Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

“There isn’t,” he fired back, the smoke peeling up his face and over his eyes. “This system is the Model T of networks. New system going on-line in another year or two. They’re calling it an int ra net. Now ain’t that clever! We’re calling it late.” He confirmed that he was also the single greatest fan of his own jokes. “Give me overnight. You really ought to think about that dinner.”

“I can call you?” she asked.

“Anytime, su-gar. Though I’d prefer to call you .” He faked a smile for her. His teeth belonged to a heavy smoker.

She wasn’t giving this guy any way to find her.

“I have a feeling we work together on this, and it might speed things up,” he said. “Two heads are better than one.”

She suggested, “What about I drop by later and we see what, if any, progress you’ve made.”

“I just love incentive programs.”

Consumed by an unrelenting, twisting knot of worry, Boldt understood the criminal mind-set as never before. Lies started small and out of sheer necessity; they then mushroomed into gross untruths driven by selfishness and greed. Boldt’s greed was centered around his daughter; the hunger a criminal felt for money or control, Boldt felt for an intact family. He held her in his arms and made up stories for her; he sat her on his lap and played jazz to her. He missed her in a way he had never missed another.

Daphne made contact with the most well-known, most active home for children, believing them experts on every aspect of adoption, legal and otherwise. For Boldt, this visit lit the candle at both ends: pursuing the Pied Piper from the evidence surrounding the kidnappings and from the result of the kidnappings-adoption. Sarah and Trudy Kittridge and ten other children remained in the candle’s middle, flames licking toward them.

The Louis Charlemagne Home for Boys, an imposing stone edifice set back from the road by a semicircular gravel driveway, dominated the city block. It looked more like a country club than a halfway house. The towering door occupied a space between two tall Corinthian columns. A cheap electronic doorbell had been fitted alongside-a wart on an otherwise pretty face.

A black man with skin that shone with sweat answered the doorbell. He had thick forearms, a large head and a jutting brow that partially hid pinprick dark eyes. He ushered Boldt and Daphne into a cavernous stone foyer that carried the sour smell of a dull Skil saw burning its way through a two-by-four. A cloud of gray smoke hung heavy in the air.

“Dr. Montevette,” Daphne said.

“Right down here,” the man said, abandoning his small construction project. “He expecting ya?”

“Yes, we have an appointment.”

“Whoa, Cardinal!” he shouted to a spotted puppy that appeared out of nowhere and peed onto the floor as the handyman snagged him. “What-cho doing loose?” He called out for “Evelyn,” but received no answer. “Just down on your left,” he advised his guests, raising his voice. “I best handle the Cardinal and his little mistake.”

A professorial man wearing a checked shirt, brown corduroy pants and brown bucks greeted them from a distance, drawn by the handyman’s voice. “Bernard Montevette,” he introduced himself.

They shook hands all around. Montevette was a short man with kind eyes, half the hair he wanted and a delicious New Orleans slur to his words. A chandelier fan paddled the air languidly, gently cooling the rich, wood-paneled walls, the fading green carpet and the few antiques. The slow, lazy propeller strobed soft shadows down onto the room’s walnut table that sat away from Montevette’s enormous partners’ desk. “Don’t get out-of-town police as a rule. Can’t think of the last time, and I’ve been involved with Charlemagne-well, I am, in fact, only the home’s fourth director in its one-hundred-and-seventeen-year history; the first and only director to have been a former resident here.”

“One of the boys?” Daphne inquired.

“Exactly. And the Charlemagne has the proud distinction of being the only boys’ home in the country not to accept public funds. We operate privately from an endowment established just after the Second World War.” The way he regarded them, Daphne had the uneasy feeling he was considering them as a couple intent on adopting a son. This was the first time the idea came to her of how to save Trudy Kittridge. It struck her all at once-a whole and complete plan-as only the best ideas hit her. She wanted to steal Boldt away immediately and run it by him.

“We’re involved in an active investigation, Dr. Montevette,” Boldt said, “that requires some discretion.”

“Yes, so Ms. Matthews informed me earlier.” He met eyes with each of them; his were an icy gray blue. “I am at your service, sir.”

“Illegal adoption,” Daphne reminded.

“Yes, so you said.”

Daphne explained, “How one might go about it here in New Orleans. Successfully, that is. The way the law works-”

“Or doesn’t,” Boldt added.

“Private adoption,” Montevette supplied, nodding. “I believe I have someone on my staff who might be able to help us. If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Daphne answered.

He summoned a “Miss Lucy” over the phone. Announcing that she would join them shortly, he added, “The fact of the matter is that private adoption is something we all must contend with-that is, adoptions not arranged through a state organization. Private adoption is less regulated than state-arranged, although it still requires court appearances and proper paperwork. It is far more susceptible to human greed and abuse. What I think you will find here in New Orleans,”- Naarlans -“and I say this only because I’ve heard the stories myself, is that what you might call the lower end of the economic strata is far more familiar with this kind of practice than others.”

“Paperwork?” Daphne asked.

“More than just paperwork,” Montevette explained. “In the surrender of a child, the biological mother is required to make a court appearance in front of a sitting judge. She is advised by the judge that she is surrendering the child in perpetuity, and in a court of law, and that she is also surrendering her right to any legal recourse in the future. This is a fairly recent law, and one that has proved to simplify and qualify the process-a great improvement, I might add. At the time of adoption, a birth certificate is required, along with the document attesting to this court appearance and the surrender of the child. If the mother’s medical costs are to be reimbursed, a copy of the medical bills are submitted. Ah! Miss Lucy! Come in, please. Won’t you join us?” Montevette jumped to his feet and pulled back a chair for the young black woman. Miss Lucy Penneford wore a soft yellow dress and too much violet eye shadow. Her skin wrinkled when she smiled widely.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said to them.

Montevette caught her up to date. “… how an illegal adoption might be carried out … And I was recalling that shake-up we had down to City Hall last year and how you-”

“Oh, yes. I think I can explain that,” she said. She had an even thicker accent than Montevette. Her voice played musically in the room. The fan worked dark shadows across her face. The air smelled faintly of lavender. She had brought it with her.

She said, “It had evidently been going on for years. They worked down to the city office … what is that called?”

“The Bureau of Vital Statistics,” Montevette supplied.

Daphne had the feeling Montevette knew more of the story, more of the answers, than he was willing to admit. She wondered why.

Miss Lucy continued, “And you know all those girls work for minimum wage down there, and it’s just plain tough on minimum wage. Some man comes along and offers you a hundred dollars to process a birth certificate, and there’s not a lot of thought that needs to be done on the subject.”