Doubleback: A Novel (10 page)

“You know I can’t answer that.”

She didn’t need him to.

“Actually, there’s been an interesting development,” he said softly.

“I’m listening.”

“Because the mother’s ‘accident’...” he emphasized the word “... was so close to the time the daughter was snatched, we convinced the county to do an autopsy.”

“That
is
interesting.”

“The ME did it yesterday.”

“That was fast.”

“One of the assistants owed me a favor.”

What kind of favor, Georgia wondered. She didn’t ask.

“You didn’t hear this from me.”

“Of course not.”

“Christine Messenger was two months pregnant when she died.”

•   •   •

Georgia thumped the heel of her hand on the steering wheel as she drove downtown. She
knew
it. Christine Messenger was hiding something. Her behavior said it all. She’d been guarded. Secretive. Doling out information in tiny bits. This had to be the reason why.

The case had just exploded. Messenger had a man in her life, but she didn’t want anyone to know. Did that mean the guy was married? Or otherwise unavailable? More important, did that relationship—or the fact she became pregnant—have anything to do with her death? Or Molly’s kidnapping?

Georgia ran down a list of possibilities. Messenger was sleeping with her boss at the bank. The wife found out, threw a shit fit, and came after them. Or she’d taken up with her ex-husband. Ex-sex happened, especially when one partner starts a relationship with someone new. And Terry Messenger supposedly had a girlfriend. Or she was sleeping with a friend or a neighbor’s husband. Or it was someone else altogether—a mystery man no one knew about.

Two months pregnant. Did Messenger know? Georgia decided she probably did. By eight weeks, there are plenty of signs, and Messenger had been pregnant before.

O’Malley said they’d requested a DNA sample from the fetus. Depending on the results, the police might crack the case faster than she could. Good for them. Not for her. The thought that Parker, her former partner, might ace her sent a spurt of irritation up her spine. She forced herself to remember this wasn’t a competition. The important thing was Molly’s safety. She’d been hired to make sure the little girl wasn’t at risk.

The skies were hazy and gray, with humidity thick enough to punch a hole through. She parked in a garage on Dearborn and walked the few blocks to the Midwest National Bank building. A sixty-some story skyscraper, its stark white exterior sizzled against the gunmetal skies.

The lobby was a mass of cool marble. Off to the right was a glass-walled room almost as large as a football field. On one side was a row of teller booths; on the other a group of desks surrounded by an ocean of thick blue carpeting. A woman in a two-piece suit but no blouse sat at one of the desks. Her hair and make-up was perfect. She could have been moonlighting at More-than-Friends. Georgia shook it off. This was a bank, for Christ’s sake.

She scanned the lobby directory for the IT department, but it wasn’t listed. Neither was Arthur Emerlich. But Christine Messenger’s name was still posted. Not surprising; she’d died Friday. Just three days ago.

Messenger had worked on the fifty-first floor. Georgia took the elevator up. Glass doors flanked both ends of the hall, but they were locked, and a card swipe box hung beside each door. She peered through one of the doors and saw a series of beige cubicles that looked more like an animal warren than an office. She went to the other door. A receptionist’s desk stood in front. Vacant. Was the receptionist off on an errand, or had the bank, in a cost-cutting mood, eliminated the position? Behind the desk was a gray carpeted hallway leading to a string of offices. At the end of the hall she could just make out another glass-walled room. Probably for the computers that ran the bank’s business.

She went back to the door that opened onto the cubicles. Where were the corporate worker-bees? She’d been there at least five minutes but hadn’t seen a soul. The entire floor seemed empty, as if everyone had abandoned ship. Were they out to lunch? At a staff meeting? Maybe the computers were secretly running everything, making humans obsolete. She crossed the hall and checked the other glass door. No one.

She returned to the elevators, flummoxed. If she tried to go through channels, she wouldn’t get far. People were often reluctant to talk to the cops during a crisis, and a private detective carried even less weight. Still, Christine Messenger had worked on this floor. Maybe Arthur Emerlich’s office wasn’t far away. Someone had to show up eventually. She would wait.

Ten minutes later an elevator dinged. The doors opened, and a woman came out. Short gray curls framed her head, a slash of red lipstick covered her mouth. Thick glasses gave her a no-nonsense, intelligent look. A floral scent swirled in her wake. Georgia hated florals.

She cocked an eyebrow at Georgia. “May I help you?”

Was it that obvious she didn’t belong? “I hope so,” Georgia replied. “I’m looking for Christine Messenger’s department.”

The woman’s eyebrow arched higher. “For what reason?”

“I’d like to talk to her colleagues. Get a better picture of her.”

“Are you with the police?”

Georgia played it straight. “Her ex-husband hired me. I’m an investigator.”

“We’re not supposed to talk to anyone, unless it’s the police.”

“I understand.” Georgia was pretty sure the fact of Messenger’s pregnancy was still under wraps. But Molly’s kidnapping wasn’t. “Molly’s father wants to protect his daughter—that’s why I’m here. He wants to rule out any possibility that his ex-wife’s death and his child’s kidnapping are related.”

“I wish I could help you.” The woman looked sincere.

“Do you have... a daughter?” Georgia almost said “granddaughter” but changed her mind at the last minute.

The woman’s brow furrowed. “We’re under strict orders to report any strangers to security. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Tell me one thing. If I did want to talk to someone, if I could clear it through the police, who would you suggest? All I need is a name.”

A sympathetic smile came across the woman’s face. Georgia dared to hope. Then the woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Georgia fished out a card. “I’m sure you know how devastating something like this can be to a parent. If you change your mind, give me a call. I’ll keep whatever you say confidential.”

The woman took the card. That was something. But she waited until the elevator came and Georgia stepped inside.

There was a man in the car. Tall, mid-thirties, with raggedy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been styled since the seventies. Four pens poked from a pocket protector in his short-sleeved shirt, and a plastic card hung from a cord around his neck.

“Is the staff meeting over?” the woman asked.

“Yup. Just going down for a Coke.”

She nodded. As the doors closed, he shifted nervously.

Georgia spoke up. “Weird times, huh?”

He looked up, startled.

Georgia smiled.

He started to relax. “You can say that again. I’ve never worked anyplace where so many people died so suddenly.”

“Not to mention the little girl being kidnapped,” Georgia added.

He nodded. “Everyone in the department is talking about it. Forget about getting any work done.”

He had to be talking about the IT Department. Still, she needed to tread carefully. Any wrong move would reveal her outsider status.

“When I signed on,” he went on, “I never thought I’d be in middle of
CSI
.”

“Yeah?”

“You know, cops and detectives in and out. Checking her desk, her computer. Emerlich’s too. They took ’em away.” He shook his head. “It’s getting crazy.”

“What’s your take on it?”

“Man, I don’t know. A lot of people think they had something going on the side, but I see—saw—them every day, and I never picked up on it.”

Georgia glanced at his left hand. No ring. That didn’t mean much these days, but it was a hopeful sign. She smiled again, hoping it looked like she found him attractive. “How come we’ve never met?”

Again he looked surprised, as if he didn’t expect a woman to come onto him. Then he flashed a broad smile. Unfortunately, the elevator doors opened at that moment, and a man and woman got on. The man was scowling, and the woman looked angry. The chill they brought with them was just enough to make the tech guy clam up. The elevator sped up, descending from the forty-fifth floor to the lobby. Georgia couldn’t continue to chat without sounding forced.

At the lobby, the guy stepped off but made no effort to continue their conversation. He’d probably remembered he wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone. She sighed as her golden opportunity picked up a soda and candy bar at the newsstand then headed back to the elevators. Georgia exited the building and perched on the edge of a concrete planter. It was still hot, humid, and gray. But there was no rain yet.

She thought for a moment, then pulled out her cell.

chapter
12

W
hat do you mean, you need me?” When Georgia called I was in my office plowing through promotional materials from Voss-Peterson. Critics were charging that contrary to popular opinion, ethanol actually contributed to greenhouse gas emissions. They cited the carbon dioxide released while the corn was growing, as well as nitrous oxide. They also criticized the corrosive properties of the ethanol. Naturally, Voss-Peterson challenged the assumptions. I was weighing how—or even whether—to address those issues in the video.

“I... help me out... not so bad... a drink... Madison and Dearborn. Okay?” The reception from Georgia’s cell faded in and out. It must be the coming storm.

“You’re breaking up. Georgia. Are you saying you want me to come downtown?”

“... drink with someone.”

“Georgia, you know I’m involved with Luke. I’m not on the market.”

“No... need information.”

“You’re still breaking up.”

Her next words were clear. “Get here before three. Wear a skirt. And make-up.”

•   •   •

I met her at the corner of Madison and Dearborn at two forty-five. There was no sun, and the air was as sticky as cotton candy. My shirt clung to my neck and back. “So, what’s up?”

Georgia cast an appraising eye over me. “You clean up okay.”

“Thanks,” I said dubiously.

“I met a guy in the elevator—I’m pretty sure he works in the IT department.”

“Which means Christine Messenger was his boss?”

“Right. We started talking, and it seemed like he wanted to say more.”

“Great. Why do you need me?”

“The police ordered them not to talk to anyone.” She explained how she was practically thrown out of the building. “By now the guy has probably realized I don’t work there. And he knows my face. You, on the other hand—”

“I get it. What do I want to talk to him about?”

“Turns out Christine Messenger was two months pregnant when she died.”

I let out a breath. “Oh boy.”

“Yeah.”

“And you want me to find out whether she was fooling around with her boss.”

“Something like that. Plus anything else you can pick up.”

“Like why two people who both work for the same company die within days of each other?”

She just looked at me.

I sighed. “Who’s this guy you want me to talk to? Where do I find him?”

“He’s inside. Should be out soon.”

“And you want me to lure him to a bar, ply him with alcohol, and then pump him.”

“Come on Ellie. You know how to do this. It would really help me out. Not to mention Molly.”

I swallowed. She’d said the magic word. “When does he come out?”

“I assume he’s on the day shift—which usually means seven to three or eight to four. It shouldn’t be long. I’ll point him out. You do the rest.”

“Sure. I’ll just put my lips together and blow.”

Her response was a saccharine smile.

There were two exits from the building, one on Madison, one on Dearborn. The concrete planter on the corner gave a view of both. Using it as a base of operations Georgia studied everyone who emerged from the building. I sat on the edge of the planter, dangling my legs and pulling my dark curls, which were coiled by the humidity. I looked enviously at Georgia with her ironing-board blond hair.

By three-twenty, the man she was waiting for hadn’t come out. Georgia checked her watch. “Sorry. I guess he doesn’t get off till four.”

“I’m not really fond of hanging around street corners.”

Georgia ignored me.

By four, rush hour traffic was already clogging the streets. The heat pressed down, and a sheen of perspiration glazed my face. Droplets of sweat dribbled down my back. Lifting my hair, I fanned the back of my neck. “I’ll give it another ten minutes. Then I’m outta here.”

Georgia leaned forward. “There he is.” She scrambled off the planter, ducked behind it, and squatted down. In other circumstances it would have been funny. “The tall guy,” she whispered.

I squinted. A tall young man exited onto Dearborn. His hair looked like something from the last century. Pens sprouted from the pocket of his shirt. The only modern accessory I spotted was a satchel—a cross between a backpack, briefcase, and purse—worn across his chest. He turned south on Dearborn.

“Pen-pocket?” I asked.

“That’s him.”

“Jesus, Georgia. I’m old enough to be his mother.”

“Which is why he’ll appreciate you picking him up.”

I scowled. “Where are you going to be?”

She looked like she was thinking about it. “Not sure yet. But you’d better get going.”

As I started to trot after him, the skies darkened, and the first few drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. Pen-pocket was probably headed to the subway at Monroe and Dearborn. Which meant I only had a block before he disappeared. And though the subway was well-lit, I wasn’t anxious to ride the Blue Line out to O’Hare.

A flash of lightning and roll of thunder made people accelerate like Energizer bunnies. The rain started in earnest. Pen-pocket reached the corner of Monroe and pulled an umbrella out of his satchel. I was still half a block behind. Fortunately, the light changed to red and he stopped. Unfortunately, the rain became a downpour, and my skirt and tank top promptly got soaked. I was ready to call it a wrap—I had no desire to be left out in the rain, even for Georgia. Then I remembered I wasn’t doing this for her. I was doing this for Molly, a girl whose universe had been shattered.