Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (17 page)

B
y 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:

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.

T
he 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.”

I
t 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 worsened.

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.

Zoya drove faster, as if she was tethered to a homing device. Georgia momentarily lost sight of her. She sped up too, although her Toyota was not good in snow and she was nervous about plowing into a tree or fence post. The road deteriorated; underneath it seemed to be pitted with stones. She passed a field littered with rusted farm equipment, now partially covered in white. Finally she picked up Zoya’s taillights in time to watch her make a left. Georgia reached the spot a moment later and was about to follow her when she realized she’d be turning onto a private driveway. Trees bowed under snow lined both sides of the drive, their stripped and wiry branches swinging in gusts of wind. A weak light shone at the other end of the drive, maybe a hundred yards away. A farmhouse. Or a barn. Or both. And this driveway was the only way in.

Georgia put the Toyota in park and watched the sedan pull all the way up to the light. The Impala stopped; its red taillights winked out. She heard the faint thump of a car door closing. Georgia got out and snapped some photos with her smartphone to mark the location.

S
he was close. She knew it. She backtracked to the tiny village of Capron. It was after four, dusk deepening into purple shadows, but she wasn’t ready for the trek back to Evanston.

She stopped at the Village Café, a diner that, happily, was still open. The place, small but tidy, gave off the scents of bacon, fried food, and onions. Overriding those smells was the aroma of freshly made coffee, and she ordered some from a round, pleasant woman. Seated at a table, Georgia checked the photos on her phone. In the eerie winter light, the location looked spooky yet nondescript—just snow, trees, and the expanse that was the driveway. She closed the camera app and was surprised to find she had a wireless signal, especially in the storm. She checked her email. Nothing important. And no word from Jimmy.

That was when it came to her. Zoya Tunick. Holy shit. Tunick was the name of the boy who’d died on the table while being operated on by Richard Lotwin. Was Zoya his mother? She Googled his name again; the same articles came up, but there was no mention of the mother’s first name. Still, how many Tunicks could there be in Northbrook?

Now it made sense. Zoya hadn’t filed a malpractice suit because she didn’t have to. The Russian Mafiya was known to exact vengeance of the eye-for-an-eye variety; they held a grudge for generations. She imagined how it could have happened: a couple of thugs visited Lotwin. Let him know that if he didn’t want
his
kids to end up like Antonin Tunick, he’d do what they wanted. Which was to deliver babies for the baby-breeding ring. And Zoya was a powerful part of the organization. Georgia wondered if that in some way made up for the death of her son. No. Unless the woman was an unfeeling bitch, how could it?

She was buoyed by the connection. She finally had a working hypothesis about the baby-breeding farm. Still, she needed proof. She checked the time; it was early. She went back online to try to suss out the farm’s owner. She wasn’t sure if Boone County’s property records were online, like Cook’s. She went to the Boone County gov site. The answer was maybe, if she had a pin number. But she didn’t.

She scanned the web for information about Capron. It was a tiny town, fewer than two thousand people. That was both good and bad. Good, because only a few people knew about the place; bad, because people in small towns all knew one another’s business. Unless that business was kept well out of view. Plus, she reminded herself, the population count was probably limited to the town, not necessarily the farmland surrounding it.

She mulled it over. Capron was small; it was unlikely to have any law enforcement of its own. It probably relied on the Boone County Sheriff’s Department, unlike Harvard, which was large enough to support its own department.

She sipped her coffee, thinking about the Harvard police and Jimmy and the day they’d met, or, to be accurate, met again. That had been a good day. A very good day. She checked her messages. She should have heard from him by now. They had a date. Was there a problem? Of course, now that the snow was flying, there was no way he would want to drive down, and she didn’t want him to. The irony was she was only twenty-five miles from Lake Geneva. If she drove over, she could surprise him. He could fill her in on Capron. Maybe they’d research the property records together. She smiled. Who was she kidding? Capron wasn’t even on the list of reasons she wanted to see him.