Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

The note had read "Jordan Fifer Model Agency," which had been shorthand, I guess, for " Jordan at the Pfeiffer Model Agency." If this photographer had been making it up, it was unlikely he'd come up with a combination that just happened to exist. So it seemed legit.

That meant he probably had nothing to do with Sammi's murder. He'd likely been passing through cottage country, seen Destiny, and decided to shoot a few rolls. She was a beautiful baby. Maybe he'd taken her picture for his portfolio.

I couldn't see how this tied into my baby-selling theory, but I had to strike every question off my list. Once the Previls and their guests left, the lodge had no one booked until tomorrow night. I could visit McDermott in the morning and be back before check-in time.

Jack returned from town with the news that Janie was dead, "breaking" it to me in private, then letting me tell Emma and Owen. Janie's boyfriend had confessed to accidentally killing her in a drunken fight. Everyone was fine with that. It seemed as if no one had thought of Sammi, and wondered how to get the news to her. It was as if she'd been gone for months, already forgotten.

At nine-thirty the next morning, Jack and I were sipping coffee in the parking lot of a strip mall on Lakeshore Boulevard, waiting for the Pfeiffer Studio to open. I didn't keep disguise materials at the lodge, but by raiding the lost-and-found chest, I'd been able to whip up my favorite disguise – me with thirty-five pounds' worth of extra padding.

Most witnesses are savvy enough to realize a criminal can easily alter things like hair color or style, eye color, facial hair. But when it comes to weight, they see it as an inalterable physical trait, like age or height. Add bags under my eyes and a weak pair of prescription glasses and, to a target who made his living photographing the unique and remarkable, I'd be utterly forgettable.

The studio – in the next strip mall over – opened at ten. At nine thirty-five, a middle-aged woman arrived and unlocked the door. Over the next forty minutes, four other people arrived, three women and a man. On the Web site, McDermott was the only male employee listed, so I paid close attention to him.

At ten-fifteen, I slipped in behind another woman dragging a screaming preschooler. The woman who'd opened the studio flew from behind the counter, a coffee mug of suckers in hand. While she mollified the youngster, I asked, "Is Jordan McDermott in?"

Without turning, she jabbed a finger toward the back hall. I shot one longing look at the suckers, then hurried off before she thought to ask whether I had an appointment.

In studio 1, two women were wrestling with a toddler who really didn't want to wear a suit and tie. I passed studio 2. Beyond it there were three office doors. The first stood open and bore McDermott's name in bright balloon letters. Inside a dark-haired man rifled through the filing cabinet.

"Mr. McDermott?"

When he turned, I knew this was not the guy who'd met Sammi. Jordan McDermott was one photographer who was clearly on the wrong side of the cameras. It would take a hunchback and facial reconstruction to make this guy anything but drop-dead gorgeous.

When he turned, I smiled a welcome. He returned it with a stone-faced once-over, assessing and dismissing me in an eye blink. My ego boost for the day.

"Mr. McDermott." I extended a hand. "Liz Bowles, White Rock Times. Do you have a minute?"

He resumed filing. "I do, but we aren't hiring."

"Hiring? Oh, no, I'm not a photographer. I'm a journalist."

McDermott closed the filing cabinet and moved to his desk. "From where?"

"White Rock."

He waited.

"Cottage country," I added.

"Oh." A slight twist of the lips. "The Muskokas."

"The Kawarthas, actually."

"What can I do for you, Miss…"

"Bowles. Call me Liz."

Not likely, his eyes said with another glance at my midriff.

I beamed a small-town smile. "Not a big fan of black-fly country, I take it?"

He rewarded my smile by picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, turning to the filing cabinet, and presenting me with a lovely view of his back. He then proceeded to file as if I'd already left.

"You should get up our way sometime," I continued. "This time of year, it's absolutely gorgeous. We have some great vacation getaway deals, too."

I watched his body language for any reaction, any tensing of the muscles. Instead, he gave a soft snort. "I'm sure it's beautiful, but I've already taken my spring vacation. To Venice." He glanced at me. " Italy."

"Wow. I bet it was gorgeous."

McDermott turned to nod, and I detected the faintest thaw in his cold front.

"It was quite nice, yes," he said. "Of course, one really should see Venice in June, but my fiancée had a photo shoot, so we had to settle for April."

"She's a model? Wow. You must have just got back home."

"This week."

"That must be tough. Coming back here after a week in Venice."

"Three weeks."

I widened my eyes. "Wow. Our readers are going to flip. A Bancroft boy, dating a supermodel, and jetting off to Venice."

McDermott's brows arched. "Bancroft?"

"You're from Bancroft, aren't you?"

He snorted. "Hardly. Born and raised right here in Toronto, thankfully."

"Oh, my God. I am so sorry, Mr. McDermott. I'm looking for a Jordan McDermott, son of John and Hazel from Bancroft. He's supposed to be a photographer in Toronto and someone gave me this address."

"I see," McDermott said, cooling fast. "Well, then I would suggest you double-check your sources. I have work to do."

Every once in a while, you get lucky and everything goes smoothly. Of course, I guess if things had gone really well, McDermott would have been moonlighting as a hitman and confessed to killing Sammi, but nothing's ever that simple.

If Sammi had tried to double-check the information, she'd have discovered that a man named Jordan really did work for Pfeiffer Photography in Toronto. Had she attempted to contact him, she would have learned he was on vacation.

Whoever had taken those pictures had put a lot of effort into his story. Exactly the kind of attention to detail you'd expect from a professional killer.

As we drove, I told Jack what we'd found. Then I tried Denise Noyes again. She answered on the third ring.

"I'm calling about Deanna Macy," I said. "I got your name off one of the missing-persons Web sites."

"Yes?"

Noyes invested the single word with such joy that I winced.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any news for you."

"Oh." Her voice drooped.

"I'm calling because my niece has disappeared, in circumstances similar to Deanna's. She vanished with her six-month-old daughter. The police say she's run away – "

"But you know better, don't you? You can tell. The police – I guess they've heard that story a million times, they stop listening after a while." Her voice shifted, as if she was settling into a chair. "I'm glad I decided to come home for lunch today. I forgot some tests I'd marked over the weekend."

"Are you… a friend of Deanna's?"

"Her sister. Well, half sister. Our dad got around. I was from his first marriage. Deanna was from number four. He's on six now. I'd be lying if I said Deanna and I were close. I didn't know she existed until I bumped into her at a family funeral a few years ago. Helluva way to meet, huh?"

"I bet."

"She's half my age, so we didn't exactly do the sister thing, but I could see she was in a bad place, her mom dead, our dad long gone, Deanna living with her nana, who didn't much want her around. I've done okay for myself, so I tried to help out, but she wasn't comfortable with more than the occasional lunch date. After the baby, her nana kicked her out. I offered to let Deanna stay with my husband and me, but I think she didn't want to intrude, so I helped her find the group home. It wasn't ideal, but she seemed to like it there."