“You know, Owen was never this fussy,” he called out loudly. Granted, for the last year Owen had lived nearly full-time at his girlfriend’s place, but still.
For a moment, there was a silence on the other side of the wall. Then a single thud. Kiss off.
Of course she had to get in the last word.
Awake now, most reluctantly, he made his way into the bathroom and stood under the shower spray for over ten minutes, trying to remember why he’d ever thought it was a good idea to schedule a coffee meeting for eight thirty on a Sunday morning. Then again, at the time he’d made the appointment, he hadn’t realized what he was in for when he’d offered to babysit Zoe.
“It’s really important that you stick to the schedule,” Nicole had said last night, as she’d walked him through Zoe’s nighttime routine. “Bottle at six thirty. Keep her upright for at least twenty minutes; the pediatrician says that helps with the acid reflux. Read her a book at seven fifteen, and then put her down at seven thirty. She gets two pacifiers, one in her mouth and the other in her hand, or she won’t fall asleep. Oh, and she just started rolling over onto her tummy, but once she gets there she doesn’t like being on her tummy, and she hasn’t figured out how to roll back. So she cries when that happens and . . .” Nicole trailed off, and bit her lip. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
“Nic. I’ve got this,” Ford had said, lifting Zoe up and getting a big smile out of her. How hard could it be? They were talking about one small baby who couldn’t even crawl yet.
No problem.
“I’m just saying, no one other than me has ever put her down before,” Nicole had said uncertainly.
“Go have fun with your friends. We’ll be fine.”
And for the first hour and a half, he and Zoe indeed had been just fine. As promised, he dutifully followed the schedule—Nicole having mentioned the importance of that only about twenty times. He did the bottle and the book, got Zoe zipped into some wearable blanket that looked like a potato sack, threw in a “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” for good measure, and then put her down in the crib to sleep.
Eight minutes later, all hell broke loose.
Zoe began crying, so he checked the monitor and saw that she’d flipped over onto her stomach and, like Nicole had said, couldn’t roll back. Zoe seemed royally pissed about that, too, judging from all the yelling and the way she kicked her legs in the potato sack. Not knowing what else to do—since he was pretty certain that babies were supposed to sleep on their backs—he went into her room and rolled her back over.
Big mistake.
For the next two hours—yes, gasp, they strayed from the schedule—they played this game. Zoe would be quiet for ten or fifteen minutes, then she’d flip onto her stomach and scream bloody murder until he went back into her room.
“Listen, you,” he told her after Take Seven. “See here? It’s embroidered right on your potato sack. ‘Back to Sleep.’ You don’t like being on your stomach? Then stop rolling over.”
She chucked one pacifier out of the crib, unimpressed with the lecture.
After that, Ford decided to try a new approach—this “self-soothing” thing he’d heard his sister talking about. The next time Zoe flipped over onto her stomach, he let her cry. But after fifteen minutes he caved, because the crying was god-awful and he felt guilty as shit, and certainly no one in the damn apartment building was going to be soothed by that racket. So they went back to the flipping game. Eventually, it got to be so late that they’d moved into the time when Nicole had said Zoe might wake up for a feeding.
Figuring she might be hungry—hell, he certainly could use a snack after all the drama—he fed her. She fell asleep mid-feeding, so he seized the moment and put her down in the crib, being careful not to wake her up.
That was Big Fucking Mistake Number Two.
Ten minutes later, he heard Zoe coughing on the monitor and realized that he’d forgotten to keep her upright after he’d fed her. He ran into her room and scooped her up just in time for her to throw up all over both of them, a full-out, volcanic-style heaving that spewed out of her mouth and nose. Which was doubly disconcerting because, (A) holy shit, no one had ever warned him that something so tiny and cute could puke like a drunken frat boy who’d just gorged on a double-stuffed burrito, and (B) now Zoe was hollering like a banshee—Who left the dumbass in charge of me? Help!—as he hurried around trying to find clean sheets and pajamas and a new potato sack for her to sleep in. His shirt smelled like baby vomit, so he stripped it off and said screw it to both the schedule and the self-soothing crap; he was getting this baby to sleep come hell or high water. So he gave her the two pacifiers, and rocked her in the chair until finally she dozed off. He even managed to sneak her back into the crib, but as he rinsed his shirt in the kitchen sink, he started thinking about the drunken frat boy heaving, and worried that Zoe might do it again and choke.
And thus, an hour later, when his sister came home around one A.M., she found him passed out on the floor in front of Zoe’s bedroom, one hand wrapped around the baby monitor, shirtless, and smelling like throw-up.
He woke up to see Nicole standing over him, looking as though she was trying really hard not to laugh.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
He raised a thumb in exhaustion.
“Piece of cake.”
* * *
AFTER THAT ADVENTURE, Ford was more determined than ever to find Zoe’s father. Who knew if the guy would end up being much help to Nicole, but it was worth a shot. If he hadn’t before, he now fully appreciated how difficult it must be for his sister, trying to balance work, Zoe, getting some sleep, and having some semblance of a life. Hell, he’d been on baby-duty for seven hours and felt like he needed a vacation.
With that in mind, he grabbed his messenger bag and keys, and headed out the door. He walked to The Wormhole and ordered two large coffees, then took a seat at one of the tables in the back, where he could speak privately with the FBI agent he’d reached out to—a friend of a friend who specialized in undercover cases. He was hoping, at the very least, that the agent could help him eliminate at least one of the eleven Peter Sutter candidates.
A few minutes later, Special Agent Vaughn Roberts walked into the coffee shop and headed over.
“Why did we ever agree on eight thirty on a Sunday morning?” he asked, gripping Ford’s hand in greeting.
Ford grinned. “I told you—I was happy to meet closer to your place.”
Vaughn waved this off as Ford slid the second cup of coffee across the table. “Gives me an excuse to visit the old neighborhood.” He, too, had lived in Wicker Park up until nine months ago, when he’d moved into his fiancée’s Gold Coast town house.
“How’s Sidney?”
“She’s good.” Vaughn smiled. “Poked her head up as I left just long enough to mumble something about bringing her coffee. Not a morning person, that woman.” He took a sip of his own. “By the way, this better not be for a story. If I see anything by you in the Trib tomorrow that quotes an ‘anonymous FBI source,’ we will have words.”
Ford chuckled. Despite the fact that he and Vaughn knew each other well enough—a by-product of the fact that his best friend, Brooke, was married to Vaughn’s best friend, Cade—there tended to be an inherent distrust between reporters and the FBI. “You’re safe. This isn’t for work. It’s a personal matter.”
“All right. Tell me more.”
Ford took a piece of paper out of his messenger bag and slid it across the table. On it, he’d written Peter Sutter Number One’s date of birth, social security number, and last known home address. “I was wondering if you could get me a copy of this man’s mug shot. He was arrested four years ago for felony battery, served a two-year sentence at Stateville. When I ran a search, the mug shot came up as unavailable.”
“He probably paid to have it unpublished.” Vaughn looked at the information, then tucked the paper into the pocket of his jeans. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can pull it up tomorr
ow when I’m back in the office. I take it this Peter Sutter is someone you’re looking for?”
“Actually, it’s the opposite. I’m hoping this isn’t the Peter Sutter I’m looking for.” Without mentioning his sister or niece, Ford explained the situation and said that he was helping to track down Sutter for a friend. “I have the list narrowed down to eleven men. Hopefully, after seeing the mug shot, we’ll be able to eliminate this guy as a possibility. For the rest, I’ll have to do some legwork to get their photographs.”
“The kind of legwork you’re talking about works best for someone who lives in a single-family home or a two- or three-flat,” Vaughn said. “You stake out the home, say, in the morning before work hours, and if you’re lucky you’ll get a shot of him coming out the front door. Or, you might catch him pulling his car out of the garage, so you follow him to work and get a shot of him exiting the vehicle. But even that’s going to take time.”
“I don’t mind putting in the time on this.”
“Fair enough. But if any of your Peter Sutters live in a large condo or apartment building, it’s going to be a lot trickier to snap a photo.”
Ford had already considered this, which was precisely why he planned to tackle the men living in single-family homes and two-flats first. Still, he had a Plan B if that didn’t pan out. “I can get license plate and VIN numbers from their social security numbers.” Which, in turn, would tell him the make and model car driven by each Peter Sutter. “If I have to, I can wait outside the parking garage, wait until the right car comes out, and then follow the guy from there.”
“This must be for someone important, if you’re willing to go through all that.”
Ford said nothing, merely took a sip of his coffee.
Vaughn chuckled. “Look, all these stakeouts might work. But depending on the address, some down and dirty undercover work could be a lot more efficient.”
Ford liked the sound of anything that could save time. “Such as?”
“You get a partner. Someone who could knock on a front door for some plausible reason and ask the guy if he’s Peter Sutter. Meanwhile, you are stationed somewhere nearby where you can snap a photo. If you can, I’d recommend a female partner for this kind of thing.” Vaughn pointed with his coffee cup. “A tall, built guy like you comes around asking questions, and people get their guards up. But both men and women are inherently less suspicious when it’s a woman looking for information.” He thought about that. “Maybe Brooke could help you out.”
“I don’t want to get Brooke involved in this.” Because Brooke, naturally, would want to know why they were tracking down eleven Peter Sutters, and Ford had specifically promised Nicole he wouldn’t share that information with his friends.
“Maybe one of your female co-workers, another reporter?”
The problem, Ford knew, was that any reporter he dragged into this would undoubtedly ask a lot of questions, and this was a personal matter. But . . . there was one woman who already knew all about the situation with Nicole. A woman who, as it so happened, had vehemently insisted that she be kept fully informed about the search for the missing Peter Sutter.
Ford looked at Vaughn. “I think I know just who to ask.”
* * *
AFTER LEAVING THE coffee shop, he walked to the corner of the three-way intersection of Milwaukee, Damen, and North avenues, and waited for the light to change. A Blue Line train came roaring toward the elevated platform on the opposite side of the street.
His eyes drifted up, drawn in the direction of the noise, and he saw a handful of people waiting for the train. Then he noticed—well, hello—that one of those people happened to be the very woman he’d just been thinking about.
Victoria.
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she took a step back as the train entered the station and slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and she remained where she was on the platform, seemingly hesitating, until the train chimed.
Doors closing, said the automated voice.
As if propelled into action by the words, she sprinted onto the train, just beating the doors.
Ford watched as the train pulled away, having no clue what that was all about.
Another curious development in the mystery that was Victoria Slade.
Fourteen
FLUSH FROM THE high of her success, Victoria walked into her loft feeling like a victorious woman, indeed.
She had ridden the Blue Line a whole three stops and back, without incident. Granted, the train cars hadn’t been crowded, which was the very reason she’d chosen to ride on a Sunday morning. But it was progress, nevertheless.
In a celebratory mood, she pumped Alicia Keys through the loft’s speakers. This girl is on fire. She kicked off her shoes and headed into the kitchen, singing along with the lyrics. We got our feet on the ground, and we’re burning it down. She was no singer, far from it, but who cared? She had done something about her tiny panic issue. She could report back to Dr. Metzel, and for once he’d be able to scribble down an A+ in that little notepad of his.
The song finished when she was halfway through the banana she was slicing for a smoothie. Almost immediately, there was a knock at her front door.
She wiped her hands and crossed the room, checking the peephole.
Ford.
Great. She opened the door, wondering how long he’d been standing there.
“It is a catchy song,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Yep. Long enough.
With a sigh, she put her hand on the door. “Do you think it would possible for me to get just a bit of privacy once in a while?”
“That’s loft living for you. The sound proofing is terrible in this place.”
So she’d noticed.
He took a step toward her, his blue eyes warm with amusement. “I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of a proposition?”
“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.”
Hmm. Not sure what this was all about, she kept one eye trained on him as she stepped back to let him inside her place. He followed her toward the kitchen.
“By the way, I like what you did with the space.” He looked around at her furniture. “Is the condo you bought also a loft?”
She went to the blender to finish making her smoothie. “No, it’s a more typical two-bedroom layout. Probably about the same square feet as this place, though.”
Ford helped himself to a seat at the counter. “Where at?”
“The Trump Tower.”
“That’s hardly a ‘typical’ two-bedroom.”
She smiled in acknowledgment. “Maybe not.” She turned on the blender and mixed the strawberries, banana, and orange juice together. “So. About this proposition of yours,” she prompted him as she poured the smoothie into a glass.
“I wanted to see if you’re free for dinner tonight.”
She blinked, not having expected that, and felt a strange flutter in her stomach. “You want to have dinner with me?”
“Yes. At Public House.”
It took her a second. “That’s the bar where Nicole met Peter Sutter.”
He nodded. “I talked to an FBI agent today about the situation. Based on some things he and I discussed, I think it would be helpful if you check out the bar with me.”
“Me?” She laughed. “What am I now? Your sidekick in this?”
“Not a sidekick. I need a front man. See, I thought about it: what if, when I go to the bar and ask around, Peter Sutter is a regular? Maybe the bartender will know him, and he’ll want to know why I’m asking. I can come up with some excuse, but it would be less suspicious to have a woman doing the asking.” He waited as she considered this. “Think of it as an adventure. An adventure that would help your client, the struggling single mom who’s really hoping to catch a break with this.”
“Now that’s just playing dirty.”
He grinned and stood up from the counter. “I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something cute—like you’d wear on a
first date.”
Her eyes met his archly. “I didn’t say yes.”
He peered down at her, his voice a little huskier than usual. “You didn’t say no, either.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, Ford knocked on Victoria’s door. When she answered, he was rendered momentarily speechless.
She looked drop-dead gorgeous in a black pencil skirt, short-sleeved white shirt with a scoop neck, and the hottest pair of high heels he’d ever seen—black, with a strap that wrapped around her ankle in a way that had him thinking all sorts of naughty, decidedly non-platonic-neighbor thoughts.
“I knew it,” she said at his silence. “It looks like I’m trying too hard, right? I hate dressing for first dates—even fake ones.” She held out her hands reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I have a backup outfit.”
She turned around, but he caught her hand and stopped her.
Over his dead body would she change that outfit.
“Leave it.” His voice was so low it sounded like a growl.
Her lips quirked in a smile. “Okay,” she said, imitating his growl. “Let me just grab my purse.”
Seemingly, a comedy routine was going to be part of their amateur sleuthing tonight.
In his car, they went over their plan as they drove to the bar. Ford managed to mostly keep his mind out of the gutter, except for one brief moment when she crossed her legs, hiking up her skirt and exposing several inches of bare thigh.
“So I’m supposed to pretend I’m nervous about a blind date and trying to get intel on the guy before he shows up.” She pointed to the traffic signal ahead. “Green light.”
The cars behind Ford laid on their horns.
Christ. He hit the gas, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. “Yes. Act chatty. Casual. Tell the bartender your date mentioned that he’s been to the bar a few times, so you thought he or she might be familiar with him and could give you some insight.”