Mariah Stewart - Cry Mercy

“I don't know. I'm new to the area. But why would Belinda be calling a fertility clinic?” Emme poked her fork into the waffle Marjorie had just served. “Maybe she needed money. I've read that some girls are selling their eggs to clinics to help pay for college. They're worth a lot of money to infertile couples. Maybe Belinda thought that was a good way to pick up some extra money to help pay her tuition?”

“Wendy left Belinda very well off. Money was not an issue.”

“On the day she disappeared, she borrowed twenty dollars from Deb.”

“I'm sure she just hadn't gotten to the ATM. I've seen her bank statements. She gets an automatic deposit monthly.” He added, “And yes, I've checked the recent statements. The deposits are still being made, but nothing's been withdrawn.”

“So she wasn't selling her eggs for the money, but maybe she thought it was a humanitarian thing to do, you know, to help out some infertile couples who wanted children.”

“Belinda was a great kid, but I just don't see it.”

“Then what's the connection?”

“That's what I'm going to find out on Monday morning. Are you in?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I'm in. I'm the investigator, remember? As a matter of fact, I think I should probably go by myself. I can call you and-”

“Uh-uh. I'm Belinda's legal guardian. Wendy was my sister. It's likely they won't tell you anything.”

She signed heavily. “All right. Give me the address. I'll meet you there.”

“Give me your address, I'll pick you up. No point in us both driving out there. Besides, you're on my way.”

Emme hesitated. She didn't know how Robert would feel about one of their clients being directed to his home. She gave Nick the address of the hotel instead.

“I'll see you at nine on Monday,” she said before hanging up.

Having finished her breakfast, Chloe had patiently passed the time until her mother finished her call by making lemonade in her water glass.

“How many packets of sugar have you put in there?” Emme asked.

After counting the empty paper packs with an index finger, Chloe announced, “Six.”

“You think that might be enough?”

“Lemons are very sour,” Chloe told her solemnly. Then without missing a beat, she asked, “Mommy, what's an infertile clinic?”

Emme searched for an age-appropriate response. “It's a place where people go when they need help having a baby.”

“Like the hospital when you got me?”

“No, it's-” Emme paused. Chloe never brought up the fact of her adoption. She'd been told but had never wanted to talk about it. “What made you think about being adopted?”

“My friend Lily at school said I must be adopted because we don't look alike. ′Cause I'm very dark and you are very light,” Chloe related matter-of-factly Before Emme could respond, Chloe had already moved on. “Isn't Lily a pretty name? I think I would like to be called Lily, too.”

“Wouldn't that be a bit confusing for your teacher with two Lilys in the class?”

“Uh-uh. There are two Madisons,” she held up two fingers on her right hand, then two fingers on her left, “and two Ryans.”

“Maybe you ought to ask Lily how she'd feel about sharing her name.” Emme smiled and handed Marjorie the check and its payment. “No change needed. Thanks, Marjorie.”

“We'll see you tomorrow.” Chloe extracted herself from the booster chair.

“And you can tell me if you found yourself a new place to live.” The waitress patted Chloe on the head as the child bounced past.

“I will,” Chloe said, and headed for the door.

“Chloe, wait up,” Emme called to her.

“I'm not Chloe,” Chloe said over her shoulder. “I'm Lily.”

“Got yourself a live one there,” Marjorie told Emme.

“You're telling me.”

She caught up with her daughter at the door. “Wait for me, please.”

“Lily.” Chloe turned to her. “Wait for me, please, Lily .”

Emme sighed and took her hand. After having convinced her daughter that it was okay for them to change their names, she couldn't very well lecture her now.

“I'm Lily,” the little girl insisted.

And Lily she remained, through the seven houses they looked at that day, and nine the next, all of which were unsuitable or unappealing or unaffordable.

“We'll look again next week,” Emme assured her as they headed back to the hotel after leaving the Realtor's office. “Maybe we'll find something then, Chloe. Er, Lily.”

“Olivia.” Her daughter strapped herself into her car seat.

“What?” In the process of closing the back door, Emme paused.

“Olivia. Like the Realtor.” Chloe smiled. “I think I'll be Olivia.”

This too shall pass , Emme reminded herself. And it did. By Monday morning, her daughter was Chloe again. But only because she couldn't decide between Olivia and Chelsea, a name she'd heard on television the night before.

Emme dropped Chloe off at school and stopped by her office to bring Mallory up to date.

“You could have had him pick you up here,” Mallory told her.

“I wasn't sure if Robert would object.”

Mallory shrugged. “It's not like this is some undisclosed location. Robert even held his press conference here, if you recall.”

“I'd forgotten.” Emme swung her bag over her shoulder. “I'll let you know what we find today.”

“It's certainly intriguing.” Mallory's phone rang and she turned to answer it. “What do you suppose Belinda Hudson wanted with a fertility clinic?”

“With any luck, we'll have the answer to that in a few hours.” Emme waved before leaving the office.

Ten minutes later, she had parked her car in the lot at the motel, and was walking toward the lobby, when she heard her name called. It always took her a split second to respond to Emme, to forget that she was Ann. Then again, she reminded herself, she wasn't even sure that Ann was the name she'd been given at birth, if her mother had bothered to name her before abandoning her in St. Ann's.

Move past it. You're Emme Caldwell now. That's the only name you need to know from here on out .

Nick Perone had pulled up to the entry to the motel lobby, opened the door of a red Firebird, and stood beside it.

“It's been a while since I saw one of these.” She approached the passenger's side.

“Ah, you recognize it, then.” He smiled and raised one eyebrow.

“I know it's a Pontiac Firebird.” She rested one forearm on the roof on her side. “No clue on the year, but I know the make and model. Do I get points for that?”

“A few.” He opened the driver's side door and got in. “It's an ' 87.”

She got in and slammed her door, and took a long look at the interior.

“What, no four on the floor?”

“This particular engine only came with automatic trans.” He turned the key in the ignition. “It was the only carbureted V8 used in an F-body.”

“Too much information.”

Nick laughed and drove from the lot, making a right into traffic.

“So where in your background would we find an '87 Firebird?”

“A year or two ago, I arrested a pimp who drove a car exactly like this one.”

“Ouch.”

It was her turn to laugh.

“So is this machine yours, or does it belong to one of your customers?” She settled into the bucket seat.

“You can adjust the seat,” he told her.

Her hand under the seat, she nodded. “Found it. Thanks.”

“The car's mine, to answer your question. I always say she was my first love. I worked on every inch of her. Replaced every part.”

“Well, I'm sure she appreciates it.”

“Purrs like a kitten every time I turn her on.” He patted the console.

“Have you always been interested in cars?”