His wife pulled out in the SUV around nine with their child—Georgia thought it was a girl—in the car seat. Another hour went by before Coe followed in the Beemer. Georgia tailed him, this time to a large A-frame house on Greenwood Avenue in Glencoe. She parked, jotted down the house number, then fired up her tablet. Nothing happened. Crap. She’d forgotten to charge it last night. Her tablet had become as critical a tool as her Glock. More so, in fact, when she considered how much she used it. She’d have to check the owners later. She bit her lip. Another annoyance.
Coe stayed at the house for more than an hour. Was he seeing a client? Finally he emerged and walked briskly to the Beemer. Looking almost jaunty, he rubbed his hands together as if he’d scored big. He fired up the car, then headed west to Waukegan Road. The man was more than an irritation, she decided; he was making her crazy: driving here and there, popping in and out of places. Did he work out of his car like that lawyer in the crime novels?
At Waukegan Road he turned south to a small strip mall between Dundee and Shermer that included a gas station, a driving school, a liquor store, and a nail salon. Coe parked in back of the Le Nail Spa and went inside.
Georgia turned into a strip mall across the street and parked facing out. She knew this salon. Ellie Foreman had told her about it. Years ago they’d been involved in the same case, Georgia as a cop, Ellie as a video producer. Foreman had discovered the place was a mecca for Russian immigrants; almost all the women who worked at the salon hailed from the former Soviet Union.
When Georgia looked into it, she discovered why. Apparently a popular magazine in the Soviet Union had featured Northbrook, Illinois, in an article ten years earlier, calling it an ideal place for Russians planning to emigrate to the States. She wasn’t able to get her hands on the article itself, but she’d been told it hyped Northbrook’s schools, low crime rate, reasonable cost of living, and resources that helped immigrants learn English and American customs.
Whatever it said, it had worked. Over the years thousands of Eastern Europeans had moved to Northbrook, and the village developed a reputation as a Russian émigré’s paradise. Unfortunately, the crime rate was no longer low. Wherever Russians went, they brought crime, and the Russian Mafiya were all over Northbrook.
Still, there was no reason to think that a place that offered manicures and pedicures was coddling a nest of gangsters. More likely they were just hardworking women struggling to make ends meet. Georgia got out of the car and pulled on her gloves. She didn’t want them to see the sorry state of her nails. Bitten to the quick. A manicure would be wasted on her. The few times she’d had one, the polish chipped in hours, and a day later, her nails looked like they’d gone through the spin cycle of a washing machine. She slowed her pace and crossed the street, as if she had all the time in the world. As she sauntered past the salon’s window, she peered in, pretending she’d just noticed the place.
Two rows of manicure tables, twelve in all, filled the room. Women in pink, blue, or green smocks sat at the tables. Five or six customers, their nails in various stages of decoration, sat across from the girls. The girls with no customers paged through magazines, watched a TV mounted on the wall at the far end, or chattered on their cells. She didn’t see Chad Coe.
Georgia pulled the front door open and walked in. A list of prices was taped to the wall. She pretended to study it until a slim woman in a blue uniform approached her.
“May I help you?“ Her English was heavily accented.
Georgia whipped around and pasted on a wide smile. “Good morning. How long have you been here? The salon, I mean?”
The woman furrowed her brow. “Oh, about ten years, I think.”
“That long? Wonderful. I’m so happy to find you. I just moved here.”
“You want mani-pedi?” the woman asked.
“I sure do. May I take a quick look around?”
“Course.” The woman flashed her a toothy smile.
Georgia strolled between the tables to the back of the room. She hoped she looked like she was inspecting the place. At the back of the room underneath the TV was a table with a coffee machine, cups and condiments. Beside it was a back door that presumably led outside. On the other side was an alcove leading to a smaller space. She poured herself a cup of coffee, hearing a low murmur coming from that direction. She took her time doctoring the coffee, although she usually drank it black. Then she turned around and casually glanced toward the alcove.
Chad Coe was in earnest conversation with a middle-aged blowsy woman whose red lipstick dominated a face with birdlike eyes, painted-on eyebrows, and the faint shadow of a mustache. Unlike the other women in the shop, she wore a long flowing skirt and white blouse. Was she the owner?
Neither Coe or the woman appeared to take any notice of Georgia, so she retraced her steps to the front, thanked the woman who’d greeted her, promised to call for an appointment, and ducked out.
Georgia went back to her Toyota, threw out the coffee, and climbed in. She pulled out, crossed the street, and parked in the lot of the first strip mall. The Beemer was in front of the salon’s back door. Georgia was at the other end.
Chad Coe came out a few minutes later. So did the woman he’d been talking to. Both got in their respective cars. The woman drove an older Chevy Impala. There were two exits from the lot; Coe turned one way, the woman the other. Georgia decided to stick with Coe. She would check out the woman another time.
But Coe must have finished his business, because he drove back to Riverwoods. She headed back to Evanston.
Chapter 55
By the time Georgia was home, she was famished. She took out the leftover pizza from the weekend—she’d frozen it—and reheated it. She wolfed down four slices. Mushy but edible. She was washing dishes when she recalled Pam Huddleston, Ellie Foreman’s lawyer, mentioning how integral lawyers were to the adoption process and how it was all perfectly legal. It reminded Georgia she hadn’t checked out the couple from Glencoe yet.
She pulled out her tablet, plugged it into the charger, then dug out the couple’s house number on Greenwood and went to her desktop. She went online to the Assessor’s Office, then the Cook County Treasurer’s website.
John and Monica Purcell had bought their house thirty-two years ago. Which meant they—or at least the husband wasn’t a young man. She Googled their names, not expecting to find anything. But she did. She clicked on a URL that took her to, of all things, the website of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Highland Park. Another click took her to the church newsletter, where she read the following:
Church members John and Monica Purcell are looking for a kidney transplant for John, who is suffering from polycystic kidney disease. Unfortunately his advanced age makes him an undesirable transplant candidate. John is currently on dialysis, but the family asks anyone with information that might facilitate a transplant to contact them through St. Peter’s church office.
Confusion swam through her. What couple thinks about adopting when one of the parties is ill? Georgia looked up polycystic kidney disease. PKD was a genetic disorder in which people, usually in their thirties or forties, developed fluid-filled cysts that could grow to the point where the kidneys failed. While some cases could be treated with diet and medication, in others, dialysis or a kidney transplant was necessary. Fifty percent of people with PKD progressed to kidney failure, also called end-stage renal disease. Which could lead to death. Purcell’s senior citizen status didn’t help his chances for a transplant.
She closed the website and stood. Chad Coe had visited a couple who were looking for an organ transplant, not a baby. He’d stayed for more than an hour. Afterward he’d gone to the nail salon. Chad Coe owned a warehouse where pregnant girls were staying. What was the link between the two? Suddenly Georgia felt queasy.
Chapter 56
The next morning Georgia called Le Nail Spa for an appointment.
“Le Nail Spa. Hello?” The voice on the phone stretched the word into three syllables.
“Good morning. I came in yesterday to look around. Are you the woman who I talked to?”
“Yah. I remember. You want appointment?”
“I would. I’d like the lady who had on the long skirt.”
“She only work ’til two.”
“I can come in at one. What is her name?”
“Zoya.”
Of course.
At twelve thirty Georgia drove to the salon and parked in back. She considered how to play it. She had to be subtle, work around the edges. She didn’t want to raise any alarms. But she wanted to see if the woman would bite.
Inside were the same women in the same smocks in the same spots, as if they were part of a frozen tableau. Georgia grabbed some coffee and headed to the alcove. Zoya, wearing the same red lipstick, painted eyebrows, and implacable expression, sat behind a manicure table. Today, though, instead of a long skirt, she wore a multicolored caftan with a turban on her head.
Georgia smiled.
Zoya returned a cool nod.
“Thank you for taking me.”
“How you know to ask for me?” she asked, a trace of suspicion on her face. Her voice was as low-pitched as a man’s.
“It’s clear you are an important person—you have your own room. I figured why not start at the top?”
Zoya straightened, as if Georgia was paying homage and she was acknowledging it.
“Sit.” Her voice was gruff, like sandpaper.
Georgia sat. For an awkward moment, nothing happened. Then she realized Zoya was waiting for her. She placed her hands on the manicure table. Zoya took one, then the other in her hands, turned them over, and inspected them. Then she sniffed. “Not good. You bite.”
Georgia gave her an embarrassed shrug. “I get nervous.”
“You grown woman. Not be nervous. You stop.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
Zoya flashed her an indifferent look. “You choose color.” She motioned to a shelf behind her full of nail polish.
“Um…maybe a pale pink.” She wondered if Jimmy would notice. It occurred to her he hadn’t called. Today was Wednesday. Wasn’t he supposed to come down today?
Zoya got up, turned around, rummaged on the shelf. She selected three bottles, all different shades of pink, and set them down. “’Which one?”
Georgia picked up Pink Taffeta. Zoya got up, went to a sink, filled a bowl with water, and squirted dishwashing liquid in it. Then she brought it back to the table, sat down, and nodded for Georgia to dip her fingers in.
While her nails were soaking, Zoya examined Georgia’s left hand. “You not married?”
Crap. She’d forgotten to wear the band she kept at home for exactly this purpose. “Oh no…I mean, yes, I am married. I took the ring off because I was coming here. You know, I didn’t want…”
“I see no ring.”
For a moment Georgia was puzzled. Then she realized Zoya meant the impression of the ring on her bare finger. “It’s always been a little big,” she said sheepishly. “I keep meaning to have it sized, but…” She let her voice trail off.
A cell phone buzzed. Zoya’s expression didn’t change, but she stood. “You stay. I back.” She grabbed a bag off the floor, pulled out a cell, and retreated into a small closet. She left the door open, and from her deferential tone and one-word responses, it sounded like she was receiving orders. Georgia wondered who was on the other end.
Five minutes later she came back. “Okay.” She gestured for Georgia to lift her fingers and took the bowl away. She dried Georgia’s hands with a small towel, inspected them again, and went to work with an emery board. There was practically no nail to file, but the sensation was pleasant, despite the sound of scratching. It was soothing to have someone care for her, even if it was just a manicure.
“You have kids?” Zoya asked, not looking up.
Georgia noticed a whisker on her chin. “No kids.”
Zoya looked up.
A good sign, Georgia thought.
“We’ve been trying, but so far no luck. Jimmy…my husband…would love it if we did, but…”
“You go doctor?”
“Over a year now. Fertility treatments. Pills. The works.”
Zoya nodded but kept her mouth shut. She put down the emery board and picked up an orange stick. She started pushing back the tiny cuticle on Georgia’s nails. “You really stop bite. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Georgia waited. Let her bring it up, she thought. Then I’ll know.
But the woman was quiet. She finished Georgia’s cuticles, picked up Pink Taffeta, and gave it a shake. Georgia deflated. She wasn’t going to get anything out of the woman. She’d resigned herself to failure when Zoya said,
“So you adopt, yes?”
Georgia jerked her head up. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t have baby, you adopt?”
Bingo.
Aloud she said, “We haven’t really thought about it. Yet. Do you think we should?”
Zoya shrugged. “Many people yes. Is gut. You have family.” She opened the nail polish and started in on Georgia’s left hand, all the while shaking her head, presumably at Georgia’s minuscule nails.
Georgia shook her head too. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Zoya looked up. “Sorry what about?”
“My nails.”
“Ahh.”
Georgia let some time go by. “My husband, well, I don’t know if he wants to adopt. He still thinks we can do it on our own.”
Zoya nodded. “And you?”
“Oh yes. In a heartbeat.” At Zoya’s bewildered expression, she explained. “I’d do it tomorrow if I could. If Jimmy”—she paused—“agreed.”
Zoya finished the first coat. “I do another coat one minute.”
Five minutes later, the second coat was done. Zoya snapped on a heat lamp and said, “You wait ’til dry.”
Georgia smiled. “Thank you.”
Zoya nodded. Then her expression changed. She actually looked engaged, as if she wanted to tell Georgia something.
“What?” Georgia prodded, making sure she was still smiling.
“You come back, tell Zoya when you ready for baby adopt.”
“Really? Do you know someplace?”
Zoya waved a dismissive hand, then smoothed her fingers down the side of her face. Georgia had the impression she was reticent to say more. “You come. We talk.”
“Thanks. What’s your last name?”
“Tunick.”
“Well, thanks, Mrs. Tunick. I’ll be back.”
Chapter 57
It wasn’t until Georgia paid for her nails, left a generous tip, and exited the salon that she realized she’d heard the name “Tunick” before. But where? She tried to dig it out of her memory, but it wouldn’t come. She’d have to wait for it to bubble up from her subconscious. Nonetheless, it was apparent Zoya was caught up with Chad Coe in some kind of operation that involved black market babies, adoptions, and maybe more, although Georgia didn’t want to think about the “more.” She was making progress.
She slipped into her car and ran her palms around the steering wheel. It was almost two, the time that Zoya got off. She slouched in the front seat, trying to be invisible, but angled the rearview mirror so she could see the salon’s back door. A minute later Zoya emerged, talking into her cell. She got into her dark red Impala. She didn’t appear to notice Georgia.
Georgia let her drive around to the street, then started up her Toyota. When Zoya turned right out of the lot, Georgia waited a moment before following her. Zoya headed to the Tri-State and swung down the ramp to the highway. Georgia did the same, making sure to keep a couple of car lengths behind. As they headed north a few snowflakes drifted down. Georgia felt a spit of annoyance. She didn’t need snow now. But God, or Mother Nature, or whoever, wasn’t listening, and lazy, fat, wet flakes kept drifting down. She switched on her wipers and hunched over the wheel. She also turned on her GPS so she’d know where she was in case visibility wors
ened.
Just north of Libertyville Zoya turned off the expressway and headed northwest on Route 173. Route 173 was where the body of the pregnant girl from Kansas City was found, albeit forty miles farther west. A burst of energy kicked up Georgia’s spine.
The snow escalated into a full-fledged storm. The wind picked up too, swirling the snow in irregular eddies across her windshield, reducing visibility to nearly nothing. In a way, that was good—Zoya would be so focused on her driving she might not notice Georgia behind her. Georgia blasted her front and rear defrosters. Trucks coughed up slush as they passed in the other direction, making the drive more miserable. Only a couple of weeks had passed since she drove up and ran into Jimmy, but it seemed longer. Winter had a way of distorting time, elongating the minutes, hours, and days.
When Zoya continued past McHenry, perhaps the most far-flung town from which people still commuted into Chicago, Georgia almost turned back. Traffic was already sluggish and would be snarled soon. She could tail Zoya another time. The gloom from the storm cast a faux purple twilight over everything, and she was weary of driving.
Then she spotted a road sign that said Harvard was only thirty miles ahead. Georgia sat up, all thoughts of abandoning the surveillance banished. She was now directly behind Zoya, but the woman still didn’t seem to notice. She’d made no moves to elude Georgia, although in this weather, who would?
It took almost an hour to get to Harvard. Georgia checked her GPS as they entered the town. They were less than a mile from where the girl had been found. As they reached the center of town, Georgia expected Zoya to turn off the main road, but the woman surprised her and kept heading west. Georgia squinted through her windshield. Did Zoya know Georgia was pursuing her? Was she leading Georgia on a wild-goose chase through the snow?
Georgia drew back and let Zoya get so far ahead that she almost missed the turn. They had just driven through the small town of Chemung and then Capron, ten miles west of Harvard, when Zoya made a left. The snow obliterated the street signs, and the road was unidentified on the GPS. The only thing Georgia knew was that she had crossed from McHenry into Boone County. She followed, barely able to make out the car’s taillights in the distance. A mile or so later, Zoya made another turn into what appeared to be deep farm country, although the blanket of snow hid the remnants of what was likely soy beans, hay, or corn.
Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) Page 16