I inhaled and looked around. I was in a main-floor laundry, with the kitchen to my right.
On the drive, I'd compiled a mental list of all the baby items I could think of. If the Draytons hadn't gone public with their new baby yet, they might hide the obvious things like a crib or baby toys, but could easily slip up when it came to dirty clothing or bottles. A quick flip through the laundry baskets revealed no obvious baby clothes, so I moved on to the kitchen.
I checked the dishwasher for bottles, and the fridge and cupboards for baby food.
From the kitchen I moved through the dining room, doing a quick visual scan for any kind of feeding chair, then into the living room and family room, searching for toys or a playpen. In the center of the family room I stopped and inhaled. For someone unaccustomed to babies, the scent is obvious, be it spit-up or a wet diaper or baby shampoo and talcum powder. Here I smelled only wood cleaner, potpourri, and stale popcorn.
Next stop: the home office. I shuffled through papers, memos, and recent check stubs. While a check written to a hitman would clinch it nicely, no one would be stupid enough to leave such a thing lying around. What I looked for was anything with a baby connection – adoption forms or a receipt for baby supplies or the scribbled number of a local judge. When nothing suspicious popped up, I headed for the stairs.
The pin-neat bed and light layer of dust on the sports trophies told me the first bedroom belonged to Trent.
I glanced in the en suite bathroom, then moved on. The next hall door led to a walk-in closet with more towels and linens than we kept for the whole lodge, but no baby supplies. On to the main bath, where I checked for baby shampoos or diapers.
Across from the bathroom was another bedroom, this one belonging to a teenage girl. Trent 's sister. Again, I performed only a basic survey, in case a stray infant toy had been dropped behind the bed or in the suite. Nothing.
I looked more carefully in the guest room, in case they were using it as a makeshift nursery. No crib, no baby linens, no empty bottle kicked under the bed. And no baby smell.
The door across the hall was closed. I touched the handle, then noticed the master suite at the end of the hall. This room must belong to the younger brother. I'd have more luck with the master suite, so I moved on for now.
In Frank and Lauren's bedroom, I checked all the places someone could stash notes and receipts and scribbled phone numbers. No sign of a baby or anything connected to babyhood or adoption. I pulled a chair to the closet and looked on the top shelf.
Finally, standing on the chair, looking at stacks of dusty photo albums, I had to admit it. There was no baby here. My brain popped back with "yes, but you could check bank records, phone records…" I was grasping at straws, unwilling to relinquish my one and only idea. I should have thought it through -
A noise cut me off in midthought. Not a car in the drive or a key turning in a door lock. A toilet flushing.
Chapter Fourteen
Rule one of breaking and entering: check the goddamned house for people.
The first tingle of alarm quickly evaporated. I wanted answers? Here was my source. I knew the Draytons had Destiny. What better proof than a confession? The toilet flush had come from downstairs. Either Lauren had returned, or she'd never left. As I crept to the hall doorway, I pulled out my gun. Then I concentrated on listening.
Footsteps padded across the hardwood floor. I ran a quick mental inventory on my knapsack. None of my supplies could be used for binding, but I'd seen bandage rolls in the main bathroom. They'd do.
A squeak came from below. A chair being reclined. Perfect. Lauren was relaxing, probably with a book or magazine, enjoying her morning coffee. I could slip up behind, put the gun to her head, and she'd never see me. I'd take the bandages, but only as a last resort. With someone like Lauren, the cold steel of a gun pressing against the back of her neck would be enough.
I took three steps toward the main bathroom.
"Mom?"
My heart slammed into my throat and I stopped so fast my shoe squeaked on the wood.
"Mom!" A racking cough, then a muttered, "How long does it take her to pick up medicine?"
The younger son, home from school, sick. No problem. He'd still know what happened to Destiny. I'd just -
The image flashed in my mind. Pressing the gun to the head of a teenage boy.
My God, what was I thinking?
I took a deep breath.
Destiny wasn't here. If she was, I would have found something. She wasn't here and the Draytons probably didn't have anything to do with her disappearance, and I'd been ready to hold a teenage boy at gunpoint to prove it.
I crept back into the master bedroom and looked out the window, which overlooked the back of the house. There was a two-foot-wide overhang between floors, more architectural than structural, and I wasn't sure whether it would hold my weight.
I removed the screen then slid through the open window, grasped the window sill, and lowered myself until my feet touched wood. Still gripping the ledge, I tested my weight on the overhang. Next I maneuvered the screen back into place. An imperfect job, one I hoped would be blamed on the cleaning staff.
Footsteps stomped up the stairs. I ducked beneath the sill, listened. A door slammed as the boy retreated to his room.
I crouched on the overhang and looked at the ten-foot drop. If I broke my ankle, it'd serve me right. I hit the ground hard, but straight, then I hightailed it back to my truck.
An amateur's mistake. I'd been so busy laughing at the Draytons' lack of security I hadn't taken the most basic precautions.
Sure it had been a sound lead. But even if I could believe Frank Drayton would hire a hitman to kill his granddaughter's teenage mother, I had to consider the kind of hit it had been. Professional. That required someone like Jack or me, and to get us you needed top-notch, Mafia-grade criminal connections. When your average Joe hires someone to off a lover or business partner, he ends up with semicompetent drug-addled morons.
I remember a case from the eighties. Helmuth Buxbaum. I once went on a Sunday-school trip to his house, to swim in the indoor pool. A true pillar of the church. When his wife started interfering with his nightlife of cocaine and hookers, he decided to get rid of her. So, for twenty-five thousand dollars – a decent sum, I might add – he got himself the Beavis and Butt-Head of hired killers. They arranged for Buxbaum to be driving past with his wife while they feigned car trouble. He'd pull over and they'd shoot her. First time they tried it, Buxbaum pulled over right on schedule. So did a helpful OPP officer.
They tried it again. Using the exact same plan. Ten hours later. With the same car. On the same highway.
That time, they managed to kill Buxbaum's wife. And guess what? The OPP officer had called in the earlier stop, as per procedure. Didn't take much to put two and two together, and come up with three complete idiots. Buxbaum, the killer, and the getaway driver were caught and convicted, though the getaway driver admitted he recalled little of what happened that day because he'd been dead drunk. Yes, drunk. On a hit. These are the kind of criminal masterminds the average millionaire businessman can hire.
Who could have hired a pro to kill Sammi? Who would? That question put me right back at square one. Why would anyone who didn't have a direct interest in Destiny's welfare kidnap her and kill her mother?
I was in a motor sports shop getting parts for the ATVs – my alibi for the trip into the city. When I realized I needed the exact specs, I took out my cell phone, which I'd had switched to "answer only" during the break-and-enter, and saw I had four calls and two new messages from the lodge.