Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

"Nah."

"Nah? She kicked us out of the house without a word about the Contrapasso Fellowship. She's furious."

"Sulking."

I glanced at him as I merged with morning traffic.

"If she's really angry?" he said. "You'll never see it. Acts angry? Just that. An act."

"And she's sulking because…"

"Wrong reaction."

"I thought you said she was sulking."

A look, mild exasperation. "Your reaction. To her news."

"Ah. I didn't respond appropriately. She tells me she's uncovered a legendary group of philanthropists who'll presumably pay me very well to avenge horrible crimes, and I should have reacted by, oh, I don't know, kissing her feet and pledging undying devotion."

A small twist of a smile. "That'd have worked."

"So now she's punishing me for my lack of excitement by making me wait."

"Pretty much."

We drove out of the city in silence. Then I said, "I do want to hear about it."

"I know. You will. Just…"

"Be patient. Let her come to me, and when she does, show moderately more interest, enough to satisfy her ego without stroking it."

"Yeah." He ratcheted back the seat, stretching his bad leg. "Probably more than that."

"Give her a stronger reaction, you mean?"

"Nah. Her getting pissy. More than sulking. She's backtracking. Dotting her i's. Crossing her t's."

"About what?"

"This fellowship thing. I questioned it. We demanded proof. Wanted facts. Gonna make damn sure she has them."

"To present a more solid case and avoid the risk of embarrassing herself by admitting she can't back up what she knows. But, naturally, she couldn't just say that, and admit you might be right to question her sources. Instead, she'll blame me, kick me to the curb as an ungrateful bitch, and make me stew for a while, worrying that I've blown a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity while she scrambles to check her facts."

"Pretty much."

I shook my head and adjusted my seat belt. "I know she has a lot to offer, Jack, but I really hate the games. I'm no good at them."

"Wouldn't say that."

"Maybe, but I don't like them."

"I know."

I looked over. "I never get that with you. We have our disagreements and our misunderstandings, but I never get the sense you have a bigger agenda, or that you want anything from me except exactly what you ask for up front. I appreciate that."

He nodded and bent to scratch his foot as I turned on the cruise control.

At eleven, I was slowing the car in front of the house where Destiny Ernst now lived. Or where we hoped she did. This sprawling two-story matched the Troy address where Fenniger said he'd delivered her. Whether Destiny was here remained to be seen.

Fenniger had no reason to lie, but just because he'd brought Destiny here in the dead of night didn't mean she'd stayed. Still, we were dealing with ordinary citizens, the kind of people so far removed from the criminal mindset that if they bought a hot stereo, they'd drive five blocks out of their way to pick it up… but would call the seller using their personal cell phone.

My research had shown that the house was owned by Kenneth and Leslie Keyes, a systems analyst and his advertising executive wife. A childless couple, but still within their childbearing years. A call to Leslie's workplace revealed she'd quit about a month ago, shortly before Sammi's death. Rearranging her life to accommodate her new baby? We couldn't jump to conclusions.

Getting proof wasn't going to be easy. It was a tough neighborhood to stake out. Our small rental, so inconspicuous in an urban setting, stood out here in the land of SUVs, Volvos, and Audis. I pulled in behind some weird SUV station wagon cross, then stretched a map over the steering wheel.

"Can you see the house okay?" I asked without looking up.

"Yeah."

"If anyone walks by, start bickering."

"Bickering?"

"You know. 'I told you to make a left back there.' 'Well, you're the idiot who wouldn't ask for directions.' ' I don't need directions.' "

"Got it."

"We've got about fifteen minutes before someone peering out a window makes us for private investigators. What can you see?"

"Car in the lane," Jack said. "Sedan. Foreign make. Got one of those… baby signs in the back."

"Baby on board?"

"Yeah. Yard's clear. No toys, strollers, shit like that. Got a light on. Looks like – " A pause. "Someone just passed the window. Woman, I think. Probably living room. Where the light is. Upstairs? Got curtains in the left window. Bright yellow. Frilly."

"A nursery… or someone with god-awful decorating tastes."

"Yeah."

He continued to watch.

"So are we going to execute phase two when Quinn gets here?" I asked.

"Yeah. Otherwise? Never gonna be sure."

"Will he be okay with the acting gig?"

"Playing cop? Better be. Seemed fine with it. Anything changes? You're in. Rather not, though."

"It'll work better with you two, and it's better to mix it up now that the Byrony Agency has seen you and me together."

I checked my prepaid cell for the umpteenth time, still hoping we might get a call from the Byrony Agency, with a special adoption offer for Debbie and Wayne Abbott. It was a long shot, but if it panned out, it would be better than the avenues we were pursuing now.

"Anything?" Jack asked.

"No."

He reached behind the seat, grabbed a parcel he'd picked up at the courier depot, and tossed it onto my lap.

"Are those the expedited goodies from Felix?" I asked.

"Yeah."

I peeked in and pulled out one package.

"Bugs?"

"Yeah. Ever place one?"

"No."

"Want a lesson?"

I smiled. "Please."

We left without seeing any definitive signs of a baby in residence. With only fifteen minutes to stake out the house, we would have been extremely lucky if we had. The cool, dreary, and overcast day wasn't "push the pram around the block" weather. Probably not even "take the baby shopping" weather if you were a new and nervous mom.

Jack took over the driving and went in search of a shopping mall for our bug practice. The Web site for Troy, Michigan, had bragged that it was in the second most prosperous county in the U.S. and, while it was only the twelfth biggest city in the state, it was the second "biggest" for property values. So it was no surprise that when we located a mall, it was high-end. The valet parking gave it away.

We drove right past it before I saw the signs for Saks Fifth Avenue. By then we had to make a left to get back, which sounds a whole lot easier than it was, because we were on a divided highway, which meant the notorious "Michigan left" – to go past the light, make a U-turn in a designated lane, double back, and quickly cross traffic to make a right to where you originally wanted to go.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the mall patrons were mostly Martha Stewart devotees checking out bronze Buddha knickknacks that would look so nice next to their five-thousand-dollar leather sofas. It was a world removed from my reality and, from the way Jack looked at the thousand-dollar Mont Blanc pens – as if searching for the button that would release a cache of uncut diamonds – it was a universe away from his. It was, however, the perfect place to play "hide the covert listening device."

While neither of us looked like anyone who'd pocket a thousand-dollar pen, we didn't look likely to buy one, either, so while salespeople weren't watching our every move, we did stand out. Therein lay the challenge.

Still, that wasn't enough for Jack. He had to up the ante by turning it into a real game with dares and rules, the basic premise being that one of us would pick an increasingly difficult location, then the other would lay the bug, retreat, listen, then recover it.