Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

I quickly opened the closet and sneaked in, reading panic in Kate’s eyes as I eased the door shut. Enveloped in blackness, I prayed Kate would think of an explanation.

When Hamilton returned to the office, I pressed my ear against the door to listen.

“Did someone come in?” Hamilton asked.

“I’m sorry. I felt so faint, I thought fresh air might help. But the humidity made me feel worse than ever.”

Good girl. That ought to fly . I slowly released my breath.

“You did want ice water, Mrs. Rose?” Hamilton said.

“Yes,” Kate replied. “Thanks so much.”

“Please let me apologize again for upsetting you,” Hamilton said, “but I must refuse your check. We only take cash. Believe me, you don’t want to leave a paper trail.”

Yes! The same song and dance she’d offered Terry and me.

“If all the contracts are legal, why should it matter?” said Kate. “I mean, do the birth mothers really come back that often to claim their babies?”

“Sadly, yes. That’s why we’ve been so successful at Parental Advocates. We prevent problems like that from happening beforehand. Please bring your husband and we’ll discuss the details.”

“Thanks for seeing me without an appointment. I know you must want to go home,” said Kate. Her chair scraped the floor.

Another chair moved, and Hamilton’s heels clicked a few times on the hardwood. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I guess I’m still woozy. I’ll just take this cup of water with me,” said Kate.

“Would you like a refill before you go?” asked Hamilton.

“No, thanks. I appreciate your time.”

I relaxed at the sound of them walking away. I couldn’t tell if Kate said anything else, but I heard the now-familiar chime as the door opened and closed, then the renewed rat-a-tatting of Hamilton’s feet.

Coming toward the closet.

Then her feet obliterated portions of light shining under the door.

Damn! I was trapped like a lizard under a cat’s paw!

I covered my mouth with my hand, as if that would somehow make me invisible. Then I heard the blessed bleat of the phone and her feet clackety-clacked away. I frantically felt around in the darkness, my heart thumping. I touched a large cardboard box... hanging clothes... stacks of folders... several umbrellas leaning in the narrow space between the door and the wall. I climbed on the box, moving what felt like a wool coat in front of me.

Insulated by the fabric, I couldn’t hear her telephone conversation or even if she was headed back my way.

But sure enough, within seconds the door opened. I held my breath again. Peeking through the coat’s folds, I captured her lower body with my left eye. The crimson enamel on her nails flashed as she picked up an umbrella. The storm. Of course. Then she closed the door and darkness enfolded me again.

Lucky for me, all I’d lost was a little confidence. I moved the coat aside in time to hear the metallic turn of—oh, no! That sounded an awful lot like a dead bolt. Deadbolt, Abby. As in, How the heck will you escape once you’re finished searching?

I’d have to deal with that problem later.

I cracked the door and peered out. Storm clouds completely filled the Gulf of Mexico, and with the front drapes pulled, light barely eked into the office through the leaded-glass window. I had already spotted the motion sensor on my first or second time here and knew I could reach the computer by staying close to the wall. I sidled over, feeling simultaneously silly and scared. Creeping around someone’s office uninvited wasn’t something I had ever imagined myself doing.

The telephone intrigued me, but shutting down the security system was the first order of business. I might not have detectivelike observational skills, but the distinctive ribbon cord leading from the computer to the wall told me Hamilton’s system was hooked up to an extra power supply for several modules behind the computer. This special cord handled electric current along with communication and control signals. Computer-controlled security like this avoided the very expensive rewiring usually required in these older houses for computerized security. I knew all this because CompuCan had an agreement with Intelli-Home, the company that sold this system, and my familiarity with the program would help me turn off the alarms.

I typed a few commands already prepared with an override for the Intelli-Home password, since I’d looked it up ahead of time. I walked through the necessary steps without a glitch, and a message soon flashed, informing me the security system was disengaged. I then started hunting through the files stored on the computer, but found only contract templates, word-processing files, and lists of adoption agencies in every state of the union. No information about clients appeared to be stored here, or they were well hidden.

I found plenty of disks and CDs in a box next to the computer, labeled only with dates, none older than a few months ago. I had no time to load and search all of them, and besides, what I really wanted was information from years back, or anything connecting Feldman to Parental Advocates. I turned my attention to the telephone, a state-of-the-art piece of equipment. Maybe I could find out about Hamilton and Feldman through whatever numbers were stored in the telephone.

I hunted in the desk for the instruction manual and found it within seconds. I perused the index for a last-number-redial feature, then read the directions. The phone displayed the date and time above the number buttons, and next to that, an orange tab labeled FEATURE protruded. To the right and above the numbers were more buttons. To autoredial, I pushed feature three. Not only did the phone dial the number, it displayed the digits where the date and time previously appeared. I quickly wrote the number down and hung up. So what else could Magic Phone do? Back to the manual.

I learned the phone could be programmed to speed-dial up to twelve numbers by using those unlabeled buttons. I pushed each one and jotted down five additional phone numbers on a Post-it note when they appeared in the display window. I stuck the paper in the pocket of my shorts and opened each desk drawer but didn’t find an address book with Feldman’s name agreeably printed under the Fs, nor an appointment schedule conveniently lying around.

I switched my focus to the hall door leading to the rest of the house. What went on back there? Were there filing cabinets chock-full of records?

Time to find out. I opened the door and discovered several lights glowing in the short corridor. But did I stop and consider why these lights were on? Of course not. I charged right in.

Another light, this one tiny and red, flashed up high near the end of the hallway. Miss Smarty-pants Rose had missed something else in her perfect plan.

Smile, Abby. You’re on Candid Camera.

This video equipment, obviously not hooked up to the computer, needed the hall’s brightness to adequately film unwanted visitors. Unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen this possibility.

Now what? I went down the hall, stood underneath the camera, and squinted up. Could I turn the thing off? And where would the tape be? How could I get it out? The camera was too high for me to reach, so I decided to leave that little problem for now.

I retraced my steps and entered the first room off the corridor. A copier stood against one wall, with a fax machine and document shredder alongside. The filing cabinets tempted me, but they were all locked, with no key to be found.

I reentered the hall and took several steps toward the kitchen end of the house, once again facing the blinking camera.

Then I heard the muffled sound of the chime, the one that had nearly been my downfall earlier.