“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll look into it for a couple of days. If I can’t see a way forward, I’ll let you know. I don’t want to take your money for nothing.”
“Well, that’s fair. I see why they like you.”
It’s why I’m barely eking out a living, Georgia thought. Aloud, she said, “How about I swing by later today?”
Chapter 3
There was no “other side of the tracks” in Glencoe, an affluent suburb on Chicago’s North Shore. At the southern edge of the village, though, not far from Green Bay and Washington, a small black community had taken root in the 1880s. It was largely dispersed now, but at one time it was the only African American neighborhood between Evanston and Lake Forest. Reggie and Shelly Field lived in a small older brick house near the old St. Paul AME Church, and as she pulled up Georgia wondered if the place had once belonged to a black family.
It was a crisp, sunny day, the roads were wet with melting snow, and the ground smelled earthy. Chicago was in the midst of a January thaw. As she climbed out of her Toyota, Georgia caught her reflection in the car window. She’d bundled up before she left home, but now she loosened her muffler and flicked her long blond hair over it. The shades she wore masked brown eyes, but they made her nose seem sharper and more prominent. Not much she could do about that. The weather was so mild she unzipped her parka, displaying her fisherman’s sweater and jeans.
She mounted three concrete steps to a tiny porch surrounded by an iron banister. The screen door had one of those initials in the center, in this case, a cursive F. She pressed a buzzer to the right of the latch.
The woman who opened the door was not what Georgia expected. She’d anticipated an elderly woman with no shape and flyaway gray hair. To her surprise, Shelly Field was thin, with black hair and red lipstick. She wore a stylish warm-up suit and had that taut, stretched skin that comes from a facelift or two. Is that where the profits from the store went?
“Shelly?” Georgia said. “I’m Georgia Davis.”
Shelly appraised her, frowning slightly. Georgia wondered if she’d expected something different too. Then she opened the door wider. “Come in. Reggie’s anxious to meet you.”
Shelly’s tone, clipped and businesslike, was so different from her phone personality that Georgia was taken aback. No whining, no sour grapes. Did she hide that side of her from her husband? The woman led her into a small living room with overstuffed furniture, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and ornate gilded picture frames. The sharp odor of ammonia drifted over the room, announcing the presence of a cat, which, on cue, jumped down from a chair, blinked, then without a sound swished its tail and skulked out of the room.
Reggie Field lay on a brocade sofa, clutching an iPad. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind him. He was a big guy, bald except for few strands of comb-over gray. His hair was longer on the sides and back and had the consistency of steel wool. His nose was tiny and turned up like a pug’s. A gauze bandage with adhesive tape covered one cheek, and Georgia saw a nasty abrasion on his chin.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, not bothering to paste on a smile.
Shelly sat in the chair the cat had vacated and motioned Georgia into its mate on the other side of the coffee table.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Field?” Georgia asked.
“I’ll live. And call me Reggie. Everyone does.”
She nodded. “As I told Shelly, there may not be much I can do that the police and your insurance company haven’t already done.”
His eyebrows arched. “Oh yes, there is. I can vouch for it.”
Georgia inclined her head.
He set his iPad down and with a huge effort sat up. His weight settled in his gut, making him look like an overripe pear.
“I’m gonna save you a lot of time.” His expression tightened, and he poked a finger at Georgia. “I fired my assistant manager last week. Name of Chase Bartell. He’s behind the whole thing, but I can’t prove it.”
Georgia straightened. “Tell me.”
“He was dealing drugs right out of the front of the store. Cocaine, reefer, pills. Caught him red-handed.”
Georgia hadn’t heard anyone use the word “reefer” in years.
“I got him on the security tape. Fired his ass right away. After the flash rob, I turned everything over to the cops. Told them exactly what happened and who was behind it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Bubkes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except that the tape showed up on YouTube.”
Georgia frowned.
“Bartell’s a snot-nosed rich kid from Northfield. I was doing his parents a favor. They begged me. Said he needed something to keep him out of trouble. So, I think, okay, I’m a nice guy. I’ll give the kid a chance. I shudda known. He was doing something, all right.” Reggie’s face darkened. “The cops wanted to file charges, but the parents hired a fine and fancy lawyer who makes a big deal that the tape isn’t clear enough and doesn’t really show a drug transaction. And that there’s no way in hell anyone could connect his client to the flash mob.”
“But you say otherwise?”
“Damn right I do.” He shook his head angrily. “I gave their kid a chance. And this is how they repay me?”
Georgia kept her mouth shut. She had worked with video specialists in the past and knew all sorts of magic could enhance images that would stand up in court. The fact that the cops or the State’s Attorney hadn’t gone that route suggested that the Bartells—or their lawyer—had clout or great connections or both.
“Then, well, bottom line, the cops decide not to pursue charges after all, and the kid gets off. Not even a fucking slap on the wrist.”
“But you think he was out for revenge and set up the hit on the store.”
“I know he was,” Reggie said. “The kid was pissed. He threatened me when I fired him.”
“Did the police check his cell phone? His Facebook friends? All that?”
“Said they did. Said he’s clean. But I’m telling you he ain’t. I know the little bastard did it. That’s why I called you.”
Chapter 4
That night Georgia pored over the surveillance tapes of the flash rob on her computer. Reggie was telling the truth. The digital files on YouTube consisted of a series of staccato images, all wide shots of the store from various overhead angles. She could clearly see the kids stuffing clothes into their pants pockets, backpacks, and jackets, but she couldn’t see their faces. Even so, Georgia felt a chill. The marriage of technology and bad intentions had created an entirely new kind of crime: impulsive, passionless, and organized by smartphones on the spur of the moment. It was a powerful warning of what could happen to a society where envy, a sense of entitlement, and electronic toys converged.
She clicked on the file that was supposed to show the drug deal going down. A tall, lanky white boy was at the register, while another kid, presumably Chase Bartell, stood behind the counter. Something changed hands, but whether it was a packet of drugs, money, or just a credit card wasn’t clear. Georgia was surprised the cops hadn’t pursued it. If she were still on the force, she would have. She went back to the YouTube tape. All the police needed to do was connect one face or phone number to the flash rob. Just one. Had they started to make an effort but then dropped it? If so, the Bartells’ or their attorney’s clout was serious.
She drummed her fingers on her desk, making sure she tapped each finger the same number of times. Had to make them all come out even. She’d requested Chase Bartell’s cell phone records from a contact who did that kind of thing under the radar. While she waited she clicked onto Facebook. Chase Bartell’s profile was typical of high school students: grandiose pronouncements, lots of cursing, and a pseudo-cynical philosophy. Nothing hidden or private. Georgia studied his friends list. She found two boys, one African American and one Hispanic, who lived on the South Side. Looking them up, she compared their photos to the surveillance tape. There wasn’t a lot of definition, but she thought
the Hispanic boy might have been on the tape.
She wrote down his name and his Facebook moniker so she could cross-reference him later. People should only know how easy it was to be a PI these days. She’d worked hard for her license, but so much information was online now, just waiting to be viewed, collated, and analyzed, that almost anyone could set up as an investigator. And teenagers were so oblivious to anything other than themselves, they never imagined their information could be used in a way they hadn’t intended.
She got up and stretched. She could take a break. Go down to Mickey’s for a drink. If she did, though, she wouldn’t make it home until late. And she’d drink way too much. She glanced around her living room. Her décor was bare-bones neutral; she had never been into possessions. With a beige sofa, brown chairs, coffee table, and small area rug, it was obvious that only one person lived here. She wondered if that would ever change. On this chilly January night, for example, she would have loved— She forced herself to stop. It was what it was.
The cheerful chime of her email told her the cell phone records had arrived. She went back to her computer. The kid’s cell was registered to Stephen and Marlene Bartell. They had a family plan, and her contact had obligingly provided all four cell numbers. Four phones for three people—what was that about? She checked them all. One had a lot of calls to the 312 area code. Downtown Chicago. The two others were mostly calls to 847. The North Shore. One phone hadn’t been used at all. She’d have to trace them all. It would be tiresome. Then again, that’s why she was a PI.
Two hours later, she was satisfied the cells were clean. No suspicious or disposable numbers. And the cops had the same records. That was probably why they’d passed. This case was going to take more than a superficial effort. In fact, since she’d begun, all she’d done was duplicate their work. Facebook and other social media were the first places cops checked when there were crimes by juveniles. The only thing she had going for her was that the cops hadn’t cracked the case either.
Chapter 5
Saturday morning Georgia drove to the affluent part of Northfield where Chase Bartell lived. The January thaw was a distant memory; it had snowed three inches last night. The roads were clear and the air carried the brittle chill of winter. Georgia layered up, energized at the prospect of a little old-fashioned surveillance. She fished out her tiny video camera and slipped it in her pocket with her iPhone.
She pulled up to a huge white brick colonial off Happ Road with a three-car garage, an enormous entrance door, and a fenced-in backyard that held a tennis court. She frowned. Why would a kid who lived here, where the sense of entitlement was so broad and deep you could swim laps in it, work at a cheap clothing store in Evanston? His hourly wage wouldn’t pay for a tank of gas. Maybe Reggie Field was right and the kid’s parents were trying to instill some kind of work ethic in him. If so, she should cut them some slack. It had been a good idea. The problem was that they’d succeeded too well. The kid had marshaled his organizational skills and talent to destroy his boss’s business.
She ran the Toyota’s heat intermittently, prepared to stake out the house all day. An hour later, though, around ten, the kid came out. He slid into a red four-by-four, keyed the engine, and took off. Georgia tailed him at a discreet distance as he turned onto Happ Road, then twisted and threaded his way southeast.
The kid stopped in front of a redbrick ranch home in Wilmette and honked. Georgia parked a hundred yards away. While not as upscale as Northfield, Wilmette was itself a well-heeled North Shore village. What was Chase doing there? Making a delivery? A buy? She pulled out her camera and started recording. Moments later the front door opened, and a fresh-faced brunette bounded out and climbed into the SUV.
The kid turned the car around and headed back down the street. As he passed Georgia, she slumped and averted her face. Once they were gone, she started following again, glad they were teenagers who’d never check for a tail.
They soon arrived in Evanston. Like the suburbs they’d just come from, the affluent part of Evanston was north, the seedier section south. Chase flew through the Northwestern campus down to Main Street. He made two more turns and ended up at a small apartment building with iron bars on the windows. He honked again. Georgia, fifty yards away, picked up her camera and started shooting. An African American kid in extra-large sweats but no coat emerged, hands in pockets. He looked in both directions, then made his way to Chase’s car and leaned against the driver’s side. The window lowered.
A conversation between Chase and him ensued. No. It was an argument. Twice the black kid poked his index finger at the kid’s chest, after which Chase flipped up his hands as if to say, “What do you want me to do?” The black kid motioned Chase out of his car. Nothing happened, and Georgia suspected the girl was telling Chase not to get out. But when the kid gestured again, Chase reluctantly climbed out. Something was happening. A moment later, Chase spun around and beckoned the girl. She got out of the SUV and trotted over. Then she dug out her cell, handed it to Chase, and watched as he made a call.
Georgia got it on tape.
Chapter 6
It didn’t take long to track the girl’s cell. The owner of the Wilmette home was Carol Chernikoff. Georgia emailed her phone contact asking for the woman’s records. Her contact wasn’t pleased and complained that she was using up her favors; he wasn’t a goddammed 411. He had to be careful too. Georgia told him she’d pay extra. An hour later she had the records for two cells: one for Carol Chernikoff, and one for Carol and Emily Chernikoff. Mother and daughter.
The mother’s cell showed mostly calls to the 847 area code, the North Shore. Emily’s records, on the other hand, displayed a slew of calls to area codes 312 and 773, both in Chicago. Her calls spanned a three-week period, then abruptly stopped. Georgia checked the last day calls were made on her cell. Her pulse sped up. Ten calls. The morning of the robbery.
When Georgia tried the numbers, most of them came back as “unregistered,” which meant they were prepaid disposables or burners. Adrenaline pumped through her. She was close. All she needed was one number that wasn’t a burner. That belonged to a living, breathing person. A person who just might have gotten a call telling him to show up at Designer Discount Den just after the store opened.
She was carefully examining the cell records when her land line phone rang. Startled, she leaned over and picked it up. Name withheld. No caller ID. She considered not answering it. It could be the killer who did the drive-by closing in on her. Or not.
“Hello?”
There was no response. In the background she could hear two voices. Indistinct. Sounded like a male, one female.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” It was probably someone butt-dialing her. But that would mean she was on someone’s contact list, and she couldn’t imagine whose. She didn’t have many friends. Except Sam.
“Hey!” she yelled into the phone. “Sam! Is that you?”
A female voice in the background spiked. “No! I won’t!”
Georgia heard anger, but underneath the anger was fear. “Sam… are you there?”
A male voice cut off the female. Equally angry. Like he was issuing an order.
The female replied. Petulant, and still scared, but Georgia couldn’t make out the words. Seconds later, she was cut off by a sudden crack. Or slap. Or shot. The line went dead.
Georgia stared at her cell, wondering what the hell had just happened. She let out a nervous breath and punched in Sam’s number. After three rings, Sam’s voice mail kicked in. Georgia left a message. “Call me. Something weird just happened, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
She hung up. Who besides Sam had her number on speed dial? Maybe Ellie Foreman. She usually checked in once a month. Pete, her former neighbor who had gone back to his wife but still kept in touch. And her clients. Should she call them to make sure? No, that was overkill. She should just forget the call.
She went back to the cell records. Twenty minutes later she had it. One of the 312 numb
ers “Emily” called on the morning of the robbery was a landline registered to Tabitha Jefferson in Englewood on the South Side. When she cross-checked the woman’s street address on a public White Pages database, the Englewood address listed three other occupants, including someone named Willard, whose age was listed between fifteen and twenty.
All the cops had to do now was establish the daisy chain between “Emily’s” calls to Tabitha Jefferson and other calls made by either “Emily” or “Ms. Jefferson.” Georgia knew they’d find some. She picked up her phone to call the Fields.
Chapter 7
Savannah—A Year Earlier
The car smelled like stale weed and something sweet that could have been either doughnuts or cookies. Vanna climbed in the front; Dex was behind the wheel. He gave her a toothy smile, which was unusual. Dex was a neo-Goth; he never smiled. His hair was long and stringy, he wore black clothes and even blacker eye shadow, and he claimed to know Dylan Klebold’s little brother. Klebold was one of the jerks who shot up Columbine years earlier, then killed himself. Vanna wasn’t sure Klebold even had a brother, but it didn’t matter. Goths were uncool.
Vanna ignored his smile and looked around. It was dark outside, but a lamppost threw a shadowy light across the car. Still, she couldn’t see much. “So where’s the shit? I gotta be home by ten.”
Dex’s grin widened, showing off uneven teeth. He liked to make her wait, even grovel. She felt her eyes narrow. This was the worst part—making nice to guys to get what she wanted. But if she wanted to get high, and she most definitely did, she had to put up with it. Compared to some, Dex wasn’t so bad. Not like Jason, the creep she’d been scoring from a few months ago. He demanded a BJ even before he’d talk business. Smelly too.
Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) Page 2