Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Huddleston sat up straighter, her face a cloud of suspicion. “What are you getting at?”

  “Well…” Georgia cleared her throat. “What if—hypothetically, of course—there was a service that took all comers? Even though it’s against the law?”

  “Are you talking black market babies?”

  Georgia nodded.

  Huddleston didn’t answer for a minute. Then she laced her fingers together on the desk. “I’m not gonna lie to you. The thing you have to realize is that children are considered a commodity these days. There is a growing, almost frantic need to parent. At the same time there’s a dwindling number of healthy babies available.”

  “So I hear.”

  “And there will always be people with a blank check. A rich trader…an elderly man with a younger wife…a—”

  “So it’s possible,” Georgia said.

  Huddleston nodded. “That’s another reason I got out of the business.”

  “Ethics?”

  “If it’s an illegal adoption, someone has to forge the papers—the birth certificates, adoption papers, and such.”

  “Presumably a lawyer.”

  Huddleston nodded. “They’d have to show receipts for payments—I mean expenses—time spent on the arrangements, crap like that.” She flipped up her palm. “Too risky.”

  “So, basically, what you’re saying is whether it’s a legal adoption or illegal, chances are the parties would benefit from having a lawyer.”

  “You bet.”

  Georgia hesitated. Then, “Have you ever heard of a lawyer named Chad Coe? From Riverwoods?”

  “No, but like I said, I’m out of the loop. Did you check ARDC?”

  “All I could find out was that he’s active.” She paused, then dug out a business card. “If you hear anything, could you let me know?”

  Huddleston took the card, then shifted in her chair. “Georgia, you seem like a straight shooter to me. And I know Ellie is. So I have to ask. Why are you chasing this down? Why not turn it over to the police?”

  Georgia didn’t answer.

  “If it turns out to be a black market baby ring, you could end up tangling with some very nasty people.”

  Georgia hesitated. “I have a sister who is pregnant and might be involved with them.”

  Huddleston kept her mouth shut. For a lawyer it was a rarity.

  Chapter 47

  Georgia drove to Riverwoods the next morning. Her route took her past the forest preserve, where sparkling trees were frosted with a dusting of white. Further on, the sun poured through a stand of elms, creating a halo effect that made her think God approved of her mission. He should only know the evil that clung to the dirt underneath.

  Chad Coe lived on Portwine, a street with houses so rustic they could have been carved out of the forest around them. Coe’s house was recessed from the road, with a long driveway in front. The lot itself must have covered several acres and was so thickly wooded that it gave the feel of a retreat. Georgia slowed and peered up the driveway. A black Beemer was parked at the far end, next to one of those monster SUVs that North Shore mothers liked to drive. A quick glimpse of the house revealed a redwood exterior that blended well with the surroundings.

  She turned around and parked about fifty yards north of the house. As she peeled the lid off her coffee, steam fogged the windshield. She cupped her hands around it, grateful for its warmth. Stakeouts were always a crapshoot, and this was Sunday, so she figured she’d familiarize herself with Coe and his family, then come back on Monday. Of course, she might luck out. This was the North Shore and work was king, even on weekends.

  She ran the heater intermittently, trying to stay warm while she checked out the neighborhood. With the woods a natural barrier between homes, the giant lots, and the rustic setting, this seemed like a wonderful place to live. Quiet, tranquil, and soothing. A lone bird took flight and climbed high in the sky. She didn’t know whether it was a hawk or a vulture, but she watched it soar until it was just a black speck against bright blue. She was so captivated she almost missed the monster SUV backing out of the driveway. Dark red. Illinois plates. A female driver. Someone in back.

  She started up the Toyota. The van turned and headed back toward Deerfield Road. She followed and stopped in back at the light. She could just make out a little person in a car seat.

  For some reason, she hadn’t envisioned Chad Coe having a child. It struck a discordant note. How could the father of a toddler be involved in a black market baby ring? Didn’t the man have any scruples? Or maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe Chad Coe was simply working divorces and real estate deals.

  She let the SUV pull a few cars ahead. No sense calling attention to herself. She tried to square the thought of Chad Coe, baby dealer, with the image of Chad Coe, father. Her former boyfriend, Matt, had been an observant Jew. He’d also been a homicide detective. Somehow he’d been able to separate the strands of his life and compartmentalize his values so they never clashed. For all she knew, Jimmy was the same way. Maybe most people were. She could work through how a man might rape a woman, then help a lost child find its mother without missing a beat.

  She was a mile from Riverwoods when she decided to stop tailing the wife and kid. They weren’t her targets. She headed back to the house and waited. Two hours later the SUV returned, only the wife in the car. Was the child at a play date? A class? Georgia didn’t have time to ponder it because a few minutes later the Beemer appeared at the end of the driveway. Georgia straightened. A man was behind the wheel. She started her engine.

  Coe drove south on Waukegan Road, then west on Shermer into Northbrook. Georgia followed a discreet distance behind. He wove around a couple of residential streets and stopped at a ranch house that was identical to every other house on the block except for the side to which the garage was attached. Georgia drove past the house, turned around, and backtracked. By then, the front door was just closing. She aimed her binoculars at a large front window, but the curtains were drawn. She jotted down the number of the house and plugged it into the Assessor’s Office website on her tablet.

  The house was owned by Dr. Richard Lotwin. She quickly opened up FindersKeepers. Lotwin was a general surgeon. He’d been affiliated with Newfield Hospital for nearly twenty years, 1988 through 2007. Did that mean he wasn’t there any longer? If so, where was he? She started to Google him but had to stop when Chad Coe emerged from the house and headed back to his Beemer.

  It was her first chance to take a good look at him. He had tight, curly dark hair, a thick nose, and bug eyes that flitted everywhere, never lighting on one spot for more than a second. He looked soft and round, not buff, and was casually dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. His only concession to the frigid weather was a muffler around his neck. Probably cashmere. He didn’t carry a briefcase; instead he had a combination backpack and satchel that trendy professionals carried.

  Georgia slouched down in the driver’s seat. Coe pulled out of the doctor’s driveway and turned in her direction. When he passed, she averted her face as if she was rummaging in the glove compartment. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen her.

  Once he reached the end of the block, she tailed him again. What business did Chad Coe have with a surgeon? If he was running a baby-breeding ring, shouldn’t he be dealing with an ob-gyn? Of course, he might be, and his visit to Lotwin was a different matter altogether. She checked the time. Whatever its objective, the meeting didn’t take a lot of time—less than twenty minutes.

  Coe drove southeast to Skokie, a village in which Indians, Vietnamese, Jews, Hispanics, African Americans, and Middle Easterners elbowed one another in apparent harmony. It hadn’t always been that way. Thirty years earlier, a group of neo-Nazis were given a permit to march through what was then primarily a Jewish neighborhood. The sight of men in uniform goose-stepping past Holocaust survivors made for tense moments, which, of course, was what the marchers wanted. Long since ended, the marches were now part of the lore of Chicago history.

>   She tailed Coe to a block of small apartment buildings whose front yards were surrounded by chain-link fences. It was a utilitarian rather than pretty neighborhood, the faded yellow-brick buildings no taller than three stories, and their lawns littered with children’s tricycles, cars, and toys. Coe parked across from one of the buildings.

  Georgia watched him go inside and swore softly. This wasn’t a single-family dwelling, which meant she couldn’t check out the occupants online. They were renters and wouldn’t be listed on any property records. She’d have to nose around the old-fashioned way. She realized how dependent she’d become on technology for sleuthing. Then she unwrapped a PB and J sandwich she’d slapped together before she left and wondered whom Chad Coe was visiting.

  Her cell vibrated, startling her. The caller ID said Jimmy Saclarides. Her stomach flipped.

  “Hey.” She smiled in spite of herself.

  “It’s Jimmy.”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  She wanted to tell him she was sorry for pushing him away. That she hoped he’d give her another chance. Instead, she said, “It’s okay. I know you must be busy.” She winced at how trite she sounded.

  “Always…” He paused. “But I’m about to check out for the day. I know it’s late, but do you want to get together tonight? I can drive down.”

  Chapter 48

  Chad Coe spent an hour in the Skokie apartment. When he came out, he didn’t seem to notice Georgia’s red Toyota, or if he did, it didn’t bother him. Georgia tailed him back to Portwine, where he turned into his driveway. Then she raced back to Skokie, got out of the car, and wrote down the names on the mailboxes of the building. There were six boxes, but only four names, one of which looked Hispanic, another Asian. She frowned. Did the person Coe visited live in one of the unidentified apartments? She hunched her shoulders. She’d have to come back and talk to someone. More time. More effort. She couldn’t help wondering whether this was taking her closer to her sister or farther away. It would be easier just to interview Chad Coe in person. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not until she had more.

  She drove home, showered, threw on a black sweater and jeans, and started in on the names on the mailbox. She’d identified only one of the four, a freelance building contractor, by the time her buzzer sounded.

  She buzzed Jimmy in and opened the door. As he climbed the steps, a wave of anticipation rolled through her. He caught it, smiled, and took her in his arms.

  *

  They never made it out that night. A few hours later, she ordered a pizza.

  “What do you like on yours?” she asked.

  “Anything except anchovies.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Oh yeah? Try me.”

  She grinned, ordered anchovies, and rolled over.

  When the pizza arrived, she carried the box into the bedroom. She retrieved a towel from her tiny linen closet, spread it over the quilt, and placed the box on top. They didn’t bother to get dressed, and as she watched him chew and loop strands of cheese over his fingers, she remembered what those fingers could do. After one slice, she wasn’t hungry. Neither, apparently was Jimmy, because they found other activities to occupy them. The pizza lay abandoned on the floor.

  Chapter 49

  Sunday morning stretched into Sunday afternoon, and Georgia decided it was her favorite day of the week. They snuck into an early movie, and she felt a wave of pleasure at how protected she felt when he placed his hand on her back to guide her through the door. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and saw a silly smile on her face that she couldn’t wipe off. The good thing was that she saw a similar smile on his.

  Halfway through the movie, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. She thought she might tear his clothes off right there in the theater. Instead, she took him to Mickey’s for a burger after the movie. Owen was behind the bar, back from Florida, and he raised his eyebrows when he saw them. She wasn’t surprised; this had to be the first man she’d brought to Mickey’s since Matt. Fortunately, Owen was on his good behavior, and aside from a few sly glances, he kept his mouth shut.

  It was about five by the time they finished eating. Darkness was closing in.

  “Georgia,” Jimmy said, “I don’t want to, believe me. But I have to go back.”

  Her smiled faded. She looked down. She needed to slow down. Her heart was way ahead of her brain.

  “I promised I’d cover for a guy who just had a baby.” He paused. “But what about Wednesday? I can take the day off.”

  She looked up. Her smile was back. “What are people going to say?”

  “About what?” he asked.

  “About you taking so much time off?”

  He thought about it and grinned. “Let them complain to the chief of police.”

  Chapter 50

  Monday morning Georgia headed back to Skokie. She’d spent last night trying to trace the four names on the vestibule of the apartment building Chad Coe visited, but she’d had no luck. Three had just an initial and a last name, and even if she were able to tie them to the address, she wouldn’t get far on her databases. Plus, they were renters, not owners, which often meant a patchy financial history. Millions of people were like that. Technology was a godsend, but it took time—and legal documents—to make a digital footprint.

  After a weekend of winter sunshine, which produced a thaw of sorts, a swollen gray overcast ushered in another cold front. Georgia pulled on gloves as she climbed out of the Toyota. She noticed a child’s wagon and ball on the front lawn. They hadn’t been there Saturday. Someone in the building had kids.

  She walked up to the door and studied the names in the vestibule again. The name on one of the first-floor apartments was G. McCune, with the ink-scrawled letters “Bldg Mgr” next to it. May as well. She pushed the buzzer. No response. She pushed again, heard a return buzz unlocking the door, and grabbed the door before it stopped. There was no intercom, and she proceeded into a small, square hall with two apartment doors opposite each other, and a set of stairs at the back. The door on one side squeaked open a crack, and an overweight woman in pink workout sweats, her hair in old-fashioned rollers, squinted through the gap.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you the building manager?’

  The woman looked Georgia up and down, not an easy task given the narrow slit of the door. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m—looking for an apartment to rent. I saw empty slots next to two of the buzzers, so I thought I’d ask.”

  “I have one apartment. One bedroom. Seven fifty a month. Air-conditioning and heat extra.”

  “That sounds great. Can I see it?”

  The woman shrugged. “Gimme a minute.” Georgia heard a TV talk show blaring somewhere in the depths of the apartment. The woman closed the door. The TV noise grew muffled.

  It was chilly in the hall, not much warmer than outside. Georgia heard the clank of keys. The door opened again.

  “I’m showing an apartment, Joe,” she called out over the TV, then lumbered out and closed the door. She headed toward the stairs, glancing back at Georgia. “It’s on the third floor. But you’re young.” She paused. “What’s your name?”

  “Samantha Mandor,” Georgia replied quickly, not exactly sure why she felt compelled to use an alias. She just had a feeling. “You’re Mrs. McCune?”

  “Me and Joe live on the first floor. He’s the maintenance manager,” she said importantly.

  They climbed up to the second floor. Mrs. McCune was already breathing hard. “You just move here?” she huffed.

  “I did.” Georgia smiled. “From Kansas.”

  “Got a job?”

  McCune was checking her out. She rounded the second-floor landing and, leaning her hand on the banister, trudged up to the third floor.

  Georgia decided to play the pity card. “I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. We were living together back in Lawrence. Over three years. But I have a good friend here,
and she convinced me to move. You know, to start over.” The woman’s expression hardened. “Oh, don’t worry. I have savings. I can pay the rent.”

  “Yeah, but for how long?”

  “I have good typing and computer skills. I’ll work temp until I get a full-time job.”

  McCune stopped at one of the doors on the third floor. The hall was well lit, Georgia thought, but the faded carpet gave off a musty smell. McCune exhaled into a harrumph. “Computers. Everybody’s high-tech these days.”

  McCune fumbled with the key ring, found the right one, and unlocked the door. They walked in. It was empty and cleaner than Georgia expected, but the faint residue of a foreign scent drifted over her. She couldn’t place it. “Who lived here?” she asked.

  McCune scratched her head, which was difficult to do with her hair full of rollers. “An Indian man. Engineering student. Don’t know where he went.”

  Curry and saffron. That’s what the scent was. “Was he a good cook?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Georgia nodded. What kind of building manager doesn’t know their tenants? Unless she didn’t want to say.

  McCune turned around. “You’re looking for a job? I might know one.”

  “Really?” Georgia feigned interest.

  “Yeah…got a friend who runs a hair salon. You good with hair?”

  Georgia smiled. “Not really. I was sort of thinking of a business job.” Hadn’t the woman been listening?

  “Good luck with that.” McCune looked her over again. “What kind of skills you got?”

  Georgia hesitated. She’d already told the woman. She decided not to remind her. “I am pretty good with a computer. Word processing. Dictation. I’m organized, too.”

  McCune harrumphed as if this was the first time she’d heard it. “Everybody’s high-tech these days.”

  This did not bode well. Was the woman senile? Early Alzheimer’s? Georgia pretended to inspect the apartment. “You said there was AC. Just out of curiosity, what kind of heat does the place have?”