“Okay. It’s a national thing. A real company. Got to have a lawyer, someone to handle the adoption papers. Maybe a doctor, too. Or at least someone with connections in the fertility business. The Frosts had all kinds of fertility tests. I checked.”

Sebastian stirred and sniffed and checked, but he was listening. “I imagine the FBI checked, as well.”

“Sure they did. Our pal Devereaux’s right on top of things. But I like to finish what I start. You’ve got all these couples trying to start a family. They’ll try anything. Regulate their sex lives, their diets, dance naked under the full moon. And pay. Pay all kinds of money for tests, for operations, for drugs. And if none of it works, they’ll pay for a baby.”

She came back to the island to sniff at one of the pots herself. “Good,” she murmured. “I know it’s usually on the up-and-up. A reputable adoption agency, a reputable lawyer. And, in most cases, it’s the right thing. The baby gets a loving home, the biological mother gets a second chance, and the adoptive parents get their miracle. But then you have the slime factor. The sleazeball who always finds a way to make a buck off someone else’s tragedy.”

“Why don’t you put a couple of plates on the table by the window? I’m listening.”

“Okay.” She puttered around the kitchen, following his instructions for china, for flatware, for napkins, as she continued to theorize. “But this isn’t just any penny-ante sleaze. This is a smart one, slick enough to pull together an organization that can snatch a kid from one coast, pass him along like a football crosscountry and bounce him into a nice, affluent home thousands of miles away.”

“I haven’t found anything to argue about yet.”

“Well, he’s the one we have to get to. They haven’t picked up Parkland yet, but I figure they will. He’s not a pro. He’s just some jerk who tried to find a quick way to pay off a debt and keep his kneecaps intact. He won’t be much of a lead when they find him, but he’ll be something. I have to figure the feds will keep him under wraps.”

“So far your figuring seems flawless. Take the bottle and sit.”

She did, curling her legs under her on the corner bench by the window. “It’s not likely the feds would cut a PI much of a break.”

“No.” Sebastian set platters down on the table, pasta curls tanged with tomatoes and herbs, the wine-braised chicken, thick slabs of crusty bread.

“They’d cut you one. They owe you.”

Sebastian served Mel himself. “Perhaps.”

“They’d give you a copy of Parkland’s statement when they nab him. Maybe even let you talk to him. If you said you were still interested in the case, they’d feed you information.”