Doubleback: A Novel (9 page)

Georgia was in a booth in the back. I slid in across from her. The naugahyde upholstery felt cool against my legs.

“How long have you known?” I asked as a Hispanic bus boy filled her cup with coffee.

Georgia picked up the cup, took a sip, let it clatter as she put it back on the saucer. “I was out for dinner last night. Saw it on the news.”

I shook my head as the guy tilted the coffee pot toward me. I didn’t think I could swallow. “Poor Molly... first the kidnapping. Now her mother dies. On the Fourth of July, no less.”

Georgia winced.

A waitress tried to hand us menus, but I waved her off. “Have you talked to O’Malley?”

“No.”

“The paper says it was a car accident. On the Sheridan Road ravines.”

A string of bluffs hugs the shoreline of Lake Michigan from Winnetka to Lake Bluff. Between them are steep ravines that can be treacherous if you’re driving too fast. Or if your brakes aren’t working.

Georgia stared at her coffee as if the hot liquid could reveal the truth.

“Shouldn’t we tell the cops up here about her boss’s accident? Make sure they connect the dots?”

“Go ahead.”

I frowned. “Will you come with me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They’re already on it. You know that. Molly was abducted up here, don’t forget. Now that her mother’s dead, they’d be cretins not to look for a connection.”

“So why not help them out?”

“Like I said, you go ahead. It’s not my job. I’m not officially working this case.”

“But if you were?”

“I’d be all over it. Although I’m guessing there won’t be much evidence. If someone is good enough to make a murder look like an accident, they know what they’re doing.” Georgia leaned forward. “Whoever’s behind this knows how to operate in that— netherworld between fact and fog,” she added. “That means they’re not someone you want to tangle with.”

“I wasn’t thinking about me.”

Georgia’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m going to call Molly’s father,” I said.

“What the hell for?”

“Because he’s the only one I can think of who can hire you.”

•   •   •

Sunday morning Georgia came in from a run to find a message from Terry Messenger on her voicemail. “Ellie Foreman said you might be able to help me. I’d like to set up a meeting.”

An hour later she drove to his condo in the Glen, a self-contained community with overpriced homes, restaurants, and stores. But if you were looking for a place in a hurry, as husbands who’ve been kicked out of their homes often are, the availability of apartments made it a predictable choice.

Terry Messenger opened the door. Georgia had only seen him briefly on the news the day Molly was released. He was better looking in person. Bald by choice—he couldn’t have been much older than forty—the shape of his head was pleasing. His eyes were hazel, with dark lashes that gave him a slightly feminine cast. Unlike his wife and daughter’s freckled skin, his was ruddy, and he looked like he’d been out in the sun. He was a doctor, Georgia recalled, which meant his time in the sun was probably due to tennis or golf. Maybe sailing. He was wearing a soft-looking yellow t-shirt, jeans, and sandals.

“Thanks for coming.” He ushered her in, his expression tight, as though he was struggling to control his emotions.

Georgia looked around. He hadn’t invested much in decorating. A black leather couch—what was it about men and leather? A left-over childhood desire to play cowboy? A dining room table with four chairs. But no rug or carpet, and nothing on the walls. This was where he slept, not where he lived.

“How’s Molly doing?”

Messenger looked puzzled.

“I met her a couple of days ago at your—ex-wife’s house.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He swallowed. “She’s—she’s in bad shape.”

“I’m so sorry.” Georgia’s voice caught.

Messenger’s eyes filled. Then he pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “She can’t sleep, she can’t eat, and she’s sucking her fingers again. She hasn’t done that since she was four.”

“Is she here?”

He gestured toward a hall leading away from the living room. “She’s taking a nap. Or trying to.” He sat at the dining room table and motioned Georgia into a chair.

“Have you considered getting her some help? A therapist or counselor?”

“What are they going to do? Feel her pain? Tell her it’s going to be okay? Molly’s mother is gone. She’s never coming back.”

He had a point.

“I don’t mean to belittle your suggestion. I just haven’t had time to think about anything. The past twenty-four hours have been surreal. I keep thinking the other shoe is going to drop, but I don’t know where or when or even what size it is.”

“The police are investigating, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but they don’t seem to have any—any passion for it, if you know what I mean.”

“Are they aware that Christine’s boss died in a car accident too?”

“Yes, but they’re not prepared to say the two incidents are linked. At least not yet. They’re not ruling it out, but they say they need evidence.”

“Do you know if they have Emerlich’s accident report from the Illinois State Police?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I do. And from what I can tell, it looks like the brake fluid in his car was too low. If the same was true in Christine’s car, it could indicate something.”

“You see? That’s what I need. Someone who’s willing to make those connections. Christine was sure something weird was going on. She called me, you know. The night before she—she died.”

“And?”

“She said—she said, ‘I screwed up.’”

“Screwed up? How?”

She wouldn’t tell me. Believe me, I asked. But she sounded terrified. For her, that’s saying a lot.”

“Because she was always—so controlled?”

He grimaced. “That’s the nice way of saying it. A rock showed more emotion than Chris. That was one of the reasons—well, we won’t go there. She wasn’t that way with Molly, of course.” He lapsed into silence. Georgia waited. He seemed to forget where he was and what he was talking about. The guy was still in shock.

Georgia said softly, “You were explaining Chris’s call the night before the accident...”

“Right.” He snapped back. “She wanted me to take Molly for the weekend. She sounded scared. She kept saying she thought something bad was going to happen.”

“Did she say what? Or why? Or who was behind it? Anything?”

He shook his head. “I asked, but she wouldn’t tell me. Just asked me to pick Molly up. She was on her way out to a meeting. I went right over. Molly was next door with a neighbor. We were on our way back here when the police called.”

“Do you think that ‘meeting’ might have had something to do with the accident?”

“I don’t know.” A burst of pain shot across his face. “I’m a cardiologist, you know. I deal with specific symptoms that can be diagnosed, then treated. But this—this is so—I’m way out of my league. I don’t even know if the police know what they’re doing.”

Apparently Christine Messenger wasn’t the only control freak in the family. Then again, the man had just faced one crisis and was in the middle of another, either one of which could profoundly affect a person. She should lighten up.

“What you’re feeling isn’t unusual. You’ve suffered two tremendous shocks. In quick succession. I’d be surprised if you weren’t disoriented.”

His eyes fired with shame. Doctors were taught to perform under pressure, no matter what the situation. To play God. Was he just now realizing that he wasn’t?

“Did you tell the police about Chris’s phone call?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “The detective took notes.”

Georgia pictured her former partner, Robbie Parker, sitting in the same chair as she, interviewing Messenger. She suppressed a stab of annoyance. She recalled something Christine said at their first meeting. “You said your wife—I mean Chris—was good with Molly.”

“That’s right.”

“Would you call her a good mother?”

“She was super. I never had any complaints. She was doing a great job raising her.”

Georgia frowned. Christine had said Terry accused her of being a bad mother. Of putting her career before Molly. She’d been afraid to tell him about Molly’s abduction for fear she’d lose custody. Should she bring it up? No, not now. She was about to ask him about Christine’s car when she heard footsteps in the hall. Molly shuffled into the room.

“Daddy?”

Georgia couldn’t believe it was the same child. Molly was wearing a pink bathrobe with brown stains smeared across it. Her feet were bare, and her hair was matted and tangled. Her skin was so pale it looked translucent. She was clutching a scruffy stuffed Beagle. She squinted and blinked rapidly, as though the light in the room was too strong.

Terry held out his arms, and Molly ran over. He scooped her up into his lap. She settled herself, then stuffed three fingers in her mouth and turned to stare at Georgia. She showed no sign of recognition.

Georgia wished she could take the girl in her arms. Instead she said, “Hi, Molly. Do you remember me? I was at your house the other day.”

Molly sucked on her fingers without replying. Then her lips puckered and she buried her face in her father’s chest. The girl had only met her once, then her life had collapsed. Even if Molly did recognize Georgia, she would probably always associate her with grief and tragedy.

“It’s okay, freckle-face,” her father said softly. “Georgia’s here to help.”

Molly burrowed deeper, as if she wanted to climb into his pocket and stay there. Georgia knew that feeling.

“Molly is the only important thing in my life,” Terry said. “She must stay safe,” he went on. “Do you understand? I need to know what’s going on so I can take appropriate measures. I’m prepared to compensate you to ensure that. Will you help me?”

Georgia looked at him, then Molly. She explained her terms. He’d pay her a retainer. She would work on an hourly basis and keep track of her time. When she got close to an agreed-upon amount, she’d let him know so he could determine whether to proceed further. He agreed to everything.

“Molly, honey, you have to get up for a minute. I need to write Georgia a check.”

Georgia held up her hand. “Don’t worry. I can get it later.”

“Thanks.” He tightened his hold on his daughter. “What do you see as your first step?”

“I’ll need to get the police report on her fatal—I mean, accident. Then I’ll start making inquiries. Because of the similarity with Emerlich, I’ll probably start at her office.” She thought for a moment. “What about family? Does—did Chris have any siblings, cousins, who might talk to me?”

Terry shook his head. “She was an only child, and her parents are gone. My sister was close to her—wait. She has a cousin. Lives on the East Coast. I’ll get you her name and number.”

“That would be great.”

“In the meantime, is there anything special I should do—with her?” He brushed his fingers over Molly’s hair, tucked a lock behind her ear.

Georgia knew she’d have to talk to Molly about the kidnapping, but now wasn’t the time. She wanted to reassure her that she would survive.
Georgia
had, although she wasn’t sure how. She’d let the days and nights spill over her like waves in the ocean. Eventually enough breakers washed over her, and the wound wasn’t as raw. She could even smile and laugh again. But the pain and regret never faded entirely. Even after twenty-five years.

“Just keep her close.”

Terry nodded. Molly must have sensed the conversation drawing to a close. She squirmed, then turned around and looked at Georgia. Slowly, she took her fingers out of her mouth.

“Peaches,” she said softly.

“What was that, freckle-face?” Terry asked.

But Georgia knew. She remembered how Foreman had teased Molly about Georgia’s name when they met. She leaned across and drew her hand down the girl’s cheek. “That’s right, Molly. That’s my name. Georgia Peaches.”

chapter
11

M
onday morning Georgia emailed the report she’d written about More-than-Friends to her client. Technically, her job was finished—unless her client opted not to go to the police. Then Georgia would have a decision to make. But that was still a ways off.

Next she called O’Malley. He wasn’t there, so she left a message and went to work out. She’d discovered a gym on the second floor of an older building in Evanston. It was a smelly, barebones place with wood floors and fluorescent lighting, frequented by guys she’d never want to meet in a dark alley. But it had all the equipment she needed, and she liked getting in and out in under an hour.

Back home she showered and dressed and slathered a piece of toast with peanut butter and jam. She was just biting into it when her phone trilled.

“Davis...”

“I would hope so...” A gravelly voice cracked.

“Hey Dan.” O’Malley. “Thanks for calling back.”

“You considered my offer and want to come back on the force.”

“Er... not today.”

“Business must be good.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’d really like to get a copy of the accident report on Christine Messenger.”

“You and every reporter in Chicago.”

“I’d never leak it.”

“I know you won’t, but what about the gremlins who come in every night and steal things off your computer?”

“If you’re going to be a hardass, I can get it another way. I just thought—”

“Look. Parker’s team is working this thing the right way. I don’t want it to get fucked up.”

That was only part of the truth. As Deputy Chief of Police, O’Malley had a stake in it, too. His reputation as a boss and manager was on the line. She sighed. “I get it. But you should know I got the report on her boss from the Staties.”

OMalley was quiet for a minute. “You gonna tell me who your client is?”

“You gonna get me the report?”

“Now who’s being a hardass?” He laughed. “Got to be the father.”

Georgia kept her mouth shut.

“Listen. If you have the State Police report, just substitute the name of the victim, and you’ll have the general idea.”

“The circumstances were that similar?”