Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (15 page)

C
had Coe spent an hour in the Skokie apartment. When he came out, he didn’t seem to notice Georgia’s red Toyota, or if he did, it didn’t bother him. Georgia tailed him back to Portwine, where he turned into his driveway. Then she raced back to Skokie, got out of the car, and wrote down the names on the mailboxes of the building. There were six boxes, but only four names, one of which looked Hispanic, another Asian. She frowned. Did the person Coe visited live in one of the unidentified apartments? She hunched her shoulders. She’d have to come back and talk to someone. More time. More effort. She couldn’t help wondering whether this was taking her closer to her sister or farther away. It would be easier just to interview Chad Coe in person. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not until she had more.

She drove home, showered, threw on a black sweater and jeans, and started in on the names on the mailbox. She’d identified only one of the four, a freelance building contractor, by the time her buzzer sounded.

She buzzed Jimmy in and opened the door. As he climbed the steps, a wave of anticipation rolled through her. He caught it, smiled, and took her in his arms.

* * *

They never made it out that night. A few hours later, she ordered a pizza.

“What do you like on yours?” she asked.

“Anything except anchovies.”

“Chicken.”

“Oh yeah? Try me.”

She grinned, ordered anchovies, and rolled over.

When the pizza arrived, she carried the box into the bedroom. She retrieved a towel from her tiny linen closet, spread it over the quilt, and placed the box on top. They didn’t bother to get dressed, and as she watched him chew and loop strands of cheese over his fingers, she remembered what those fingers could do. After one slice, she wasn’t hungry. Neither, apparently was Jimmy, because they found other activities to occupy them. The pizza lay abandoned on the floor.

S
unday morning stretched into Sunday afternoon, and Georgia decided it was her favorite day of the week. They snuck into an early movie, and she felt a wave of pleasure at how protected she felt when he placed his hand on her back to guide her through the door. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and saw a silly smile on her face that she couldn’t wipe off. The good thing was that she saw a similar smile on his.

Halfway through the movie, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. She thought she might tear his clothes off right there in the theater. Instead, she took him to Mickey’s for a burger after the movie. Owen was behind the bar, back from Florida, and he raised his eyebrows when he saw them. She wasn’t surprised; this had to be the first man she’d brought to Mickey’s since Matt. Fortunately, Owen was on his good behavior, and aside from a few sly glances, he kept his mouth shut.

It was about five by the time they finished eating. Darkness was closing in.

“Georgia,” Jimmy said, “I don’t want to, believe me. But I have to go back.”

Her smiled faded. She looked down. She needed to slow down. Her heart was way ahead of her brain.

“I promised I’d cover for a guy who just had a baby.” He paused. “But what about Wednesday? I can take the day off.”

She looked up. Her smile was back. “What are people going to say?”

“About what?” he asked.

“About you taking so much time off?”

He thought about it and grinned. “Let them complain to the chief of police.”

M
onday morning Georgia headed back to Skokie. She’d spent last night trying to trace the four names on the vestibule of the apartment building Chad Coe visited, but she’d had no luck. Three had just an initial and a last name, and even if she were able to tie them to the address, she wouldn’t get far on her databases. Plus, they were renters, not owners, which often meant a patchy financial history. Millions of people were like that. Technology was a godsend, but it took time—and legal documents—to make a digital footprint.

After a weekend of winter sunshine, which produced a thaw of sorts, a swollen gray overcast ushered in another cold front. Georgia pulled on gloves as she climbed out of the Toyota. She noticed a child’s wagon and ball on the front lawn. They hadn’t been there Saturday. Someone in the building had kids.

She walked up to the door and studied the names in the vestibule again. The name on one of the first-floor apartments was G. McCune, with the ink-scrawled letters “Bldg Mgr” next to it. May as well. She pushed the buzzer. No response. She pushed again, heard a return buzz unlocking the door, and grabbed the door before it stopped. There was no intercom, and she proceeded into a small, square hall with two apartment doors opposite each other, and a set of stairs at the back. The door on one side squeaked open a crack, and an overweight woman in pink workout sweats, her hair in old-fashioned rollers, squinted through the gap.

“Yeah?”

“Are you the building manager?’

The woman looked Georgia up and down, not an easy task given the narrow slit of the door. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m—looking for an apartment to rent. I saw empty slots next to two of the buzzers, so I thought I’d ask.”

“I have one apartment. One bedroom. Seven fifty a month. Air-conditioning and heat extra.”

“That sounds great. Can I see it?”

The woman shrugged. “Gimme a minute.” Georgia heard a TV talk show blaring somewhere in the depths of the apartment. The woman closed the door. The TV noise grew muffled.

It was chilly in the hall, not much warmer than outside. Georgia heard the clank of keys. The door opened again.

“I’m showing an apartment, Joe,” she called out over the TV, then lumbered out and closed the door. She headed toward the stairs, glancing back at Georgia. “It’s on the third floor. But you’re young.” She paused. “What’s your name?”

“Samantha Mandor,” Georgia replied quickly, not exactly sure why she felt compelled to use an alias. She just had a feeling. “You’re Mrs. McCune?”

“Me and Joe live on the first floor. He’s the maintenance manager,” she said importantly.

They climbed up to the second floor. Mrs. McCune was already breathing hard. “You just move here?” she huffed.

“I did.” Georgia smiled. “From Kansas.”

“Got a job?”

McCune was checking her out. She rounded the second-floor landing and, leaning her hand on the banister, trudged up to the third floor.

Georgia decided to play the pity card. “I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. We were living together back in Lawrence. Over three years. But I have a good friend here, and she convinced me to move. You know, to start over.” The woman’s expression hardened. “Oh, don’t worry. I have savings. I can pay the rent.”

“Yeah, but for how long?”

“I have good typing and computer skills. I’ll work temp until I get a full-time job.”

McCune stopped at one of the doors on the third floor. The hall was well lit, Georgia thought, but the faded carpet gave off a musty smell. McCune exhaled into a harrumph. “Computers. Everybody’s high-tech these days.”

McCune fumbled with the key ring, found the right one, and unlocked the door. They walked in. It was empty and cleaner than Georgia expected, but the faint residue of a foreign scent drifted over her. She couldn’t place it. “Who lived here?” she asked.

McCune scratched her head, which was difficult to do with her hair full of rollers. “An Indian man. Engineering student. Don’t know where he went.”

Curry and saffron. That’s what the scent was. “Was he a good cook?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Georgia nodded. What kind of building manager doesn’t know their tenants? Unless she didn’t want to say.

McCune turned around. “You’re looking for a job? I might know one.”

“Really?” Georgia feigned interest.

“Yeah…got a friend who runs a hair salon. You good with hair?”

Georgia smiled. “Not really. I was sort of thinking of a business job.” Hadn’t the woman been listening?

“Good luck with that.” McCune looked her over again. “What kind of skills you got?”

Georgia hesitated. She’d already told the woman. She decided not to remind her. “I am pretty good with a computer. Word processing. Dictation. I’m organized, too.”

McCune harrumphed as if this was the first time she’d heard it. “Everybody’s high-tech these days.”

This did not bode well. Was the woman senile? Early Alzheimer’s? Georgia pretended to inspect the apartment. “You said there was AC. Just out of curiosity, what kind of heat does the place have?”

“Gas forced air. One of the only buildings on the block to have it. We’re lucky. The owner takes care of the place.”

“Who owns it?”

“A lawyer. Lives in Wisconsin. Retired.”

Georgia peeked into a closet, looked into the bathroom, and stood in front of the living room window. The view was of a similar building across the street, barely concealed by the branches of an elm or ash. She turned around.

“You said there was only one apartment available, but I couldn’t help noticing there were two empty slots next to the buzzers in the vestibule.”

McCune folded her arms. “Yes, well.” She went quiet.

Georgia picked up on it. “Well, what?”

McCune’s lips tightened. Then she cleared her throat. “We got a nice Mexican couple on the lease, but they have another place in Prospect Heights.” McCune paused. “So every once in a while, some of their cousins stay here for a few days. You know what I mean?”

Georgia knew. The unidentified apartment was a crash pad for illegals. She gazed at McCune.

McCune shrugged. “What am I gonna do? We need the income.”

Georgia frowned.

“Don’t worry,” McCune cut in. “This is a safe place. I ain’t never had no trouble. Me and Joey make sure of that.”

Georgia doubted that a woman who couldn’t remember who said what when could know trouble if it hit her in the face.

“Any hint of it, in fact, they’re out,” McCune was saying.

Georgia ran a hand across her forehead.

McCune took it as disapproval. “Look, we even have a kid here… her mom wouldn’t be here if she didn’t think it was safe. I babysit her sometimes.”

At some point during their conversation, McCune must have decided Georgia would be a good tenant. She was selling
her
now.

“A single mother?” Georgia asked. “Which apartment?”

“Second floor. Claudia Nyquist. Single woman.” McCune flashed her a smile. “Works at a hospital.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Evanston Hospital. Think she’s in the computer department.” She motioned toward Georgia. “Just like you. I can put you in touch with her if you want.” McCune looked hopeful.

“That might be a good idea,” Georgia said.

“And there’s a contractor here too…you know, a remodeler. Nice single man. I keep thinking he and Claudia ought to go out. But she don’t seem interested. Maybe you?”

“What’s his name?”

“Bill Tuttle.” McCune proceeded to tell her all sorts of things that made Tuttle sound like the most boring man in the world.

“Who’s the fourth tenant? I thought I saw an Asian name.”

“Oh. They’re a Chinese couple. Just got here. Mr. and Mrs. Wong. Nice people. Not much English, though.” McCune smiled. “So what do you think? You like it?”

Georgia made sure to be slow to reply. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, better make up your mind. The place will go fast. Let me get you an application.”

“Sure.”

They went back downstairs, where McCune retrieved an application from her apartment and handed it to Georgia. She stuffed it into her jeans pocket and headed to the front door. As she was just about out, McCune asked, “How did you come to hear about this place?”

Georgia pretended she hadn’t heard. She waved as she jogged to her car.

A
t home Georgia started in on some due diligence. Organizations had such vanilla names for spying. “Due diligence” sounded way more respectable than “surveillance” or “intel.” It was professional, nonjudgmental. Even though they were all the same activity.

She disqualified the Mexican couple whose names weren’t on the nameplate, as well as the Chinese couple whose names were. She hoped she wasn’t profiling, but the Mexicans didn’t live there, and the Chinese had just arrived. She didn’t think they would have business with Chad Coe. But she did make a note to try to identify the names of the Mexican couple’s “cousins.” Who knows what they were using the apartment for? It could be worth a return visit.

Then she started in on Claudia Nyquist, who did have a paper trail. Divorced for two years, she’d been upside down on her mortgage in Des Plaines and had to move when the bank took it back. She was currently a data administrator at Evanston Hospital. Had Chad Coe handled her divorce? Helped her with the fallout from the house? Or was she working with him on the baby ring?

The contractor, Bill Tuttle, was as boring on paper as Mrs. McCune made him sound in person. No debts. Only two credit cards. Two bank accounts, one personal, one business. A pickup truck, used. Unmarried. In his forties. Not much else. She decided to skip him for now.

Then she Googled the Northbrook doctor Chad Coe visited before he drove down to Skokie. Dr. Richard Lotwin was from Long Island and had gone to NYU for his undergraduate degree, Chicago Medical School for his MD. He had a wife and two kids. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until eight years ago. He’d been operating on a patient who died at Newfield Hospital while on the table. Lotwin, the anesthesiologist, and the hospital were all sued for malpractice. The case was determined to be a “bad outcome” rather than negligence, and the insurance companies settled it.

But a few years later it happened again, this time to a young boy of twelve who was in for a routine appendectomy. Something went terribly wrong, and the boy, Antonin Tunick, died. Lotwin’s medical license was suspended, and he was fired.

Georgia went to the Illinois Clerk of the Circuit Court’s website, entered the boy’s name, and searched the full docket file. Nothing came up. There was no mention of any lawsuit connected to Antonin Tunick, no settlement, no reprisals.

Odd.

She Googled the boy’s name. His mother came to the US from Russia when the boy was a baby. A single mother, she lived in Northbrook. Georgia couldn’t help but think the woman had bad karma. If she’d stayed in Russia, her son might still be alive. Not because Russian doctors were so great, but at least she wouldn’t have run into Richard Lotwin.

So why didn’t the mother file a malpractice suit? Georgia was surprised an ambulance-chasing lawyer hadn’t contacted her; the story triggered some media attention. Surely a lawyer would have taken the case on contingency, especially with Lotwin’s prior history. But there was nothing.

What’s more, she couldn’t find anything about a relationship between Lotwin and Chad Coe. She rocked back in her chair. Both Lotwin and Coe had been rejected from their respective professions. Did they meet at some twelve-step program? Or one of those “second-life” programs for people who needed a fresh start?

Whatever their relationship, Georgia needed more. But searching for those connections seemed to be taking her farther away from Savannah, not closer. Then again, what had she expected? A map with neon signs that led directly to her? PI work could be slow going and murky. What would she advise a client in her situation? She’d promise to keep digging until she’d exhausted all leads or tied up loose ends.

She leaned forward and rubbed her palm across her forehead. She thought about tracing Chad Coe’s phone records, but she didn’t have his cell. And if he was involved in sex trafficking or black market babies, the calls she’d want to trace would likely have been made from burners. She’d have to find another way forward.