Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (11 page)

B
ack in her car Georgia unwrapped the pastry and took a huge bite. The baked apple, tart and gooey, combined with the crisp, sweet topping was delicious. She savored the taste and mulled over what she’d learned. It wasn’t a sure bet, but it was looking like Benny’s was the only restaurant using the wrap that “Savannah” had written on. Which meant, assuming the note was genuine, that Savannah might be connected to the warehouse in the West Loop.

She took another bite of pastry. She could trace the owner of the warehouse when she got home, see who popped up. Now, though, she needed to concentrate on her driving. The snow had intensified and was falling at a steady rate. Visibility was practically nil. Traffic was at a standstill on I-294, so she tried going east on surface streets. Still, the drive from Oakbrook to Evanston took more than two hours. By the time she pulled into a parking spot near her apartment, the apple crumb cake was long gone and the snow was dancing horizontally across the streetlights.

She pulled up her collar, braced herself, and slogged to the door of her building. She stopped to retrieve her mail. A few bills, but also an unfamiliar white envelope. She turned it over. The return address was “Precision Labs.” She sucked in a breath. The DNA results. She fingered the envelope. Thicker than one page, but not much more.

Inside she put the envelope on her desk. She carefully took off her coat, hat, and gloves and hung them up, as if she might need to remember exactly what she did and when she did it. Then she started to pace around her apartment.

The truth could hide—she’d known that as a cop and knew it now as a PI—but eventually it worked its way to the surface. It might take years. Even a lifetime. But what would she do if she did know the truth? If Savannah and she were related, it would require a fundamental rearrangement of her emotional life. Her mother had borne another daughter. She had a sister she’d never known.

But did that mean she was supposed to be her sister’s savior? And if so, for how long? What if she couldn’t stand the girl? Where were the rules for that? And who the hell wrote the handbook?

She let out a long breath, stopped pacing, and went back to her desk. She picked up the envelope and ripped it open. Two pages fell out. She scanned the first page, a chart titled “Sibling Report (Half vs Unrelated)—Legal Test.” On the left were a series of incomprehensible letters and numbers under the heading “Genetic Markers.” Across from each marker were two columns headed by the words “Allele A” and “Allele B.” Underneath those columns were more numbers. Finally on the right was a column titled “Likelihood Ratio” with yet more numbers, although they were smaller than the others.

She had no idea what all the numbers meant and skipped to the second page, which included the interpretation. She read through a paragraph of qualifications, which basically said the absence of the birth mother’s DNA prevented them from drawing  a more definitive conclusion. She bit her lip. The report went on to say that a ninety-one percent probability was considered the lowest possible level for which one could say two individuals were related.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered. “What’s the bottom line?”

The last two lines told her. “Based on the genetic results, the alleged half siblings are 23,780 times more likely to be related as half siblings than to be unrelated. The Probability of Relatedness as Half Siblings is ninety-five point five percent.”

S
leep wouldn’t come and Georgia lay in bed listening to the swish of the wind. She finally dozed off before dawn, but the growl of a snowplow woke her. She went to the window, raised the shade, then lowered it again. The new blanket of snow was glazed with an unapologetic sun, as if it was mocking her for her lack of sleep.

She brewed a pot of coffee and took a mug to her computer. She clicked onto the Cook County Assessor’s website, clicked “Search by address,” typed in the address of the warehouse, and pushed enter. Seconds later she had the warehouse’s property index number, or PIN, a unique fourteen-digit number assigned to every piece of real estate in Cook County. Armed with that, she went to the Cook County Treasurer’s Office website, pulled down the “Property search” portal, and entered the PIN. Less than a minute later, the tax payments for the warehouse popped up. Along with the payments was the most recent owner of record, a corporation named Executives Unlimited. The contact for the corporation, which, according to the website, had purchased the property a year earlier, was attorney Chad G. Coe.

She smiled. A property search used to take an entire day. She would have to drive downtown to the Assessor’s Office, wait, fill out a form, then wait some more. Then she’d go to the Treasurer’s Office and do it all over again. Today that process could be accomplished in less than five minutes. She wished she could high-five her computer. Instead, she Googled Chad G. Coe.

There weren’t a lot of mentions. He had no website, but he was on LinkedIn. She clicked on the URL. His profile was thin. He was listed as an attorney in the Greater Chicago area. But it didn’t include any previous employment history, education, or specialty areas. She tapped a finger. Every attorney had a specialty, even if it was more fantasy than reality. She looked for the last update he’d made on LinkedIn. Nothing within the past three years.

She sipped her coffee. Chad Coe wasn’t advertising or promoting himself. No “All inquiries welcome.” No mention of clients. And no references. He looked to be flying under the radar. Why? She went to the Illinois Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Commission’s website and discovered why. After she entered his name, she saw he’d been suspended from the bar for stealing his clients’ money three years earlier. The legal wording was “Not authorized to practice law as an attorney.” But the suspension was only temporary. He had been reinstated a year ago.

There was an address for him somewhere in Riverwoods, a small but affluent suburb west of Deerfield. She wrote it down. Then she checked one of her private databases and found a phone number at the Riverwoods address. She called the number, making sure to first block her caller ID, but discovered it had been disconnected. Which made her wonder if the address would lead to a dead end, too.

T
wenty minutes later Georgia pulled up to a building in Rogers Park with a sign proclaiming, “Paul Kelly: Lawyer & Insurance Agent.” Kelly was a lawyer she’d worked with during her first big homicide case. His office consisted of two large but sparsely furnished rooms on Morse Street. She stopped in the coffee shop three doors down and bought two coffees. She tried to remember how he took his; one sugar, no cream, she thought. Armed with steaming cups, she pushed through the door.

The light was on in the front room, but the door to his office was partially closed. Even so, she could hear him on the phone. “Yes, rates are going up. They’re trying to jack ’em up before ACA is fully implemented.” There was a pause. “Of course it is. But you ever known an altruistic insurance company? They’re not charitable institutions, you know.” A few more words, then she heard the sound of the phone being slipped into the cradle.

She walked in. “Hey, Kelly, how’s the insurance biz?” She used to tease him he was hedging his bets—if he couldn’t make it as a lawyer, he had a fallback. In reality he was an excellent lawyer.

“Don’t let it get around,” he’d shot back. “I make good money from insurance.”

Now he swiveled around in his chair where he’d been gazing out the window. “Davis. What a surprise!” He gave her a broad smile, which the deep frown lines on his sixtysomething forehead said he didn’t do often. “What brings you down here?”

“I thought you could use some coffee.” She handed it to him. He nodded, took the coffee with one hand, and motioned her into a chair with the other. He wasn’t a big man, and he always wore the same thing: a shabby navy jacket, khaki pants, and a blue shirt. Fluorescent light bounced off his shiny bald head.

He doctored his coffee methodically, throwing the sugar packet in the trash before he stirred his drink with a wooden stick. Satisfied, he brought the coffee to his lips.

“So what’s up? I have a feeling this isn’t a social call.”

“I was hoping you could get me some information about a lawyer.”

“What about him?”

“He was suspended from the bar two years, according to ARDC.”

“Dipped into the client’s trust account, did he?”

Georgia tilted her head. “How did you know?”

“That’s the most common reason lawyers get suspended.”

“I didn’t know.” She paused. “Paul, I need to know more, but I don’t want to work my way through the hearing transcripts.” She could get them if she went online, but she didn’t want to admit she was dyslexic. Plowing through them would take hours. “Can you run down the case for me? Don’t you have a friend on the board or something?”

“She’s a clerk. But it’s the same thing.” He grinned. “You want I should give her a call?”

“That would be great.”

“For you, Davis. Only for you.”

He put on a pair of reading glasses, spun his circular black Rolodex—the old-fashioned kind with white cards you don’t see much these days—found what he was looking for, and picked up the phone. He paused, took a sip of coffee, then punched in the numbers.

“Jamie? Hi, Paul Kelly here. Hey, I need a favor. Yeah. Suspended by the Supreme Court.” He covered the phone. “Who and when?”

“Chad Coe. About three years ago.”

Kelly repeated the information, then laughed. “I’d wait for you until the clock strikes thirteen, sweetheart.” He sipped his coffee, played with the telephone cord, and whispered to Georgia. “She’s checking. Got everything all computerized. Easy, peasy.”

Georgia nodded.

He waved her off, then sat up straighter. “Yeah, uh-huh. Hold on. Lemme get some paper.” He grabbed a sheet and a pen. “Okay. When? Uh-huh. Really? How? Okay. I got it. Thanks.”

He hung up and studied his notes. “Well, I don’t know what your dealings are with this guy, but I hope you got—or get—your money’s worth.”

“Because…”

“Chad Coe apparently has or had a gambling habit. Sports mostly. Bookies, racetrack, casinos. Was in over his head and got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. To the tune of a hundred grand.”

Georgia folded her arms.

“His firm fired him, of course, and a couple of his clients filed a complaint with ARDC.”

“And?”

“He didn’t contest it. Admitted he was a gambler, showed remorse. Said he was going to GA. Therapy too. So they only gave him twenty-four months. He was reinstated,” Kelly said. “By the way, he paid the money back right away.”

“If he was losing his shirt, how did he suddenly get a hundred grand?”

“That’s what I asked.” Kelly shrugged. “Jamie doesn’t know.”

“You think he went to a shark?” In which case whoever fronted him the money owned him.

“Who knows? Could have been family. Or a bank loan. But it’s clear he found another source of income.”

Georgia thought she knew who that source was.

He picked up his coffee. “Why are you interested in this creep?”

“His name came up in a case I’m working.”

He peered at her over his glasses. “I don’t have to tell you that a law degree doesn’t make someone a good guy, right?”

“
You
are.”

He colored all the way up to his shiny bald scalp.

T
he chirp of her cell phone woke her from a nap two hours later.

“Davis…”

“Georgia?” A man’s voice. “It’s Jimmy Saclarides.”

She blinked herself awake. “Oh, hi.” She sat up.

“Sounds like I woke you.”

“No,” she lied. “I was—uh—reading.”

“Oh. Well. Hey, I’m down in your neck of the woods visiting Luke. He’s at Ellie’s.”

“Oh.”

“And I was wondering whether you’d like to grab some dinner.”

“Did you get an ID on the body?”

He cleared his throat, and when he replied, she heard his disappointment. “I may have some information.”

Georgia realized she’d screwed up. “You know what? That doesn’t matter. I’d love to have dinner.”

“Oh.” His tone grew decidedly more cheerful. “Great.”

They met at Hole in the Wall, a tiny Italian place in Northbrook where the menu was posted on a large chalkboard. Despite its being a weeknight, there wasn’t an empty table, and waitresses carrying garlic-scented pastas wound carefully around customers’ elbows, knees, and winter coats draped over the backs of chairs.

“It smells heavenly,” Georgia said as they waited for a table. “How did you know about this place?”

“State secret.” He smiled and drew his fingers across his lips to indicate they were sealed.

Georgia smiled back. “Oh. Of course. Ellie.”

He was wearing a green sweater, collared shirt, and jeans that emphasized his best physical asset. When he smiled, the crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes crinkled nicely. He caught her checking him out and his smile broadened, deepening the crow’s-feet. She looked down, suddenly self-conscious.

“You look great too, Georgia.”

Her lips parted. How did he—? Of course. He was a cop. A trained observer. She felt herself color. She was also in jeans but wore a black sweater with a bright-blue scarf. Her blond hair was down, and she had even put on makeup.

The maître d’ led them to a table against the wall.

“I forgot,” she said as they sat down.

“What?”

“That you’re a cop.”

He laughed. “Don’t hold it against me.” It was a cheerful laugh. Genuine. She couldn’t help smiling.

“You think it will last? Ellie and Luke?”

He inclined his head, as if he thought it was an odd thing for her to ask. “Actually, I do. They fit well together. You know what I mean?”

I’m glad someone does,
she thought.

The conversation through hors d’oeuvres and wine was light. Georgia peppered him with questions about being a cop in Lake Geneva, how he and Luke became friends, his family. But when their entrées came—pasta for him, veal for her—he held up a warning finger.

“Tread carefully, Georgia. I know your MO.”

She jerked her head up. “What do you mean?”

“You keep asking me questions so you won’t have to reveal anything about yourself.” But his expression was warm and welcoming, and for the second time in less than an hour, she felt her cheeks burn. “I’m not falling for it,” he went on. “Your turn.”

“There’s not much to tell.” She shrugged. “And this veal is wonderful.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” He extended his fork toward her plate. She cut a piece of veal, which he speared and put in his mouth. “You’re right.” He nodded and looped a forkful of pasta from his plate and offered it to her.

She took it, chewed, and smiled. “Wonderful.”

“But you’re not off the hook.”

She lowered her fork to her plate. “I’m from a lace-curtain Irish family on the West side. My mother left when I was about ten. I lived with my father. He was a cop. Then I became one. That’s about it.”

He let a moment go by. When she didn’t add anything, he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman with less to say.”

She swallowed.
When would she figure out the rules?

Her self-criticism was cut short when he reached across the table where her hand lay and covered it with his own. “It’s okay.” He smiled. “I’ve got time.”

Now her face was on fire.

A moment later she slowly pulled her hand from his. “So tell me about the body of the pregnant woman.”

He leaned back and laced his hands together. “She was a runaway.”

“How did you trace her?”

“Dental records.”

“She was American?”

Jimmy nodded. “Kansas City.”

She tensed. “Was—was she in the trade?”

“It would seem so. There were tracks on her arms. Faded, but you could see them.”

“What was her name?”

“Jennifer Madden.”

Georgia relaxed. “How old?”

“Sixteen.”

Georgia remembered the billboards on the Ike. “Why didn’t she get an abortion? Why go through with the pregnancy?”

He looked like he was considering her questions. “It was getting close. The autopsy said she was about six months at the time of death.” He hesitated. “I’m just speculating here, but it’s possible she didn’t have the money, or didn’t know where to go. Or maybe she wanted to have the baby.”

“Maybe,” Georgia said. She wasn’t convinced.

“You seem surprised she was American,” he said.

She blinked. She’d forgotten about his cop’s observational skills. Again. “Um, well. I…I guess I expected something else.”

“You mean girls brought in from other countries?”

She nodded.

“No one has a monopoly on sex trafficking these days.” He finished his pasta. “So. You want to tell me why you drove all the way out to Harvard on a cold Saturday morning to eyeball a pregnant corpse?”

The waitress took their plates. Jimmy ordered coffee. Georgia studied him. It would feel good to talk it through. But not with a cop. She knew what he’d say. Still, if there was a chance he could shed some light on the situation and her sister, it might be worth it. So she told him about the note, the Russian guy who’d been killed in the drive-by, the DNA results, Benny’s, Bruce Kreisman, the warehouse. Jimmy listened without interrupting. She told him about the home pregnancy kit she’d found. “I know it’s a long shot, but I keep thinking maybe it was hers. Savannah’s.”

Jimmy was quiet. Then, “And maybe it wasn’t.”

“You think I’m trying to connect dots that aren’t there.”

“I don’t know you that well.” He picked up his coffee. “But it does sound like you’ve spent a lot of time and energy on something that—well, you
hope
will be real.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Your half sister. Who you’ve never met. And didn’t even know about ten days ago.”

Georgia bristled. “Are you saying it’s not my sister? What about the DNA?”

“What about it?”

“There’s a better than ninety-five percent chance we’re related.”

He tipped his head to the side. “By the way, what was the sample they used to extract DNA from your—sister?”

“A drop of blood on a sandwich wrapper.”

“A sandwich wrapper?”

“Yeah.” Georgia mirrored his head movement. Why?”

“Did you ever wonder how that blood got there? It’s not every day that you find blood on a sandwich wrapper.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Jimmy. Maybe she bit her tongue. Cut her finger slicing the sandwich. Pricked her finger on a fucking needle.”

“Maybe.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m not getting at anything, Georgia. Except to suggest that you step back for a day or two and slow down. Look at it rationally. Is this something you really should pursue on your own? Why don’t you hand it over to the police? You used to be a cop. You know they’ll do the job.”

“Yeah, but they’re not going to be looking out for my sister.”

“I get that. But when sex trafficking is involved…and the Russian mob…” His voice softened. “You may not like what you find.”