“That’s enough, hold run. Begin data run on Hopson, Sybil,” she ordered and read off the identification number.
Working…Hopson, Sybil, DOB: 3 March, 2040. Parents—
“Skip that. Residence and offspring.”
Resides Oxford University. Student. No offspring. One registered pregnancy, through term with live birth, male, 15 September, 2059. Placed through private adoption.
“Placement agency used for both Russo and Hopson.”
Working…Sunday’s Child, London.
“It’s not illegal, Dallas.” Baxter stood beside her. “I don’t know the ins and outs of private adoptions or surrogacy in Europe, but they could slide with this here.”
“Payments are too high,” Eve disagreed. “This girl sold her kid, and selling hu
man beings is illegal, globally.”
“You can call the fee educational incentive, expense reimbursement. They’d go through some shit, but they’d probably scrape it off.”
“Maybe. But they hid the money, doctored the accounts so they fell well under the acceptable limit, left the bulk of the income unreported. And if this is what it looks like, they are, in essence, running a baby-selling operation at a big, fat profit. They won’t look good on the media reports when this hits. More, they killed three people to keep this buried.”
“This is what Palma’s sister stumbled onto,” Baxter murmured.
“I doubt she knew exactly what it entailed, but she dug around and got a strong clue. Baxter, there are other missing women like Tandy, and at least one who was killed, along with the fetus. It’s going to come back to this.” She nodded toward the screen. “Right back to this.”
“Grabbing women off the damn street? Stealing their kids?”
“Something like that. If these women contacted Sunday’s Child, maybe even started proceedings. Fees collected by the foundation.”
It was more than pieces now. The picture was full and complete in front of her. “Then, say the woman changes her mind, takes off. These women relocated, so maybe they felt threatened, or were afraid they’d be pressured, legally pursued. They’re snatched close to term. There’s a reason for that.”
“Shorter wait time for the product,” he said grimly.
“When the product’s delivered, the woman’s no longer needed, and is disposed of. Keeps those expenses way down. Work with Roarke, find me someone who paid the baby fee where the expenses don’t follow the rest of the pack.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Trueheart.”
“Lieutenant, Brownburn is on the board of Sunday’s Child, and the OB in residence.”
“Peabody, is there a branch of the agency in New York?”
“Europe only.”
“Another agency then, one that pops on the files. They didn’t haul her back to England, not this close to term. They want to be sure the product is safe and viable. Maybe New Jersey, Connecticut. Maybe…”
On an oath she leaped to the desk ’link. The big house with the blind windows. You can see out but you can’t see in, she thought as she hurriedly contacted Cher Reo.
Incognito, my ass.
“Jesus, Dallas, just how many times tonight are you going to ruin my evening?” Reo pushed at her tousled blonde hair. “I’m about to get lucky.”
“You’re going to get luckier. I need a warrant.”
“I got your damn warrants, and let me tell you, I worked my well-toned ass off for them.”
“I need a search-and-seize for the Bullock residence on East End Avenue. All contents.”