The Cradle Will Fall. Maggie Price
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 had 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