Made to Be Broken (Nadia Stafford 2)

"Not saying that. Just... thinking."

The community center side door opened, and out streamed a conga line of teenage girls and baby strollers.

And Fenniger began to hunt.

He was as accomplished as any predator, zeroing in on the best prey even as the door closed behind the last girl. He targeted four with his camera. All were Caucasian. All pretty - though that wasn't a difficult criterion at an age when youth itself makes most girls attractive. But he winnowed out the cute girl with glasses and the beautiful overweight one, both of which could suggest a hereditary condition that might not sit well with prospective baby buyers. Ignored, too, was the blond with the upscale, shining new megastroller, who probably came from a more affluent section of town.

Fenniger made no move to leave his car, just surreptitiously snapped photos, camera lens resting on top of his paper, as if he was still reading. When one of h

is choices lifted a dark-skinned baby from the stroller, to adjust his hat, his number of candidates dropped to three.

His favorite seemed to be a strawberry blond with a quick smile. When she headed toward the sidewalk, his reverse lights came on... until an older model sedan pulled into the lot, a middle-aged woman jumping out to help her daughter get the baby into his car seat.

His next choice headed to a bus stop across the street with two other girls. Fenniger eased the car into the spot behind his. It lacked the cover of the minivan and SUV, but would be easy to slide out of quickly when the bus arrived.

As he watched her, he pulled at his lower lip, head slightly tilted, gaze sliding now and then to option three, a girl with dark curls swaddling her baby against the chill as she cooed at him.

I knew what he was thinking. Option two wasn't as pretty as three, but she was blond and fair, whereas three seemed to have Mediterranean blood, and could be a tougher sell. Yet three was alone while two laughed and chatted with her friends, more vivacious, probably more popular, with more people to miss her. And number two hadn't so much as glanced in the stroller since leaving the building, while three couldn't take her eyes off her baby. Which would be the happier, healthier, better adjusted child? More important, which would provide those important "happy mother and child" photos?

I knew what he'd decided. When the dark-haired girl bundled her baby into his shabby stroller, he turned his car off, then got out. He spent a couple of minutes fussing with things in the vehicle, working out the kinks from sitting while giving her time to get a head start.

"Yes, I'm following," I said when Jack glanced my way. "I'll leave a big gap. With that stroller, she's not going to break into a sprint and disappear. Even you could probably keep up."

"Want me to? I follow direct? You circle the block?"

I shook my head. "I'd rather you wait here in case he comes back for the other girl."

I waited until the girl reached the first street corner, with Fenniger tailing twenty paces behind, then I got out of the car.

Chapter Twenty-six

I followed Fenniger for three blocks. The origin of his nom de guerre quickly became apparent. At least an inch shorter than me, skinny, with a pinched face, he looked like a community theater actor trying to imitate Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, right down to the shuffling walk.

The girl finally turned into a three-story walkup. I was a few paces from a bus shelter, so I veered in there, where I could stand around without looking obvious.

Fenniger went about ten feet past the doors, then backed up, straining to see a street number. Finding it, he nodded, took an envelope from under his jacket, and hurried into the building. Playing delivery guy - an easy way to get in.

Five minutes later, he came out, having seen where the girl went, whether she let herself in, and whether a roomie answered her knock.

He scanned the street - low-income housing on one side and storefronts on the other. Then he crossed and went into a tiny Tim Hortons coffee shop, probably settling in for a longer stakeout.

I called Jack.

"I need to find a better place to hang out," I said. "I see another coffee shop a few doors down but it looks dead. Might be closed. The Tim Hortons is packed. I could probably - "

"No."

"I'll head to the other one, then, and call you when I'm settled."

The coffee shop wasn't closed, but I suspected it soon would be. A shame, really. One step inside and you knew the place had been there forever. The faint smell of cigarettes, worn into the walls long before antismoking bylaws. The grooves in the floor from chairs being pulled in and out, day after day, year after year. Yellowing newspaper articles on the walls, trumpeting the triumphs of countless Little League and soccer teams the owner had sponsored.

But now, only the most steadfast customers remained, all the other regulars probably circling the block guiltily to get their daily double-double at Timmy's. Can't say I've ever understood the appeal. The coffee's decent enough, but the rabid devotion the chain inspires is enough to make one suspect there's something more addictive than caffeine in those beans.

With only a few tables in use, I easily got one by the window. Five minutes later, Jack walked in. I waved him over.

"What can I get you?" I asked. "I'd have grabbed it, but I wasn't sure whether you'd want decaf, too." On a job, any stimulant was a no-no, but this wasn't really a job.

"Decaf's good."