Midwife Cover. Cassie Miles

With the teasing and the packing and the rushing around, she’d almost forgotten why they were going undercover. This investigation wasn’t a game. These missing women were victims of the worst kind of crime.

      She worked with new mothers every day. There was no worse pain than losing a child.

      Chapter Five

      Her twelve-year-old truck didn’t have GPS, but Brady trusted Petra to find the best route from Granby to Durango in the southwest corner of Colorado. If they got lost, he’d use the map function on his phone to get them back on track.

      He took advantage of Petra’s time behind the wheel to make some phone calls. Even though he’d be reporting his progress to the agent in charge of the ITEP task force, Brady had opted to use Cole McClure as his point man. Not only did Cole have years of undercover experience, but he also had a decent relationship with Colorado law enforcement. His information regarding the three missing pregnant women might prove useful.

      By the time Brady got off the phone, they were well on their way, cruising on a paved, two-lane highway with wide shoulders. Petra drove five to ten miles over the speed limit, but he wasn’t complaining. The weather was good, and the traffic was light. He settled back for a long drive—over three hundred miles crossing the Continental Divide and descending approximately a thousand feet in elevation. Near Durango, the average temperature would be nine to twelve degrees warmer, and the aspen leaves were just beginning to turn gold.

      He leaned back against his seat. “I like a good road trip.”

      “Where are you from?” she asked.

      “Texas.”

      “I thought I heard a bit of a drawl in your voice. Where in Texas?”

      “Austin.” He hesitated before saying more. “Cole told me that we should integrate as much of our real life as possible into our undercover identity. It’s easier to remember.”

      “Is Brady Gilliam from Austin?”

      He nodded. “Like me, he has a younger brother and a twin sister. My real twin, Barbara, is in the FBI, based in Manhattan. I think I’ll have my undercover twin also live in New York City, but I’ll say she’s a schoolteacher.”

      Her window was down, and the breeze whipped through her long auburn hair. She used a paisley scarf as a headband, and the long ends draped over her shoulder. In her circle-shaped sunglasses, white muslin blouse and loose-fitting patterned trousers, she looked like a free spirit—not the type of woman he spent time with, much less married.

      “When I was growing up,” she said, “I wanted a twin. Somebody who was always on my side.”

      “Yeah, that’s how it works in the movies.”

      “You sound bitter.”

      “Not anymore.”

      He’d made his peace with his miserable childhood. Staring through the windshield, he watched the rise and fall of rolling hills of dry, khaki-colored grasses. No longer did he waste time hating his alcoholic, abusive father—a man who came in and out of his life when the mood suited him. Long ago, Brady had given up trying to understand why his mother stayed loyal to the man she’d married at the expense of her children.

      He still had the scars from the last time his father had given him a whipping. He’d just turned twelve and was almost as tall as his dad but half his size. After the old man beat him, he’d gone after Barbara. That had been when Brady fought back. His rage had given him the strength of a grown man. Every time he was knocked down, he’d gotten back up and fought even harder. His father left with a broken nose and never came back.

      This horror story wasn’t something he’d share with Petra. It was better to let her think that he and Barbara were the idyllic image of twins in matching colors.

      He cleared his throat. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

      “Probably six hours.”

      “There are two things we need to accomplish.” He brushed away the past and concentrated on a positive, rational agenda. “Number one, I should brief you on what to expect at the Lost Lamb Ranch. Number two, we’ll firm up our undercover identities.”

      “Let’s start with what Cole told you,” she said. “You just got off the phone with him, right?”

      He nodded. “He’s sending me mug shots for the missing women in an email. We should both memorize the pictures.”

      “What did the police find when they investigated?”

      “No leads.”

      “That’s hard to believe. The disappearance of a pregnant woman is usually a high-priority, high-profile case.”

      “Not for these women,” Brady said. “They weren’t beloved daughters or wives. They were homeless. Nobody organized a neighborhood search party to find them.”

      “But somebody noticed. Somebody reported them missing.”

      “Drug addict friends who, needless to say, didn’t do much to cooperate with the authorities. It’s entirely possible that these women took off for a couple of days and then showed up and nobody bothered to tell the police. Or they moved to another city.”

      Darkly, she said, “Or they fell into the hands of traffickers who wanted them and their babies.”

      “They prey on the homeless, the helpless. Pregnant women are an easy target. They’re already vulnerable and scared. If somebody offered them a place to stay until they deliver their babies—a place like Lost Lamb Ranch—they’d jump at it.”

      “Tell me about the Lost Lamb.”

      “It’s run by Francine Kelso, a woman in her forties who has a record as a hooker and was suspected of being a madam. She doesn’t hide her past. Instead, she points to it with pride and claims to have turned over a new leaf.”

      Petra nodded. “She’s operating out of the same playbook that we’re using.”

      “How so?”

      “You just told me to use parts of my real past to establish my undercover identity.” She toyed with the pink crystal that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “That’s what Francine is doing, using her real past to disguise what she’s doing in the present.”

      He appreciated how perceptive Petra was. Her insights seemed to come from an intuitive sense. “You’re good at reading people.”

      “In my line of work, it helps to understand where somebody is coming from.”

      “How so?”

      “When a woman goes into labor, all her defenses are down. The same goes for the husband. While some people respond to a firm tone of voice and detailed instructions, others need gentle coaxing. Everybody’s different. One time, I delivered a baby for a couple who started in a pastel room doing deep breathing and playing soft classical music. By the time the mother was ready to push, they’d changed the tape to ‘Welcome to Hell.’ Both of them cursed like gangsters.”

      “What did you do?”

      “I sang along.” She laughed. “It was one of those times when I was glad to be doing a home birth. We were so loud that we would have freaked out the entire wing of a hospital. After the baby was born, the mom and dad went back to mellow.”

      The behavior sounded psychotic to him. “Did those parents often exhibit excessive rage?”

      “Who talks like that? Exhibit excessive rage?” She took off her sunglasses so he could see her roll her eyes. “Never try to psychoanalyze a woman in labor. It’s way too primal. And, by the way, these two are kind, loving, wonderful parents.”

      Brady was glad they had a long drive ahead of them. It was going to take him a while to get a handle on his partner. “Let’s get back to Francine Kelso. Assuming the Lost Lamb