Authors: Kerry Reichs
W
yatt?” came the gruff voice over the telephone. “Katherine Feely Jones here.”
Katherine Feely Jones was Wyatt’s adoption broker. She had three names and she used all three of them every time she identified herself, though her smoker’s rasp was its own unmistakable signature.
Wyatt’s heart sank. Ilana’s phone had rung endlessly for two days, and he was bordering on frantic. Something terrible had happened. “Hello, Katherine,” he managed around a dry mouth.
“Congrats on those Vikings. Minnesota sure kicked Oakland’s butt.” Katherine believed that every client interaction should commence with exactly three personal observations to strengthen the relationship. Katherine was right, but Wyatt was anxious to get to business.
“Yes.”
She continued to number two unfazed. “I thought of you when I read an article on the twenty-first-century classroom and the argument for introducing elements of online social communities such as YouTube as early as kindergarten . . .”
. . .
And when I learned that Ilana and the baby were crushed into a molten ball of glass and steel by an out-of-control eighteen-wheeler
, whispered Wyatt’s imagination. Normally impressed with Katherine’s range of sound bites, today he had no time.
“Katherine.” He interrupted. “What happened to Ilana? Is she dead?”
“Dead?” Katherine was startled. “No, not dead. But, Wyatt, there’s been a hiccup. I’d like you to come in so I can explain and answer all your questions.”
Wyatt was intensely relieved that Ilana had not been beheaded by a stray sheet of glass sliding off a flatbed on the 405. His relief was replaced by a host of more varied but less fatal worries. The emotional roller coaster left him queasy. “A hiccup? What does that mean?”
“My schedule is open for you today. Can you come by?”
Wyatt recognized that he wasn’t going to get anything out of Katherine Feely Jones until he met with her in person. As the school principal he made similar calls to parents on a daily basis. He was a master. Katherine was his match. “I’ll come directly after school,” he capitulated.
“I’ll have the kettle on.” Katherine liked meetings to feel like fireside chats. They didn’t. They felt like
American Idol
auditions, the applicant nervously wondering if his song and dance was going to win a golden ticket. Ilana had been his golden ticket, and now there was a “hiccup.”
“I’ll see you then.” He disconnected.
The afternoon passed in a blur. Wyatt Googled Ilana Lloubina a number of different ways involving initials and the creative use of quotations, but it yielded no city morgue reports or
L.A.
Times
exposés, just the usual nothing. An astonished Sammy Whitcomb, senior class hooligan, scurried out of the principal’s office unable to believe his luck after he was dismissed with a vague “Don’t do it again” for selling ninth-graders individual cigarettes at two bucks a pop behind the gym. After all, mused Wyatt, it was a victimless crime. It wasn’t as if he’d mugged a defenseless pregnant woman, leaving her an unidentified amnesiac in a hospital ward somewhere.
“Wyatt! Welcome.” Katherine ushered him into her office. Her artificial red hair was poufed into some sort of lopsided Victorian bun arrangement, and she wore a periwinkle suit that Wyatt was sure had A Name. Her lipstick showed little ravines where skin met her upper lip, creviced from years of smoking. They sat at a grouping of overstuffed love seats rather than by her desk. Wyatt felt he might bounce right off if someone plopped down next to him.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Tea?”
“Fine.” Wyatt wanted to get on with it. He accepted tea he wouldn’t drink.
For once Katherine dispensed with the jokes. “Wyatt, I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Wyatt braced himself.
“It seems we’ve both been the victims of a scam. Ilana has disappeared without further notice. I visited her apartment to find it cleaned out, with no indication of her whereabouts.”
This was not what Wyatt was expecting to hear. “What do you mean? Where has she gone?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I received a call this morning from a diligent Assistant U.S. Attorney in Orlando, Florida. Ilana Lloubina, under the name Ilya Petrov, has pulled this scam before.”
“Scam?” Wyatt was bewildered. “Before? What happened to the baby?”
“According to the prosecutor, Ms. Petrov became pregnant while unmarried, and was guided to consider open adoption by a church counselor. A broker matched Ms. Petrov with a wealthy Orlando family, who set up Ms. Petrov in a nice apartment, with a generous stipend and a car. It was a satisfactory arrangement all around.”
“Can we call her Ilana, please?” Wyatt tried to take in Katherine’s story.
“Of course. The situation may have proved a little
too
satisfactory. Ilana came from a large Russian family of little income, and found her new lifestyle infinitely preferable to sharing one bathroom with eight siblings. Ilana found a
second
family that sought open adoption and contracted with them as well. The first family paid the bills directly, and she convinced the second family to provide her with cash to pay the same bills. Quite enterprising.”
“For the same baby?”
“Yes.”
“Was it . . . is it . . . my baby?”
“No. Unfortunately, that pregnancy failed. Ilana suffered a late-term miscarriage, and both contracts were dissolved, with all the parties none the wiser. Ilana would have walked away a little richer, but she got greedy.”
“She got pregnant again.” Wyatt hated the thought that his baby was conceived as a scam. He wanted to steal the child away and protect it from hurt. He also wanted to murder Ilana with his bare hands.
“That part is unclear. Ilana was treated by a fellow Russian, a gynecologist of indeterminate accreditation. Perhaps she was pregnant, perhaps she was not. The doctor would create pregnancy documentation and ‘refer’ her to adoption brokers. Ilana would pretend to understand little English, and refuse care by any non-Russian physician. As you can imagine, most parents are so desperate for a healthy candidate they won’t pursue upsetting questions.”
Wyatt felt shame at her words. He wracked his memory for a single recollection of pregnant behavior or a baby bump. How could he, the king of intuition, not have noticed? Then again, what would he notice? He was a guy.
“They worked this scam on a number of families, each time concluding with a miscarriage. Unfortunately for Ilana, one of their victims was a doctor who questioned the affair. He reported his suspicion to a prosecutor. The prosecutor began to dig around. Before action could be taken, Ilya Petrov dropped off the radar, and wasn’t heard from until she popped up as Ilana Lloubina in L.A.”
“How did they find her?”
“As it happens the prosecutor himself had adopted a child, and had a vendetta against adoption scams. He refused to let the matter go. He kept on the crooked doctor until he cracked. They arrested him a few days ago, after he solicited an undercover agent to engage in the same ploy. It appears Ilana passed on her taste for the good life.” Katherine sighed. “Greed makes you stupid.”
So did desire, thought Wyatt. “She’s been arrested.”
“Sadly, no. She must have heard about her partner and dropped out of sight. I doubt we’ll see her again.”
They sat in silence, the lowering sun slanting through the office windows, each contemplating his or her hands.
“Wyatt, unfortunately she’s gone, along with everything you’ve put into it. I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, as it’s never happened to me before. I reviewed our contract, and under the terms, I fulfilled my legal obligations. I exercised due diligence and reasonable care in ascertaining the validity of the applicant, and relied upon seemingly legitimate documentation of a healthy pregnancy. It’s outside the scope of reasonable business practices to anticipate artful fraud, and the medical and personal verification I conducted satisfied the best practices for my industry.”
“I understand.” Wyatt understood that Katherine was worried about liability and profit. Wyatt wasn’t thinking about that. He felt like his heart had been ripped out and shredded. He wondered if he could die from the burning in his chest. It was inconceivable to Wyatt that his baby had never existed.
“This is a blow. You’ve lost a lot of money. You’re angry.”
She didn’t understand at all. Wyatt didn’t want to sue or get his fee back. He wanted the baby. The baby who didn’t exist.
“I want to help you. I’m going to put you at the top of the list. We will stipulate that you’re present at
all
medical appointments and receive proof of pregnancy firsthand. I’ll pay for a thorough background check by the investigator of my choice—”
Wyatt held up a hand. “Katherine, I’ve been supporting this girl for months. Your fee is not insignificant. I’m a public servant. I don’t know if I can afford a second process.”
They were both silent. “Wyatt, it’s a lot to take in. Go home and think about it. I’m here when you want me. If you believe you have to go through the state foster care and public adoption route, I’ll try to help there too.”
Wyatt nodded.
“Perhaps you’ll find an opportunity for a traditional approach to children . . .” She let the suggestion trail off.
“We’ll see.” Wyatt was tight. If he’d wanted to marry just to make a baby, he’d have done it. Wyatt had no trouble meeting women. Old fashioned, maybe, but he didn’t believe in marrying for anything less than love. That, he’d not yet found.
They stood. Katherine was a tall woman, taller than average-height Wyatt by an inch in her square heels. She unnecessarily laid a hand on his arm, grasping the bicep and giving him a winsome smile.
“You’re one of the most commendable clients I have, Wyatt Ozols. Don’t let this sway you from your path. I’ll consider my life less worthy if you don’t have a child of your own one day.”
“Thank you,” Wyatt said. Her flirting made him uncomfortable, like running into your Sunday school teacher in a miniskirt at a bar. Her kindness didn’t change anything.
As he walked out of the building he felt obvious, the hole in his heart glaring like a
FRANKIE SAYS RELAX
T-shirt. Passersby could look right through. He discarded the idea of calling Eva for support. He was angry. And emasculated. And stupid. He stared into the window of Sur La Table, lost and blind, not registering the enticing staged kitchen, seeing only the reflection of a sad stranger.
A
dina DeGuardi?” Maryn approached a tousled brunette with lips so plumped they looked like stacked figs, and offered her hand. “Maryn Windsor. Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine, darling.” Adina had a nasal Long Island twang unusual for L.A. and unusual for her deep baritone voice. Maryn checked the woman’s throat for an Adam’s apple, but Adina was all woman.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting.” Maryn was precisely on time. She never kept clients waiting.
“Not at all. I like this joint. Good people watching.”
They sat on the sidewalk at Café Med in West Hollywood. Maryn had thought it would appeal. The waiter approached.
“Do you need a minute?” Maryn asked. She always ordered the Cobb salad.
“No, darling, I don’t do solids. Just a coffee, black,” Adina instructed the waiter.
“Cobb salad.” Maryn didn’t react. She wondered if the collagen made it painful to chew. “What brings you to L.A.?”
“My daughter.” She pronounced it
daw-duh.
“She’s started at UCLA and can’t live without her pony. It’s a gift from her father. She’s such a daddy’s girl.”
“That’s wonderful she can keep her horse nearby while she’s in school.”
“Yes, well, Serge—that’s my husband—knows a guy with a lotta land. It should work out fine.”
A yellow flag went up in Maryn’s mind. She avoided clientele who “knew a guy.”
“Oh?” She sipped her water.
“Yeah. Serge gave him something, I don’t know what. But this guy and my husband, they love the ponies. Both got a herd of ’em. Always talking horses. Not me. I’ll be honest, I’m afraid of ’em, giant hooves and rolling eyes. Unpredictable. But Serge and Tina, that’s my girl, they love ’em.”
“What does your husband do?”
“Whatever he wants!” the woman chortled, slapping her aqua miniskirt. Maryn kept a neutral expression, mentally turning down the deal. “No, really.” Adina waved pink talon nails. “He owns a chain called Mario’s Pizza. People line up to pay five bucks for a slice of cardboard with fat melted on it.”
Maryn was reassured. Mario’s Pizza was a huge chain. At least the guy wasn’t into “import-export” or “garbage removal.”
“And what he wants,” Adina went on, “is for his little girl to be happy. That means carting this horse out to Los Angeles like she’s Zsa Zsa Gabor flying first class with a masseuse.” The woman belted out another laugh.
“What’s the horse’s name?” Maryn asked.
“Farasha. Here are the details.”
Maryn looked over the file Adina handed her. Farasha was a beautiful three-year-old Arabian.
“And you’d like to fly her out when Tina starts school?”
“Tina’s here now, so we wanna fly her out as soon as possible.”
“I see.”
“And Rico says you’re the best.”
“Rico?”
“Enrique Ruiz. That’s Serge’s guy, who’s gonna board Farasha.”
Maryn relaxed. Enrique Ruiz was a reputable horse fancier with a large property near the San Gabriel Mountains. He’d periodically used Maryn’s services for stud or race travel, and she’d never had a problem. “Enrique is a lovely man.”
“He’s been real good to Serge, helping him learn the horse biz.”
“Your husband has a fine eye. Farasha is a beautiful animal.”
“Tina likes her.” Adina shrugged and pulled a super-slim cigarette out of a silver box. Maryn opened her mouth, but Adina waved her off. “I know, I know. I used to live here. I just suck on it unlit.”
“One-way travel from New York JFK to LAX is approximately eleven thousand dollars. The specific fee will depend upon final details such as the date of flight, available groom, and so forth.”
“That’s just for the one flight, right? ’Cause of course the little dear will have to come home for summer and Christmas and probably freaking Thanksgiving. And then back again.” She waved her unlit cigarette. “Where Tina goes that horse will go.”
Maryn concealed her excitement. This was a huge commission. “We’re at your disposal. There are certain restrictions of course, for when a horse can’t travel, but they tend to be rare, such as when the horse is pregnant, or contagious. Otherwise we work to meet your needs.”
“Great.” Adina lost interest now that the transaction had shifted to money. Maryn suspected bills were Serge’s province.
Maryn’s phone buzzed on the table between them. Andy. She frowned and ignored it.
“Who’s that?”
Maryn was surprised to see Adina rapt with interest.
“It’s nothing.” Maryn slid the phone into her purse. “It was impolite of me to leave my phone on.”
“Doll, that was ‘nothing’ like I’m twenty-nine and these are the boobs God gave me.” Adina chuckled. “You got
the face
.”
Maryn raised an eyebrow. “The face?”
“It’s a look only a man can cause. And I’m not talking about a male client.”
“Hmm.” Maryn remained neutral.
“So who’s got your goat, honey?”
“Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.” Maryn forced a laugh.
Adina appraised her. “Who could the mysterious Andy be?” She tapped her chin theatrically and considered Maryn. “You’ve saved him in your contacts under only one name, so he’s someone close. But it’s hard to picture you troubled by a mere boyfriend. So even though you don’t wear a ring, I’m going with husband.”
“
Ex
-husband.” Maryn capitulated to the game.
“Still letting him play in the henhouse?”
“Nothing like that. We have some . . . unresolved issues.”
“Honey, with ex-husbands, there’s only one way to ‘resolve issues.’ ” Adina dug into her purse. She pulled out a crocodile wallet and fished out a card. “That’s to sue their ass. Here.” She handed it to Maryn. “I moved back to New York because California got a little crowded with ex-husbands for my taste. Selena Hernandez is my pit bull. You can’t do better.”
“Oh no, we aren’t—”
“Sure, sure, doll, it’s for a friend. Don’t worry. Mum’s the word.” Adina pulled out a compact and examined herself. “The truth is, men are lazy. Selena files a piece of paper with their name in scary block letters, and they roll over and give you what you want. It’s easier than dealing with you.” She snapped her compact shut. “Works every time.”
“Thank you.” It was easier to acquiesce than explain. She could never sue Andy. He was . . . well . . .
Andy
.
“Gotta run.” Adina gave her a toothy smile as she stood. “I’d say let me know how it goes, but you won’t. Thanks for lunch.”
She tottered off on her spike heels, leaving Maryn to signal for the check.