Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (3 page)

S
aturday morning Georgia drove to the affluent part of Northfield where Chase Bartell lived. The January thaw was a distant memory; it had snowed three inches last night. The roads were clear and the air carried the brittle chill of winter. Georgia layered up, energized at the prospect of a little old-fashioned surveillance. She fished out her tiny video camera and slipped it in her pocket with her iPhone.

She pulled up to a huge white brick colonial off Happ Road with a three-  car garage, an enormous entrance door, and a fenced-in backyard that held a tennis court. She frowned. Why would a kid who lived here, where the sense of entitlement was so broad and deep you could swim laps in it, work at a cheap clothing store in Evanston? His hourly wage wouldn’t pay for a tank of gas. Maybe Reggie Field was right and the kid’s parents
were
trying to instill some kind of work ethic in him. If so, she should cut them some slack. It had been a good idea. The problem was that they’d succeeded too well. The kid had marshaled his organizational skills and talent to destroy his boss’s business.

She ran the Toyota’s heat intermittently, prepared to stake out the house all day. An hour later, though, around ten, the kid came out. He slid into a red four-by-four, keyed the engine, and took off. Georgia tailed him at a discreet distance as he turned onto Happ Road, then twisted and threaded his way southeast.

The kid stopped in front of a redbrick ranch home in Wilmette and honked. Georgia parked a hundred yards away. While not as upscale as Northfield, Wilmette was itself a well-heeled North Shore village. What was Chase doing there? Making a delivery? A buy? She pulled out her camera and started recording. Moments later the front door opened, and a fresh-faced brunette bounded out and climbed into the SUV.

The kid turned the car around and headed back down the street. As he passed Georgia, she slumped and averted her face. Once they were gone, she started following again, glad they were teenagers who’d never check for a tail.

They soon arrived in Evanston. Like the suburbs they’d just come from, the affluent part of Evanston was north, the seedier section south. Chase flew through the Northwestern campus down to Main Street. He made two more turns and ended up at a small apartment building with iron bars on the windows. He honked again. Georgia, fifty yards away, picked up her camera and started shooting. An African American kid in extra-large sweats but no coat emerged, hands in pockets. He looked in both directions, then made his way to Chase’s car and leaned against the driver’s side. The window lowered.

A conversation between Chase and him ensued. No. It was an argument. Twice the black kid poked his index finger at the kid’s chest, after which Chase flipped up his hands as if to say, “What do you want me to do?” The black kid motioned Chase out of his car. Nothing happened, and Georgia suspected the girl was telling Chase not to get out. But when the kid gestured again, Chase reluctantly climbed out. Something was happening. A moment later, Chase spun around and beckoned the girl. She got out of the SUV and trotted over. Then she dug out her cell, handed it to Chase, and watched as he made a call.

Georgia got it on tape.

I
t didn’t take long to track the girl’s cell. The owner of the Wilmette home was Carol Chernikoff. Georgia emailed her phone contact asking for the woman’s records. Her contact wasn’t pleased and complained that she was using up her favors; he wasn’t a goddammed 411. He had to be careful too. Georgia told him she’d pay extra. An hour later she had the records for two cells: one for Carol Chernikoff, and one for Carol and Emily Chernikoff. Mother and daughter.

The mother’s cell showed mostly calls to the 847 area code, the North Shore. Emily’s records, on the other hand, displayed a slew of calls to area codes 312 and 773, both in Chicago. Her calls spanned a three-week period, then abruptly stopped. Georgia checked the last day calls were made on her cell. Her pulse sped up. Ten calls. The morning of the robbery.

When Georgia tried the numbers, most of them came back as “unregistered,” which meant they were prepaid disposables or burners. Adrenaline pumped through her. She was close. All she needed was one number that wasn’t a burner. That belonged to a living, breathing person. A person who just might have gotten a call telling him to show up at Designer Discount Den just after the store opened.

She was carefully examining the cell records when her land line phone rang. Startled, she leaned over and picked it up. Name withheld. No caller ID. She considered not answering it. It could be the killer who did the drive-by closing in on her. Or not.

“Hello?”

There was no response. In the background she could hear two voices. Indistinct. Sounded like a male, one female.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” It was probably someone butt-dialing her. But that would mean she was on someone’s contact list, and she couldn’t imagine whose. She didn’t have many friends. Except Sam.

“Hey!” she yelled into the phone. “Sam! Is that you?”

A female voice in the background spiked. “No! I won’t!”

Georgia heard anger, but underneath the anger was fear. “Sam… are you there?”

A male voice cut off the female. Equally angry. Like he was issuing an order.

The female replied. Petulant, and still scared, but Georgia couldn’t make out the words. Seconds later, she was cut off by a sudden crack. Or slap. Or shot. The line went dead.

Georgia stared at her cell, wondering what the hell had just happened. She let out a nervous breath and punched in Sam’s number. After three rings, Sam’s voice mail kicked in. Georgia left a message. “Call me. Something weird just happened, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

She hung up. Who besides Sam had her number on speed dial? Maybe Ellie Foreman. She usually checked in once a month. Pete, her former neighbor who had gone back to his wife but still kept in touch. And her clients. Should she call them to make sure? No, that was overkill. She should just forget the call.

She went back to the cell records. Twenty minutes later she had it. One of the 312 numbers “Emily” called on the morning of the robbery was a landline registered to Tabitha Jefferson in Englewood on the South Side. When she cross-checked the woman’s street address on a public White Pages database, the Englewood address listed three other occupants, including someone named Willard, whose age was listed between fifteen and twenty.

All the cops had to do now was establish the daisy chain between “Emily’s” calls to Tabitha Jefferson and other calls made by either “Emily” or “Ms. Jefferson.” Georgia knew they’d find some. She picked up her phone to call the Fields.

T
he car smelled like stale weed and something sweet that could have been either doughnuts or cookies. Vanna climbed in the front; Dex was behind the wheel. He gave her a toothy smile, which was unusual. Dex was a neo-Goth; he never smiled. His hair was long and stringy, he wore black clothes and even blacker eye shadow, and he claimed to know Dylan Klebold’s little brother. Klebold was one of the jerks who shot up Columbine years earlier, then killed himself. Vanna wasn’t sure Klebold even had a brother, but it didn’t matter. Goths were uncool.

Vanna ignored his smile and looked around. It was dark outside, but a lamppost threw a shadowy light across the car. Still, she couldn’t see much. “So where’s the shit? I gotta be home by ten.”

Dex’s grin widened, showing off uneven teeth. He liked to make her wait, even grovel. She felt her eyes narrow. This was the worst part—making nice to guys to get what she wanted. But if she wanted to get high, and she most definitely did, she had to put up with it. Compared to some, Dex wasn’t so bad. Not like Jason, the creep she’d been scoring from a few months ago. He demanded a BJ even before he’d talk business. Smelly too.

Vanna ran a hand down her long blond hair. Thick, straight, with just the hint of a curl at the ends, it was a rich shade of honey, but in the right light, it sparkled with lemony highlights. She didn’t have to do anything to it—it just
was
. Her mother told her it was genes, that she’d had hair like that too, although to look at her now—at least when Vanna could bear to—you wouldn’t think so. Her mother’s hair was thin, disheveled, and flyaway. Just like the rest of her. It hadn’t always been that way. When her father was still alive, they’d been a real family. Storybook land, home-cooked meals, happy endings. Vanna shook it off. She couldn’t think about the past.

She turned toward Dex. “You got something to drink?”

“Maybe.” He reached over to the backseat, felt around, and pulled out a bottle. The sweet smell intensified. Sloe gin. He passed it to her, and she took a swig. Tasted like Hawaiian Punch. The hazy memory of a kid’s birthday party washed over her. Paper hats, pink party favors, birthday cake, and red punch, so perversely sweet it made her lips pucker. She held out the bottle. “You want?”

He shook his head. She took another swig and stowed the bottle on the floor. You had to be careful with Sloe gin. The first time she drank it, she’d guzzled half a bottle and puked her guts out.

“So what else ya got, Dex?” She was hoping for some meth. The high would help compensate for fucking him or whatever he wanted as payment.

He dug into a pocket and brought out a tiny, grimy crumple of cellophane. Either meth or blow. She stared at it eagerly, already imagining its bitter taste in the back of her throat. She wanted to grab it, do the lines, feel the rush. But she had to wait. Had to be patient.

She tried to be cool, even blasé, but Dex picked up her vibe. He held the package at eye level just out of reach. “Interested in some nose candy, little girl?”

Her insides grew warm and sticky with anticipation. She swallowed her pride. “You gonna share?”

He dangled the package back and forth like it was on a chain and smirked. “What’s it worth to you, Vanna?”

If she’d had a weapon, she just might have shot him. Or stabbed him, then run away with the dope. But her only weapon was her body, and it took every ounce of self-control to use it to her benefit. “Tell you what, baby,” she purred. “You give me a hit and see what happens.”

His eyes gleamed even in the dim light. They’d parked at the back of a secluded parking lot in Littleton, Colorado, near the North Woods restaurant, although technically the area was called South Woods. Vanna didn’t give a shit what they called it or what direction it went; truth was Littleton had nothing to recommend it. Probably why they called it “Little.” The Denver suburb was just another faceless town her mother had dragged her to. Vanna had no illusions it would be the last. Since her father died, her mother flitted moth-like from town to town, trying to outrun her grief. Houston, Albuquerque, Tucson, now Denver. Always circling the sunbelt, looking for a better life, a better deal, then packing up when everything turned to shit and starting over somewhere else.

Dex took his time opening the package. “It’s crystal,” he said reverently.

Vanna’s heart beat faster, and she ran her tongue over her lips. She couldn’t help it. Another minute. That’s all it would be.

“You got a blade and mirror?” Dex asked.

“A straw, too.” She dug into her purse and produced the required tools. He laid the mirror on the dash, tapped out some crystals. She snapped on the dome light. The stuff looked a little dirty to her, not the white she associated with a better grade.

“What the fuck?” Dex growled. “Turn it off.”

“Sorry. Just had to check.” She turned it off.

Using the razor blade, he chopped the crystals into powder.

She wanted to tell him to hurry. Instead she said, “What’s it cut with?”

He shrugged. “How the fuck do I know?” He pushed the stuff across the mirror, making four fat lines, then reached for the straw. She didn’t mind snorting the stuff, although smoking was a better high. But there wasn’t enough time. She waited as he snorted a line. Then another. He squeezed his eyes shut. An ecstatic smile came over him, and he spread his arms.

Vanna took the straw and inhaled the other two lines. The rush started from a place deep inside, waves of bliss pulsing from her nose to her gut, her ribs, the backs of her knees, her toes. The rush pushed her higher, lifting her up, and she started to float above the car. Within seconds she was flying across a blue sky, cushioned by cottony white clouds. She could do anything. She couldn’t fall. No pain. No darkness. She was looking down on all the sad children of the world. And all the ones she’d babysat. She wanted to scoop them up, cradle them, bury her nose in the folds of their sweet skin. Tickle their cheeks until they giggled. Tell them it would be okay. She would protect them.

Then she glanced over at Dex. His eyes were open now; he was watching her, breathing hard. He grabbed her hand, moved it over his crotch, and pressed down. His dick was rock hard. An itch tickled her groin. With his shiny eyes, slender build, and big cock, he wasn’t so bad. She leaned back against the seat and let the itch climb up through her torso, her breasts, her throat. A motor revved through her body, vibrating, honing the itch. She was a racehorse pawing the ground, anxious to break out of the gate.

She reached over and fumbled with his zipper. When she’d freed his cock from his jeans, it sprang up, an eager soldier reporting for duty. She took it in her mouth. He groaned. She loved this moment, because she knew it was her doing. She sucked him until he started to tremble. He reached down, grasped the sides of her head between his hands, and lifted her off. She knew what he wanted. She lay back across the front seat, spread her legs, and hiked up her skirt. She never wore underwear; it took too long to get it off.

As he entered her, she sighed with pleasure. Everything was fine now. Just fine.

W
hen Georgia picked up the tail three blocks from her apartment two days later, an uneasy feeling shot through her. How long had he been following her? How had she missed him? She hadn’t been paying attention; that’s how. Totally unacceptable. Her powers of observation were supposed to be incontestable. First-rate. She tried to rationalize: people didn’t follow her—it was usually the other way around; she had been preoccupied; she wasn’t on the clock.

No. No excuses. She was no better than the teenagers she’d tailed the other day. More important, excuses wouldn’t solve the problem. She forced herself to focus on the now. Do the reconnaissance. Take appropriate action. Passing a bookstore, she stole a glance in the window. A man was about a hundred yards behind her. Burly. Caucasian. Brown jacket, jeans, work boots, wool hat. Shoulders hunched against the cold. Hands slouched in pockets. She couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t seem to be anything special. Just an average guy. An amateur, too, to be so obvious. Was he connected to the flash rob?

Frigid air stung her face, but she picked up her pace. Chicagoland was in the grip of a bitter cold—the kind of cold that made people grateful for any bit of warmth, even the exhaust from a bus. She was bundled up herself, a bulky, nondescript figure heading south on Sherman Avenue. It would be hard to recognize anyone. So where did he pick her up? Had he been staking out her apartment?

She slowed, reviewing basic countersurveillance techniques. She could climb on a bus, take it down to Howard, then switch to the El or a cab. Or she could double back to Benson Avenue, cut through the parking lot, and circle around the bank. She’d likely lose him either way, but both options would mean staying outside. The sky was that miserable dirty gray that blankets Chicago from November until March, and the numbing cold sapped her resolve. Losing him wouldn’t tell her why he’d been tailing her in the first place.

She stopped outside a coffee shop on the corner of Sherman and Davis, hoping he’d follow her in. It was a fifty-fifty shot. As she pushed through the door, a coffee-scented gust of warmth wafted over her. She went to the front window and waited.

He didn’t appear. Georgia frowned. Was he not sure he had the right target? Had someone ordered him not to approach but simply report in? Or was he a pervert waiting for the right moment to pounce? She waited another few seconds, then turned around and unzipped her jacket. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted, he could damn well freeze his ass off. She wouldn’t.

She headed over to the counter. There were only a couple of other people in the shop besides Paul Crosby, who was working the afternoon shift. Tall, slim, with brown hair, Paul had a sweet face marred by an ugly mole on his left cheek. She worried about that mole and kept nagging him to get it looked at, but Paul was cavalier, claiming it was the mark of God. What sort of mark, he couldn’t explain. He moonlighted as a drummer for a blues band, and she’d spent plenty of nights at Hanson’s listening to him jam. He’d even come on to her once or twice, but they were listless, halfhearted passes.

Now he was wiping down the espresso machine. She cleared her throat. He looked up and brightened. “Hey. What’s happening, peaches?”

“My bones are cold.” No sense telling him about the tail. They’d both know soon enough.

“I got just the thing.” Paul began playing with the levers of a giant metallic coffee machine with lots of tubes, valves, and handles. Steam hissed, curled into the air, and dissipated. Black liquid dropped into a cup. He pulled another lever. Something sputtered, and white foam covered the black. He slapped a top on the cup and handed it to Georgia. She took a sip.

“Thanks. This hits the spot.” She went back to the window. She couldn’t see the guy.

“They’re saying more snow tonight,” said one of the people in the shop, an elderly man with snowy white hair and beard.

“Feels that way,” Paul replied and started on one of his rants about the Chicago winter and how it wasn’t for wimps. Georgia barely listened—it was the sort of mindless chatter that passed for genuine communication today. Instead she mentally reviewed her cases. The flash rob case was over. She was still investigating a domestic and a workers’ comp claim, in which the plaintiff alleged he’d thrown his back out while working in a Lincolnwood factory, except he’d worked there only a week before he was fired for selling crack in the parking lot.

Still, unless her client was holding out on her, it wasn’t a heater. Or dangerous enough to warrant a tail. Neither was the domestic. She doctored her coffee with sweetener, shook off her coat, and sat at a small round table. Someone had left a newspaper, and she idly thumbed through it. The paper, shrunken and plastered with photos and color graphics, wasn’t good for much more than lining a birdcage.

Not that she was a big reader. She’d never been a good student; she discovered in high school she was dyslexic. Overcoming it would require a lot of behavioral changes, they said. Georgia decided she didn’t have the time or the inclination, so she accepted the stigma that came with the label. She had a disability. She was slow. A retard. It hadn’t really mattered. There were plenty of high school boys eager for her expertise in other things.

The door to the coffee shop opened. Georgia went on alert, but it was just a man and a woman, shivering and complaining about the cold. They ordered lattes, sat, and launched into an intense discussion about monetizing websites.

“You should come out to Bill’s tonight,” Paul called out over their chatter and the hum of the espresso machine. “I’m playing with Louie.”

She folded the newspaper and looked out the front window. No one. Had the tail given up?

“Maybe.”

“It might be one of our last gigs there. I don’t think the place is gonna make it.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She gazed out the window.

Paul caught it. “Something going on?”

She shook her head. But his question spurred her to action. She zipped up her jacket and put on her gloves. She didn’t like loose ends. Time to confront the tail, if he was still there. Find out what he wanted. She took her coffee to the counter and set it down. “I’ll be back in a minute. Save it for me.”

Paul’s eyebrows rose.

“Don’t worry.” She flashed him a smile.

She hunched her shoulders and went outside. The sky had darkened, and a few errant snowflakes sifted down. She glanced in both directions. She easily spotted the guy, leaning against the wall of a building on the same side of the street as the coffee shop. His gaze was on the coffee shop door; he wasn’t even trying to be inconspicuous. Irritation flashed through her. She pulled her jacket close, intending to approach him and demand he tell her why he was following her. But as she turned toward him, a black SUV turned the corner and headed down Sherman.

Suddenly a burst of lightning-fast images exploded. The SUV headed toward the man who’d been tailing her. As it came abreast, it slowed. The man who’d been tailing her froze. A look of horror tore across his face. The passenger window rolled down. Georgia knew what was going to happen.

“Drop!” she yelled. “Get down and roll!”

The man didn’t move. He was still staring at the SUV, his features a frozen grimace of fear. Georgia waved her hands and tried to simulate a crouching-down motion. But he couldn’t see her. The barrel of a rifle emerged from the passenger window of the SUV. She couldn’t make out the model, but when her tail saw it, his mouth dropped open, and he reeled back.

Not fast enough.

A series of loud cracks split the air. The man who’d been tailing her folded up like an accordion. The SUV driver gunned his engine, fishtailed, then shot down Sherman Avenue.