Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (23 page)

“H
oly shit. You were amazing! We could have been killed!” Matt said. They had stopped at Max’s, a popular deli on the North Shore, famous for its kosher-style-but-not-really-kosher food. “I couldn’t believe your—um—balls.”

“That’s me. Balls of steel,” Georgia said.

He grinned.

She smiled back. “Honestly, I was shaking in my shoes. At one point I thought he was gonna off me right then and there.” She scanned the menu, which was a tall multipage laminated book. “I hate these things. There are way too many choices. How can you possibly decide?” Georgia went on. “I couldn’t believe the Barry Manilow shit. Was that for real?”

“A hundred percent. In fact, it’s worse since I was there. He’s obsessed.”

“How did it start?”

“No idea.” He paused. “Wishful thinking?”

That brought a giggle from Georgia. It felt good to laugh with Matt. It had been years. In fact the entire day so far had been almost surreal: her reunion with Matt, the visit to the Russian Mafiya boss, now lunch at Max’s. She was about to tell him when the waitress, a middle-aged woman in black pants and white shirt, brought over a bread basket and a bowl of sliced pickles.

“So what’ll it be, kids?” the waitress said in a tired voice.

Georgia ordered matzoh-ball soup. Matt ordered a corned beef sandwich. She wanted to tell him Benny’s were better but resisted.

After they ordered, Georgia picked up a slice of pickle. “I couldn’t figure out how well he knows Vlad.” She bit into the pickle. “A guy like him has to know pretty much everyone in the—uh—community, don’t you think?”

Matt’s tone was sober. “They all know each other. And you’re right not to trust him. They’re bad people. Even him.”

“I get it.”

“Were you bullshitting back there?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That stuff about the Russian mob guy killing his wife.”

She leaned back. A flicker of annoyance shot through her. “Not at all. Happened down near the old Sun-Times building.”

“How did you get involved?”

“You remember Ellie Foreman?”

Matt frowned. “Video producer, right?”

Georgia nodded. “Someone sent her a videotape of a woman being murdered. She turned it over to us. Former Superintendent Olson let me work the case. I found out the vic had been in his clutches.” She took another slice of pickle. “The asshole was into all sorts of shit. Running hookers, drugs, small arms deals. Then he got involved with a Realtor.”

Matt’s features hardened.

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t Stuart Feldman.” She heard the edge in her voice. She and Matt had broken up after he fell in love with Feldman’s daughter, Ricki.

“Damn! Where was I?”

Georgia hesitated just a beat. It was always about him, she thought. Aloud she said, “Who knows? Israel probably.”

“Ahh.” He picked up a bialy, slathered it with butter, and bit into it. “So what happened to him? Where’d he go?”

“They dragged the river but never found a body. I heard he went back to the Ukraine to nurse his wounds.”

Matt chewed his bread. Georgia picked up another slice of pickle. The waitress brought Georgia’s soup and made a big deal of putting it down. Georgia was aware of Matt watching and smiling as she wolfed down the pickle. They were her favorites. Did he remember?

“A lot can happen in a few years, Georgia,” he said.

She got the sense he wasn’t just talking about the Russian Mafiya. She looked over. Gray hairs were threaded through the black curly waves she knew so well. Still. She steered the conversation back to Boris.

“So do you think he’ll back me?”

Matt considered it. “Depends on how he analyzes the situation. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You made an impression. I don’t think a woman has ever talked to him like that.” He cleared his throat. “You made an impression on me, too.”

“Y
ou’ve changed.”

She stiffened. “People do.” She needed to change the subject. She didn’t want to deal with what she suspected was coming. “By the way, you ever hear of a doctor named Richard Lotwin? Used to be a surgeon. Maybe he still is.”

Matt shook his head.

“He was accused of malpractice. Twice. Both times at Newfield. Maybe ten years ago.”

He frowned. “Wait…I think I did hear something about that. Wasn’t he dumped from the hospital?”

“Right.”

“Why? I mean, why do you want to know?”

“It’s something I’ve been working on.”

“Something to do with this?”

She stopped talking then, and spooned soup into her mouth. The waitress brought Matt’s sandwich and gave them a peculiar look, as if she wasn’t sure what their relationship was. Georgia returned the look. The woman retreated.

Matt picked up half of his sandwich. He looked Georgia up and down, then put the sandwich back on his plate. “I was wrong, you know.”

Georgia let a beat of silence go by. “About what?”

“You never told me the way you felt. I never knew where I stood.”

That was a crock of shit, she thought. They had been lovers. They’d lived together almost a year. He was supposed to know how she felt.

“You always kept things bottled up,” he added.

What was he doing? Trying to rewrite history? He had dumped her for Ricki Feldman. It had nothing to do with communication.

Or did it? Even if it did, what did it matter? It was yesterday’s news. If it made him feel better to think she was at fault, so be it. She knew the truth. She started to open her mouth to say something to that effect when an image of Jimmy floated into her mind. Communication skills. Jimmy. She hadn’t called him back.

Damn Matt. He had a point.

She put the spoon down. “I—I was dealing with all sorts of things.”

“Like whether you wanted to be a cop.”

She nodded. “And a Jew.”

“I should have known when you started taking conversion lessons,” Matt said.

“It never occurred to me I’d have to spell it out.”

“I was an asshole.”

“Yes, you were.” She waved her spoon. “But that’s in the past.”

He looked at her, his face wide open. “What are you saying?”

Georgia couldn’t believe what came out of her mouth next. “I think you’re right. We should have communicated better. I should have told you how much I loved you. We were both at fault.” Another powerful vision of Jimmy strafed her brain. The two of them in her bed. At the pancake house. At the movie. Then Jimmy embracing Saucy Hat.

“Are you saying there might be another chance for us?” Matt reached for her hand.

She pulled it back and let the silence grow. It was okay with Matt. Comfortable. Familiar. But none of the old sirens wailed. Her skin didn’t tingle. It was over. Really over. All she could think about now was Jimmy. She knew what she had to do. “Hey, thanks.” She smiled.

“For what?” He looked lost.

“For coming today. And for lunch. I need to go.”

“Right now?” He motioned to her soup. “You hardly touched it.”

“Take it home for dinner.” She grabbed her coat, flung it on, and hurried out to the parking lot. A frigid wind had kicked up, and her fingers ached with the cold. Still, once inside the Toyota, she made herself dig for her cell and punched in Jimmy’s number.

He picked up right away. “Georgia?” He sounded relieved, happy, and pissed off, all at the same time. “Are you all right? God! I’ve been so worried. I must have left a dozen messages.”

“I know. I’m fine. I—I’m sorry for not calling you back. It was—well—I was…hey, do you have a minute?”

“Of course.”

“Who was that woman you put your arms around two nights ago outside the restaurant, around six? The one with the”—she couldn’t say the word “saucy”—“hat?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wednesday.” It was Friday now. “I drove out to a farmhouse in Capron. Then I drove to Lake Geneva, hoping to catch you. It was snowing, remember? And I saw you go inside the restaurant with another woman. You were—pretty cozy.”

He hesitated. It was the longest minute Georgia could remember. Then,

“Oh. Her. Marianna is my cousin. I’ve known her all my life. She just lost her husband. A sudden heart attack. No warning. He was barely fifty. I was trying to comfort her.” He paused again. “Why the hell didn’t you come in?” Then he answered his question. “Oh.”

Georgia swallowed. “I should have, Jimmy. I was wrong. We—no—I need to communicate better. I’m not real good at it. I don’t trust easily. But I want to try.”

“We both will.”

He was letting her off the hook. Her heart melted.

“Um, where are you now?” he asked.

“In my car.”

“Have any plans for the rest of the day? And night?” She felt his smile through the phone.

“I do now,” she said.

A
narrow band of sunlight crawled across Georgia’s bed the next morning on its way toward Jimmy’s cheek. When it reached his eyes, he’d wake up. Meanwhile Georgia watched and listened. His slow, even breaths mingled with the sounds of a Saturday morning: the slam of a door, the catch of a car engine, the whoop from one of the kids across the street. A profound contentment spread through her. She was where she was supposed to be. She pulled the sheet up to cover her body; the morning chill was taking its toll. The rustling couldn’t have been much more than a whisper, but when she looked back at Jimmy, his eyes were open.

“Good morning.” He smiled and reached for her. She let herself be folded into his arms. He tightened his hold. She let out a breath. His hands moved up and down her back, lightly stroking her skin. She closed her eyes and concentrated on every sensation.

Over coffee and croissants at the coffee shop in Evanston, Georgia debated whether to tell him about Boris, the farm, and her plans. If she did, he’d go all cop on her again. He’d hook up with the Boone County Sheriff, the Harvard police, maybe bring in his own men. They’d take over. She couldn’t chance it. Then again, Jimmy would find out soon enough when the cops announced they had Nyquist, Coe, and Lotwin. He would be pissed she hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in—no—“communicate” with him.

She was between a rock and a hard place. If she told him, her part in the operation would be over; if she didn’t and he found out, their relationship would be over. She winced. Either way, she was aware that this one was on her. She was still keeping secrets, precisely what she’d just promised not to do.

Jimmy bit into his croissant. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”

She brushed her fingers across his cheek. “I want you to know something.”

“What’s that?”

“I never thought I could feel this way about a man. Thank you.”

He finished chewing. “Shouldn’t that be cause for celebration?”

She tried to smile brightly. “I hope so.”

“Assuming I feel the same way.”

She felt a rush of heat on her face. “I didn’t say it to trap you. Or make you say something you don’t want to.”

His eyes crinkled up at the corners, and he flashed her a grin. “Don’t you think I know that? You’re the least devious, Machiavellian person I know.”

She kept her mouth shut.

He glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. I’m working today.”

She nodded.

He stood up, leaned over, kissed her.

“We’ll continue this conversation tonight. You want to drive up?”

L
ater that afternoon Georgia stocked up with as much gear as she could think of: a thermos filled with coffee, another jug in which to pee, a Maglite, a ski mask that covered her nose and cheeks, sandwiches, boots with rubber soles, and of course, her baby Glock. She loaded an extra magazine and stowed it in the glove compartment, made sure her cell was charged, and brought the charger. She strapped a .22 to her ankle and wedged it into her left boot. It wasn’t the most original place for a throw-down, but like a good scout, she wanted to be prepared.

At the farm she parked in the same place as before and prepared to wait. To pass the time she reviewed what she knew. Chad Coe had visited a surgeon. Then he showed up at the home of a Glencoe man who needed a kidney transplant. Then he’d driven to the Evanston apartment where Claudia Nyquist lived. Nyquist later confessed she was helping him traffic organs. Then Chad Coe had gone up to the salon where Zoya worked. Zoya had led her here.

Yes, it was mostly circumstantial. There was always the chance she had it wrong. And there was one missing piece. Vlad needed a place to harvest the organs. He couldn’t use a real hospital—way too risky. Same with the EmergenC clinics that had sprung up since health care deregulation. A private clinic or hospital would be best.

She remembered a cosmetic surgeon’s office on the North Shore, right on Green Bay Road in Kenilworth. Privately owned, it boasted an operating room, recovery suite, even patient rooms. In fact, it was a small hospital, intended for nose jobs and breast augmentation. Still, as far as she could tell, it had the same equipment as a surgical OR. It made her wonder if the farm was the site for a similar place. There had been some kind of structure behind the guard’s car when she’d staked out the other night.

She checked her cell. No texts or messages. She downed some coffee from the thermos. Its smell was better than the taste. She took a few bites of a ham sandwich. As dry as sawdust.

Finally it was twilight, then dark. Georgia took a few breaths to center herself and slipped her Glock in her shoulder holster. She grabbed her cell and climbed out of the Toyota.

G
eorgia trudged through the stand of trees between the Toyota and the driveway. The snow beneath her boots crunched. Some had melted in the past two days and seeped into the dirt, leaving patches of bare ground that gave off a fresh, earthy scent. Although it was still February cold, the smell reminded her that spring would be coming.

She wanted to snap on her Maglite but couldn’t risk it. She listened to the silence instead. She thought she might have heard a faint whisper. Was it a TV inside the farmhouse? One of the guards? Or just the night breeze?

She edged around the last of the trees but stayed half-hidden among the bare branches. A shabby barn stood about a hundred feet from the house, partially surrounded by trees and brush. This was the structure she’d seen the other night. A window was cut into the side closest to her. She needed to look into that window. A dim spotlight mounted on the side of the barn angled in her direction, but the throw of light was too weak to penetrate the tight weave of the branches where she stood.

Two cars were parked beside the barn. One was Zoya’s red sedan. The other was a dark-colored SUV. The same vehicle from two nights earlier. And now that she had time study it, she realized the van could be the SUV used in the Evanston drive-by. She squinted, trying to pick out the plate—she remembered it started with 633. But the SUV was parked at an odd angle, and she couldn’t make it out. She was about to head over for a closer look when two men on foot emerged from the gloom. The guards. She shrank back into the trees.

They approached from the far side of the barn. One had a flashlight pointed at the ground, but it wasn’t powerful, and she couldn’t make out either man’s features. They talked in low tones. They circled around the front of the barn and disappeared.

She waited. Ten minutes later, they came around again, but this time they closed in on the SUV and climbed inside. The dome light snapped on, and she saw them pass a bottle back and forth. Perversely, that gave her hope. If they spent the night loaded on vodka, maybe they’d fall asleep and she would have a chance.

Half an hour later the men were still in the car. Georgia’s feet and fingers had gone numb, and despite the ski mask, her nose was runny. She had to retreat to the Toyota. She was halfway through the copse of trees when the doors to the SUV slid open again, and the men got out. Their conversation was louder now, and punctuated with broad laughs. They made another circuit of the barn, stumbling occasionally, their boots tramping the underbrush. This time, though, instead of going to the SUV, they headed toward the house. A door slammed.

She waited another ten minutes. The sky began to spit a cold, stinging rain, not cold enough for sleet but strong enough to hamper visibility. Only crazies would be out in this. Good. She needed every edge.

Slowly she crept past the cars to the barn. She was about a foot away from it—and the window—when a second set of lights suddenly flickered on, brighter and more powerful than the first. She froze. Her heart thumped in her chest. Had she been made? She stood absolutely still, a rabbit caught in the glare of light. But there was no alarm. No shouts. No movement. The lights must be connected to a motion sensor. Shit. She should get back to her car. They must have noticed the light.

But she was so close. All she needed was a quick peek through the window. A few seconds. Then she would leave. She closed in. The window was covered with something on the inside: brown paper maybe. Or a canvas drop cloth. She was catching no breaks tonight. Then she looked more closely. One corner of the covering had drooped or the paper had torn, leaving a tiny portion of bare window. The glare from the lights made it difficult to tell. She shaded her eyes and squinted.

And sucked in a breath. Followed by a triumphant exhalation. Although the window was grimy and streaked, she could clearly see the gleam of metal. And several pieces of equipment, including a gurney, different colored tanks for gas and oxygen, an assortment of instruments. In the center of the area was a table. A light fixture hung over it. Thick drapes cordoned off the sides. She was looking at an operating suite. A place where Dr. Lotwin delivered babies, killed their mothers, and then harvested their organs.

She hurriedly fished out her cell and took a few pictures. She’d found what she was looking for. She tapped her phone app. She’d programmed in the number of the Russian mob guy she and Matt had visited. Time to call in the cavalry. She’d told Boris they should give her an hour—it would take them at least that long to get here. If they came at all. Not ideal, but it was the only insurance policy she had.

She tapped on “Boris” and was waiting for a connection when she felt it. The spitting rain was cold, but the barrel of the gun against her neck was colder.