Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (7 page)

G
eorgia read about the dead blond pregnant girl two days later. She’d been reviewing Chicago’s crime stats online, a habit she picked up when she was on the force. ChicagoCrime, a quasi-official website, was remarkably accurate when it came to homicides, arsons, and other felony crimes.

The body had been found, according to the website, in the far northwestern suburbs near the town of Harvard, Illinois. Sixty miles northwest of Chicago. Usually ChicagoCrime didn’t cover incidents that far out, so Georgia was puzzled until she read the details. The unidentified body had been left on the side of Route 173, which meant it could have come from anywhere, including Chicago. The victim had been severely beaten. A passing trucker called it in. The investigation was ongoing. Georgia checked the time of the report. Barely an hour ago.

She got up and started to pace. This was just a coincidence. Had to be. Savannah was in Chicago. Not sixty miles away in Harvard, Illinois. On the other hand plenty of people say they live in Chicago when they really come from Glencoe, Franklin Park, or Hinsdale. Georgia kept pacing, and with each step her irritation grew. Why was she allowing herself to get sucked in? Why spend money, time, and emotion on what would likely be a case of mistaken identity? Was she that desperate for a family connection, however flimsy?

She went to the kitchen window and looked out. Another storm had dumped a few inches of snow, but it was a pure, crystalline morning, and the kids across the street were building a snowman. Their squeals and laughter carried across the street. Their mother was outside too, and all three were rolling a ball of snow across the yard, tamping it down as they did. They’d already built the base.

Georgia lowered the blinds. Harvard, less than ten miles from the Wisconsin state line, had been mostly farmland, but over time, many of the farms had failed. A Motorola plant was supposed to save the town, but it failed too and was shuttered in 2003. Harvard’s biggest claim to fame was its Milk Days Festival, held every June to honor farmers who boosted milk production during World War Two. In fact, a giant cow named Harmilda stood in the middle of the town square
.

It was Saturday, but she went to her phone and punched in a number. She got lucky.

“O’Malley.”

“Hey there,” Georgia said. “I hear I owe you one.”

“For what?”

“You talked to Gutierrez the other day.”

“Oh yeah,” he said in a clipped tone. Dan O’Malley was not one for rambling.

“It’s been noted. And appreciated.”

He chuckled. “So what’s going on? You mixed up in that homicide?”

“Not really. I thought the vic was tailing me, but now I don’t know. Not sure it matters anymore. The trail seems to have gone cold.”

“Yeah, well. You never know.” He cleared his throat. “How’s business? You getting by?”

“Crime is recession-proof, remember?”

“Tell me about it.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I just read about a body turning up in Harvard earlier this morning. A young woman. Pregnant. Blond. Can you get me some 411?”

“Tell me you’re not working a case that involves her.”

“I’m not working a case that involves her.”

His snort told her what he thought of her answer. “I guess it would be useless for me to ask why.”

“It would.”

A sigh. Then, “Let me see what I can do. You’ll be at this number?”

“All the time.”

He called back a few minutes later. “They’ll email me the police report when it comes in.”

“Hey, Dan. You’re the best.”

“Okay. Enough with the flattery. You should know that they actually found her about five miles west of the Harvard city limits on Route 173, in Boone County, so Harvard PD handed it off to the sheriff’s office.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“And since it’s less than ten miles from the state line, they’ve got Walworth County involved too.”

“Wisconsin cops?”

“Yup.” O’Malley’s voice was stern. “Davis, you know the drill, right? If anyone ever finds out we talked, I deny it ’til the cows come home.”

“Interesting choice of words, given that Harvard used to be the dairy capital of the Midwest. But you’re the frigging deputy superintendent. What kind of trouble would you be in?”

He ignored her question. “Of course we could remedy that anytime.”

“How?”

“Come back on the force, and we’ll be kosher.”

“You’re dreaming, rabbi.”

“I’m trying.” He paused, and when she didn’t add anything, he cleared his throat. “Okay. Another thing. The dicks working the case will know I requested the report. I’m gonna have to give them something.”

“There’s no chance I could talk to them?”

“You just keep pushing, don’t you?”

“It’s my job.”

“No, you can’t speak to them. And you can’t use my name. I’ll get you the report after I get it. And after you take a look, you’ll tell me why you wanted it.”

“Sure,” she said brightly.

“Oh, and by the way. I don’t want to hear about a PI up in McHenry County who just happened to run into the detectives working the crime scene.”

“No way, Chief.”

I
t took more than an hour to get to Harvard. The day had clouded over, and layers of dirty gray sky threatened to match her mood. She drove west on Route 173 through the center of Harvard, then to its outskirts, where she passed farms and snow-covered fields. She almost missed the crime scene, which appeared like a Hollywood set that had materialized on the prairie.

Three patrol cars, all different colors except for their flashing red and blue Mars lights, two vans, yards of police tape strung on one side of the road, and about a dozen people in padded coats and gloves, all looking important. She drove past the scene, then turned around and inched back. She wasn’t making herself scarce, she rationalized. She just didn’t want to attract attention. She parked a hundred yards away and headed over, making sure she stood far enough away for the cops to think she was a gaper.

One of the cruisers was black and white and was emblazoned with the Harvard, Illinois, PD logo. The Boone County Sheriff’s Department cruiser was black with a yellow stripe, and the third, a black cruiser with both yellow and red stripes, looked like a lame version of the Batmobile. She could just make out “Walworth County Sheriff’s Department” on the side. She tried to figure out which officer belonged to which force, but in their winter gear they all looked the same. One of the vans said “Illinois State Police” on it, and the other was from the Walworth County Coroner’s Office. They had to be tussling over jurisdiction. Whoever had the body would have the power. She craned her neck trying to see if the corpse was still on the road, but the crowd of officers obscured her view.

She stamped her feet and rubbed her hands in the bitter cold, remembering O’Malley’s warning not to cause trouble. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the coroner’s van drove off, passing her on the road. The body must be inside. Shit. She’d really wanted a glimpse of it up close. Not that she’d know who she was looking at. But she could have taken a photo unobtrusively with her iPhone. A few minutes after the coroner’s van left, the Walworth County Sheriff’s cruiser pulled out, also passing her. Two officers sat in the front. She was about to go back to her car when the cruiser slowed, stopped, and backed up.

When it was abreast of her, the passenger window rolled down, and a male voice called out. “Aren’t you Georgia Davis?”

Georgia reeled back, surprised. She hunched her shoulders against the cold. “Who—who wants to know?”

A chuckle. The cop was smiling. “You don’t recognize me?”

She squinted. He looked familiar but she couldn’t place him. He was wearing shades. Straight dark hair, receding from his forehead. Pale skin. Thin face. Bundled up in a down coat. She shook her head.

“I’m Jimmy Saclarides, Lake Geneva police chief. You were here a couple years ago at Luke Sutton’s house. We met.”

A wave of memories washed over her. Molly Messenger’s kidnapping. Her mother’s fatal highway “accident.” Georgia had tracked a witness to Wisconsin’s Castle Rock Lake, then brought her to a safe house in Lake Geneva. Except the house belonged to one of the town’s richest families, the Suttons, a fact she hadn’t known until she got there.

Now she vaguely remembered meeting Saclarides on the driveway leading to the Sutton estate. But she wasn’t focused on him then; she was involved in her case. Plus, it was the middle of summer. In his winter gear, he was practically unrecognizable.

“Yeah, I remember.” She hoped it sounded like she really did.

Saclarides checked his watch. “Look…uh…have you had lunch?”

Georgia recognized an opportunity when it knocked, and this one was practically breaking down the door. She shook her head.

“Great. Why don’t you meet me in twenty minutes at Saclarides in Lake Geneva? My family owns the place.”

G
eorgia made her way into Lake Geneva, turned on Broad, then drove down a short alley that opened into a parking lot. At the edge of the lot was a cheerful white-brick building with blue shutters and door. A sign on the door said, “Welcome to Saclarides.”

As she opened the door, a tantalizing mix of aromas greeted her: lemon, garlic, rosemary, and other spices she didn’t recognize. Her appetite revved up as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Saclarides was already there, standing at the back of the restaurant talking to an older, dark-haired woman.

Without his coat, she could see he had a great body: tall, muscular, slim hipped. A great butt, too. His nose was thin and long, his eyes widely spaced and brown. Despite living in a summer resort town, those eyes had seen their fill of trouble, she could tell. Right now, though, they radiated warmth and humor. She felt suddenly shy.

He waved her over. “Georgia, this is my aunt Ava. She and my mother run the place, but Mom’s not here today.”

Georgia smiled and shook the woman’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Saclarides.”

“It’s Aunt Ava, sweetheart. Everyone calls me that.” The woman beamed and led them to their number one booth, as she called it. A blue tablecloth covered the table, and a small vase with artificial flowers sat on top. She launched into a rapid-fire discourse of what Georgia assumed was Greek. Jimmy answered her.

The woman folded her hands and smiled. “
Kalos.
”

“What was that?” Georgia asked after she’d left.

“Ava says she knows what you want to eat.”

“She does?” She’d been wondering why there were no menus on the table.

“It’s her little ritual. She tells everyone what they want so that when she brings out whatever it is she’s cooked, they’ll think she made it especially for them.”

Georgia sat down.

Saclarides smiled. “You still have no clue who I am, do you?”

“We met in front of the house, wasn’t it? Luke Sutton’s?”

His eyebrows arched. “You do remember.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. “How did you recognize me?”

“You’re not easy to forget.”

Her cheeks were on fire.

He must have caught it. He cleared his throat. “I’m a cop, remember? Got the third eye. You were trying to hide a woman who worked in a bank.”

“That’s right.”

“Heard you ended up in Arizona.”

She nodded.

“And almost got yourself killed.”

Mentally, she made a note to call Ellie Foreman when she got home. Ellie and Luke Sutton, the owner of the safe house, were a couple. What had she told Saclarides about her? Foreman knew Georgia didn’t like her business spread far and wide.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he said, “Don’t worry. Luke is one of my closest friends. It stayed between us.”

Aunt Ava interrupted with two bowls of steaming soup. After she set them down and left, he said, “We’re Greek, but this place has the best chicken noodle soup east of the Mississippi. I recommend it.”

She dipped her spoon into the bowl, blew on it, and took a sip. She felt her eyes widen. “This is good!”

He looked pleased and started in on his. She watched. He didn’t slurp. Two points.

After a few mouthfuls, she put her spoon down. “So what were you doing at a crime scene in Illinois?”

“And you know it’s a crime scene because…”

Shit. Her stomach tightened. She wasn’t supposed to know that. Or was she? She couldn’t remember what the ChicagoCrime website report said. “I…I—”

“It’s okay. I know you’re a PI.”

She felt herself relax.

“To answer your question, it was basically professional courtesy. Lake Geneva attracts a lot of people, but we don’t get a lot of murders. So when something happens nearby, we try to cooperate. Especially when it’s someone we don’t know.”

“So…” She tried to be casual. “You don’t have an ID on the woman?”

“Not yet.”

“Where was she found?”

“At the edge of Route 173 just east of Capron. Outside Harvard city limits.”

“Cause of death?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know for sure. She was partially frozen.” He spooned more soup into his mouth. “But she had multiple stab wounds on her neck and torso. Lacerations on her arms and legs too.” He paused. “And tracks on her wrists.”

Georgia picked up her spoon, wondering why he was so generous with information. “Were they fresh? The tracks?”

“Not particularly.”

“So she stopped when she got pregnant.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You think she’s from around here?”

“Don’t know.”

A busboy collected their bowls, and Aunt Ava brought two plates heaped with what looked like moussaka, grape leaves stuffed with rice, and some kind of fish. Enough food for five people.

He gave her time to sample everything. Which, of course, was delicious. Then, “Okay. You pumped me pretty good. My turn now. Why are
you
here?”

She’d been waiting for it. “Would you believe ‘professional courtesy’?”

“Not good enough.”

She hesitated. “Okay. It’s personal.”

He chewed and swallowed, then looked up. “Still not good enough.”

She bit her lip. “Look, I’m not here in any official capacity. But you can call Ellie. She’ll vouch for me.”

“What makes you think I don’t believe you?” He broke off a piece of bread.

She met his eyes. They were honest and direct. Unflinching. She looked down.

“Georgia…”

She looked up.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

He chewed the bread, then inclined his head. “So then, you won’t mind giving me your contact information. When I find out who the victim is, I could let you know.”

She wondered what he was really asking. She swallowed. Whatever his motive, she had to decide whether to let a cop back into her life, however peripherally. Still, she understood cops. She’d been one herself. And this cop seemed to get
her
. And despite the dance they were doing, there was a chance he might have solid information for her.

She gave him her number.