Doubleback: A Novel (29 page)

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Grant Copper Works occupied most of a converted warehouse a mile or so east of downtown not far from the border. From a distance, it looked like a shabby industrial brick building, the type you might see on Chicago’s West side. As she drew closer, though, she saw a freshly painted “Grant Copper Works” logo—replete with crouching lion—hanging over the entrance. Georgia parked in a gravel lot and went to the door. It looked like reinforced steel and was securely locked. She pressed the buzzer mounted on the side. A few seconds later, a man’s voice cut through static.

“Yes?”

“My name is Georgia Davis. I’d like to talk to Ken Grant.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I won’t take much of his time.”

She sensed a silent sigh. “Just a minute.”

The man who opened the door looked to be in his late fifties. He was bald on top but had a steel gray ponytail. His cheekbones were surprisingly high, and he had a lantern jaw. Deep set blue eyes checked her out. “I’m Ken Grant.”

Georgia took an involuntary step back. “I didn’t expect you to answer to the door yourself.”

“Most people don’t.” He was dressed in a denim shirt and jeans, and had a turquoise bolo around his neck. A silver belt buckle flashed at his waist, and he wore cowboy boots. Javier Garcia was right. He did look like an aging hippie. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m an investigator from Chicago. I have a few questions about a case I’m working on.”

He flicked his index finger up and down under his nose. “What sort of case?”

Georgia looked around. “You’re on the city council, right?” He nodded. “It could be city business. Can we go inside?”

“City council?” He dropped his finger and flashed her a cool smile. “I’m very busy. You should have made an appointment... I suppose I can spare a few minutes.” He led her in.

Part of the warehouse had been renovated to look like a living room rather than a workspace. A large central area was filled with comfortable-looking sofas and chairs. Woven rugs covered the floor, and splashy art hung on walls. Colorful masks, dolls, and silver objects sat on small tables. The central area was ringed by four or five offices, but only one of the doors was open. The walls cordoning off the central area looked to be about fifteen feet high and blocked the view of the rest of the warehouse.

Georgia was aware Ken Grant was watching her. “You seem surprised.”

She turned toward him. “I am. From the outside...”

“I like to confound people’s expectations.” Again the cool smile. “Coffee?”

“No thanks.”

He pointed to her arm. “What happened?”

“Car accident.”

“Sorry to hear it. Well, let’s go into my office.” He led her through the open door. Following, she picked up a distinct musky smell, not as strong as Patchouli, but sensual, almost erotic. She felt uneasy.

The office was larger than she’d expected. Warm brown on the walls, a stained oak desk, leather club chairs. Old Wasp, not old West. Grant sat down behind the desk and kicked his feet up. He seemed to be waiting for her reaction. When none was forthcoming, he said, “So, what can I tell you?”

“I’m trying to find a man who was working for Delton Security. Does that name mean anything to you?”

He hesitated for an instant, then said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t. But I’m not in the security business.”

“What business
are
you in?”

“My interests are more—well—populist.” He waved a hand. “You saw some of my inventory in the other room?”

“You have some lovely objects.”

“I try to buy the best. Everything I acquire is in some way hand-crafted. One of a kind. I want to support indigenous crafts-people.” He paused a beat. “It’s the least I can do.”

Georgia felt a twinge of impatience. “What do you mean?”

“I want to improve peoples’ lives. This is one of the most economically depressed areas of the state. Perhaps the entire country. Buying original artwork helps local artisans keep a roof over their heads and food on their tables. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“I’d like to ask you about—”

He cut her off. “Actually, I split the profits with them. As you may know, I am fortunate—I don’t need the money. So I can indulge my social conscience.”

“Like being on the city council?”

He flicked his index finger again just below his nose. “Yes. It allows me to press for better schools, more resources. Literacy programs. Controlled development.” He paused. “And they said we would never work through the system.” He grinned. “But this has nothing to do with your case, does it?”

“Does Stevens have a serious drug trafficking problem?”

Grant laced his fingers together. “I won’t lie. Like any other border town, it is an issue. But we’re dealing with it. The Cochise County Sheriff ’s Office and our local police work closely with DEA and ICE—that’s Customs—and Border Patrol. Even the FBI.” He spoke with authority. “We have sniffing dogs, high-tech monitors, and, of course, the fence. And there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The supply of drugs that comes across the border here doesn’t remain here. It’s intended for other cities. So while Stevens might be the first stop on the distribution route, traffickers generally don’t hang around.”

“What about illegal aliens?” Georgia asked.

“What about them?”

“Could the city have hired a private security firm to reduce the stream of illegals?”

“With public money?” He laughed. “On our budget? That’s a joke, right?”

“What if I told you there are rumors about exactly that kind of thing?”

Grant leaned forward. “Then I’d question the people who are spreading them. What ax do they have to grind?”

“And if I heard that people were being taken away in trucks in the middle of the night, you wouldn’t believe it?”

“Taken where?”

It was an odd answer, Georgia thought. She leaned back, remembering what Javier Garcia said about Grant’s relationship with his father. “Okay, maybe there’s no public money involved. What about private?”

Grant glanced down. After a moment, he looked up. “You’re referring to my father, of course.”

She didn’t answer.

He sighed. “It’s true that he has the deepest pockets in town. But that makes him a target. Especially whenever something comes up that’s not easily explained.”

“So you’re saying he wouldn’t finance any such activity?”

“Look...” He cleared his throat. “My father and I are very different people. In fact, we rarely speak. But I won’t allow him to be villainized by people who don’t know us—or the town we live in.”

Which meant Georgia, of course. Still, he hadn’t answered her question. “Tell me how you’re different.”

“He’s an old man. With old ideas.”

“Old ideas that include an eye for an eye?”

“There’s no pretense about him.” He shifted. “And, at the risk of earning your scorn, I understand his side. Although I am diametrically opposed to it. I think illegals play a necessary role. Not just because the cost of their labor helps keep prices in check. Too often we forget that immigrants pay rent. And electricity and cable bills. They buy groceries and clothes. And TVs. If we deported every illegal, some of the things we take for granted wouldn’t survive. Landscape companies, cleaning services, restaurants—”

Georgia cut him off. “But, as you said, your father doesn’t see it that way. And you’re not the first person to tell me how—determined—he is.”

Grant held up his hand. “Georgia—you don’t mind if I call you that, do you—you need to understand something. The issue just isn’t as clear cut as you’d like to make it. It’s true that some immigrants
are
drug traffickers. But others aren’t. Makes it hard to distinguish the good from the bad.”

“So you’d rather let them all in and look the other way?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to point out there are shades of gray. On both sides.”

Georgia felt the conversation slipping away. “Getting back to my question, if I had proof that someone was kidnapping innocent people and making them disappear—”

It was his turn to cut her off. Again. “I would be shocked.”

“And you would report it to the authorities.”

“Of course.”

“I have reason to think it might be happening here, and that someone is trying to cover it up. Four people have died, and in each case, their deaths were made to look like accidents.”

He tilted his head. “How many people?”

“Four. And a fifth man who may be involved has disappeared.”

“Who is this man?”

“Rafael Peña. You know him?”

“No.”

“Will you help me find him?”

Grant spread his hands. “What can I do?”

“You’re on the city council. You have influence. You could ask the police. Maybe even make them put some muscle into it.”

Grant grew quiet. Then he flicked his index finger below his nose. “If someone is trying to cover their tracks, it’s usually because they’re afraid.”

“Your point?”

“Fearful people are dangerous. I’d advise you to be careful.”

Georgia stared at him. “I need to find Peña.”

Grant folded his arms. “If what you’re saying is true, I would, too.”

chapter
35

O
nly on the North Shore would the floor of an auto mechanic’s shop be clean enough to eat off. When I showed up at North Shore Motors in Lake Bluff Monday morning, I marveled at the spotless floor and shiny equipment. The Lake Bluff village board must have outlawed every drop of grease north of the county line.

The car dealership sprawled across several acres on a private street off Green Bay Road. On one side of the street was the showroom, where gleaming sports cars with unpronounceable names seduced customers. On the other was a cavernous hangar where sports cars occupied a dozen bays. Hydraulic lifts had raised the cars to different levels, revealing their undercarriages, and some of the wheels were detached. A car door leaned against the wall. Even those cars looked clean, and there were no grease spots, dirty tools, or oily rags to be seen.

At one end of the shop was a counter, behind which was an office of several desks, chairs, computers, and phones. Five or six men in striped shirts and painters pants drifted in and out. A couple wore billed caps. Their shirts, emblazoned with their names, were immaculate.

As I approached the counter, a man named Greg was checking off a form. I remembered a mustard stain on my shirt and unobtrusively put my hand over the offending spot.

“Good morning,” I chirped.

Greg looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Are you all right?”

I realized he was staring at my hand, which was draped across my stomach, as though it ached. I slipped my hand into my pocket and smiled. “Are you the manager?”

“Naw.” He yanked a thumb toward the back and called out, “Hey, Tim. Some lady to see you.”

A man who’d been leaning over a computer printer looked up. I smiled at him. He scooped up his printout and ambled toward the counter. He was wearing the same striped shirt as the others, and it, too, was immaculate. Did these guys change clothes every fifteen minutes? As he drew closer, though, I thought I saw a smudge on his pants. I felt a little smug.

“What can I help you with, Miss?”

“Good morning, Tim,” I said and launched into my cover story. “I’m a writer, and I’m working on a spec article for
North Shore Magazine
about luxury sports cars.”

“You came to the right place.”

I smiled gamely. “You bet. I just wish I knew what I was looking at. Now, my husband loves sports cars. He talks about Aston Martins, Lamborghinis and Lotuses”— I’d boned up on the names last night—“all the time. Anyway, I’m looking to find a couple of owners to interview for the article. You know, why they love their cars. How they feel and handle. I could even include something about this place. It’s the only one in Northern Illinois, I understand.”

“That’s right,” Tim’s face relaxed. Not quite a smile, but I’d take it.

“And you service customers from all over the Midwest?”

“I just got an Aston Martin from St. Paul the other day,” Greg was hanging around, eavesdropping.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” I looked around admiringly, hoping a little ditz would be disarming. “Of course, St Paul isn’t our target audience. Our readers are, well, from the North Shore.” I paused. “Anyway, I was wondering whether you might have a list of North Shore customers I could take a look at.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, on their way to a frown.

“Of course, I don’t want their phone numbers or addresses,” I added. “That’s confidential, I realize. But if I could check the names and the type of car they have, it would really help. Who knows? Maybe I already know them. Or maybe you could recommend someone from the list. You know, whether they’d be a good interview.”

Tim shook his head. “I don’t know. We have thousands of customers.”

“Hmm.” I furrowed my brow and pretended to think. “Well, what if we generated a list by car instead? Wouldn’t that narrow it down?”

Tim and Greg exchanged a glance.

“It would be great to get a couple of names for each car.”

Tim’s face assumed a pained expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry. That would take too much of your time, wouldn’t it? I wasn’t thinking.” I hesitated, then smiled brightly. “Well, let me ask you this. If you could print out a list, say, of your customers who have an Aston Martin, I might be able to track them down myself.”

Tim and Greg exchanged another glance. Tim shrugged. “I guess.”

“Hey, that’s great!” I dug out a business card from my wallet. “By the way, I’d be happy to give you a plug in the article.”

Tim examined it, then handed it back. He elbowed Greg. “Get her what she wants.” He turned around.

“Thanks again, Tim. I really appreciate it.”

He waved and headed out to the shop floor.

“So,” Greg asked. “What kind of cars are you looking for?”

“Well, why don’t we start with the Aston Martin? You know, the names of people who own them.”

He nodded and went to one of the computers. I waited at the counter trying to contain my excitement. It was a safe bet that anyone who spent fifty grand on an Aston Martin would probably spend more to maintain it. It was also a safe bet that they’d bring it here to be serviced. With a list, I could start to winnow them down to see who knew Chris Messenger.