. His eyes slid to Sarah, then to the badge that she hadn’t put away. “And who are you?”
On the drive up from Miami, Sarah had decided on two alternative approaches, gentle or merciless, depending on the reception she got. Kenneth Eden’s instant belligerence made the decision for her.
“Sarah Lockhart, Mr. Eden. I’m from Homeland Security. I want to ask you about a baby girl who was kidnapped from her parents. You know her as Gisella Pelizon.”
The couple’s stunned reaction removed all vestiges of doubt.
Wordlessly, Kenneth Eden led the way into the living room.
“Kidnapped?” Darlene Eden asked in a whisper.
“Yes. From a refugee camp in Eastern Europe.”
“Oh, Kenny! Oh, no!”
“Please tell me where the child is.”
“I had cancer. I’m cured, but the radiation made me infertile. They said I can’t have a baby because the cancer might come back. It wasn’t fair!” Darlene finished in a flood of tears.
Sarah decided not to inflame the situation by pointing out that there had been other grounds to reject them, so she just repeated her question.
“Where’s the baby?”
“We don’t have her,” Kenneth Eden replied as he put an arm around his sobbing wife. “The agency said there’d been a delay.”
“I’m sorry, but I find that hard to believe. We know for a fact that this child arrived in Miami four days ago.”
Kenneth Eden’s response was gruff. “We’re not lying! You’re welcome to look through the house.”
“Lead the way.”
The couple walked her through every room, ending the tour in an alcove adjoining the vast master bedroom. It had been fitted out as a nursery.
There was a wrought iron crib with an elaborate canopy.
The crib was empty.
Sarah stared into it. Crisp, unused mattress. New, neatly folded bedclothes. Patterned baby girl sleeper, with tasseled cap and booties.
All waiting for a squirming little tenant.
Here
comes the rain …
No…!
“Agent?” Kenneth Eden was standing at her side. “What’s wrong?”
Sarah’s jaw tensed as she fought off the invasion of memory.
You will not!
You will not let the rain come!
Her eyes locked on a baby monitor perched on a table next to the crib, its lens trained on the empty mattress. Her brow darkened.
“A baby camera, and no baby?”
Darlene Eden was immediately defensive. “We wanted everything to be ready. Wouldn’t you?”
They returned to the living room. The couple sat side by side on a couch. Sarah took a chair facing them. Kenneth Eden’s belligerence had faded into visible unease. He’d been pale and silent during their circuit through the house, leaving it to his wife to do most of the talking.
Now he asked, “Should I be calling my lawyer?”
Sarah had already resolved to show her hand, in the hope that they would give her the information she needed.
“That is your right, Mr. Eden. But before you do, please understand that I’m not here to squeeze confessions out of you, or make arrests, and I’m not recording our conversation. I saw the shock on your faces when I told you Gisella was a stolen child. I’d like you to listen to what I have to say. When I’m finished, if you prefer not to answer questions, I will understand. I will immediately leave your home so you can make your arrangements for legal advice before other investigators come to see you.”
Darlene Eden clutched her husband’s arm. “That sounds fair to me.”
“And me. Go ahead.”
“Have you ever heard the expression, ‘baby laundering’?”
“Oh, God!”
Sarah spent ten minutes giving them a broad outline of how baby laundering worked, and explaining, in rough outline, why she was certain that the little girl they’d adopted was a product of that illicit trade.
“As to Gisella’s custody, I’m not able to predict what will happen in the end. It may be that there will be no way to trace her parents and she’ll be left with you to raise. But it also may be that you will be disqualified for the same reasons you were rejected by those other agencies.”
Killing Pace Page 13