“Makes sense,” said Remo.
“Right. Except it’s more than that. The seven months I spent there, half a dozen girls delivered, got their payoff checks and split. A couple of them, you could say were pretty tight. They were supposed to write and stay in touch, you know?”
“But never did?” asked Remo.
“Oh, they did, all right…except it wasn’t them.”
“You lost me, Joy.”
“Okay, take Karen, for example. I got notes from her, all right, but they were typed, even the signature. But neatly. Karen couldn’t type a sentence without spelling half the words wrong if her life depended on it.”
Joy chewed her lip for a minute nervously, then went on. “There’s more. A couple of the girls were pissed off in a major way before they left. The orderlies had tried to fool around with them, that kind of shit. Their names were Sheila and Regine. They left about three weeks apart, and both of them swore they would blow the whistle on Ideal as soon as they had cashed their/checks and banked the money someplace safe.”
“But nothing happened?”
“Zip. A few weeks later, there’s a postcard from Hawaii, supposed to be from Sheila.”
“And it wasn’t?” Remo asked.
“No way. The handwriting was off, and all she talked about was how she felt such gratitude for Doctor and the others helping her to get a brand-new start on life.”
“And what do you think happened to the other girls?”
Joy shrugged, a nervous twitch. “I couldn’t say, but nothing would surprise me. If a girl lips off, gets out of line around the home, there’s discipline, you know? Like slaps across the face or whippings with a belt. They don’t do anything to hurt the babies, but the rooms are locked at night—and in the daytime, too, if Matron puts you on restriction. Ever see the movie Cool Hand Luke?”
“Long time ago.”
“It’s like that, in a way. No guns, I mean—at least, I never saw any—but they’ve got tons of rules. All for the baby’s sake, they tell you, but it comes down to a lot of grunt work in the house, and childish shit like making sure you clean your plate at every meal. Mess up a time or two, and Matron lectures you, but it gets tougher after that. The baby bunker, like I said.”
“You think the so-called graduates were harmed somehow?”
“Hey, I don’t know! I mean, where are they? Did they ever cash their checks? Things happen, right? A bullet don’t cost fifty grand.”
“So you decided not to wait and take the chance.”
“Would you?”
He shook his head. “Do you have family in L.A.?”
“None that I’d care to see again.”
“I know how this must sound, but—”
“You feel like protecting me,” she said. “Is that about the size of it?”
“Not quite. I have a friend who runs a sanitarium. That’s like—”
“I’m not a dummy, mister. I know what it is.”
“Right, sorry. Anyway, he’s got connections, and I’m sure he’d put you up while you’re, uh, waiting for the, uh…”
“Delivery?”
“And keep you safe,” said Remo.
“So what’s his angle?” Joy inquired.
“Just someone I used to know years ago,” Remo lied. Smith would go berserk if he let the girl know too much.
“You’re after Doctor, right?” she said suddenly.
“Could be.”
“And when you find him?”
“That depends.”
“You’ll do him like Mahoney and Gutierrez?”
“Who are they?”
“Those two jerks at the home,” she said.
“Hey, don’t worry your head about things. If there’s something off. I’ll fix it so no more girls end up in your spot.”
Joy thought about it for a moment, finally said, “You know, I’d hate to wind up chilling in a hotel ice machine.”
“No chance,” said Remo. “You’re a friend.”
“You make friends, just like that?”
“I try.”
She thought some more. “Where is this sanitarium?”
“Sorry. That’s a secret.”
“I’ve had enough bus rides,” she warned.
He smiled. “I thought we’d try an airplane. How about first-class?”
“You’ll have to call, I guess, and check it out.”
“That’s right.”
The smile lit up her face. “What are you waiting for?”
Chapter 13
The sun had been up for an hour by the time he started driving west again, on Highway 62. This time Remo picked up Highway 11 south from Edwardsville, down through Elizabeth, and came in toward Ideal Maternity from the reverse of his original approach. He pushed the Chrysler well beyond the posted limit, watching out for cops along the way, aware that precious time was slipping through his hands.
Two guards and one young woman missing. Even if they didn’t find the bodies, it was bound to cause a flap with staffers at the “home.” It was impossible for him to guess how they would take it, how they would react, but Remo had a nasty feeling in his gut.
If Dr. Radcliff and his flunkies started cutting losses, the young women might be first to go.
He had enjoyed the second wake-up call to Smith at Folcroft. Smith listened carefully while Remo ran the problem down, and though he cleared his throat from time to time, as if about to speak, he managed not to interrupt. When Remo finished, Smith agreed to everything, albeit reluctantly. There was a place for Joy at Folcroft Sanitarium. An open first-class ticket would be waiting for her, in the name of Alice Jones, when she checked in at the Louisville airport. A car and driver would be waiting for her when her flight touched down at White Plains.
“One thing,” Smith said before he severed the connection. “Does the girl have any useful information?”
“Nothing on the look-alikes,” said Remo. He had shown her Thomas Hardy’s mug shot, but it drew a total blank. “If you were setting up a charge of false imprisonment or baby-selling, she could make your case.”
“Too bad,” Smith said. “I do not see this one going to a jury.”
“No.”
So, he was driving through the woods in early-morning sunlight, wondering what he would find on this, his second visit to Ideal Maternity. He was prepared to bluff or tough it out, whichever method seemed the more appropriate once he was on the scene.
Joy’s explanation of the Radcliff scam made sense, or course. With the adoption crisis in America, disabled children and minorities were stacked up on the waiting list for parents, while your average childless couple was Caucasian, set on bringing home a healthy infant who resembled them in all respects. It was a seller’s market, nationwide, and the restrictions placed on baby-brokering by state and federal laws did little to prevent black-market sales. As far as Remo knew, the Radcliff operation might be absolutely legal, up until the point when pregnant women were confined against their will or made to disappear once they had given birth,
A baby-selling racket was despicable, the more so if it had incorporated homicide to cut its overhead, but Remo still saw no connection with the carbon-copy hit men wearing Thomas Hardy’s face and fingerprints. There must be more, a link back to Eugenix Corporation somehow, but each time he thought he had it, the solution skittered out of reach and found a hiding place in his subconscious.
Experience told Remo that he would get nowhere agonizing over the elusive problem. Rather, if he put it on a mental shelf and concentrated on the task at hand, let his unconscious mind deal with the riddle for a while, he stood a better chance of coming up with a solution.