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I glanced over at him and considered it. "Actually, yes. I can see it. But not full time."
"Agreed. They've been pushing me to do more, but I'm digging in my heels. I might have the personality for teaching - curious, outgoing, reasonably patient. But I love field - "
He stopped and lowered his head to peer out the windshield. Jack had paused, pizzas in hand, at the front of the car. I rolled down the window.
"We're decent," I said.
"Just checking," he said as he walked around. "Windows looked steamy."
"Just talking. We're good at that, in case you haven't noticed."
His grunt said he had. I got out, took the pizzas from him, and crawled into the back with them, letting him drive.
We returned to the hotel, where Quinn started checking the files on his laptop. We didn't sit around in anxious silence, though. Maybe it was the lingering buzz from the break-in, or maybe we were just giddy from the late hour. Whatever the reason, Quinn and I were both in talkative moods, tossing anecdotes back and forth, mostly related to break-ins - outrageous or incompetent thief stories we'd heard on the job.
There was a lot of one-upmanship and laughing as we downed the beer and pizza, and I wouldn't have blamed Jack if he walked out and found a quiet, sane place to wait, but while he didn't contribute to our stories, he seemed content to listen, eat, and drink.
Nowhere in those files did we find a receipt for the sale of one blue-eyed, blond-haired baby girl from Ontario. Nor was there a ledger file with fifty grand paid to Ronald Fenniger for "services rendered" and a hundred grand from the Keyeses for "goods received." A paper trail would have been nice, but unlikely.
We had the employee files, both on paper and on disk, and they'd open a new avenue of investigation. Was anyone in financial straits? Or enjoying a sudden surge in wealth? Did anyone have a criminal record? Or complaints lodged against them regarding adoption practices?
We had the client files, too. The Keyeses' one was interesting. They'd been on the waiting list for about six months, after a prolonged background study where a few red flags had arisen. She'd spent time in rehab for prescription drug addiction. He had two kids from a prior marriage, and a history of defaulting on child support payments.
The problems, though, seemed to have been worked out. Leslie had been clean for three years and the addiction had been to painkillers after a serious auto accident. Ken blamed his child support problems on a "miscom-munication" with his wife, who'd even written him a letter of recommendation, assuring the agency he'd repaid her. So they'd been placed on the waiting list, but from the notes, I suspected they'd have been waiting awhile. Then, two months ago, the Keyeses had withdrawn, their bills paid in full. A note on their file said they were pursuing other options.
If we could find more files with a similar pattern - problems with the intake process, proven financial means, and a recent departure from the agency's prospective parent list - we might find the other babies.
Chapter Forty-one
When we reached the end of the files, our energy drained fast. We only had the one room - renting a second hadn't crossed anyone's mind until it was too late to bother.
Even as we slowed, no one actually mentioned going to bed. We just started winding down and settling in. Quinn checked his business e-mail while I tidied. Jack stretched on the bed, and got messages from his voice mail while I used the washroom - brushing my teeth, washing up, putting on my nightshirt but leaving my jeans in place. When I came out, Jack had his eyes closed, still on top of the covers, and Quinn was at the desk answering e-mail. I crawled into bed, shedding my jeans once I was under the covers. I was asleep before the lights went out.
I woke a few hours later to the soft whistle of deep breathing. I looked over to see that Quinn had crawled into bed with me. He was being circumspect, lying a foot away, and he was dressed - at least in a T-shirt.
I watched him sleep, the streetlight between the curtains casting a pale mask over his eyes.
This afternoon, when he'd come to the hotel, I'd decided I was going to take the plunge. Stop pissing around with "should I or shouldn't I," stop waiting for the stars to align and the firecrackers to pop and the tiny violins to start playing. So what if Quinn didn't make my heart pitter-patter? He could make other parts of me pitter-patter, and that was more than I could say for any guy who'd shown an interest in me in a very long time.
I'd made my decision. I started following through. I'd liked following through. Even now, thinking of that kiss brought a blast of delicious heat. Yet the moment he'd misinterpreted my discomfort over being caught as reluctance, and offered to give me more time, I'd ducked out the chicken door.
If I had any lingering romantic notions about Jack, I had to get rid of them - fast - or eventually I'd do something to totally embarrass myself, and send Jack away for good.
I was ready for romance. I was definitely ready for sex. I wanted Quinn as more than a friend. I wanted to keep Jack as a friend. The answer to all this was lying right beside me, and damned if I was going to dither and fret another six months.
Tomorrow I was telling Quinn that as much as I appreciated his patience, I didn't need it. I was ready.
The next time I woke was from a dream in which I was on a game show, about to win a trip to Egypt, if only I could remember the name of the guy in the Inferno whose contrapasso punishment was eternally eating the brain of the coconspirator who'd betrayed him. The show's buzzer kept malfunctioning, going off bef
ore my time was up, and I was about to complain when I realized the buzzing sounded like Jack's predictably banal ring tone.
I pulled myself from the dream as he was slipping out the door, phone to his ear. A moment later, he returned.
"Everything okay?" I whispered.
"Yeah. Go back to sleep."
I did.
