Doubleback: A Novel (7 page)

“Thanks, Georgia. You’re doing a real mitzvah.”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

“I know,” Foreman said.

A few fat drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. “Go home and give Rachel a hug.”

chapter
8

T
he next day Georgia didn’t know much more than she had the day before. As soon as she got home, she filed a freedom of information request with the Illinois State Police. Twenty-four hours later, she had the preliminary accident report on Arthur Emerlich, Christine’s boss.

The problem was it was inconclusive. The cops had brought a photographer as well as a reconstruction expert to the scene, but after dozens of photos and measurements, an analysis of the speed and impact of the collision, skid marks, and debris, all they knew for certain was that the brake fluid was low, which could have caused the brakes to fail.

Sure, it was suspicious, but whether someone had drained it, or the deceased—like so many drivers—had just neglected to maintain proper fluid levels, they couldn’t say. Without more evidence, the incident appeared to be exactly what it was—a tragic accident. Cook County would be doing an autopsy and a tox screen, which might provide more clues, but those findings wouldn’t be back for another week.

The Illinois State police report had redacted most of Emerlich’s personal information. Curious, Georgia went to her computer and clicked to the Midwest National Bank’s website. There he was on the list of bank officers: Arthur Emerlich, Vice-President and Chief Operations Officer. His bio said he had a wife and two grown children. She Googled his name and learned that he was a member of the Crest Haven Country Club and had won their golf tournament two years running. He was also on the Board of Directors of the West Suburban Theater. He and his wife, Dierdre, lived in Hinsdale, an affluent western suburb. In other words, there was nothing unusual about Arthur Emerlich. He seemed to be a model member of society, a successful executive inching toward retirement.

Georgia filled Ellie in and said she’d call Christine Messenger, but there was no answer when she did. She left Messenger a voice mail saying she’d copy the report and drop it off. Then she checked her calendar. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, the start of a three-day weekend. Whatever she needed to do, she’d have do today or wait until next week.

She went through her closet, pulled out a sundress she rarely wore and put it on. She applied make-up, something else she rarely did. Then she pulled down directions from Mapquest, got into her car, and set out for More-Than-Friends, the dating service in Palatine that allegedly stole her client’s identity.

Forty minutes later she entered a newly built office park with three buildings, two restaurants, and a manmade lake. She was surprised. She’d been expecting a small, sleazy office tucked away in the wrong part of town. She parked in the lot behind one of the office buildings and proceeded into the lobby, a space with marble floors and enormous glass windows with a view of the lake. The building directory indicated that More-than-Friends was on the fourth floor.

She took the elevator up and was surprised again to find a set of glass doors, with the name of More-than-Friends in elegant lettering. Inside was a waiting room with a counter and receptionist’s desk, and comfortable looking leather chairs. The place looked like a law firm, corporate office, or any other white-collar business. Not a dating service. Georgia wondered if her client had it wrong.

An attractive young woman behind the receptionist’s desk was reading
Cosmopolitan
, but when Georgia opened the door, she slipped it in a drawer. The woman was perfectly made up and coiffed, but her outfit, a dark green suit with no blouse, exposed a little too much cleavage for the office.

“Can I help you?” She asked sweetly.

Georgia rethought her strategy. She’d been planning to pretend she was a teacher who was looking for love in all the wrong places, but given the upscale atmosphere, she’d probably need a more lucrative “career.” She cleared her throat, glad she was wearing a nice dress. “I’d—I’d like to see someone about your service.”

The receptionist looked her up and down. “Do you have an appointment?”

Georgia felt a tic of irritation. The receptionist was screening her. “I don’t.”

The woman hesitated, then flashed Georgia a bright smile. “That’s okay. I think we can squeeze you in.” What did it? Georgia wondered. Her hair? Clothes? Her sad dog expression? She didn’t know, but she was pleased she’d passed muster. The receptionist opened another drawer and pulled out a form. “You’ll have to fill this out.”

“No problem.” Georgia took it and sat in one of the chairs. Four pages long, the form asked for her education level, work history, income, significant relationships, hobbies, and about a hundred other things. As she filled out the “relationship” box, a fleeting memory of Matt surfaced. They’d lived together for a year. No. She wouldn’t include him. Too close to the truth.

As for a career, she decided she would be a graphic artist. Her friend, Samantha Mosele, was one, and she was raking in a bunch of money developing and maintaining websites. Georgia wrote down her true name and address, but everything else—the degree from Northwestern, graduate work at Loyola, clients, and generous income, was a fantasy. She smiled. Creating a character out of whole cloth was kind of fun. For the relationship box, she wrote that she was recently divorced after seven years of marriage.

She handed the form back to the receptionist, who promptly took it and knocked on a door down the hall. Georgia heard a muffled conversation. The receptionist returned and said to follow her. A whiff of sweet, musky perfume trailed behind her.

Georgia walked into a large, airy office. Behind a desk covered with a mass of papers was a woman with long black hair, pale skin, red fingernails, and a face that was almost artfully made up. Dressed in a casual black pantsuit—also with no blouse underneath—the woman looked like Morticia Addams as played by Angelica Huston. On the wall behind her was a framed diploma from George Washington University. She motioned Georgia into a chair.

“Hello, there. Felicia says you are a walk-in.” Her voice was soft but her smile chilly. “Tell me, what made you drive out here without an appointment? It’s not as if we run commercials on TV.”

Georgia’s antenna went up. The woman was already grilling her. She needed to be careful. She shot back with a question of her own. “And you are?”

She held out a hand. “Tracy Alessi. I own More-than-Friends.” Her handshake was perfunctory. Another cool smile. Then she scanned the form. “Georgia Davis.” She looked up, her eyebrows arched. “Well?”

Georgia remembered a name from the lobby directory. “I—I had a meeting with PRSA Management Consultants. I’m a graphic designer. Anyway, when I was looking for the floor it was on, I noticed your listing. It looked—well—I just thought I’d take a chance.”

“I see.” Alessi studied her. Georgia knew she was trying to make up her mind whether she was for real. “And what were you meeting PRSA about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“They have a client who wants to redesign their website. That’s what I specialize in.” She hoped to hell Alessi didn’t know anyone at PRSA. Then again, maybe Alessi wouldn’t ask. Maybe she figured no one would lie that blatantly. Alessi tapped a long polished nail on her desk. Then she squared her shoulders.

“Well, this is your lucky day. We usually don’t take clients over the transom, so to speak. But I didn’t have any other appointments...” She looked down at the form again. “I see you were married for seven years. Why did it end?”

“He—he met another woman and fell in love.” That was the truth.

“That must have been hard.”

Georgia hesitated. “It was.”

“I get it. Rejection is probably the most destructive force in the world. It makes you doubt everything. Not just your desirability and your worth—you start to doubt your ability to perform. To make decisions. To get anything done.”

Georgia kept her mouth shut.

“I can see it’s still hard for you to talk about it.”

It was.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time grieving, haven’t you? Mourning the loss. You’ve probably been doubting yourself. Maybe even hating yourself. Deciding you don’t deserve another chance.”

Georgia blinked. This woman knew her.

“And you probably think you’re the only person in the world who feels so raw. It’s a lonely place to be, isn’t it?”

Georgia struggled to keep her emotions at bay. That’s exactly what she was doing. Keeping everyone, including Pete, at arm’s length. Not getting involved. And it was lonely. She blinked again, felt her throat get hot. Then she looked up at Alessi. Her cool smile was still there, but something else was too. Triumph.

Georgia’s mood snapped. Her spine stiffened. She wasn’t here to relive her break-up with Matt; she was here to investigate a potential criminal. But she’d been reacting exactly the way Alessi wanted her to. This woman was good.

Alessi didn’t appear to notice. She folded her hands, still the compassionate therapist. “But now you think you’re ready to dip your toe back into the water.”

Georgia decided to play along. “Yes,” she said meekly.

“But you’re still tentative. Afraid you’ll make another mistake. Go through hell all over again.”

Georgia nodded.

“Well...” A tiny smirk curled Alessi’s lips. It was hardly noticeable unless you were looking for it. “Well, I think we can help.”

For an instant Georgia felt a swell of pride. She’d been approved. Chosen. Then she realized she was supposed to feel that way. She bit her lip.

Alessi slipped on a pair reading glasses and took out a pen. “Tell me what you want in a partner.”

Georgia decided to play her own game. “Someone I can trust.” Alessi nodded and wrote something down. When Georgia didn’t go on, she looked at Georgia over the rim of her glasses. “And...”

“That’s it.”

“Surely, there are other qualities you’re searching for. Looks, sense of humor, career, hobbies...”

“Nope.”

Alessi put the pen down. “I would have thought someone as professional and sophisticated as you would want a partner with similar social and intellectual habits.”

“Trust cuts across everything.”

“I see.” When Georgia didn’t volunteer anything further, Alessi seemed to falter. “Well, uh—when would you like to get started?”

“Right away.” Georgia smiled. “If we can.”

Alessi tipped her head to the side. “All right. Let me tell you the way we work. We’ll search our files carefully to find potential partners for you. We do guarantee six dates over the course of three months. We’ll follow up with both you and your date afterwards and see if we can cement the match. No pressure, of course. If nothing happens, we’ll send you on six more.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Good.” She drew out another piece of paper from a drawer. “These are our terms.”

Georgia promptly looked for the bottom line. There it was, in the middle of the page. Twelve hundred dollars. She swallowed. That was way more than she’d expected. She’d thought it might be five, six. But twelve? That was two hundred per date. Plus presumably, another two for her “partner.” These people were scamming big time. She tried to hide her distaste and scanned down the page. At the bottom was a blank line for her signature and social security number.

Bingo.

She looked up. “Why do you need my social security number?”

Alessi rocked back in her chair but left her hands on the desk. Her nails looked like talons. “To be honest, we need to run a background check. Make sure you’re who you say you are. That you have no outstanding arrest warrants. Or criminal record. I’m sure you can understand. You’d want the same assurance about a potential date.”

Georgia frowned. “I don’t know that I want you to do that.”

“Why? You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Is it our fee?”

Georgia looked down.

Alessi leaned forward and tapped a finger. “Georgia, how can you put a price on happiness? It’s impossible. But, if it seems too overwhelming, I understand. And we do have an installment program. You can pay as little as a hundred a month. Surely you can afford that.”

It was Georgia’s turn to fold her hands. “Well, actually, I need to think about it.”

“But Georgia, if you sign up now, we can get started right away. The longer you wait, the more time we’ll need to find you a match. And the longer you’ll stay isolated. And lonely. We can end that for you. In a few days, if you sign now.”

Georgia’s tone was prim. “I’m—frankly—not prepared to spend that kind of money.”

“Oh Georgia, don’t you remember how good it is to feel welcomed and nurtured and special? You’ve been searching for this your whole life. You can’t let this slip out of your fingers now, just when it’s within reach.”

Georgia shook her head.

Alessi frowned. Apparently, this wasn’t going the way she expected. “Georgia, you came in our door. Without an appointment. We made the time commitment and invested in you. Don’t you think you have an obligation to return that investment?”

Georgia got up. “No, I don’t.”

“Georgia, Sit down. Don’t do this to yourself. You deserve another chance.”

But Georgia exited the office, leaving Alessi staring after her with her mouth open.

•   •   •

Although she got what she’d come for, Georgia seethed on the drive back to Evanston. Part of it was the fact she’d been manipulated, but part of it was something else. Whether she knew it or not, Alessi had zeroed in on the truth. Georgia had been dumped, and Alessi had forced her to relive the hurt and shame. She tried to shake it off—she’d put herself in that position by showing up at More-than-Friends in the first place. Still, it wouldn’t quite go away, which only fueled more anger, much of it directed inward.

Luckily, asking for her social had been a dead give-away. Alessi probably had some tech in a back room running searches as soon as she got a number. Assuming you knew where to look, you could find plenty of sites that yielded enough information to start stealing identities. Georgia knew—she’d done her own share of background checks on Kroll and Accenture. She gripped the wheel. Creeps like Alessi shouldn’t be allowed to operate. First thing next week she’d call her client.