Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (9 page)

A
lthough Benny’s had been around since the 1940s, they’d moved several times and their present incarnation was in the South Loop. The place wasn’t much more than a one-story shack with a red sign outside; inside were two rooms with a lot of tables crammed together. There was no pretense at decoration, and the food was served cafeteria-style. Still, by the time Georgia pushed through the door at lunchtime the next day, the place was teeming with cops, aldermen, lawyers, and other Chicago VIPS, all of whom jostled each other good-naturedly.

The staff at Benny’s were notorious for a smart-ass attitude, but customers gave as good as they got, and the hot, steamy air was filled with cheerful put-downs, one-liners, and verbal jabs. The best part, though, were the smells. Part garlic, part corned beef, grease, and soup, nothing was better than the aromas wafting through a good deli, Georgia thought. She’d inhale them all day.

She approached a counter that ran the length of the room where about a dozen people stood in line. Three men behind the counter were making up sandwiches, dishing out latkes, coleslaw, and soup. At the end of the counter was a neon “Carry-Out” sign, below which two Hispanic women assembled meals and slid them into paper bags. On the counter between the two women lay a box of wrappers with the familiar red and yellow stripes down one edge. She watched as one of the women drew out a wrapper. Now that she could see the whole piece, she noticed the name “Benny’s” printed in red letters in the center of the paper. Rick Martin had been on the mark. They’d customized their wrap.

Even so, she couldn’t loiter too long; the place was geared for a speedy turnover. She waited near the carry-out sign, and when it was her turn she ordered a corned beef on rye to go. She watched as they layered more than three inches of meat on the bread. Enough for a week. She asked for extra coleslaw and Russian dressing, and one of the women snapped, “Why you not ask for a Reuben?”

She apologized with a smile and said, “Don’t forget the latke and pickle.”

The woman shot her a look. “Whaddya wanna drink?”

“Diet Coke.”

The woman retrieved a small plastic container with coleslaw, another with Russian dressing. Then she wrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle, put everything and the drink into a white bag, and handed Georgia a yellow receipt. Georgia took everything up front to pay, winding around a couple of aldermen she regularly saw on TV. She also passed a man who looked remarkably like Senator Dick Durbin.

Back in her car, she unwrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle but made sure to save the wrap. She bit into the sandwich. It was just as good as she remembered. It was a clear but frigid day, and she’d almost ordered matzoh-ball soup too, but the sandwich alone was so hearty she could eat only half. She had no room for soup. She finished the pickle, took a bite of the latke, then slipped everything else back into the bag. Dinner.

She’d snagged a space across the street from the restaurant on Jefferson where she could watch people going in and out. She fished out her camera and took pictures of anyone exiting with a take-out bag, although she didn’t expect any leads. Still, she had to be thorough.

The sun was slanting toward the horizon when a gray Hyundai with a placard on the roof that said “Benny’s” pulled up in front of the restaurant. Georgia straightened. A delivery guy.

An average-sized man in a down jacket and a wool Bears hat climbed out of the Hyundai and went inside. Georgia got out of her car and stationed herself in back of the Hyundai, shivering in the arctic chill. The guy came out ten minutes later, carrying two cardboard boxes filled with bags with tickets stapled to them. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave. Guy had a rough night. He got in his car and drove away.

Ten minutes later another car, a Corolla like Georgia’s, also with a placard on the top, pulled up. She watched a young African American man trot into the restaurant, emerging a few minutes later with a box of white bags. He stowed the food in his backseat and pulled out.

She went back to her car and watched him pull away, but not before she’d scrawled down his license plate, just as she’d done with the first guy. She’d wanted to question both about their deliveries over the past few weeks, but they had no incentive to talk to her. Even if they did, they might tell those customers that a detective had been nosing around asking questions. Plus, she didn’t know which delivery guy knew what. She had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right guy. Which meant a fifty-fifty chance of choosing the wrong one too. It was time to go home and start digging.

T
wo hours later Georgia knew enough about one of Benny’s delivery guys to make a return visit. Kroll’s and FindersKeepers revealed that Bruce Kreisman, the owner of the Hyundai, had fled the state of Florida six months earlier for kiting checks. Overdrawing on accounts at several banks, he’d made off with twelve grand. Miami still had a warrant out for his arrest. She was surprised Benny’s hadn’t picked it up during a background check. Unless they didn’t do one.

She wolfed down the rest of her corned beef sandwich. The guy in the Corolla was clean. Dropped out of high school but was taking a correspondence course online. Worked as a night janitor downtown. The car was registered to Selma Hunter, who could have been his mother, aunt, or girlfriend.

The next morning she was back at Benny’s before lunch. The gray Hyundai pulled up around eleven.

“Hey, Bruce!” she called as she slid out of her car. “Is that you?”

The guy whipped around. Even though she was twenty yards away, a look of panic overspread his face.

As she trotted across the street, Kreisman appraised her, and some of the panic faded. He was trying to figure out whether he knew her.

“It
is
you, isn’t it?” She pasted on a grin and kept her voice friendly, almost flirty.

But when she was within a few feet of him, his eyes narrowed, and he began to turn away. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“You’re not Bruce Kreisman?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He headed for Benny’s door.

“You sure you’re not the Bruce Kreisman with an outstanding arrest warrant in Miami?”

He froze, his back to Georgia. Then he turned around slowly. A cagey look came over him. He had to be thinking that she was “just” a woman. Less of a threat. She was used to it. He backtracked in her direction, a determined look replacing the fear. The asshole thought he had a plan.

She stood her ground and blew on her hands. The cold, battering wind fell just short of the Hawk.

He stopped. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Georgia Davis. I’m an investigator.”

“An investigator?” His voice broke on the word.

“I’m private.”

Something in his eyes caught. “I told you I’m not Kreisman.” His face darkened; he looked like he was going to flip her off. Again he spun around as if to leave. Then he stopped. “But the guy who used to own this car was.”

“Excuse me?” Georgia faked a confused expression.

“Yeah. I bought this car off of Craigslist. Guy’s name was Kreisman.”

“So you are…”

“Josh. Keller.”

And I’m Taylor Swift,
Georgia thought. She wrapped her muffler tighter around her neck. It was too cold to play games. “Sorry, that won’t cut it, Bruce.” She fished in her pocket, drew out a sheet of paper, and pointed to a photo. Although the printout was black-and-white and not the best resolution, the similarity to the man standing in front of her was unmistakable.

Kreisman swallowed. He looked like the kid who’d blown off his homework then was called on in class.

“Look, it’s too cold to talk out here. Let’s go to my car.” Once in the Toyota, she asked, “So how long have you been in Chicago?”

His gaze flitted everywhere except toward Georgia.

“About six months, I figure,” she said.

No response.

“Well, believe it or not, this is your lucky day, Bruce. I don’t want to make trouble for you. In fact, I’m not interested in
you
at all. You help me out, and I go away. Forever.”

Now he looked directly at her. “What do you want?”

“Information.”

He hesitated, licked his lips, then gave her a brief nod.

“How many delivery guys does Benny’s have?”

He was quiet for a minute. Then, “Depends on the day. And shift. There are usually two of us. When it’s really busy, they use a messenger service.”

“When is your shift?”

“It changes, depending on the day. Nothing routine.”

“But you do have regulars, right? Businesses, customers that order a lot?”

He shrugged in mute acknowledgment.

“I’m looking for a young girl. Maybe blond. Definitely pregnant. Do you remember delivering to someone like that?”

“Shit, lady. There are thousands of women like that all over Chicago.”

“How about during the past couple of weeks?”

A glint in his eyes told Georgia he knew something, and a smug look came over him. “I might. What’s in it for me?”

She volleyed the smug look back. “You really have to ask?”

He glanced around, then nodded.

“Really?” He was testing her. “Okay, well, you can’t say I didn’t try.” She grabbed her car key, still in the ignition, and fired up the engine.

His brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“You haven’t given me much choice.” She pulled out her cell. “You can get out now. Have a nice day.”

His worried look intensified, and he raised his voice above the whine of the engine. “Man—I mean lady—you can’t do this.”

She smiled. “And that’s because…”

“Look. I like it here. Got a new girlfriend. Place to live. Steady job. Know what I mean?”

“I do. Like I said, too bad.” She flipped up the locks on the door. “Time’s up. I gotta make a call.”

He blew out a breath. “Wait.”

She looked over. His expression deepened from worry to fear. A real fear. She could smell it.

“I’ll—I’ll tell you. It’s just—well—I don’t like those people.”

For the first time in their conversation, the guy looked like he was telling the truth. In fact, he might have shivered when he said the word “people.”

“What people?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know who they are. Or what they’re doing. And I don’t want to.”

“Show me, Bruce.”

G
eorgia followed Kreisman and the Bennymobile into the bowels of the South West Loop. The police academy wasn’t far away; as a cadet, she’d come down here every day. But the area had changed since then. Sandwiched between the Loop to the east and the UIC campus to the south, it had been a commercial zone. Now, though, neat, one-story warehouses stood where decaying buildings and the accompanying detritus once were. Cheerful signs for Home Depot, Best Buy, Whole Foods, and even a bank or two loomed overhead.

She followed Kreisman through a warren of industrial streets with so many dead ends, twists, and turns that she wondered whether he was leading her in circles. Eventually, though, he pulled up to a small, tidy warehouse with a large sliding garage door and driveway in front. The door was shut tight, and there were no trucks or cars on the driveway. There weren’t even any swirls of graffiti on the walls. No lights inside; no figures moving around. When the wind gusted, a screen door on the side of the building flapped and banged against a door. But the deep silence between the gusts gave it the feel of a place that had been abandoned.

Kreisman parked a few yards down. Georgia did too and climbed out of her Toyota. Kreisman stayed in his Hyundai, his gaze flicking warily from the warehouse to Georgia, then back. She went over and motioned him to roll down his window.

“That’s the place.” He yanked a thumb toward the warehouse.

She scanned the building’s perimeter. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here.”

“I can’t help that,” he snapped.

Georgia frowned. Was he setting her up? She was supposed to have the leverage here. “You sure this is where you saw a pregnant woman with blond hair?”

He nodded.

“When?”

“Maybe ten days ago. The last delivery I made.”

“Just the one woman? Or were there others?”

He shrugged.

“Come on, Bruce, you’ve gotta give me more.”

“It’s—it’s none of my business.” He hesitated. “Listen, man, I mean lady. I did what you wanted. I gotta split.”

Georgia backed off. Something about this place was freaking him out. “How often did you deliver here?”

“Like I said, maybe once or twice a week. Until last week.”

“Big orders?”

“They were okay.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know, five or six sandwiches. They ordered a lot of soup.”

“Drinks?”

“Naw. Just food.”

“What else?”

He scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

She leaned into the car. “What else can you tell me about the place and the people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, someone had to give you money when you gave them their food. Who? Describe them.”

“I never got a good look.” His knee started to pump up and down.

She folded her arms.

He blew out a breath. “Okay, so this guy would meet me outside.”

“What guy?”

“I don’t know. Kind of stocky. Short hair.”

“White?”

He nodded. “Spoke with a thick accent.”

“What kind?”

“Russian maybe?”

Georgia arched her eyebrows. “You sure?”

“How the hell—I dunno. Maybe he was a Polack or something?” His knee was pumping furiously.

“So a guy would come outside. He’d take the order. Give you money. You never saw the women, but you know there were some inside. How?”

He shifted from foot to foot. “I really gotta go. My boss is gonna throw a shit fit.”

Georgia’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Bruce.”

He winced. “Okay. So once the door on the side opened and this girl in a bathrobe ran out.”

“What girl?”

“Christ, lady, I don’t know. A girl. Blond. Pregnant. In a pink bathrobe. She ran down to my car.”

Georgia stiffened. “What happened?”

“The guy started to yell at her. She yelled back. Then—”

“In English?”

He shook his head. “It was one of them languages I don’t know.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Well, then this other guy runs out and drags her back in. She’s screaming her lungs out. But then the door slams and it all stops. At least, I couldn’t hear her anymore.”

“You said girl, not woman. You think she was under twenty-one?”

“I dunno.”

“But she didn’t want to be there. She obviously wanted to leave.”

“Duh.” He made a small mewling sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

“And she was pregnant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How were you able to tell, if she was wearing a bathrobe?”

He went quiet. But the defiant look in his eyes said he wasn’t that stupid.

“Okay.” She nodded. “Anything else?”

“No. And I’m done here.” He keyed the engine.

She wasn’t going to get much more. She leaned in through the open window. “Well, if you think of anything else, give me a call.” She dug in her jeans pocket, gave him her card, and straightened up. He took the card, then gunned the engine so forcefully that he burned rubber as the Hyundai sped away.