Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(45)

There was a long hesitation. “Three months, you say? Is this another kid from that Amish group you’re hooked up with?”

“Not this one, no,” Marjorie said. “In fact, she’s special. Blond hair, blue eyes. The perfect baby for those fancy pants clients of yours.” When her contact didn’t reply, she said, “Hey, I ain’t got all day here. You want her or not?”

“A girl.” There was a sharp intake of air and then her contact said, “Jesus, Marjorie. Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

“I think you’re in this as deep as I am,” Marjorie said, putting a touch of venom in her voice.

More breathing on the other end of the line. “It’s the Darden baby, isn’t it? Christ, are you crazy? It’s been all over the news. The FBI was brought it to investigate!”

“So what?” Marjorie said.

“Damn it, you did this to me once before and I warned you—never again. This just leads to big problems.”

“Big money, too,” Marjorie said. “This is one cute kid.”

“But a terrible risk.” Another pause. “I don’t know that our arrangement from here on is going to work out all that well.”

“Then try harder,” Marjorie snarled. “You have clients, I deliver. No questions asked.”

“You really are crazy, you know that? You take way too many chances.”

“That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”

“Ah, but now you’re making it my problem. This isn’t just some abandoned kid from a crack whore. Or some bastard kid that a bunch of religious fruitcakes don’t want. This is dangerous business. There could be major repercussions.”

Marjorie’s voice came out in a low hiss. “Don’t you dare try to dime me out. You’re just as complicit as I am. Maybe more.” She thought her contact might hang up on her, but they didn’t. She knew they were still on the line because she could hear wheezy breath sounds.

“Okay, okay. I want ’em,” came the response. “The two little ones anyway.”

“Good. Start lining up your people,” Marjorie said. “Tell ’em the three-month-old is on the way, and the other one, the baby, is due any day now. And don’t forget to put a nice fat wad of cash in the mail for me. You remember the post office box number?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. So . . . when do we meet? When can we make the exchange for the, uh, three-month-old?”

“Soon,” Marjorie said. “No more than a couple of days. I’ll call you.”

“Use a pay phone, okay?”

“Still don’t trust me?”

“It’s just the smart thing to do, Marjorie.”

“Sure, whatever.”


*

HANDS clenched, jaw working like crazy, Marjorie’s contact hung up the phone.

This was the last time. Just these two private adoptions and then it was over and done with forever. The money was good . . . well, actually, the money was tremendous. It was amazing what upper-crust white bread couples would pay for a baby. But dealing with Marjorie simply wasn’t worth it. She was too unstable. Too crazy. The one time she’d set foot in the office, she’d scared the crap out of everyone.

On the other hand . . . there might be a clever way to handle this. A way to make a final bundle of money and then step away from this dirty business for good.

Yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat.





21


RICHARD Darden looked considerably different from the last time Afton had seen him. For one thing, the man had aged. Worry lines etched his face, undermining his chiseled features. And his cocksure, aloof attitude seemed washed away under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the interview room. Dressed in a pair of khakis and a wrinkled Macalester sweatshirt, Darden looked positively bedraggled, a far cry from the primped and polished business executive that he’d been a few days earlier.

Afton suspected that Darden’s wardrobe malnutrition was a result of Susan Darden not allowing her husband back into the house for the rest of his clothes. Then again, the woman could hardly be blamed for drawing such a hard line. Less than a week ago, Susan had been blissfully unaware of her husband’s affair with the nanny. Now his pitiful weakness had been exposed.

It was hard to fathom how Darden could possibly think of anything other than his missing child. But in Afton’s limited experience, she’d noticed that high-powered, testosterone-fueled Type-A’s weren’t typically tethered by the same empathic constraints that were felt by the rest of the world.

Afton sipped her coffee slowly as she stared through the one-way glass. Darden and his snake-eyed lawyer, Steve Slocum, sat on one side of a wooden table; Max was on the opposite side. Slocum had launched a pro forma protest at being kept waiting for forty-five minutes, but Max had brushed it off, remaining cool and relaxed. Still, Slocum didn’t bother to mask his disdain and contempt for every question his client was asked.

Admiration swelled within Afton. She didn’t think she could maintain the same confidence that Max did when faced with constant scrutiny from Slocum. Every single question Max asked was met with a curled lip and a barrage of lawyerly protests. Some of them were even in Latin.

Even now, while Max scribbled notes on his yellow legal pad, Slocum was leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone messages, trying to look bored, probably hoping to gain a cool upper hand.