This was the last time. Just these two private adoptions and then it was over and done with forever. The money was good . . . well, actually, the money was tremendous. It was amazing what upper-crust white bread couples would pay for a baby. But dealing with Marjorie simply wasn’t worth it. She was too unstable. Too crazy. The one time she’d set foot in the office, she’d scared the crap out of everyone.
On the other hand . . . there might be a clever way to handle this. A way to make a final bundle of money and then step away from this dirty business for good.
Yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat.
21
RICHARD Darden looked considerably different from the last time Afton had seen him. For one thing, the man had aged. Worry lines etched his face, undermining his chiseled features. And his cocksure, aloof attitude seemed washed away under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the interview room. Dressed in a pair of khakis and a wrinkled Macalester sweatshirt, Darden looked positively bedraggled, a far cry from the primped and polished business executive that he’d been a few days earlier.
Afton suspected that Darden’s wardrobe malnutrition was a result of Susan Darden not allowing her husband back into the house for the rest of his clothes. Then again, the woman could hardly be blamed for drawing such a hard line. Less than a week ago, Susan had been blissfully unaware of her husband’s affair with the nanny. Now his pitiful weakness had been exposed.
It was hard to fathom how Darden could possibly think of anything other than his missing child. But in Afton’s limited experience, she’d noticed that high-powered, testosterone-fueled Type-A’s weren’t typically tethered by the same empathic constraints that were felt by the rest of the world.
Afton sipped her coffee slowly as she stared through the one-way glass. Darden and his snake-eyed lawyer, Steve Slocum, sat on one side of a wooden table; Max was on the opposite side. Slocum had launched a pro forma protest at being kept waiting for forty-five minutes, but Max had brushed it off, remaining cool and relaxed. Still, Slocum didn’t bother to mask his disdain and contempt for every question his client was asked.
Admiration swelled within Afton. She didn’t think she could maintain the same confidence that Max did when faced with constant scrutiny from Slocum. Every single question Max asked was met with a curled lip and a barrage of lawyerly protests. Some of them were even in Latin.
Even now, while Max scribbled notes on his yellow legal pad, Slocum was leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone messages, trying to look bored, probably hoping to gain a cool upper hand.
Max reached into a file folder and pulled out a black-and-white photo. Afton recognized it as one of the stills the techies downstairs had hastily pulled from the security camera DVD they’d gotten from the dry cleaner.
“Do you know this guy?” Max asked. He held up the photo for both of them to see.
Darden barely glanced at the photo. “No, I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Take another look,” Max said. “Take a good look.”
“My client already gave you his answer,” Slocum said. “He said he doesn’t know the man.”
“Indulge me,” Max said. “Trust me when I say this is important.”
Darden glanced up and studied the photo for a few moments. “No, I . . .” Then his brows pinched together as he scanned the entire photo. “Wait a minute . . . what’s that man carrying in his arms?”
“This is quite enough,” Slocum said.
Max lifted a hand. “Just give your client a minute.”
Darden shook his head as if he were processing the information. “Is that Al? It can’t be Al!”
“You know him?” Max asked with some urgency.
“You know him?” Slocum said, surprised.
Darden shot Max a fearful glance. “Did Al take Elizabeth Ann? Is this bundle he’s carrying supposed to be her?” He tapped the photo hard with an index finger. “That son of a bitch. I can’t believe it.” Darden clenched his fists as his face flushed pink with rage.
“Who’s Al?” Slocum asked, clearly confused.
“He’s our handyman,” Darden said. “Well . . . really a gardener that Susan hired last fall. He raked and bundled leaves, that sort of thing.” He sat back in his chair, looking shaken. “Where did you get this photo? My God, is he the one who kidnapped Elizabeth Ann?”
“We don’t know that yet,” Max said. “We’re still pursuing a number of leads. Do you know this man’s last name? Or have his address?”
“No, I don’t have any of that information. But Susan probably does. Damn it! I told her never to hire scum like that. I told her. She was always so trusting and na?ve, never met a stray dog she didn’t want to drag home.” He pounded the table with his fist. “If this is the guy, you’ve got to get out there and find him!”
“We will,” Max said. “I promise.”
“This could be something,” Darden said, turning toward Slocum.
“Did this Al person work for you on a regular basis?” Max asked. “It would help if we had dates. If we could pinpoint exactly when he might have been at your home.”
“I don’t know,” Darden said. “It was just that one time, I think. A couple of months ago.”