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shirt toward her and pulled on his jeans.
Dressed in Cliff’s shirt that hung down to mid-thigh, Jenna padded barefooted into the kitchen.
Brutus danced around her, eager for some affection and food.
While she fed the dog, Cliff laid out the barbecue.
They ate, talking about dogs, their childhoods and anything but the case. When they were done, they straightened the kitchen, put away the food and sent Brutus out for one more potty break.
When they came back inside, they raced for the bedroom and fell, laughing onto her bed, and made love again.
Exhausted, they lay in each other’s arms.
Jenna’s thoughts drifted back to Baby Blakely. “We’re missing something,” she whispered.
He didn’t ask her what she was talking about. “Yes, we are.”
“I get the feeling the clue we’re looking for has to do with the employee ID. Someone took it from Whitley’s house and put it back.” Jenna sat up in the bed and reached for her phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Detective Schwope.”
“It’s getting late,” Cliff said.
Jenna glanced at the clock. “It’s only nine. He’ll be awake.”
Before she could call the number, her phone rang in her hand. Hank Patterson’s caller ID appeared on the screen.
“This is Jenna,” she answered.
“Hank here. I have Swede on speaker. He’s found some interesting information you need to know.”
Her gut clenched as she put her phone on speaker. “Shoot.”
CHAPTER 12
“Hey, Special Agent Jenkins. Swede here.” Hank’s computer guru’s voice was deep and decisive, with an underlying gentleness that made Cliff feel confident the man had people's best interests at heart.
“Using the databases you suggested, we combed through the facial recognition hits and found a few guys matching Larry’s photo.” Swede drew in a breath and let it out on a sigh. “Of course, there’s Larry Sutton in Billings, Montana. There’s also Lawrence Sanders in Fargo, North Dakota. Leonard Sweeney in Salt Lake City has been married to Darlene Sweeney for nine years, and they have two children based on their income tax returns and public birth records.”
“The asshole has a girl in every port,” Cliff said.
“Exactly,” Hank said. “The Montana and North Dakota Larrys don’t have much to go on besides the driver’s licenses and addresses. Swede found your sister’s name linked to the post office address system in Billings. A Sandra Neal is linked to the address in Fargo. And, get this, Sandra Neal recently had a baby and gave it up for adoption, with Lawrence Sanders signing off on the birth certificate as the father.”
“Let me guess,” Jenna met Cliff’s gaze. “The adoption agency is Little Angels.”
“Bingo,” Swede said. “I tapped into Lawrence Sanders’s credit report, which isn’t good. He has maxed out three high-dollar credit cards, the largest charges incurred in Las Vegas casinos. He owes over fifty thousand dollars.”
Jenna whistled. “He’s an adulterer, con artist and a gambler.” She shook her head. “My sister was smart to leave the jerk.”
“It gets even more interesting,” Hank said. “He had a large deposit made to his bank in Fargo from a corporation called LACube out of a bank based in Grand Cayman.”
“LACube?” Jenna frowned.
“As in LAAA?” Cliff asked.
“That would be our guess,” Hank said. “Little Angels Adoption Agency.”
