Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (2 page)

G
eorgia Davis got the call two days later. She’d heard about the incident—the video was all over YouTube, and the media was full of it. How the flash mob ripped off five grand in inventory, how the owner ended up in the ER with stitches, how the punks scattered so fast the police had no suspects and were begging the public for leads. Even so, she was surprised when Reggie Field’s wife phoned.

“I just can’t believe it,” Shelly Field said a few seconds into the call. “Thirty years in retail and we’ve never seen anything like this. And the first week of January. Happy Fucking New Year.”

“Is your husband home from the hospital?”

“Oh yes. You know how they are. If you’re conscious and breathing, they kick you out. You could die on the way home, but they don’t care. Reggie’s still recovering, of course, and we’ve had to keep the store closed. I don’t know how we’re going to make up the losses. It’s just—just unlike anything we’ve ever dealt with.” The woman sighed theatrically.

Georgia listened with more than a trace of skepticism. The woman’s whines and complaints presumed an innocence about the ways of the world Georgia didn’t buy. Thirty years in retail would have taught anyone with half a brain about shoplifting, price gouging, and under-the-table deals. But she didn’t have to fall in love with her clients; she just had to tolerate them long enough to make their problem go away. She was a private investigator, not a therapist. Then again, being flash robbed was not your everyday event. She should probably fake a little sympathy.

“You have insurance, don’t you?”

The woman went on. “Yes, but they say they’re not going to investigate any more than the police already have. And, of course, the police have no idea who it was or how to catch them. Can you believe it? Going on the Internet and TV with our security tape? Do they think these thugs are just gonna give themselves up? Next thing you know they’ll offer ’em a reality show.”

Georgia stifled a giggle and covered it with a cough. The woman, intentionally or not, had a sense of humor. “Mrs. Field, I’m not sure I can do anything the police haven’t already done.”

“Call me Shelly, honey. And lemme tell you, they’re not doing anything. Look, I realize nobody got killed, and Reggie wasn’t seriously hurt, and the insurance—God forbid the rate hike that’s coming—will cover most of it. But you know? I gotta believe those punks knew that. And the cops—well, they won’t admit it—but this is on their back burner.”

The woman was right. Before she became a PI, Georgia had been a police officer for ten years, and despite the fact that she ultimately resigned, put-downs about cops still made her defensive. “It’s not that, Shelly; it’s just that they have to prioritize. This economy has hit cops hard too. They’ve got a—a boatload of homicides, arsons, sexual assaults, and fewer resources to handle them. They have to choose.” She almost smiled. She wished she’d recorded what she just said so she could send it to Dan O’Malley, her former boss, now the chief of police in Northview. He wouldn’t believe it.

“Yeah, yeah. A victimless crime. That’s what they keep saying,” Mrs. Field said. “But it wasn’t.”

“I agree. Especially with your husband getting hurt. If violence is involved, no matter—”

“It’s not just that, sweetheart.” The woman cut her off. “There’s a part of this that hasn’t come out. That’s why we called you.”

“What do you mean ‘hasn’t come out’?”

“Reggie’ll tell you.” Shelly hesitated, then issued a sigh. “You gotta remember this was our livelihood. Our entire life. Now Reggie’s practically ready to cash it in. Ya can’t blame him, you know? We’re not getting any younger. But I just hate the thought of going on social security.”

“How did you get to me?” Georgia asked.

“One of our neighbors recommended you.”

“Who?”

“Um, she—they don’t wanna say. But you got a good rep. They say you know what you’re doing.”

“Where do you live?”

“Glencoe.”

Georgia wondered who the neighbor was. She didn’t know many people in Glencoe. Only one family, in fact. She tapped her fingers on her desk. It was the second week of January, typically a slow period until the post-Christmas cheer dried up and people went back to their greedy, thieving ways. She had time. And she could always use the money.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll look into it for a couple of days. If I can’t see a way forward, I’ll let you know. I don’t want to take your money for nothing.”

“Well, that’s fair. I see why they like you.”

It’s why I’m barely eking out a living,
Georgia thought. Aloud, she said, “How about I swing by later today?”

T
here was no “other side of the tracks” in Glencoe, an affluent suburb on Chicago’s North Shore. At the southern edge of the village, though, not far from Green Bay and Washington, a small black community had taken root in the 1880s. It was largely dispersed now, but at one time it was the only African American neighborhood between Evanston and Lake Forest. Reggie and Shelly Field lived in a small older brick house near the old St. Paul AME Church, and as she pulled up Georgia wondered if the place had once belonged to a black family.

It was a crisp, sunny day, the roads were wet with melting snow, and the ground smelled earthy. Chicago was in the midst of a January thaw. As she climbed out of her Toyota, Georgia caught her reflection in the car window. She’d bundled up before she left home, but now she loosened her muffler and flicked her long blond hair over it. The shades she wore masked brown eyes, but they made her nose seem sharper and more prominent. Not much she could do about that. The weather was so mild she unzipped her parka, displaying her fisherman’s sweater and jeans.

She mounted three concrete steps to a tiny porch surrounded by an iron banister. The screen door had one of those initials in the center, in this case, a cursive
F
. She pressed a buzzer to the right of the latch.

The woman who opened the door was not what Georgia expected. She’d anticipated an elderly woman with no shape and flyaway gray hair. To her surprise, Shelly Field was thin, with black hair and red lipstick. She wore a stylish warm-up suit and had that taut, stretched skin that comes from a facelift or two. Is that where the profits from the store went?

“Shelly?” Georgia said. “I’m Georgia Davis.”

Shelly appraised her, frowning slightly. Georgia wondered if she’d expected something different too. Then she opened the door wider. “Come in. Reggie’s anxious to meet you.”

Shelly’s tone, clipped and businesslike, was so different from her phone personality that Georgia was taken aback. No whining, no sour grapes. Did she hide that side of her from her husband? The woman led her into a small living room with overstuffed furniture, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and ornate gilded picture frames. The sharp odor of ammonia drifted over the room, announcing the presence of a cat, which, on cue, jumped down from a chair, blinked, then without a sound swished its tail and skulked out of the room.

Reggie Field lay on a brocade sofa, clutching an iPad. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind him. He was a big guy, bald except for few strands of comb-over gray. His hair was longer on the sides and back and had the consistency of steel wool. His nose was tiny and turned up like a pug’s. A gauze bandage with adhesive tape covered one cheek, and Georgia saw a nasty abrasion on his chin.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, not bothering to paste on a smile.

Shelly sat in the chair the cat had vacated and motioned Georgia into its mate on the other side of the coffee table.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Field?” Georgia asked.

“I’ll live. And call me Reggie. Everyone does.”

She nodded. “As I told Shelly, there may not be much I can do that the police and your insurance company haven’t already done.”

His eyebrows arched. “Oh yes, there is. I can vouch for it.”

Georgia inclined her head.

He set his iPad down and with a huge effort sat up. His weight settled in his gut, making him look like an overripe pear.

“I’m gonna save you a lot of time.” His expression tightened, and he poked a finger at Georgia. “I fired my assistant manager last week. Name of Chase Bartell. He’s behind the whole thing, but I can’t prove it.”

Georgia straightened. “Tell me.”

“He was dealing drugs right out of the front of the store. Cocaine, reefer, pills. Caught him red-handed.”

Georgia hadn’t heard anyone use the word “reefer” in years.

“I got him on the security tape. Fired his ass right away. After the flash rob, I turned everything over to the cops. Told them exactly what happened and who was behind it.”

“Then what happened?”

“Bubkes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except that the tape showed up on YouTube.”

Georgia frowned.

“Bartell’s a snot-nosed rich kid from Northfield. I was doing his parents a favor. They begged me. Said he needed something to keep him out of trouble. So, I think, okay, I’m a nice guy. I’ll give the kid a chance. I shudda known. He was doing something, all right.” Reggie’s face darkened. “The cops wanted to file charges, but the parents hired a fine and fancy lawyer who makes a big deal that the tape isn’t clear enough and doesn’t really show a drug transaction. And that there’s no way in hell anyone could connect his client to the flash mob.”

“But you say otherwise?”

“Damn right I do.” He shook his head angrily. “I gave their kid a chance. And this is how they repay me?”

Georgia kept her mouth shut. She had worked with video specialists in the past and knew all sorts of magic could enhance images that
would
stand up in court. The fact that the cops or the State’s Attorney hadn’t gone that route suggested that the Bartells—or their lawyer—had clout or great connections or both.

“Then, well, bottom line, the cops decide not to pursue charges after all, and the kid gets off. Not even a fucking slap on the wrist.”

“But you think he was out for revenge and set up the hit on the store.”

“I know he was,” Reggie said. “The kid was pissed. He threatened me when I fired him.”

“Did the police check his cell phone? His Facebook friends? All that?”

“Said they did. Said he’s clean. But I’m telling you he ain’t. I know the little bastard did it. That’s why I called you.”

T
hat night Georgia pored over the surveillance tapes of the flash rob on her computer. Reggie was telling the truth. The digital files on YouTube consisted of a series of staccato images, all wide shots of the store from various overhead angles. She could clearly see the kids stuffing clothes into their pants pockets, backpacks, and jackets, but she couldn’t see their faces. Even so, Georgia felt a chill. The marriage of technology and bad intentions had created an entirely new kind of crime: impulsive, passionless, and organized by smartphones on the spur of the moment. It was a powerful warning of what could happen to a society where envy, a sense of entitlement, and electronic toys converged.

She clicked on the file that was supposed to show the drug deal going down. A tall, lanky white boy was at the register, while another kid, presumably Chase Bartell, stood behind the counter. Something changed hands, but whether it was a packet of drugs, money, or just a credit card wasn’t clear. Georgia was surprised the cops hadn’t pursued it. If she were still on the force, she would have. She went back to the YouTube tape. All the police needed to do was connect one face or phone number to the flash rob. Just one. Had they started to make an effort but then dropped it? If so, the Bartells’ or their attorney’s clout was serious.

She drummed her fingers on her desk, making sure she tapped each finger the same number of times. Had to make them all come out even. She’d requested Chase Bartell’s cell phone records from a contact who did that kind of thing under the radar. While she waited she clicked onto Facebook. Chase Bartell’s profile was typical of high school students: grandiose pronouncements, lots of cursing, and a pseudo-cynical philosophy. Nothing hidden or private. Georgia studied his friends list. She found two boys, one African American and one Hispanic, who lived on the South Side. Looking them up, she compared their photos to the surveillance tape. There wasn’t a lot of definition, but she thought the Hispanic boy might have been on the tape.

She wrote down his name and his Facebook moniker so she could cross-reference him later. People should only know how easy it was to be a PI these days. She’d worked hard for her license, but so much information was online now, just waiting to be viewed, collated, and analyzed, that almost anyone could set up as an investigator. And teenagers were so oblivious to anything other than themselves, they never imagined their information could be used in a way they hadn’t intended.

She got up and stretched. She could take a break. Go down to Mickey’s for a drink. If she did, though, she wouldn’t make it home until late. And she’d drink way too much. She glanced around her living room. Her décor was bare-bones neutral; she had never been into possessions. With a beige sofa, brown chairs, coffee table, and small area rug, it was obvious that only one person lived here. She wondered if that would ever change. On this chilly January night, for example, she would have loved— She forced herself to stop. It was what it was.

The cheerful chime of her email told her the cell phone records had arrived. She went back to her computer. The kid’s cell was registered to Stephen and Marlene Bartell. They had a family plan, and her contact had obligingly provided all four cell numbers. Four phones for three people—what was that about? She checked them all. One had a lot of calls to the 312 area code. Downtown Chicago. The two others were mostly calls to 847. The North Shore. One phone hadn’t been used at all. She’d have to trace them all. It would be tiresome. Then again, that’s why she was a PI.

Two hours later, she was satisfied the cells were clean. No suspicious or disposable numbers. And the cops had the same records. That was probably why they’d passed. This case was going to take more than a superficial effort. In fact, since she’d begun, all she’d done was duplicate their work. Facebook and other social media were the first places cops checked when there were crimes by juveniles. The only thing she had going for her was that the cops hadn’t cracked the case either.