when he’d still lived there.
Grace sighed. That wasn’t quite true. Back then, she’d always had hope he’d eventually show up. Now she knew he was gone for good. And once their divorce was final, probably the only times she’d encounter him would be when he picked up the kids on visitation days.
“Well, it is what it is,” she murmured, setting her youngest at her feet and taking his hand. “Come on, honey. Let’s go get you some clean clothes before lunch.”
“I want a boy cheese sandwich,” Brandon said, making his mother smile at the inside joke. He’d mistaken the word “grilled” for “girl” and had refused to eat the melted cheese sandwiches until Dylan had realized the problem and changed the name of the toasted treat.
“Okay,” Grace said. “I’ll cook you a boy cheese and Beth can have a girl cheese.”
Kids. No matter how heavy life got, they were always able to lift her spirits and remind her that the most important job she had was being a mother.
The telephone began to ring again.
Grace ignored it.
Kyle rounded the corner into the kitchen and passed his mother at a run. “I’ll get it. Maybe it’s Dad.”
“Well, if it is, tell him I’m busy.”
The boy’s enthusiastic expression twisted a figurative knife in Grace’s stomach as he snatched up the receiver with a breathless, “Hello? Hello, Dad?”
Grace saw Kyle’s expression sober. Heard him say, “Nah. He’s not here.”
She paused. “Who is it?”
Kyle was hanging up. “Some guy. He said he wanted to talk to Dad.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m sure he can reach him at the office if it’s important.”
The child’s cheeks were rosy, his eyes wide. “I hope not. He sounded real mad.”
“How could you tell? What did he say?”
With a quick shake of his head, Kyle answered, “No way. If I talked like that you’d wash my mouth out with soap.” He eyed the phone. “That was one scary dude.”
* * *
Dylan had spent the previous week in custody, being interrogated by local police as well as the U.S. marshals and FBI. By the time he’d learned enough to accept his own culpability, he’d been forced to accept the wild claims of the former missionary who had recently broken the disturbing truth to him by telephone. He was in deep trouble, legal trouble, and it looked as if there was no way out other than to confess and ask for mercy.
“Look, I’ve already told you,” Dylan insisted, facing the authority figures who kept asking the same questions over and over. “I don’t know anything about any kidnappings. I had no idea there was anything criminal about where those babies came from. For the most part, the paperwork was impeccable. I certainly had no indication a crime was involved in the cases where there were some minor omissions.” He stared at the St. Louis police detectives and other nearby officers, willing them to understand the rationale behind his prior behavior.
Like it or not, the fine line between merely doing his job versus being an upstanding citizen had blurred over time. Finding himself on the wrong side of the law had triggered an unwelcome surge of well-deserved guilt and had led Dylan to do some serious soul-searching.
“Did you tip somebody off?” one of the detectives asked.
“How could they have? You’ve had me isolated ever since you picked me up.”
“Then why were there were no records of any of the questionable adoptions in your office files by the time we convinced someone there to look for them?”
Dylan frowned. “There weren’t?”
The dark-haired young woman who had been introduced as U.S. Marshal Serena Summers shook her head. “No. None. Can you explain why that is?”
“No.” Dylan was truly at a loss. “Are you sure?”
Nobody laughed at his ridiculous question, leaving him with the disappointing conclusion that someone had disposed of any incriminating evidence. That was that, except...
He cleared his throat, determined to make his interrogators take notice. “Look. It doesn’t matter what happened to the originals. I have copies of everything that passed through my hands regarding those adoptions you’re asking about.”
“Where?”
“In my office. I can go get everything you need.”
“And you expect us to let you waltz out of here, just like that?”
“If your people couldn’t locate my private files, I’m the most logical one to retrieve them. Otherwise, they might disappear like you claim the other records have.”
“He has a point,” a detective offered. “Once we have to actually serve the subpoena, all the suspects will be alerted.”
“I still don’t like it.” Marshal Summers shrugged beneath the padded shoulders of her tailored jacket. “However, if he’s willing to sneak back in, I don’t see any reason to prevent his trying to help us. We can post men in the lobby and pick him up when he comes out.”
“I really do want to make amends,” Dylan said with feeling. “As long as no one suspects me of working with the police, I can’t see any problems, can you?”
“Actually I can see plenty,” the lead detective grumbled. “But it’s the Feds’ call. If you want him to go, I’ll agree to release him to you.”
That was how Dylan ended up back at his apartment to change clothes and shave before being escorted to his office at Munders and Moore, L.L.C., via taxi.
In retrospect, he felt it was possible that at least some of the clues might lead back to Frederick Munders’ wife, Matilda, who ran Perfect Family Adoption Agency. The puzzle was how an overtly open and honest woman like her could have gotten involved in baby stealing. It didn’t make sense. That was a big reason why Dylan hadn’t suspected the risks to his own conscience until he was in way over his head.
Thoughts of his three children brought somber reflection. How devastated those other parents must feel to have lost custody of their babies! When he’d believed that the adoptions were voluntary, he’d had no trouble bending the rules to expedite transfers of guardianship. Now, however, he knew better.
Straightening his tie and running a palm over his dark hair to make sure he was presentable, he left his plainclothes escort and entered the modern high-rise containing the law offices where he was ostensibly still employed. As long as nobody asked him what he’d been doing on his recent days off he figured he’d be okay.
He mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief before tucking it back into the breast pocket of his custom-tailored blazer, stepping onto the elevator and pressing the button for the fourth floor.
Everything seemed quite ordinary when he disembarked. The firm’s prim receptionist merely nodded
