Six Single Dads' Nanny (Love by Numbers 5)

“I could do some digging,” the contact told me, “but it will take a little bit of time, and you know tampering with the mail is a federal crime. If I’m going to risk it, I suppose I at least need to be able to cover any fee I would incur if I was caught.”

“Name your price,” I growled.

“A thousand bucks should suffice,” he said and I rolled my eyes.

“Fine,” I responded. “You get me the info I need, and we can compare notes over coffee as soon as you’re done.”

“I’ll get started right away,” he replied. “Have a wonderful day, sir.”

“Fuck you, you prick,” I hissed, and hung up the phone.

I texted Oliver a quick update, we were being extorted for info, but his response matched my sentiments entirely.

‘It’s for Jordan, so I’ll pay whatever I have to,’ it read.

That was exactly it. Jordan meant the world to us and our children. Any amount of money spent to get her back home was well worth it. I met up with him at his office, and we used some of Oliver’s contact in the department to begin having a handwriting test, paper test, and fingerprinting of the photos done to lend aid to our search for the mysterious asshole who was turning our lives upside down. As with the man at the post office, many people turned their noses up at us until we could flash some money. We had to pay to have the tests run, and pay extra to have them expedited, but I was keeping a list in my mind. Anyone who wasn’t willing to help for the sake of having a friend on the inside would be remembered. They would come to regret working us over for money one day, even if I was willing to pay it to get our girl back.

The day of research ended with my contact at the post office informing me that he had in fact found some information about the package that had been sent. He didn’t have a name, but he did have an address in West Palm Beach, and it would take a little more investigation on the ground in Florida to figure out exactly who sent the package over.

I called a guy I knew in Florida, a seedy fellow by the name of Liam.

“Well, if it isn’t A.D.A. Cade,” he answered the phone. “Still putting away the world’s worst?”

“Well, you’re still out there, so apparently not,” I responded, and he chuckled. “You still got a sick kid?”

Liam was a Florida drug lord who, after having a child with severe physical disabilities, tried to turn over a new leaf and become a contact for the F.B.I. Whenever I ended up working cases that crossed state lines, federal agencies would provide lists of people who could be reached out to who were willing to help answer questions for the feds. After meeting Liam for the first time, I learned that he discovered straight and narrow wasn’t as lucrative as the crooked and corrupt and went back into his life of crime, doubling down on drugs and pimping. With a child with such outrageous medical needs, money spoke strongly to him, and he was willing to do just about anything to get his hands on it.

He let out a shallow whistle. “Right for the gut, eh, Cade?”

“I don’t have time to waste,” I replied. “I’ve got some money if you can help me out.”

“How much?” he responded.

“How about you send me all your outstanding medical bills, and I’ll make them go away?” I retorted. It was two fold. I was a father before anything else. I couldn’t imagine having no money and a child with thousands of dollars in medical bills. If I could protect an innocent child and get answers to my questions, it was a win-win. “Well?”

Liam sounded a little shocked. “If you’re serious, you’ve got access to the full gamut of services.”

“You’ve got my email. Get them to me, and I’ll handle it, but then I really do expect everything you’ve got,” I said.

“You make those bills go away, and you need not worry about a thing,” he said. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got an address for you. Someone sent a threatening package certified mail to a friend of mine. I need you to find out who it was and get me any information you can,” I explained.

“Want me to rough them up when I find them?” Liam asked. “Make them disappear?”

“Not just yet,” I replied, “but maybe take a note of the address.”

Whoever it was who was sending the photos to Jordan, they had a rude awakening headed their way, probably in the way of a money-hungry Floridian drug lord.

21

Jordan

I knocked on the door in front of me, desperate to see someone’s face I could actually trust. It opened and Khloe appeared on the other side. Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and she was wearing a comfy outfit of leggings and a hoodie.