Emma shook her head and bit back on her tears.
“Is there someone I can call for you?” Christine asked.
“No.” Emma found her composure, straightened her shoulders. “I just thought you could help me. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”
“Emma.”
She left the building and walked, block after block without a destination, struggling not to think as her sense of defeat grew, until it was nearly crushing her. Somewhere near the Staples Center she waved down a cab.
“Just drive me to a beach, please. Any beach.”
What was she going to do now?
Dark clouds were gathering.
As she sat on the beach for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, watching waves roll over the sand, she realized there was no turning back. She had to see this through. Trust your gut feelings, she told herself, as she kept returning to that telling moment when Christine’s eyes had betrayed her deception.
She knows, dammit. She knows more about the call.
Maybe she knows where my baby is?
Thunder grumbled in the distance as Emma left the beach, walking to a strip mall where she got another taxi and headed back to West Olympic and the clinic. It was 2:40 p.m. Christine had said she needed to leave by three today. Emma didn’t enter the building. Instead, she walked to the rear and inventoried the parking lot for a blue VW bug just as thunder crashed and the sky released a downpour.
As she ran to the side of the building, she glimpsed Christine dashing to her car with her briefcase over her head. Emma ran after her through the lot. She was drenched when she tapped on the driver’s side window.
Christine lowered it, concerned.
“You scared me!”
“I know you lied to me today.”
“Come on, get in out of the rain.”
She hurried to the passenger door and climbed inside. The motor idled and the wipers snapped back and forth.
“You, of all people, should tell me the truth. I deserve to know.”
“I understand your pain. You’re suffering post-traumatic-”
Emma slammed her palms on the dash.
“Stop it!”
Christine flinched.
“I just want the truth!”
Christine stared at the rain bleeding on her windshield for a full minute then killed the motor. She gripped the wheel, inhaled and turned to Emma.
“I’ve worked at this clinic for ten years. I believe we do good work. You know we do.”
“Chris, I’m begging you!”
“For a long time, one of our lab workers had been overwhelmed with personal problems. Recently she became unstable. We had to let her go.”
“Did she make the call?”
“I don’t know. She’s called a few people late at night, crying, making no sense. But I doubt she called clients. We have no proof whatsoever-that’s why we didn’t tell police. Because she’s not employed by the lab anymore, we didn’t want it to reflect on the lab, and it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with our clinic.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“I don’t think that will help you. You need to go home to Wyoming.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“Emma, she’s going through all kinds of trouble.”
“Did she have access to all the client files?”
Christine said nothing.
“Chris! Did she have access to all the files when she worked here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to start a civil action against the clinic?”
“Emma.”
“Chris, I’m begging you to help me! I need to hear her voice to decide if she made the call.”
Christine bit her bottom lip and stared through her windshield.
“Chris, my husband died beside me! I saw someone take our son! For Christ’s sake, will you help me?”
“Her name is Polly Larenski. She lives in Santa Ana.”
37
London, England
Gannon gazed out upon the silver wing against blue sky as his jetliner sailed over the Atlantic, bound for London at 550 miles an hour.
It felt as if his life was moving at the same speed.
When he’d returned to the WPA headquarters in Manhattan two days ago, he’d landed in the middle of high-level crossfire. Melody Lyon had ordered him to her office, where she was advising George Wilson that she was dispatching Gannon to London.
“London?” Wilson said. “The guy was a disaster in Brazil-he’s not ready for international assignments. And you want to send him to London based on a flimsy lead? Let our people over there check it out.”
“It has to be Jack. His source will only meet with him because of the people he met in Rio,” Lyon said.
“Look.” Wilson turned to Gannon. “You got lucky and I’m glad you’re still alive-the last thing we needed was another staff funeral-but you need more domestic experience. Keep him here on desk duty, Mel. Sending him to England, or anywhere right now, is a mistake.”
“He’s on to something that may be tied to the bombing,” Lyon said. “I want him on this. And, I want the support of our London bureau, George, even if it means staying out of his way.”
Wilson took stock of Gannon, shaking his head at the bruises on his face as if they were badges of incompetence.
“You’re the boss, Mel. I’ll warn Ian and Miranda at the bureau. Gannon, try not get arrested, beaten up or taken hostage. Try being a reporter like you were in Buffalo. Only better.”
After Wilson left, Lyon said, “Don’t mind him. We’re still raw after losing Marcelo and Gabriela.”
“I know.”
“How are you holding up, Jack? Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“I’ll be okay.”
She gave him a large brown envelope.
“Now, it’s not a requirement for Americans entering Britain,” she said, “but get over to our travel doctor on Broadway and get your main shots. Rachel has set it up. I want you prepared for anything. This envelope has money and other things for you. Rachel’s got you on an early flight out of JFK to Heathrow tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Ever been to London?”
“Nope.”
Gannon turned from the plane’s window. His arm still aching from his shots, he lowered the metal tray, switched on his laptop and reviewed his files. Maria Santo’s friend, Sarah Kirby, had put him in touch with Oliver Pritchett in London. He headed Equal Globe International, the human rights group they had been working with. Pritchett knew more about the human trafficking situation. He’d agreed to share information, but his responses to Gannon’s e-mailed questions were clear.
I will only meet you alone and face-to-face in London. It will be completely off the record, but I assure you it will be significant. I give you my word you are the only journalist who knows of this case and I will not speak to any other news organization.
Gannon studied the notes on his laptop until metropolitan London sprawled below. He recognized the Thames just as the landing gear lowered and locked into position. At Heathrow, a young British Customs officer, curious about Gannon’s bruises, accepted his explanation about his ordeal in Brazil.
“I trust you won’t have any similar problems in the U.K.”
It took Gannon’s taxi a little under an hour to slice through traffic and get him to the WPA’s London bureau on Norwich Street.
It was situated in a six-story stone building built on the site of a bakery destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a five-minute walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more law and business offices than newspapers. But the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were nearby, reminding Gannon that the risk of losing the story increased as time ticked by. The bureau was on the first floor and the reception desk was empty. A man in a suit came from an office to place a folder on it.
“Excuse me.” Gannon set his luggage aside. “Jack Gannon from WPA New York. I’m looking for Ian Shelton?”
“You’ve found him.” Shelton shook Gannon’s hand. He was a tall, gaunt man in his thirties. “Welcome to London. George Wilson advised us that you were coming to work on your Brazil story.”