Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (4 page)

“S
o you have no idea who he was or why he was tailing you.” The detective’s voice was heavy with scorn.

“That’s right.” Georgia made an effort to keep her voice neutral. An hour had passed, and she was back in the coffee shop. Sherman Avenue was now a crime scene, crawling with uniforms, techs, reconstruction experts, and a photographer. The experts were trying to analyze skid marks, the speed of the SUV, and the bullets’ trajectory. The techs were sifting and bagging. The photographer was shooting. The uniforms weren’t even trying to look busy.

Detective Raoul Gutierrez, in jeans, heavy sweater, and peacoat, looked to be about her age, early thirties. He had dark hair, a trimmed goatee, and an edgy hostility. Was it because he was Hispanic? Frustrated he hadn’t risen far enough, fast enough? She could relate; she’d struggled when she was the token female on the force.

She picked up her coffee, trying to calm her nerves, but realized her hand was still shaking. “Like I said before, I never saw the guy.”

The detective caught it. “Is that a fact. Then how do you know he was tailing you?”

She leveled a look at him, all the while thinking she had to pull it together. She was a PI, for Christ’s sake. And a cop before that. It might have taken her a while to pick him up, but she
had
. She might have been freaked-out by the drive-by, but she’d seen worse. “I know when I’m being followed.”

Gutierrez fingered his goatee like he was vain about it. She took another sip of now cold coffee. She grimaced.

Paul held up his hand. “I’ll make you another.”

“Thanks.”

As Paul brought her a new drink, one of the techs strode inside and hustled over to Gutierrez. The detective stood, gave Georgia his back, and conferred with the guy. The tech flipped up his hands and went outside. Gutierrez turned around.

“There’s no ID on the vic.”

She shrugged. She’d expected that.

“You sure you have no idea who he was?” He sat again, arms folded.

Gutierrez must be one of those cops who bullied others before they could bully him. She appraised his build. Slender but wiry. Ropy neck muscles. Probably a martial arts expert.

“Nope,” she said almost cheerfully, then immediately regretted it. No reason to stoop to his level.

“What about the SUV? You get the plate?”

“Sorry.” She hoped it sounded sincere.

“I thought you used to be a cop.” His glare was a mix of irritation and triumph, as if he’d scored a three-pointer.

“The SUV took off too fast. But”—she paused and took a sip of her drink—“I did get a partial.”

The detective’s eyebrows arched. “That so? You planning to share?”

“It started with six-three-three.”

“Illinois plates?”

Georgia nodded.

Gutierrez wrote it down.

“You see anyone inside the SUV?”

“Two people. Driver. Passenger.”

“Descriptions?”

She shook her head. “They wore ski masks.”

Gutierrez took out a ChapStick, removed the top, and rolled it over his lips, carefully avoiding his goatee. He stuffed it back in his pocket. “You’re not giving me much.”

“Look, Detective. I want to know who the hell was tailing me as much as you. I was the target, remember?” She folded her arms. “After all, if A killed B, and B was following me, A might come after me.”

He looked her over with an expression that said he didn’t really give a shit. Was he playing bad cop? Trying a sexist ploy? Whatever his motive, she’d had enough. She zipped up her jacket, finished her drink, and hoisted her bag on her shoulder. She was just standing when his cell rang. He fished it out of a pocket and took the call.

“Gutierrez…” He got up again and stepped away from Georgia. She tried to eavesdrop, but he was out of earshot. She looked over at Paul, who rolled his eyes. She glanced through the window. The media vans had arrived. She’d have to be careful. Gutierrez started back in her direction.

“I’ll do that. Thanks.” He snapped the phone shut and held it up. “You have a friend.”

Georgia’s eyebrows went up.

“O’Malley. Deputy superintendent up north. Says you’re okay.”

She didn’t mind Gutierrez checking her out; any good cop would. Dan O’Malley had been her peer, then her boss, when she was a cop. They still talked, usually when he was trying to persuade her to come back on the force. She’d been suspended over an administrative matter a few years earlier, set up shop as a PI, then resigned. She didn’t
want
to go back. She liked being her own boss. Still, it was reassuring to know someone had her back. She just wished O’Malley had been more vocal when the suspension went down.

“Good.” She stood and tossed her cup in the trash. “Anything else? I need to get going.”

“Listen, I—well—if you don’t mind, let’s go over it again.” Gutierrez’s tone was less hostile now, almost civil. He sat and motioned to the empty chair. Georgia sat. He summarized what she’d already told him: a stranger was tailing her. Could have picked her up outside her apartment. He followed her here but didn’t approach. She went into the coffee shop, then came out fifteen minutes later to confront him. He got shot in a drive-by. That was it.

“You got any enemies you know of? Cases you’re working on that are hot?”

She thought about Reggie Field and the flash rob at his store. Sure, property had been stolen and tempers had frayed. But tailing her and killing someone who didn’t appear to have anything to do with the robbery? It made no sense. Still, she told him about the case.

Gutierrez scribbled on a notepad. She could tell he didn’t think it was a strong lead either. She told him about her other cases too.

“So you think the offenders who gunned down the tail will be coming after you?” He asked.

“No clue. But the way I figure it, the tail either wanted to give me information or wanted information from me. The
offenders
”—she almost smiled—“didn’t want one of those things to happen. If they’re coming after me, I guess I’ll know soon enough.”

Gutierrez was silent for a minute. “You mind if we call your clients?”

Georgia hesitated. “Yes, I do. My cases are confidential. But I’ll canvass them myself and let you know if I find anything.”

Gutierrez didn’t look happy, but he must have realized there wasn’t much to be gained by pushing—more than he had.

“One thing,” she said. “The media. Can you keep them off my back? I don’t want to end up on the six o’clock news. Have them stake out my place. It’s bad for business.”

He appeared to be mulling it over. Then he gave her a brief nod. “We’ll keep it quiet. But that doesn’t mean
they
will.” He handed her his card. “Keep me informed. I want to nail these guys.”

She nodded back. “Me too.”

He almost smiled. Gutierrez might be an asshole, but he was a good cop.

F
or dinner Georgia made a grilled cheese sandwich, added chips and dill pickles, and ate in her kitchen. The room wasn’t big, but she’d been able to squeeze in a tiny table under a large double-hung window. During the day she liked to watch the sun glitter through the trees, fingers of light and shadow making abstract designs on the walls. Of course, in winter, the sun was gone by four thirty, and despite a cheery day once in a while, this winter had been especially gloomy. After a week of overcast, the media had proclaimed Chicago more depressing than Portland.

She finished the sandwich, took a Snapple into the living room, and went online, hoping to identify, or at least narrow down, who owned the SUV. But first she had to figure out what model it was. She searched SUVs, clicked on the images, and studied the photos. She ruled out a Mercedes—its headlights were too elliptical. It wasn’t a Hyundai, Audi, or Ford, either. Toyota and Nissan were close, although she might be sending herself down a blind alley if it turned out to be a Chevy or Honda. Still, she had to start somewhere. She printed out pictures of three or four models and pinned them up on the corkboard behind her desk.

She didn’t have an in at the Illinois DMV, but she had the next best thing: a set of databases so reliable they were used by police departments all over the country. Her favorite was FindersKeepers, which allowed her to slice and dice information in any number of ways. She logged on to the website, agreed to a onetime charge of fifteen bucks, and clicked on “Find vehicle.”

When prompted for the type of car, she entered “Nissan,” “Black” for color, and for model, “SUV.” For the year of the car, she selected “All years.” She was asked what states she wanted to search. “Illinois.” There were several options when it came to license plates: “All,” “Starts with,” “Ends with,” “None.” She chose “Starts with” and entered “633.” She clicked on “Find.”

Three seconds later, she was looking at a list of twenty-three black Nissan SUVs that had Illinois plates beginning with 633. Each listing included the VIN number, the full license plate, the date the auto was registered, make, model, and year, and best of all, the owners and their addresses. She was printing out the list  when she heard a car outside gun its motor.  She went into her kitchen and gazed out the window. The car immediately took off down the street and out of sight. She could only catch a glimpse of the vehicle, but it was dark and boxy and looked like a van—maybe an SUV.

She shivered and studied the row house across the street. A single mother with young children lived there, and their lawn, in good weather, was kiddie heaven, strewn with toys, bikes, and wagons. Now, though, the lawn was desolate and empty, and the blanket of snow covering it was rutted with scraggly grass. Was the driver of the car visiting her neighbor?

The snow cover threw off a muted blue glow that turned the dark into a faux twilight, but the eerie illumination was oddly comforting, allowing just enough light to keep predators from lurking unseen. Georgia took a good look up and down the street. No more strange cars, no media, no people. That was good. Still, she pulled down the blinds and double locked her door.

She went to her closet and checked her guns. She still had her 9 mm Sig Sauer, but she’d recently bought a Glock 26, a “baby Glock.” The size of a snub-nose, it could be concealed in her pocket or bag. She loved how it felt; its recoil was almost as gentle as the Sig’s. Like the Sig it was a 9 mm and could take ten plus one in the chamber. She took it into her bedroom and slipped it in the drawer of her nightstand.

She undressed, got into bed, and tried to distract herself with a graphic novel. She’d been reading them more often: with her dyslexia, they went down easily, and she loved the illustrations. Within a few minutes, though, she put it down. She knew what she wanted; it wasn’t a character drawn on a piece of paper. But instead of a warm body curled up beside her, calming and comforting, she had a pulp novel and a loaded gun.

A
rmed with a strong cup of coffee the next morning, Georgia went back online to cross-reference SUV owners on FindersKeepers. Some were registered to Chicagoans, but others lived in St. Charles, Peoria, and Carbondale. A smattering of foreign names appeared on the list, mostly Hispanic, but one looked Russian or Eastern European.

Two of the SUV owners had DUIs. Two others had court case numbers, one in Cook County, one in Sangamon. She planned to check them out, although just because someone had a DUI, or even a criminal conviction, that didn’t mean they’d killed someone. Then she reconsidered. The police were undoubtedly doing the same thing as she, and they had access to better data. She should spend her time looking into something they wouldn’t.

She pulled up her own case files. Maybe she’d been too cavalier with Gutierrez yesterday. It was possible that someone involved in one of her cases had been following her. The domestic, the case of the wife who ran away, could be promising. The man tailing Georgia might have been a relative of the runaway wife or husband, and if
he
was involved with sleazy characters, he might have been targeted by the men in the SUV. In the workers’ comp case, the guy who’d been fired
was
clearly involved in illegal activities. What if he was seeking revenge for being fingered? Or what if he stiffed his dealer?

She spent most of the day interviewing her clients, prodding them to suggest people who might have been tailing her for some reason. She asked if anyone they knew drove an SUV. She came away with a long list of people to check out, but most seemed dubious, even wacky. For example, a legitimate customer at Designer Discount Den was upset by the invasion of her privacy because of the YouTube video, although how anyone could connect
her
to the flash rob was unclear. And someone had filed a workplace sexual harassment charge years ago against the pharmaceutical executive.

Still, you never knew.

By the time she finished, it was after four. She drove to her gym, a small converted warehouse with foggy, sweat-soaked windows, a boxing ring, and surprisingly good exercise equipment. She did some cardio, worked out with weights, then did two rounds in the ring. Her spotter, who was also the boxing coach, was a knotted, gray-haired man who looked like Burgess Meredith’s father. He kept telling her she should shadow box in front of a mirror. Concentrate on her footwork and punches. Step, slide, jab. Step, slide, punch. “And don’t forget to dip when you slide, and bob and weave when you’re still. And—oh—remember to stay relaxed at all times,” he added cheerfully.

She decided he was the perfect coach; she was ready to slug him by the time they were done.

M
ickey’s, an old-style bar and grill in Evanston, was owned by Owen Dougherty, who bought it from Mickey so long ago that no one remembered who Mickey was. Which wasn’t a bad thing for the customers who’d been flocking to it for years. In the years Georgia had been hanging out, though, little had changed, which wasn’t good for future business. Evanston had been inundated by high-end establishments, and two new hipster places had opened on the same block.

But Mickey’s sported the same scarred bar, scuffed booths, and even the same waitress, a single mother of three who was studying for her CPA at Kellogg. Owen wore the same apron and draped the same bar towel over his shoulder, except when he took off for Arizona during the winter and left his son-in-law in charge. Georgia wondered if Owen’s snowbird status was an omen.

She walked in, trailing a gust of cold air, which was snuffed out by a delicious warmth scented with grease. Samantha Mosele sat in a booth, sipping a glass of wine. Sam was a brunette with precise features and dark, merry eyes. She’d recently cut her hair, and her short curly bob gave her an elfin quality. She and Georgia had met years ago when they were both taking courses at Oakton. They’d remained friends, unusual for Georgia, who was a loner by nature.

She slid into the booth. “You get my message?”

Sam frowned. “What message?”

Sam wasn’t the most dependable person in the world. Georgia told her about the phone call two days earlier.

Sam shook her head. “Wasn’t me. I’ve—um—been busy.”

“I thought I heard a man and a woman. Arguing.”

“Well, I’ve been with a man. But I definitely wasn’t arguing.”

Georgia drummed her fingers. If it wasn’t Sam’s cell, butt-dial or not, whose had it been?

“Hey, I’m hungry,” Sam said.

“Thirsty, too, I see.”

“I’m celebrating.” Sam tipped her glass toward Georgia. “New client.”

“Website?”

Sam nodded. A graphics designer, Sam was coming into her own, developing and maintaining websites. “An appliance company. They’re moving their commerce online. And here’s the best part. Lots of updates and revisions, all the time.” She waved toward the waitress, who was bussing plates at the next booth. “Another round for me and my friend.”

Gemma came over. “Howdy, stranger,” she said to Georgia. “Where you been?”

“Being a couch potato. You?”

“Just started my last semester. With any luck, I’ll have my CPA by fall.”

And you won’t be working at Mickey’s,
Georgia thought. Another omen. Aloud she said, “I’ll have a Diet Coke with lemon.”

Gemma floated back to the bar and returned with their drinks. After setting them down, she motioned to the menus. “You need some time?”

Georgia shook her head.

“The usual?”

Georgia smiled. She loved that someone knew what she wanted without her having to ask.

Gemma turned to Sam. “And you?”

“Double it.”

Gemma disappeared into the kitchen.

“So what’s new?” Sam asked.

“Strange doings.” Georgia explained about the tail who was gunned down.

Sam looked shocked. “What are you doing about it?”

Georgia told her she’d cross-checked the plate online, followed up with interviews, and was about to do more data mining. “But since it was a homicide, the cops are doing the heavy lifting.”

“Aren’t you worried? I mean, someone follows you and then gets shot. And you get a strange phone call. That’s a little too close for comfort, right?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You need to be careful.”

“Let’s drop it, okay? I just want a nice burger.”

Sam shrugged and started in on her second glass of wine. “Have you ever calculated how much time you spend at the computer every day?”

“Way too much.” Georgia said. “But that’s what PIs do these days. Checking sources, databases—”

“Excuse me.” A male voice cut her off. “My friend and I would like to buy you a round. Would that be okay?”

Georgia looked up. She’d noticed the two guys at the bar when she came in. About her age, they had the Chicago winter look: jeans, boots, heavy sweaters, down vests. One had dark hair, and dark eyes with just enough lines at the corners to suggest a life well lived. The other was blond, with a scruffy growth of something that wasn’t quite a beard. He also had a nice butt, which Sam was happily eyeing. Georgia and Sam exchanged brief looks; then Georgia turned to the one with dark hair, the one who’d spoken.

“It’s not necessary. I just drink Diet Coke with lemon.”

Sam pursed her lips at Georgia, then looked at the guy with an eager smile. “But I drink Chardonnay…”

Dark Eyes grinned and went back to the bar. As he did, Gemma brought their food: burgers, very rare. Georgia tore into hers and shoveled fries into her mouth. Meanwhile, Nice Butt slid into the booth next to Sam. “I’m Noel.”

Dark Eyes returned with a Chardonnay for Sam and a Diet Coke for Georgia and sat next to Georgia. “I know it wasn’t necessary, and my name is Jay.”

Sam introduced herself, and then, after a pause, so did Georgia. Sam took a sip of her drink. “Thanks.” She smiled at Jay, clearly enjoying the attention. “So,” she said, “if we can only know one thing about you two, what should it be?”

“How about that I think you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen?” Noel said.

Sam made the sound of a raspberry. “You’re gonna need to do better than that.” She turned to Jay. “What about you?”

He paused. Then, “I raise chickens in my backyard. And I give my neighbors the eggs.”

Georgia, pleasantly surprised, turned toward him. “How’d you get into that?”

He answered by talking about sustainability and reducing his carbon footprint. While he talked, Georgia noticed his lips. Not too thin—she wasn’t a fan of thin lips. Maybe this wasn’t a bad idea.

He grinned as if he knew what she was thinking and it was fine with him. “Okay. Your turn. What should I know about you?” Jay said.

“Well.” She considered it. “I’m a PI.”

“A what?”

“A PI…private investigator.” Better to tell him now. It always had an effect. Men who were intimidated or had something to hide drifted away.

He didn’t seem concerned. “So, you’re like…what…that woman on
Castle
?”

“She’s a cop. I’m private.”

“Wow…I wouldn’t have taken you for a dick.”

She sighed inwardly. So he was trite. Most men were. “Actually, I was just telling Sam I spend most of my day hunched over a computer.”

Georgia stole a look at Sam. She and Noel were now chatting, leaving the impression they didn’t want to be interrupted. She turned back to Jay. He wasn’t intimidated by her being a PI. He raised chickens. He was sexy. She rolled a fry in ketchup, put it into her mouth, then decided she wasn’t hungry anymore. She was glad she’d worn her hair down. She ran a hand through it so it would fall over her face just right. Ever so slightly she angled her body into his personal space. “So what do you do when you’re not raising chickens?”

“I own a plumbing company.”

Stable. Responsible. Established. Even better. And his lips were just right. He gazed back at her with an expression that said there was nothing but clear sailing ahead. Her stomach flipped. This could be a good night. Maybe a great one.

He slid closer and picked up one of her fries. “You mind?”

She shook her head. He’d just finished chewing it when his cell trilled. He fished it out, checked the screen, then got up from the booth and moved out of earshot to answer it.

She stiffened.

She watched him, talking softly, his back to her, shoulders hunched. Then he snapped the phone shut, slipped it back in a pocket, and sauntered back to the table, mustering a weak smile.

But the spell was broken. “You’re married,” she said.

He swallowed and dipped his head. At least he had the decency not to deny it.

Georgia thought about it. “This must be what it looks like to have egg all over your face.” She paused. “Thanks for the drink, but it’s time for you to go home.”