Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(40)
Big mistake.
For the next two hours—yes, gasp, they strayed from the schedule—they played this game. Zoe would be quiet for ten or fifteen minutes, then she’d flip onto her stomach and scream bloody murder until he went back into her room.
“Listen, you,” he told her after Take Seven. “See here? It’s embroidered right on your potato sack. ‘Back to Sleep.’ You don’t like being on your stomach? Then stop rolling over.”
She chucked one pacifier out of the crib, unimpressed with the lecture.
After that, Ford decided to try a new approach—this “self-soothing” thing he’d heard his sister talking about. The next time Zoe flipped over onto her stomach, he let her cry. But after fifteen minutes he caved, because the crying was god-awful and he felt guilty as shit, and certainly no one in the damn apartment building was going to be soothed by that racket. So they went back to the flipping game. Eventually, it got to be so late that they’d moved into the time when Nicole had said Zoe might wake up for a feeding.
Figuring she might be hungry—hell, he certainly could use a snack after all the drama—he fed her. She fell asleep mid-feeding, so he seized the moment and put her down in the crib, being careful not to wake her up.
That was Big Fucking Mistake Number Two.
Ten minutes later, he heard Zoe coughing on the monitor and realized that he’d forgotten to keep her upright after he’d fed her. He ran into her room and scooped her up just in time for her to throw up all over both of them, a full-out, volcanic-style heaving that spewed out of her mouth and nose. Which was doubly disconcerting because, (A) holy shit, no one had ever warned him that something so tiny and cute could puke like a drunken frat boy who’d just gorged on a double-stuffed burrito, and (B) now Zoe was hollering like a banshee—Who left the dumbass in charge of me? Help!—as he hurried around trying to find clean sheets and pajamas and a new potato sack for her to sleep in. His shirt smelled like baby vomit, so he stripped it off and said screw it to both the schedule and the self-soothing crap; he was getting this baby to sleep come hell or high water. So he gave her the two pacifiers, and rocked her in the chair until finally she dozed off. He even managed to sneak her back into the crib, but as he rinsed his shirt in the kitchen sink, he started thinking about the drunken frat boy heaving, and worried that Zoe might do it again and choke.
And thus, an hour later, when his sister came home around one A.M., she found him passed out on the floor in front of Zoe’s bedroom, one hand wrapped around the baby monitor, shirtless, and smelling like throw-up.
He woke up to see Nicole standing over him, looking as though she was trying really hard not to laugh.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
He raised a thumb in exhaustion.
“Piece of cake.”
* * *
AFTER THAT ADVENTURE, Ford was more determined than ever to find Zoe’s father. Who knew if the guy would end up being much help to Nicole, but it was worth a shot. If he hadn’t before, he now fully appreciated how difficult it must be for his sister, trying to balance work, Zoe, getting some sleep, and having some semblance of a life. Hell, he’d been on baby-duty for seven hours and felt like he needed a vacation.
With that in mind, he grabbed his messenger bag and keys, and headed out the door. He walked to The Wormhole and ordered two large coffees, then took a seat at one of the tables in the back, where he could speak privately with the FBI agent he’d reached out to—a friend of a friend who specialized in undercover cases. He was hoping, at the very least, that the agent could help him eliminate at least one of the eleven Peter Sutter candidates.
A few minutes later, Special Agent Vaughn Roberts walked into the coffee shop and headed over.
“Why did we ever agree on eight thirty on a Sunday morning?” he asked, gripping Ford’s hand in greeting.
Ford grinned. “I told you—I was happy to meet closer to your place.”
Vaughn waved this off as Ford slid the second cup of coffee across the table. “Gives me an excuse to visit the old neighborhood.” He, too, had lived in Wicker Park up until nine months ago, when he’d moved into his fiancée’s Gold Coast town house.
“How’s Sidney?”
“She’s good.” Vaughn smiled. “Poked her head up as I left just long enough to mumble something about bringing her coffee. Not a morning person, that woman.” He took a sip of his own. “By the way, this better not be for a story. If I see anything by you in the Trib tomorrow that quotes an ‘anonymous FBI source,’ we will have words.”
Ford chuckled. Despite the fact that he and Vaughn knew each other well enough—a by-product of the fact that his best friend, Brooke, was married to Vaughn’s best friend, Cade—there tended to be an inherent distrust between reporters and the FBI. “You’re safe. This isn’t for work. It’s a personal matter.”
“All right. Tell me more.”
Ford took a piece of paper out of his messenger bag and slid it across the table. On it, he’d written Peter Sutter Number One’s date of birth, social security number, and last known home address. “I was wondering if you could get me a copy of this man’s mug shot. He was arrested four years ago for felony battery, served a two-year sentence at Stateville. When I ran a search, the mug shot came up as unavailable.”
“He probably paid to have it unpublished.” Vaughn looked at the information, then tucked the paper into the pocket of his jeans. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can pull it up tomorrow when I’m back in the office. I take it this Peter Sutter is someone you’re looking for?”