Once the Windows logo disappears and the desktop pops up, I click the mouse several times to bring up the Tor browser. It’s something that Scooter—an old friend and team member, who died saving my life—had once advised me to use what feels like a lifetime ago, but every time I use it now I think of Gabriela. It’s been almost a year since she was killed by narcos. Gabriela knew being a journalist was dangerous, especially where she lived in Mexico, but that hadn’t stopped her.
Tor is designed to keep websites from tracking your movements or location. Whenever I use the Internet now—and I rarely do—I use the browser.
I bring up Google and then do a search for “leila simmons” and “little angels adoption agency.” The main website for Little Angels Adoption Agency is the first website listed. I scan the site, which looks legit. Real pictures of real people, not stock photos.
On the staff tab, I find Leila Simmons listed as an assistant director. She looks to be in her late-forties. Hispanic. She has a warm smile with dark eyes and curly black hair.
The phone number and email address below her picture match the same ones on the business card.
The number scrawled on the back of the business card, however, isn’t anywhere on the website. Not that I expected it to be. It’s probably a cell phone number. Most likely her personal cell phone number.
I close out of the website and Google Leila Simmons’s name again. She has a LinkedIn account as well as a Facebook account. A few other websites mention her name, too, websites focused on adoption. One site congratulates her on winning a humanitarian award.
I close the Tor browser, wipe down the keyboard and mouse with a Clorox wipe, and head out into the main room. As expected, Mr. Tucker is chuckling at something on his computer.
Gloria stands behind the counter, checking in the books and DVDs from yesterday.
“Did you wipe everything down?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good. I suggest you head home and get some sleep if you’re not feeling well. Maybe make yourself some chicken noodle soup.”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope Howard is feeling better.”
Gloria’s ever-present smile falters for a second.
“Yes, dear. So do I.”
I swing by the computers to wish Mr. Tucker a good day. He lifts his hand in my direction as he continues to chuckle. When I get close enough, I see a hedgehog on the screen, balled up and floating in a tub of water.
The second I get in my car I pull out one of the disposable phones. I’ve already loaded this one with minutes, and as I pull out of the parking lot, I’ve dialed the number on the back of the business card and listen to it ring four times before somebody answers.
“Hello?”
A soft voice. Feminine.
“Is this Leila Simmons?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I found something you may be interested in.”
“Who is this?”
“What I found was in a duffel bag, along with a yellow Velcro wallet.”
A long pause on the woman’s end. When she speaks next, her voice has become a low whisper.
“Is the baby okay?”
I’m not shocked by her question. Somehow I knew she would know about the baby. Still, it’s unnerving to hear her ask it so simply.
“Yes.”
“And what of Juana?”
Juana is presumably the girl I saw last night covered in blood. The one who thrust the duffel bag—and the baby inside it—in my arms minutes before she was struck by a car. The girl who had five crisp one-hundred dollar bills in her wallet along with a card for the woman I now have on the phone.
When I don’t immediately answer, Leila Simmons sucks in air and sounds like she’s ready to cry. Her whisper becomes somehow even quieter.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Seven
At ten minutes to noon, Leila Simmons pulls into the parking lot of the roadside diner. She drives a forest green Volkswagen Jetta, its left rear hubcap missing. She steps out of the car wearing sunglasses, but I recognize her from the pictures on the Little Angels’ website. She’s a bit taller than she looked from the picture, but maybe that’s because of the heels. Despite the fact it’s the weekend, she’d dressed professionally, like she’s about to attend a meeting. Which in a way is true. Only it’s not the type of meeting the woman probably has in mind.
Leila enters the diner and looks around the place, up one row and down another, and when she doesn’t see anybody wave to her she lets a waitress lead her to a booth. The waitress returns a minute later with a mug of a coffee, and Leila thanks her as she reaches for the creamers on the table.
I wait until twelve o’clock exactly before I dial Leila’s personal cell phone.
By that point she’s sipping at the coffee, glancing at her watch every thirty seconds, sometimes reading something on her cell phone. Leila is about to take another sip when her phone rings. She pauses, squints at the phone lying on the tabletop, sets the mug down and hesitantly holds the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Change of plans.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve decided I want to meet someplace else.”
“What do you—but this is where you said you wanted to meet.”
“Yes, originally. Now I’ve changed my mind.”
I’m positioned across the highway in a truck stop parking lot. Parked so I’m facing the diner across the highway. I have a good view of Leila from where I am, so I can see how frustrated she’s getting, closing her eyes as her hand reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose.
She says, almost too quietly, “I
