Ridley Pearson - Pied Piper

“SPD?” Brehmer inquired, his throat dry like the air. He hadn’t missed a thing. “Where’s that?”

“Seattle,” she answered.

“You’re a long way from home.”

Boldt said, “It’s late. Sorry about that.”

Brehmer hesitated. The moment was awkward. “You mind if I see those again? You mind passing them through?”

They did as he asked. Brehmer shut and locked the front door. A long sixty seconds later, he reopened it and invited them inside.

“Is your wife at home, Mr. Brehmer?” Daphne asked. “We’d like to speak to both of you if we might.”

“We were out tonight,” he clarified as if asked. Appropriately nervous and anxious. Daphne approved. “A celebration dinner.” The room looked bigger to Boldt with the lights on.

“Celebrating the adoption,” Daphne said, stinging the man. Above all things, she needed to maintain the upper hand.

“Cindy!” the husband called out somewhat desperately, “put something on and get out here.”

“Nice house,” Boldt said.

“You want to show us the nursery?”

“Cindy.”

Cindy Brehmer, a woman who would look twenty-five for the next ten years, entered the living room wearing a terry cloth robe that hung to mid-thigh. The moment she saw Boldt and Matthews, she reversed course abruptly. “My God, Brad!” she complained.

“Stay. They’re police.”

“I don’t care who they are. You will please excuse me,” she apologized, and beat a hasty retreat. Five minutes later, she returned with her face on, wearing jeans and a pajama top.

Introductions followed. Small, with a petite waist and frail hands, her large, expressive eyes and her dark coloring conveyed a demanding presence. With a thicker accent than her husband, she practiced her southern hospitality, enjoying the sound of her own voice as she prattled on about a visit she and a sorority sister had made to Seattle a decade earlier. She said, “I’m sure I’ve never had better crab cakes in my life.”

Boldt missed the crab cakes, the smell of the water, the vivid sunsets over the Olympics. More than anything, he missed little Sarah.

The resulting silence hung heavily in the room.

The husband said, “They mentioned the adoption, Hon.”

Daphne offered Boldt a side glance, drew in a deep breath and began cautiously. “It’s a delicate matter. Confidential. We ask you to respect that.”

“We’ll respect it a lot better when you tell us what it is you want,” Brad Brehmer said, impatiently. He knew how much they had paid Chevalier for the child. He sensed the trouble well ahead of his wife, who couldn’t sit still.

Boldt explained, “We’re investigating a series of kidnappings.”

Clearly confusing them both, Daphne added, “Our purpose here is to inform you, to warn you, to attempt to keep you out of criminal proceedings, which are almost certain to happen if you adopt this child.”

“Oh, God.” Cindy Brehmer understood then what her husband already knew. “You cannot do this to us! Do you know what we’ve been through? This is our baby-our first baby.”

Addressing the husband, Boldt said, “You have business relations with an attorney named Chevalier in New Orleans.” Their faces drained of color, and the wife’s theatrical smile faltered. “Before you go forward with this adoption, you need to be aware of the facts.”

“There is still time to avoid criminal charges,” Daphne reminded.

“This is our baby,” the woman complained.

“No,” Boldt countered. “If she is who we believe she is, she was kidnapped, transported across state lines and delivered in New Orleans within the last twenty-four hours.”

“You’re to take possession of the child in New Orleans,” Daphne informed them with a threatening certainty.

“This is not happening,” the husband said. “We’ve prayed about this. Chevalier was the answer to those prayers.”

Boldt said, “There are parents in Seattle who are praying as well.”

“It’s all legal,” the husband insisted, jumping ahead. “We haven’t done anything illegal.”

“Not yet,” Boldt corrected. “But the moment you take possession of that child you will have. Knowingly or not, you are accessories to kidnapping.”

“Oh dear God, no!” Cindy Brehmer’s eyes clouded and she sprang up to save her face.

Daphne told Brehmer, “You’ll be asked by the court to explain what you thought you were paying all that money for, why so much money.”

Boldt contributed, “It’s a felony to overpay for an adoption. There are federal statutes as well as state. How carefully did you hide the money trail, sir? Were you creative enough to fool forensic accountants?”

He might as well have slapped the man across the face. Dazed, Brehmer sputtered, unable to complete a thought. A siren wailed in the distance; perfect timing, Boldt thought.

Daphne explained, “If you cooperate, we may be able to keep you from being charged.”

Boldt cautioned, “There are no guarantees.”

“When are you scheduled to pick up the child?” Daphne asked.

“You are not taking this baby from me!” the wife said, leaning against the hallway wall.

“Cindy,” the husband admonished. “They’re offering us a choice. A chance. We need to listen to this.”

The woman’s face collapsed into tears. She staggered to her husband, embraced him and sobbed.

Daphne asked, “How much did you pay?”

“Expenses plus fifty,” the husband answered matter-of-factly. “Three separate payments. About seventy in all.” He checked with both his visitors. “He told us it was a prominent family, that it would be done very quietly. We were paying extra to get a white baby. That was never spoken, but it was understood.”

“Have you ever met Chevalier?” Boldt asked.

“Never.”

“Did you videotape yourselves or send photographs?”

“The house,” the wife answered. “The neighborhood. Not us.”

“Spoken with him?”

“He has called a few times. Spoken with Cindy mostly. About the timing, the schedule.”

“The money?”

“That was with me,” he answered. “Early on.”

“How long ago?”

“Two, three months.”

“He wouldn’t necessarily know your voice then?” Boldt inquired.

“What is it you’re getting at?” Brehmer asked curiously, beginning to understand.

Boldt told them, “Chevalier called your home yesterday.”

Teary-eyed, the wife answered, “We’re booked on a flight in the morning.” She began to cry again. “We’re booked into a hotel. We honeymooned there. We’re to wait for his call.”

Boldt met eyes with Brad Brehmer and waited for the man to feel his intensity. Then he shifted the same attention to the woman and told them both, “If we bust Chevalier ahead of time, we might never recover the child. The child is our priority. Right? For all of us,” he said, including even Daphne. “The child comes first.”

The woman nodded.

“Good,” Boldt said.

“It’s important we understand one another,” Daphne added. “If this is to work, we need to communicate. We need to know you down to your core. Unfortunately, we need it now. Tonight. Before tomorrow morning.”

“You’re going to take our place,” the husband said, correctly guessing Daphne’s plan. “Is that what’s going on here?”

Boldt answered, “You might want to make some coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

The following morning at 11:22, Boldt and Daphne checked into the Soniat House under the name Brehmer. Deep in the French Quarter on a quiet side street away from the T-shirts and the smell of stale beer, away from the movie crews and tourists swollen with crawfish and hot sauce, the hotel’s office and courtyard were accessed through a single door painted kelly green. They stepped into another, older world, a New Orleans Boldt had not yet experienced, but one he quickly realized lingered beneath the surface glitz and souvenirs. Its cobblestone courtyard resplendent in a lush jungle of deep greens and sharp vivid colors, the Soniat House delivered the New Orleans of the nineteenth century.