Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (6 page)

G
eorgia reached Gutierrez on his cell a few minutes before the press conference. “You were going to keep me in the loop.”

“Your point?” No “Hi, how are you.” More important, no “I’m sorry.” Gutierrez wasn’t big on pleasantries. Then again, neither was she.

“How about the mayor’s about to hold a press conference, and I heard about it in an art gallery?”

“It’s got nothing to do with the investigation. It’s just to smooth things over. Remind everyone the mayor is committed to make Evanston safe. I didn’t think it was relevant.”

He had a point. Still, it rankled.

“You got anything new?” he asked.

She hesitated, then decided to be a good soldier and summarized the review of her cases. She gave him the names of people she thought he should follow up on. Then, “What about the autopsy? It was this morning, right?”

“Not much. Except for one thing.”

“What was that?”

“There were some tattoos.”

Georgia stiffened. “What kind?”

“The kind they get in Russian prisons.”

“What were they? Fire? Stars? A castle? Nazi symbols?”

“How do you know about those?”

She smiled inwardly. “I worked a case years ago where tattoos were important.”

“They were on his chest. And his back. And his arms. Stars, military insignias, even a frigging fortress.”

“You know that’s all code, right? Like how high up they were before they went in, how many years they spent in prison—”

“We’re working on it.”

Of course they were. She cleared her throat. “What about the owner of the SUV? I seem to recall one or two names that sounded like they were from that part of the world.”

“We’re on that, too.” He was quiet for a minute. “Listen, Davis, we’re not planning to release anything about the tattoos. So if it leaks, I’ll know who.”

“Got it.”

“Anything else?”

She debated whether to tell him about the note. She decided not to and clicked off. A few years ago while she was still a cop, someone had dropped off a videotape at Ellie Foreman’s home. She still wasn’t sure what to call Foreman: a friend, a colleague, a pain in the ass? The tape showed the murder of an unidentified woman. Both she and Ellie had traced the woman, helped in part by a tattoo on the dead woman’s wrist. That tattoo, a star rising out of a torch, had been favored by Russian criminals.

She headed down to the coffee shop. A lot of bad guys had slipped into the country after the Soviet Union collapsed. They were called Mafiya, but in truth, they weren’t that organized. Russian mobsters had no loyalty. No omertà. Or quid pro quos. They were vicious, soulless thugs who would rather kill than negotiate. For them, murder—the more violent the better—was simply the cost of doing business.

If the vic who’d been shot the other day was Russian Mafiya, it put a new spin on things. Maybe the guy hadn’t been tailing her to get or give information. Maybe she was just his mark; maybe he was planning to mug her. Which meant she’d ended up in the crossfire by chance. Her lucky day. Or maybe he was being taught a lesson by someone else. Concepts like loyalty and friendship held no meaning for these scumbags. They’d off each other as easily as they would outsiders.

The coffee shop was crowded for late morning. Machines steamed, belched, and spouted. Georgia waited in line, wondering how many customers were gapers who’d come in to check the crime scene. She looked through the window. The scene had been released, and there were no more reminders of it, no flutter of yellow tape or cast-off evidence bags. Still, people hungered to be part of it. To share the terror of near disaster.

“Hey, peaches.” Paul’s voice brought her back. “The usual?”

She looked up and smiled. “Sure.” She glanced at the row of pastries in a glass-enclosed case. “And a blueberry muffin. To go.”

Paul slid the door open, grabbed a white food wrapper, and reached for the muffin. He dropped it in a small bag and handed it over. “On the house.”

“Why?”

He waved at the people in line. “It’s the least I can do. I’m having the best week ever.”

“Homicide’s good for business, huh?”

He flipped up his hands.

“You know, I do have a question,” she said. “Where do you get those wrappers for the pastries?”

“The wrappers?” He looked confused. She pointed to the box on the counter.

“Oh, those. From the food-service company.”

“Do they sell more than one kind?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Do you have the company’s name and number?”

“It’s in the back. I can check when it’s a little quieter. Want me to text you?”

She looked at the line behind her. It wasn’t long, and she had no plans for the afternoon. “I’ll wait.”

R
osebud Restaurant Supply was about as far south as you could go and still be in Cook County. Once Georgia was on I-57, traffic eased. Downtown skyscrapers were replaced by ten-floor buildings, two-story constructions, and finally one-story boxes. At the same time, the space between them expanded. Soon she was passing snow-covered fields that reflected the sun so intensely her eyes hurt. She opened the glove compartment, took out a pair of shades, and slipped them on. Out here you could see how flat the prairie really was. Every road seemed to stretch to the horizon. Georgia hunched her shoulders. The openness, the lack of a place to hide, was unsettling.

Half way to Kankakee, she reached University Park, which straddles the southern border of Cook County and spills into Will. A small planned city that seemed to spring fully formed from the belly of the prairie, the city was named for Governor’s State University, which was designed for working adults.

A few minutes later she pulled up to a low-slung white building, with, of course, a giant rosebud painted on the side. She parked in a small lot and went in. The reception area, if you could call it that, consisted of an interior window with sliding glass panels, behind which was an unoccupied desk. Across the room was a six-foot-square patch of blue carpet and two industrial-looking chairs. An artificial plant and a spread of outdated magazines lay on a small glass table. Someone had made a halfhearted attempt to be welcoming.

Georgia made her way past the sliding glass partition, wondering where the receptionist had gone. She knocked on a door leading off the reception area. No response. She turned the knob. Unlocked. She pushed through into a long hall with cinder-block walls and three doors. One was open.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

She heard the squeak of casters rolling across the floor. A male voice rang out. “In here.”

As she walked down the hall, she caught the scent of fresh bread. It was an appealing aroma, except Rosebud was supposed to be a food-service distributor, not a bakery. She reached the open door and peered into a small office. A roly-poly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard was just standing up, an open book and a half-eaten sub on his desk. Case of the bakery aroma closed.

The man was short, but he had the most cheerful blue eyes she’d ever seen. He must be Santa’s younger brother. He pushed away the sandwich and book. Though its cover was upside down, she could tell it was a crime novel by a popular Chicago author.

He caught her glance. “You like him? This is his latest. It’s good. It’s about a PI who—”

She cut him off. “I’m not much of a reader.”

A disappointed look came over his face as if he’d been ready for a serious discussion on the merits of the genre. He squared his shoulders. “Well now,” he said, his voice all business, “how can I help you?”

“Sorry to barge in, but I’m looking for some information and your company was suggested. My name is Georgia Davis, and—I’m—an investigator.”

His eyes widened. “An investigator?” He stole a glance at the book. “Like a PI?”

She swallowed. And nodded.

His jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it. All my life I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come through the front door.” He grinned and raised his hands. “And here you are!”

Georgia slid her hands into her pockets. Usually it was her looks that got in the way, and she’d have to waste time fending off come-ons and double entendres before she could get on to business. But little Santa was hot for her career. She tipped her head to the side, amused.

He closed the space between them and stuck out his hand. “I’m Rick Martin. And this is just my day job. I’m a writer. I’m working on a crime novel.” He yanked a thumb toward the book. “Reading helps.”

Georgia smiled and waved a hand. “So this—this place is just a hobby?”

“I wish.” He drew himself up. “I am,” he intoned dramatically, “the son of Rosebud.”

“Pardon me?”

“What can I say?” Martin rocked back and grinned. “My father loved
Citizen Kane
. Movies, books…Pop was a frustrated storyteller. Probably what got me started.”

Martin couldn’t be much more than five four. He barely came up to her chin. As if he’d read her mind and wanted to minimize the difference between them, he went back to his desk and waved her into a chair. “So you’re really a PI? Where?”

“Mostly Evanston.”

His eyes went shiny with awe. It was too much.

“It’s not what you think,” she said. “It’s usually pretty boring.”

He flicked his hand. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. But there’s a reason you’ve come all the way down to God’s country from Evanston. I bet I’m in for a good story.”

She smiled at that. “I have a food wrapper. At least I think it is. I wanted to know if you could identify where it’s from. What restaurant.”

He rubbed his hands together.  “Well now, that’s different. Want to tell me how you got it?”

“Not really.”

”I didn’t think so.” He let out a resigned breath. “Okay. Let’s see it.”

She pulled out the note, which she’d put in a small paper bag. She handled it gingerly.

He read it. “Someone has a long-lost sister?”

“I’m not here for an explanation of the contents,” she snapped. “Just the paper.”

“Sure. Sure.” Frown lines creased his forehead.

Georgia felt guilty. She should apologize for being testy.

He looked up. “Listen. I’m not trying to be a bastard, but I need to touch it. Get a feel for the weight and texture. I’ll be careful.”

She handed it over. “Edges only. If you can,” she added.

Martin took an edge of the note between his thumb and forefinger and massaged the paper. “Seems like standard weight. And texture. Kind of your basic wrapper. Which makes it hard to say where it was produced. There are a lot of possibilities.”

“There’s no way to be more specific?”

He shrugged “There are so many varieties. Waxed, unwaxed. Foiled or not. On one or both sides.”

“And this one?”

“Just your standard deli wrap. It’s not coated with anything. They use this kind at places like Subway or Potbelly’s.”

“What about those yellow and red stripes running down the edge?”

“I was getting to that. You can customize wrappers any way you want. For example, the foiled ones come in silver, gold, even red. Deli wrap can be translucent, have a checkerboard pattern, and be any color. You can even put your logo on it.”

“But this isn’t customized?”

“Like I said, it’s hard to tell. Especially with such a small piece. If I had the whole thing…” He let his voice trail off.

“This is all I’ve got. Could it be one of yours?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Is there a catalogue of different wraps and who makes them?”

“It’s complicated. Each manufacturer, even each food-service company, has their own.”

“Is there a way to check them and see who makes this one? Online, for example?”

“Frankly, if you’re not in the business, it would be hard. I mean, you could, but you probably would get frustrated. Too many choices.”

Georgia didn’t reply.

He straightened. “This a heater case?”

She resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

“It is, isn’t it?” He looked almost gleeful.

He’d misinterpreted her silence. She should correct him. Before she could, though, he jumped in. “I have an idea. Can I keep this?”

Georgia was about to say no when he cut her off. “No, of course I can’t. You have to send it in for prints and stuff. Unless you already have…” He paused, his expression as hopeful as a puppy’s.

She shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t let you keep it.” She reached for the wrapper. It was time to head back. It had been a long shot, anyway. She was gathering her things when he raised his palm.

“Hold on.” Martin rolled back from his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a smartphone. “Let me take a couple of shots.” He smoothed out the wrapper, anchored it with the edge of his book to keep it flat, and shot three or four photos. He checked the images on his screen and took a few more. “Just to be safe.”

This time it was her turn to be hopeful. “You really think you can identify it?” she asked.

“No promises, but…” He squinted at the back of the phone, where the last image was still displayed. “Hey…did you see this?”

“What?”

“This smudge.” He pointed to a darkish area on the image, then looked at the wrapper itself.

“I did. I figured it was probably ketchup or gravy. Maybe a coffee stain.”

“I don’t think so. Remember, there’s no coating on this wrap. Which means whatever that is was easily absorbed. But, you see, ketchup is really thick. Even a little would have congealed and hardened on top. Despite the lack of coating. But that didn’t happen. So I doubt it’s ketchup. Or gravy.”

She looked at him. “What are you saying?”

“It could be meat juice.” Martin shrugged. “Or coffee.” A gleam came into his eyes. “Then again…”

Georgia finished. “It could be blood.”

T
he press conference was the lead story on the news that night. Evanston’s mayor said all the right things: the cops were working hard; anyone with information about the gunman or victim should come forward; and here’s what we’re doing to make Evanston safer. There was no mention of evidence, the autopsy, or, thankfully, Georgia’s role.

She got up and turned off the tube. She was beginning to think the incident was random. If they’d found any evidence she was the target, the police would have told her—they were all over it. But they hadn’t. That was good. She made a grilled cheese sandwich. Halfway through eating it, she realized she wasn’t hungry. She pushed the plate away, got up, and retrieved the note from the paper bag.

She examined the smudge on the wrapper again. If it was blood, how did it get on the wrapper? Wouldn’t someone with a cut or scrape, or even a bloody nose, use a tissue? Unless there wasn’t one. In that case, someone might well have used whatever was lying around, including a food wrapper. Still, what were the chances the blood—if it was—came from the woman who claimed to be her half sister?

Georgia tried to think it through. If a client had a relative who was pregnant and in trouble and might have traces of blood on a food wrapper, what would she advise? Track it down? Ignore it? Wait for more evidence?

But was this wasn’t a client. This was personal. She thought about calling Sam to talk it over, but she hadn’t told Sam much about her family. There was one person who knew her history, but she wasn’t in touch with him. To call just because she had a problem wasn’t fair.

On the other hand, they’d always bounced ideas off each other. He was a good problem solver. Despite everything, on a professional level she trusted him. He’d been a cop too. She flicked on her phone and clicked on his name. His voice mail picked up.

“You’ve reached Matt Singer. Leave a message.”

She disconnected.

* * *

The next morning she dialed a number before she changed her mind.

“You’ve reached the Illinois Crime Lab.” A recorded voice told her to dial the extension she wanted. She punched in three numbers.

“Lou Simonelli here.”

“Hey, Lou. It’s Georgia Davis.” Lou, short for Louise, was a criminalist who’d worked a few cases with Georgia when she was on the force.

“Well now. Davis. I haven’t heard from you in years. How you be?”

“Good.”

“Gone private, I hear.”

“For a couple of years now.”

“So I hear. Not doing too badly either, baby cakes.”

Georgia smiled. She liked Lou. “Listen, Lou. I need a DNA test, and I need a referral.”

“What kind of test?”

“Identification and comparison. Possible siblings.”

“For a case?”

She didn’t answer.

“Does it need to be legally submissible? You know, hold up in court?”

“No,” she said. “Can you refer me to a good lab?”

“Are the mothers willing to give samples?”

Georgia blew out a breath. “The mothers? I don’t frigging know who the mother is. That’s why I need the test.”

“Hmm.” Lou paused. “I know it sounds crazy, but to get the best results, it’s better if you have the mothers’ DNA—at least one of them—for comparison.”

Georgia went rigid. She couldn’t get results unless she knew who the mother was. But the reason she was ordering the test was to figure out who the mother was. She was spinning around a Catch-22. But all she said was, “I don’t have the mother’s DNA.”

“In that case, you may not get conclusive results. Sibling DNA reports are tough. A lot of times you just can’t tell.”

Georgia thought about it. Too many variables. This was the time to end the call. To thank Lou and put the matter behind her. Then, “Do you know a lab that could do it?”

Lou was quiet for a minute. “Well, there’s a place in Lincoln Park we use when we’re backlogged.”

“Which means you use them a lot.”

Lou laughed. “They’re good, but they’re not cheap. In fact, if I were you—”

“That’s okay. Give me the name.”

“Hold on.”

Georgia heard the rustle of papers and a murmured conversation in the background. When Lou came back, she reeled off a name and number. “Ask for Jim. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

“I’m ready for a drink anytime.”

“Soon.” Georgia hoped she sounded sincere.

Lou laughed. “I guess I won’t hold my breath. Hey, are you still—oh, never mind.”

“What?”

“No. Not important. Call me when you want to get together.”

Georgia disconnected. She hadn’t talked to Lou in years, and she knew what Lou was going to ask. There was no reason she would know about Matt—they traveled in different worlds. She checked the time. Barely eight thirty. She dialed the number Lou gave her, hoping someone would pick up.

A man’s voice answered. “Precision DNA.”

“I’m looking for Jim, please.”

“You got him.”

“Lou Simonelli referred me. I’m an investigator.”

“Lou’s good people,” he said. “What can I do you for?”

Georgia explained.

“We can do that—you’ll be giving us samples for comparison, right?”

“I can give you the potential sibling samples. At least I’m pretty sure I can.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have a sample that could be blood.” She hesitated. “Then again, it might be ketchup.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Well, I guess we’ll find out.”

She felt a little less foolish. “But I don’t have a sample from the mother.”

“You sure you want to do it that way? It would be a lot more accurate if you—”

“I know, I know. But I don’t have the mother,” she said. “How much are we talking about and how long will it take?”

“Well, if you really want to go ahead, I can ballpark it. Of course, it depends on the quality. What are they? Besides the blood or ketchup?”

“Blood from one sibling if you want it. And hair from—for the other.”

“Good. That’s relatively easy. I assume they’re in good shape?”

“One will be.”

He paused. “Well, assuming the other one is too, extracting DNA and comparing them will run you about five hundred. It can take about twelve working days, give or take a day. Of course, if it’s a heater, you can get it in four or five days.”

“If I want to pay more.”

“Right,” Jim said cheerfully.

“How much more?”

“Well, since you’re a friend of Lou’s, let’s say seven fifty.”

Seven fifty and five days. Just to follow up on what probably would be a waste of time and money. Not to mention the stress of waiting. She thought it over one more time.

At least they took credit cards.