Doubleback: A Novel (24 page)

“You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t believe they did.” She said. “I think he just sort of disappeared.”

•   •   •

As Georgia drove back to Evanston, dirty gray clouds pushed across the sky, and fat drops of rain splattered her windshield. Then the storm started in earnest, rain and wind lashing the street. She flicked on her wipers, barely conscious of the weather. Benay Weiss said a man missing part of the index finger on his left hand had been on the elevator that got stuck. The man who kidnapped Molly Messenger was missing the same finger, and Sandy Sechrest was stalked by a man missing his finger. Cody Wegman thought the power source for the IT Department and the elevators servicing those floors might be linked. And the elevator incident occurred June twenty-fifth—the same day Christine Messenger closed Delton Security’s secret account. This could be the connection she’d been hoping for.

Georgia swung onto Lake Shore Drive. The Kennedy would be faster this time of day, but the Drive was prettier. Today, though, angry waves pummeled the beach and the rocks. Sheets of gray water swept across her windshield and pooled in potholes.

When she got home, she’d call Terry Messenger. The next step depended on him. They could go to O’Malley with what they had. Even though the police had already questioned Geoff Delton—a fact he’d conveniently let slip during their conversation—at the very least Georgia could give them a new angle. But until they could identify and apprehend the man with the missing finger, Molly wasn’t truly safe.

Traffic was thickening as she headed north. She was glad she’d taken the opportunity to meet Geoff Delton. He’d dodged her question about the Arizona contract, which, while not surprising, fueled her suspicions. Two Delton Security specialists in Arizona were a million dollars richer but were now dead from a “training accident.” How much did Delton know about it? Was he in some way responsible? Somebody was going to great lengths to eliminate people—the count was up to four now, plus a kidnapping.

And what about Rafael Peña, the third Delton contractor, who seemed to have gone off the grid? Was he alive? Maybe he’d taken his money and skipped. Unless
he
was the man with the missing finger.

As she approached the curve near Hollywood and Sheridan, she saw that orange and white pylons blocked the outside lane. Damn construction. She instinctively eased off the gas pedal to move into the middle lane. She coasted for a few yards, then braked. Nothing happened. She pumped the brake. The Toyota didn’t stop. She jammed her foot down. Still nothing. Blocks of silver and black flashed by. She was going to slam into another car, which was also trying to merge. At the last minute she wrenched the wheel toward the pylons. At least she wouldn’t plow straight into the car. She did anyway. She heard the hideous crunch of metal smashing metal. The impact jarred her and threw her backwards. She wanted to fly, but she was strapped in her seat. Something exploded and hit her face. Everything went black.

chapter
29

Y
ou might not see Puck, Oberon, or Titania, but our village’s “Midsummer Days and Nights” Festival is just as whimsical. A four-day fundraiser, “Days and Nights” combines bands, carny booths, rides, and an auction. Its best feature is the lighting. Strands of multi-colored lights are woven through the trees of the Village Green, and at night the sparkles and twinkles are as dazzling as a troupe of fairies in the forest.

“Days and Nights” is also known for its food. Almost a dozen village restaurants cook up their favorite and most portable entrées, like lemon grass soup and chicken satay. The less sophisticated booths are a paradise of junk food: cotton candy, pizza, brats, and funnel cake. The smells alone are a contact high.

A fierce storm had battered the village earlier, but the bruising clouds and rain vanished as suddenly as they came, and by evening bright sunshine streamed down. Even the grass had dried. Dad, Rachel, and I spread a blanket in front of the main stage. We’d come to hear a Beatles tribute band, and, of course, eat. We rounded up what I call the Foreman Family Sampler: ribs, sweet corn on the cob, hot dogs, gyros, curly fries, and lemonade. For dessert we ate “Dippin’ Dots,” tiny little beads of flash-frozen ice cream first invented at Southern Illinois University.

I kept an eye out for Doug and Susan, who’d be joining us for the music. My father won’t eat ribs—he never eats pork—but he seemed to enjoy his gyros, and Rachel was inhaling a plate of fries. A cool breeze, more like fall than midsummer, kicked up as we finished, and I detoured for coffee. When I returned, Rachel suddenly seemed fascinated by the weave of the blanket.

“What’s wrong?” I gave one coffee to my father and set the other down carefully.

She spoke softly, not looking up. “There’s a guy here I don’t want to see.”

“What guy? And why not?”

“Paul Mishkin. He owes me money.”

I picked up my coffee, took a sip. “He does?”

“I lent him twenty dollars a couple of weeks ago to—um—buy his girlfriend dinner.” Rachel wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I frowned. Her story sounded as fishy as a bait shop in high season. I wondered if she was fronting him cash for weed and whether I should call her on it. I decided to let it go. I’d weasel the real story out of her when Dad wasn’t around. “I’m glad you’re so wealthy.”

That earned me a quick but hostile glance. “He swore he’d pay me back.”

“When?”

“What, when did he swear?”

I nodded.

“About a month ago,” she confessed.

“And he hasn’t come through.”

She picked at a thread on the blanket.

I tried and failed to ignore my welling self-righteous anger. “Rachel, there’s no need for you to feel embarrassed. He owes
you
. For whatever reason you lent him the money.” Another irritated glance. “He should be ashamed of himself. How was he raised? That’s just not right. Morally or ethically.” I pulled a yellow packet of sweetener out of my purse, tore the top, and sprinkled it in my coffee. “I have half a mind to talk to him myself. He’s ripping you off.”

My father stared at me. Rachel did too, her embarrassment temporarily forgotten.

“What are you staring at?”

“How many of those yellow packets do you have?” My father asked.

“I don’t know. I always pick up a few in the...” My voice trailed off.

“How much do you pay for them?” His voice was stern.

I knew where he was going, but pride made me mount a half-hearted defense. “Have you seen how much a box of sweetener costs these days? Even at Costco it’s nearly ten dollars.”

My father’s eyebrows arched so high they knit together. Both he and Rachel cast glances at the empty packet still in my hand.

“Well, Miss Moral Majority,” my father said, “Congratulations on the fine ethical example you’re setting for your daughter.”

Rachel shot me one of those insufferable teenage I-told-you-so looks. Crumpling the packet, I dumped it back in my bag and slouched on the blanket.

Relief finally came when the band trotted out on stage. The four guys were dressed in those collarless matching suits the Beatles wore when they were still innocent, asking nothing more than if they could hold my hand. One of them even looked like John Lennon.

They promptly rolled out a brisk rendition of “A Hard Day’s Night.” The crowd whooped and hollered and applauded. Some people were already dancing. My eyes were drawn to a woman wearing a gaudy print blouse and slacks, with heavy make-up and hair in a French twist, who was grooving to the music. She looked like she had a few stories to tell.

A few minutes later, Doug and Susan joined us and settled on our blanket. Susan was wearing her mint julep sundress and looked like she’d just stepped out of
Gracious Southern Living
. Doug was in golf shirt and chinos.

“How’s it going?” She rummaged around the woven basket she’d brought and extracted a home-made pecan pie, plates, and forks.

While she sliced the pie into eight perfect pieces, I filled her in on Rachel’s college preferences. She distributed the slices. My father dipped his head in thanks. Rachel grinned as she took hers. “This looks great. Thanks, Mrs. Siler.”

Susan nodded. “My pleasure, Rachel.” She handed me a plate. “Any idea what Terry Messenger’s going to do with their house? It’s just sitting there empty, and the not-knowing has cast a pall over the block.”

I tried the pie. The brown sugar maple-y filling was overkill, but the pecans and crust cut the sweetness a bit. “How would I know?”

“Isn’t your friend still looking into Chris Messenger’s death?”

“You mean Georgia?” I nodded and tuned out the music, not an easy task since they were playing “I’ve Just Seen a Face” from
Rubber Soul
. I took another bite of pie. “You know, there is something. Since you live a few houses away, and since you know everything that happens on the block, did you ever hear or see anything to indicate Chris was seeing someone?”

Susan bit her lip. She hadn’t taken any pie for herself. “If she was, she was discreet. She never talked about it with me, and I never saw anyone. In fact, I offered to fix her up once with Fred Rea—he’s divorced now—but she wasn’t interested.”

Doug was keeping himself busy with his pie.

“Doug?” I asked.

He wouldn’t look at me.

“Um, Doug?”

Now Susan was looking at him oddly. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

Doug’s face colored, and he shoveled in more pie.

“You know something,” I said.

Finally, he looked up. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” I urged. “There’s something you’re just dying to tell us.”

“It may be nothing. And you know how I hate gossip.”

“This isn’t gossip,” I snapped. “It’s a murder investigation.”

He still looked uncertain.

“Doug...” Susan’s voice held a warning note.

Doug nodded imperceptibly. “Okay.” He turned to me. “You know I’m a car buff, right?”

Susan gave him a fleeting smile. “Another lesson on the brake hydraulics of a Porsche?”

Doug ignored her. “One of the finest cars I know is the Aston Martin. It’s so beautiful you could put one in the Art Institute. And it performs so well it’d have any Nascar racer eating its dust.”

“Bond. James Bond,” I cracked.

He threw me a disdainful look. “I’ve thought about getting one.” He glanced at Susan. “Someday.” He put his pie down. “Anyway, I was up late one night working online, when I noticed an Aston Martin pulling out from Chris Messenger’s driveway. A DBS, I think. You can just see her front yard from the window in the study,” he added.

“When was this?” I asked.

“I don’t remember exactly. But the window was open, and I heard the engine turn over. That’s why I looked.”

“So within the last two or three months.”

“Definitely.”

A pulse of excitement ran up my spine. “You didn’t happen to see a plate, did you?”

“No.”

“What color was it?”

“Hard to say. It was dark, though. Black. Maybe dark green.”

“What about the driver?”

“Sorry.”

“You never told me about that,” Susan said to Doug.

“You never asked,” he replied.

“I didn’t know our relationship was on a ‘don’t ask-don’t tell’ basis,” she said primly.

“Damn,” I cut in, as much to head off any unpleasantness as to bring the conversation back on track. “So close and yet so far.”

“Maybe not,” Doug said after a pause.

“You’ve got no plate, no color, and you don’t even know if a man or a woman was driving.”

“You still might be able to track it.” A tiny smiled curled his lips.

“How?”

“There’s only one Aston Martin dealer in the entire Chicago area.”

“You’re kidding.”

“People come from all over the Midwest to get their cars serviced there. It’s in Lake Bluff. Which isn’t so far away. And given your powers of persuasion...”

I stared at him, then recovered, and blew him a kiss.

Susan smiled. “I knew I married well.”

My father polished off the rest of his pie. “Susan, my dear, that was the finest pecan pie I’ve ever had.”

“Thanks, Mr. Foreman.”

“Tell me, did you use sugar or sweetener?”

•   •   •

I was on the phone going over the rest of the production schedule with Mac the next morning when my call waiting beeped. “Hold on, Mac.”

“Ellie, it’s Georgia.” She sounded distant. Weak.

“What’s going on?”

“Can you pick me up at Evanston Hospital?”

•   •   •

I’ve never liked hospitals. My mother died in one. As I parked at in the Evanston lot thirty minutes later, I recalled how everyone had tried to cushion the inevitable with quiet footsteps, soft voices, and sympathetic faces. It didn’t work.

The lobby looked more like a piano bar than a hospital. It boasted an atrium with a two-story ceiling, abstract art on the walls, and soft music, no doubt intended to provide spiritual balm. I hurried past to the bank of elevators, feeling claustrophobic.

The third floor looked more like a traditional hospital. I walked down a hall with linoleum floor and fluorescent lights. I passed men and women in scrubs. The odor of antiseptic, alcohol, and cleanser brought back unwanted memories. I found my way to Room 345.

Georgia looked like she’d gone ten rounds and lost. Her left arm was in a sling, and underneath her denim shirt was some kind of brace around her middle. Her right eye was swollen shut, and a gauze dressing was taped to her forehead. One foot was wrapped in an ace bandage. I tried to keep my expression neutral but the nurse, an elderly woman who could have been my grandmother, picked up on my distress.

“She refused to stay another day,” she said disapprovingly. “She claims her insurance won’t cover it.”

Georgia raised one eyebrow just enough to let me know she didn’t care what excuse she’d given.

“Are you family?” The nurse asked.

I snuck a glance at Georgia. “Um... I’m her sister.”

“Then you should talk her out of it. She broke her wrist, cracked two ribs, and sprained her ankle. Not to mention the scrapes on her face. She needs another day here.”