The Mortal Groove by Ellen Hart Page A

moved out to the Hamptons about six months ago. He figured they left a forwarding address, but he didn’t know what it was. I asked him how long they’d been living in the apartment and he told me a few years. Said they seemed nice enough—always gave him a great tip at Christmas. Then I asked him about Margaret. That’s where the story gets a little strange. He says the Tanhauers had two kids, but they were both boys.”
    All expression died on Peter’s face. “Then you’ve got the wrong couple.”
    â€œNo, these are the right folks, I’m sure of it.”
    â€œHow old are the two boys?”
    â€œOne is maybe four, the other is in school, so he’s older.” Peter struggled to come up with an answer. “They’re rich, right?”
    â€œBy my standards they’re royalty.”
    â€œOkay, so maybe they sent her away to school.”
    â€œSuppose that’s possible, but why wouldn’t she come home for Christmas?”
    â€œMaybe she’s in Switzerland or something and didn’t want to leave her friends. Look, I want you to go out to the Hamptons, find their house, and talk to them. She can’t have just disappeared.”
    â€œOkay, pal. It’s your money. I’ll cross the doorman’s hand with some cash, see if he can dig up the address for me. But it may take some time.”
    â€œJust call me back when you have something,” said Peter. “Hey, before you go, did you ever hear back from Vaughn Cabot?”
    â€œNobody ever answers his damn phone. I’ve left half a dozen messages, but he never returns them.”
    â€œAll right,” said Peter. “Thanks.”
    After hanging up, he sat for a moment, running a hand over his beard, thinking about what Shifflet had said, then picked up his cell phone again and called directory assistance. A few seconds later he had Cabot’s number in New Jersey. He wrote it on the edge of the newspaper. Tapping in the number, he listened as the answering machine asked him to state his name, phone number, and the reason for his call. Peter decided to take a chance.
    â€œMr. Cabot, my name is Peter . . . Johnson. I hope I’ve got the right guy. My wife and I want to adopt a child, but for . . . well, for certain reasons I don’t want to get into, we haven’t been able to find the . . . right situation. I’m told you might be able to help us. Call me back and let’s talk. Money isn’t a problem. Let me underline that, Mr. Cabot. Money is not a problem. My number is 555-839-2911. Hope to hear from you soon.”
    Peter had been reading up on adoption fraud. The number one red flag to look for was money. If Cabot hadn’t filed any adoption papers, the chances were that he was an illegal baby broker. That meant the good old American dollar sign was the easiest way to rouse the snake from his hole.
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    Randy sat on the lower deck at his house, waiting for his wife to drop off his daughter. They hadn’t firmed up any custody arrangements, mainly because Randy was dragging his feet, hoping to convince Sherrie that before they called it quits, they should talk to a marriage counselor. Sherrie had been after him for years to do couples counseling, but Randy couldn’t see himself sitting insome office, spilling his guts to a stranger. Except now, it was the only card he had left to play.
    Ethan had given Larry a lift into Stillwater right after breakfast. Larry had found a truck he wanted to buy. Nothing fancy, just some wheels. He’d hit Randy up for a small loan-—-a couple thousand dollars. Randy was happy to help out, especially after last night. He and Larry had sat up late, smoking weed and passing a bottle of tequila between them as they sat under the stars in the meadow next to the house. Nine years Randy had lived in this place, and not once had he ever done anything like that. Sure, he had a massive headache this