Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Okay.” She holstered her gun, lowered the light, and walked past him into the other room where the air mattress was . She hoped there were no bedbugs or roaches nesting in it . “You can get your bottle now.”

  Chapter 29

  The homeless man raised questions for which Georgia had no answers, so she swung back to Benny’s to wait for Bruce Kreisman. An hour later he hadn’t shown up, so she went inside. It was midafternoon but business was still brisk. She ordered a bowl of matzoh-ball soup to go, and when they handed her the white bag at the takeout counter, she asked about Kreisman.

  “Oh, he no here,” one of the Hispanic women said, her accent thick.

  Georgia frowned. “Your delivery guy just left?”

  “Sí. Almost una hora, one hour now.”

  “Did he say where he was going? Or when he’d be back?”

  The woman shook her head. “He say he have important business. But you know, boss is no happy. He could fire.” She clucked her tongue. “You wan’ I tell him you come?”

  It was Georgia’s turn to shake her head. “It’s not important.” She carried her soup back to the car, not liking the fact that he was doing some “business.” Especially since she’d given him her card.

  She ate her soup in the car, then headed to the Eisenhower. She figured she could make it to Oakbrook where Susie’s Café was before rush hour. But traffic was building and progress was slow, which gave her time to eye the billboards on the side of the freeway. Signs for McDonald’s, a gambling casino, and a car dealer flashed by, but after those was a black billboard with a photo of a pregnant African American girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve. Fuchsia letters blasted the words “People who have sex with children are criminals. Stop teen pregnancy.”

  Georgia gripped the wheel. She wasn’t a proponent of unmarried pregnancy without a damn good reason. Despite her Catholic upbringing, she used to recommend abortions for the pregnant hookers she busted when she was on patrol. Until the day she’d been downtown at a museum and wandered into a shamelessly pro-life exhibit. She mentally prepared herself not to be swayed, but one of the display cases showed actual three-dimensional models of what fetuses looked like at various stages of pregnancy. Even at twelve weeks, the model looked remarkably like a tiny baby. When she realized those tiny beings were alive, she’d had to flee the museum. Once in a while, images of those babies still came unbidden.

  She snapped on the radio. The all-news station was predicting four to five new inches of snow, and a few errant snowflakes were already landing on her windshield. She would be caught in traffic after all.

  Chapter 30

  Susie’s Café occupied the corner of a shopping center in Oakbrook between Chico’s and a jewelry store. Red and blue signs promised a Euro cheerfulness, which was enhanced by blue-checked plastic tablecloths inside, replicas of windmills on the walls, and lots of travel posters. The place was nearly empty, and only one woman was behind the counter, but the meager offerings of pastries and sandwiches in the display case indicated either that lunch had been successful or that the place was on its last legs.

  Georgia approached the woman, who was wearing a blue-checked gingham dress with an apron tied around her waist. She looked ridiculous.

  “Hi,” she said, trying to sound pleasant.

  The woman gave her a curt nod. Not the warmest of welcomes. Did she feel as foolish as she looked?

  “I’m in the mood for something sweet.” Georgia smiled.

  “Well”—the woman waved her hand toward a line of pastries—“we only have these left.”

  Georgia pretended to study them but tried to peer through the display case to see if there was any wrap on the counter. Nothing. She glanced up. “Glad business is so good.”

  The woman’s gave her a blank look. Maybe it wasn’t.

  “I can’t decide. Why don’t you recommend something? Oh, and it’s to go. I need to get home before the snow starts.”

  The woman studied her for a moment, then slid the display case open and removed a small apple crumb cake. “How about this?”

  “Perfect. How much?”

  “Four fifty-nine.”

  “Okay. Could you wrap it for me?”

  The woman disappeared into the back with the crumb cake.

  Georgia shifted her weight. A moment later the woman reappeared with a small white bag. Did every restaurant use white bags? Georgia dug out a five from her wallet and peeked into the bag while the woman rang it up. It had been wrapped, but the wrapper was very different from Benny’s. It was a tissue decorated with blue and white checks, not the red and yellow stripes Benny’s used. Georgia pulled out the pastry. “Oh, what a nice wrapping,” she said.

  The woman scowled as if Georgia had just said the lamest thing in the world. Which she had.

  “It matches the tablecloths,” the woman said in a dull voice.

  Georgia glanced at a table. “It sure does.” Then she said, “You know, when I was here before, I thought I remembered the wrapping being red and yellow. Or at least it had those colors in it.”

  The woman’s expression seemed to imply “What kind of idiot focuses on the wrap?” But Georgia was the customer. “We haven’t used those in six months. We upgraded.” Her listless emphasis on the word “upgraded” made Georgia think the woman didn’t give a damn about wraps one way or the other.

  “Six months? It’s been that long since I’ve been here?” She paused. “I guess time really does fly.” Oh God. Couldn’t she do better than that?

  The woman tilted her head, but her scowl deepened. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Chapter 31

  Back in her car Georgia unwrapped the pastry and took a huge bite. The baked apple, tart and gooey, combined with the crisp, sweet topping was delicious. She savored the taste and mulled over what she’d learned. It wasn’t a sure bet, but it was looking like Benny’s was the only restaurant using the wrap that “Savannah” had written on. Which meant, assuming the note was genuine, that Savannah might be connected to the warehouse in the West Loop.

  She took another bite of pastry. She could trace the owner of the warehouse when she got home, see who popped up. Now, though, she needed to concentrate on her driving. The snow had intensified and was falling at a steady rate. Visibility was practically nil. Traffic was at a standstill on I-294, so she tried going east on surface streets. Still, the drive from Oakbrook to Evanston took more than two hours. By the time she pulled into a parking spot near her apartment, the apple crumb cake was long gone and the snow was dancing horizontally across the streetlights.

  She pulled up her collar, braced herself, and slogged to the door of her building. She stopped to retrieve her mail. A few bills, but also an unfamiliar white envelope. She turned it over. The return address was “Precision Labs.” She sucked in a breath. The DNA results. She fingered the envelope. Thicker than one page, but not much more.

  Inside she put the envelope on her desk. She carefully took off her coat, hat, and gloves and hung them up, as if she might need to remember exactly what she did and when she did it. Then she started to pace around her apartment.

  The truth could hide—she’d known that as a cop and knew it now as a PI—but eventually it worked its way to the surface. It might take years. Even a lifetime. But what would she do if she did know the truth? If Savannah and she were related, it would require a fundamental rearrangement of her emotional life. Her mother had borne another daughter. She had a sister she’d never known.

  But did that mean she was supposed to be her sister’s savior? And if so, for how long? What if she couldn’t stand the girl? Where were the rules for that? And who the hell wrote the handbook?

  She let out a long breath, stopped pacing, and went back to her desk. She picked up the envelope and ripped it open. Two pages fell out. She scanned the first page, a chart titled “Sibling Report (Half vs Unrelated)—Legal Test.” On the left were a series of incompre
hensible letters and numbers under the heading “Genetic Markers.” Across from each marker were two columns headed by the words “Allele A” and “Allele B.” Underneath those columns were more numbers. Finally on the right was a column titled “Likelihood Ratio” with yet more numbers, although they were smaller than the others.

  She had no idea what all the numbers meant and skipped to the second page, which included the interpretation. She read through a paragraph of qualifications, which basically said the absence of the birth mother’s DNA prevented them from drawing a more definitive conclusion. She bit her lip. The report went on to say that a ninety-one percent probability was considered the lowest possible level for which one could say two individuals were related.

  “Okay, okay,” she muttered. “What’s the bottom line?”

  The last two lines told her. “Based on the genetic results, the alleged half siblings are 23,780 times more likely to be related as half siblings than to be unrelated. The Probability of Relatedness as Half Siblings is ninety-five point five percent.”

  Chapter 32

  Sleep wouldn’t come and Georgia lay in bed listening to the swish of the wind. She finally dozed off before dawn, but the growl of a snowplow woke her. She went to the window, raised the shade, then lowered it again. The new blanket of snow was glazed with an unapologetic sun, as if it was mocking her for her lack of sleep.

  She brewed a pot of coffee and took a mug to her computer. She clicked onto the Cook County Assessor’s website, clicked “Search by address,” typed in the address of the warehouse, and pushed enter. Seconds later she had the warehouse’s property index number, or PIN, a unique fourteen-digit number assigned to every piece of real estate in Cook County. Armed with that, she went to the Cook County Treasurer’s Office website, pulled down the “Property search” portal, and entered the PIN. Less than a minute later, the tax payments for the warehouse popped up. Along with the payments was the most recent owner of record, a corporation named Executives Unlimited. The contact for the corporation, which, according to the website, had purchased the property a year earlier, was attorney Chad G. Coe.

  She smiled. A property search used to take an entire day. She would have to drive downtown to the Assessor’s Office, wait, fill out a form, then wait some more. Then she’d go to the Treasurer’s Office and do it all over again. Today that process could be accomplished in less than five minutes. She wished she could high-five her computer. Instead, she Googled Chad G. Coe.

  There weren’t a lot of mentions. He had no website, but he was on LinkedIn. She clicked on the URL. His profile was thin. He was listed as an attorney in the Greater Chicago area. But it didn’t include any previous employment history, education, or specialty areas. She tapped a finger. Every attorney had a specialty, even if it was more fantasy than reality. She looked for the last update he’d made on LinkedIn. Nothing within the past three years.

  She sipped her coffee. Chad Coe wasn’t advertising or promoting himself. No “All inquiries welcome.” No mention of clients. And no references. He looked to be flying under the radar. Why? She went to the Illinois Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Commission’s website and discovered why. After she entered his name, she saw he’d been suspended from the bar for stealing his clients’ money three years earlier. The legal wording was “Not authorized to practice law as an attorney.” But the suspension was only temporary. He had been reinstated a year ago.

  There was an address for him somewhere in Riverwoods, a small but affluent suburb west of Deerfield. She wrote it down. Then she checked one of her private databases and found a phone number at the Riverwoods address. She called the number, making sure to first block her caller ID, but discovered it had been disconnected. Which made her wonder if the address would lead to a dead end, too.

  Chapter 33

  Twenty minutes later Georgia pulled up to a building in Rogers Park with a sign proclaiming, “Paul Kelly: Lawyer & Insurance Agent.” Kelly was a lawyer she’d worked with during her first big homicide case. His office consisted of two large but sparsely furnished rooms on Morse Street. She stopped in the coffee shop three doors down and bought two coffees. She tried to remember how he took his; one sugar, no cream, she thought. Armed with steaming cups, she pushed through the door.

  The light was on in the front room, but the door to his office was partially closed. Even so, she could hear him on the phone. “Yes, rates are going up. They’re trying to jack ’em up before ACA is fully implemented.” There was a pause. “Of course it is. But you ever known an altruistic insurance company? They’re not charitable institutions, you know.” A few more words, then she heard the sound of the phone being slipped into the cradle.

  She walked in. “Hey, Kelly, how’s the insurance biz?” She used to tease him he was hedging his bets—if he couldn’t make it as a lawyer, he had a fallback. In reality he was an excellent lawyer.

  “Don’t let it get around,” he’d shot back. “I make good money from insurance.”

  Now he swiveled around in his chair where he’d been gazing out the window. “Davis. What a surprise!” He gave her a broad smile, which the deep frown lines on his sixtysomething forehead said he didn’t do often. “What brings you down here?”

  “I thought you could use some coffee.” She handed it to him. He nodded, took the coffee with one hand, and motioned her into a chair with the other. He wasn’t a big man, and he always wore the same thing: a shabby navy jacket, khaki pants, and a blue shirt. Fluorescent light bounced off his shiny bald head.

  He doctored his coffee methodically, throwing the sugar packet in the trash before he stirred his drink with a wooden stick. Satisfied, he brought the coffee to his lips.

  “So what’s up? I have a feeling this isn’t a social call.”

  “I was hoping you could get me some information about a lawyer.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was suspended from the bar two years, according to ARDC.”

  “Dipped into the client’s trust account, did he?”

  Georgia tilted her head. “How did you know?”

  “That’s the most common reason lawyers get suspended.”

  “I didn’t know.” She paused. “Paul, I need to know more, but I don’t want to work my way through the hearing transcripts.” She could get them if she went online, but she didn’t want to admit she was dyslexic. Plowing through them would take hours. “Can you run down the case for me? Don’t you have a friend on the board or something?”

  “She’s a clerk. But it’s the same thing.” He grinned. “You want I should give her a call?”

  “That would be great.”

  “For you, Davis. Only for you.”

  He put on a pair of reading glasses, spun his circular black Rolodex—the old-fashioned kind with white cards you don’t see much these days—found what he was looking for, and picked up the phone. He paused, took a sip of coffee, then punched in the numbers.

  “Jamie? Hi, Paul Kelly here. Hey, I need a favor. Yeah. Suspended by the Supreme Court.” He covered the phone. “Who and when?”

  “Chad Coe. About three years ago.”

  Kelly repeated the information, then laughed. “I’d wait for you until the clock strikes thirteen, sweetheart.” He sipped his coffee, played with the telephone cord, and whispered to Georgia. “She’s checking. Got everything all computerized. Easy, peasy.”

  Georgia nodded.

  He waved her off, then sat up straighter. “Yeah, uh-huh. Hold on. Lemme get some paper.” He grabbed a sheet and a pen. “Okay. When? Uh-huh. Really? How? Okay. I got it. Thanks.”

  He hung up and studied his notes. “Well, I don’t know what your dealings are with this guy, but I hope you got—or get—your money’s worth.”

  “Because…”

  “Chad Coe apparently has or had a gambling habit. Sports mostly. Bookies, racetrack, casinos. Was in over his head and got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. To the tune of a hundred grand.”

  Georgia fol
ded her arms.

  “His firm fired him, of course, and a couple of his clients filed a complaint with ARDC.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t contest it. Admitted he was a gambler, showed remorse. Said he was going to GA. Therapy too. So they only gave him twenty-four months. He was reinstated,” Kelly said. “By the way, he paid the money back right away.”

  “If he was losing his shirt, how did he suddenly get a hundred grand?”

  “That’s what I asked.” Kelly shrugged. “Jamie doesn’t know.”

  “You think he went to a shark?” In which case whoever fronted him the money owned him.

  “Who knows? Could have been family. Or a bank loan. But it’s clear he found another source of income.”

  Georgia thought she knew who that source was.

  He picked up his coffee. “Why are you interested in this creep?”

  “His name came up in a case I’m working.”

  He peered at her over his glasses. “I don’t have to tell you that a law degree doesn’t make someone a good guy, right?”

  “You are.”

  He colored all the way up to his shiny bald scalp.

  Chapter 34

  The chirp of her cell phone woke her from a nap two hours later.

  “Davis…”

  “Georgia?” A man’s voice. “It’s Jimmy Saclarides.”

  She blinked herself awake. “Oh, hi.” She sat up.

  “Sounds like I woke you.”

  “No,” she lied. “I was—uh—reading.”

  “Oh. Well. Hey, I’m down in your neck of the woods visiting Luke. He’s at Ellie’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I was wondering whether you’d like to grab some dinner.”

  “Did you get an ID on the body?”

  He cleared his throat, and when he replied, she heard his disappointment. “I may have some information.”