Now Matt asked, “Why do you say that?”
“It was always her way or the highway.” He got up and went to the fridge, tripping over a gym shoe as he did. “Christ, Sean.” He yelled. “How many times have I told you to leave your goddam shoes at the door?”
Georgia winced. The kid came in and picked up the shoe, a mix of shame and anger in his eyes.
“Sorry champ,” Boyle said. “I didn’t’ mean to yell. It’s just the—everything.”
The kid looked like he was about to cry. Boyle saw it. “Why don’t you go watch whatever you want on TV? Hell, watch all night if you want. You won’t be going to school tomorrow anyway.”
The kid swallowed and left the room, clutching his gym shoes to his chest.
Boyle grabbed a beer, came back to the table, and stroked his mustache. “Aw, man. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” He sat down, silent for a moment, then cleared his throat, as if doing so could make the grief go away. He looked up at them. “You knew, of course, that Katie was about to expand her business.”
Georgia sat up. “She was?”
“Yep.” He popped the top off the beer. “She was drawing up the contracts. But it wasn’t going well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Katie wanted to buy out this other woman. But the other woman wanted a partnership.” He took a long pull on the beer. “That’d never happen.” He snorted. “Not with Katie.”
Georgia and Matt exchanged glances.
Thirty minutes later they pulled up in front of a single-wide at what was probably the only trailer park on the North Shore. Even so, neat rows separated each vehicle and there was even a tiny playground in back.
Dana Callaway was petite, dark, and sported a nose ring and several more through her eyebrows. She looked embarrassed when she came to the door, but her demeanor changed to fear when they told her why they were there. “I’m surprised you found me. Not many people know I’m here.”
“Katie Boyle’s husband told us.”
She nodded, as if she wasn’t surprised. “I got kicked out of my apartment. Couldn’t pay my rent. It was Katie’s fault.”
“Sorry?”
“She fucked me over.”
“How so?”
“She promised me one thing, but when it got down to brass tacks, she screwed me. I had a nice business. Mostly personal training. We were going to merge. I’d teach classes at Bodyworks, Katie would have access to my clients. But when the papers were drawn up, it turned out I wouldn’t be much more than her employee. Screw her. And Bodyworks.”
Callaway had an alibi—she’d been training a Glencoe woman in her private gym, and the client, although annoyed to be dragged into a murder investigation, confirmed it.
Back at Matt’s place, Georgia undressed. “You think Callaway put it out for hire? I see her as the type.”
“Maybe.” Matt took off his clothes and got into bed. He didn’t sound convinced.
“Why not?”
“What was she gonna pay them with? She’s got nothing.”
“What if she’s hiding it? Or spent it on the hit?” Georgia put on one of Matt’s t-shirts and slipped in next to him. “She sure wasn’t at all sorry to hear Katie was dead.”
“Maybe.” His expression was solemn.
Georgia picked up on it. “What’s wrong?”
“Remember what Paul Munson said? How he and Katie couldn’t keep their hands off each other at work?”
Georgia nodded.
“I feel that way sometimes. About you.”
She smiled and rolled on top of him. “I do, too. All the time.”
***
“So they all get wasted.” Rachel giggled. “And the best part is there are no parents.”
I couldn’t help overhearing her on the phone. She was in her room; I was in the hall, pretending to iron. To be honest, I was eavesdropping. She’s only twelve.
“Somebody’s older brother or sister gets the booze. You know, like raspberry flavored vodka. Everyone likes it.” Silence. “I guess. A lot of guys are dealing now.” My pulse started to race. She was talking about weed. “Why not? No one’ll find out.” Another silence. “Ooohhhkaaaay.” She stretched the word into three syllables. “Catch you later.”
I tried to put the ironing board away quietly, but the metal legs squeaked as the folded up. Rachel flung open her door. “You’re spying on me!”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you were.” Her eyes narrowed into slits of fury. “What did you hear?
“Enough to keep you grounded for the next three years.”
“I hate you!” She screamed. “You’re invading my privacy. I want to move in with Dad.”
***
When NORTAF gets involved in a crime, its bureaucracy comes with it. For Georgia that was good news. It meant they hadn’t released the crime scene. Despite the fact she wasn’t a detective and officially had no business there, the next morning she drove over to Bodyworks and borrowed a key from the shopkeeper next door.
She carefully inspected the studio. It was carpeted, which meant there weren’t any shoe or footprints. No prints on the mirrors, either. She supposed there might be some partials on the weights and bands, but they wouldn’t necessarily be those of Katie’s killer. She sighed and leaned against a wall. Tell me, Katie. Who killed you? And why?
She pondered it, then went into one of four stalls in the bathroom. When she finished, the toiled wouldn’t flush.
Just my luck, she thought. Four stalls and I get the one that’s broken. She turned around and jiggled the handle on the tank. Nothing. She exited the stall and looked around for a plunger. There was none. She let out an exasperated breath, went back into the stall, and lifted the top off the tank. She felt her eyes widen. Something was in there, blocking the proper operation of the toilet.
She gingerly dipped her hands into the tank and pulled it out. It was an empty plastic quart bottle. A red label was affixed on the other side. She turned it over. Raspberry flavored vodka. She frowned. What the hell was that doing here? This was an exercise studio, where people presumably came to improve their health, not swill down booze.
She examined the bottle. Was Katie Boyle a closet drinker? It might explain a few things. Then again, it might not. Boyle might not have been hiding empty bottles of booze in the john. But if Boyle wasn’t, who was?
***
I was making dinner Tuesday evening—well, assembling it is a better word since I don’t often inflict my cooking on Rachel—when the police cruiser stopped at the curb. I always have a frisson of panic when I see a cop; I’m convinced I’ve done something illegal that I don’t remember. Thirty years ago I probably did, but I’ve been a model of lawfulness since. When Georgia Davis slid out of the car, I relaxed.
She looked over the house before coming to the door. Smallest house on the block, I imagined her thinking. She’s barely hanging on.
I opened the door before she had a chance to knock. “Hi.”
“Sorry to disturb you, but I had a few questions.” I’d expected a chilly attitude. I wasn’t disappointed.
“Come on in. Want some coffee?”
“No thanks.”
I led her into the kitchen. We sat at my small butcher block table. I could tell she was gathering her thoughts, trying to figure out how to start.
I tried to make her feel at ease. “I have pop, if you prefer. Diet coke?”
She didn’t reply, just stared at me.
Great.
Then, “Did Katie Boyle have a drinking problem?”
I cocked my head. “Katie? Are you kidding? She was the picture of health.”
“People hide it. Cover it up.”
“Not Katie. She could put it away a few beers, but she only drank once in a while. Why?”
She shook her head.
I waited.
“So,” Davis went on. “She only drank beer? No liquor?”
“Not that I know of.”
“No vodka?”
“No vodka.” I was beginning to be irritated. “Why?”
She hesitated, as if she knew she wasn’t supposed to be telling me anything important but didn’t know how to get around it. “I found an empty bottle of vodka in a toilet at Bodyworks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The crime scene techs must have missed it. They probably didn’t think to check the women’s john.” She shrugged. “Got any ideas who might have stashed it?”
I shook my head.
“The other instructors? Clients?”
I mentally ran through the list. Besides Paul, there were only three others, and none of them had a drinking problem, as far as I knew. And I couldn’t see any women coming to class to hide booze in the toilet. “That’s weird. Vodka, you say?”
“Raspberry flavored.” She crossed her arms. “So you can’t shed any light on the matter?”
As I shook my head, Rachel bounced into the kitchen, headed to the fridge, and grabbed a can of diet Coke. “Rachel,” I said. “Meet Officer Davis.”
Rachel, who was in one of her surly moods, hardly looked at Davis. “Hi.” She popped the top off the can and disappeared out.
“I apologize,” I said. “The Martians landed a while back and stole her brain.”
Davis didn’t laugh.
“They promised to return it when she’s twenty-one.”
Still no reaction.
I stood, went to the counter, and picked up the knife I’d been using to chop vegetables. “So, anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t—” Suddenly I froze, the knife in mid-air. Rachel’s phone conversation. Raspberry flavored vodka. No parents. “Oh shit.”
Davis stood up. “What?”
I spun around. “I think I know what’s going on.”
***
“How did you crack it?” Matt asked Georgia when they were finally back at Matt’s that night. She rolled over, sat up, and pulled the sheet around her. She debated how to tell him. She settled for the truth. “It wasn’t me. It was Ellie Foreman.”
Matt propped his head on his elbow. “The woman we questioned? The video producer?”
She nodded. “She has a teenage daughter. Rachel.”
“So?”
“So, it turns out that flavored vodka is all the rage with high school girls these days. They drink it like water. Along with smoking weed, swallowing pills, and whatever else they can get their hands on.”
“Was her kid involved?”
“No. But she knew who was.”
Matt rolled onto his back and laced his hands behind his head. “And?”
“Remember the woman in Winnetka whose house was trashed by a bunch of high school kids a few months ago? Well, apparently, it’s become a game. Kids break into places that aren’t occupied to party. Pharm parties they call them. They usually trash the place pretty good before they leave.”
“And they broke into Bodyworks?”
Georgia nodded. “No one is there at night. Or Sundays. So some of the kids decided to break in and started partying. The problem was that Boyle showed up. We don’t know why. Maybe she forgot something. Maybe she just wanted a place to be alone. Anyway, the kids were there, and they were high.” She shrugged. “One of them whacked her with a baseball bat. The other shoved her hard. She fell and cracked her head on a heavy weight. They didn’t mean to—”
“Why did they have a bat?”
“One of the guys was on the baseball team, and he’d come to the party from practice.”
“And the weight?”
“They pulled some out of the closet to play with.”
“Go on.”
“When they realized she was dead, they panicked. Dragged her into the closet. Tried to clean up and clear out. That’s when someone tossed the vodka into the toilet.”
“Jesus.” Matt looked thoughtful. Then he sat up and reached for her. “Good work.”
She shrugged. “O’Malley did the questioning.”
“Yeah, but you did the leg work.” He started to run his fingers through her hair.
Georgia smiled. “Stop that.”
He cupped her cheeks with his hands. “Never.” He kissed her. She let out a little sigh.
After a minute, he asked. “How’d you find out which kids were involved?”
Without missing a beat, Georgia answered. “I questioned Foreman’s daughter and got some names. Made a few calls. It was pretty fast. They fell like a row of dominos.”
Matt nodded.
“The kids are already lawyered up but one of them spilled everything. We got it on tape.”
Matt worked his hands down her shoulders. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I know.” Her voice was husky.
“Still, you owe her.”
“Who?”
“Foreman. She did you a mitzvah.”
She frowned.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like her?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It’s weird.”
“What?”
“I have this feeling we’re not done. Foreman and me.”
Matt smiled and kissed her again. Georgia concentrated on the feel of his lips and forgot about Ellie Foreman.
THE END
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES
Libby Fischer Hellmann has already joined an elite club: Chicago mystery writers who not only inhabit the environment but also give it a unique flavor… her series continues in fine style… (Ellie)… lights up the page with courage and energy.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Not only has Hellmann created a compelling group of believable characters, but the mystery she places them in is likewise plausible and engrossing. Highly recommended, even if you don’t live in Illinois.”
—David Montgomery, Chicago Sun-Times
“Hellmann owes a debt to fellow Chicagoans Sara Paretsky (complex plotting) and Barbara D’Amato (excellent research)—but she’s the brash young thing making this formula new again. I can’t wait for the next book!”
—Robin Agnew, Aunt Agatha’s
“Hellmann has surpassed herself. Well-crafted, intense and exciting, right up to the last page… a must read!”
—Laurel Johnson, Midwest Book Review
“A masterful blend of politics, history, and suspense… sharp humor and vivid language… Ellie is an engaging amateur sleuth.”
—Publishers Weekly, November 4, 2002
“Ellie is a particularly believable protagonist… she’s a pleasure to spend time with. Hellmann once again has made it convincing that this amateur would be involved in the investigation of a crime… and it’s always a pleasure not to have to consciously suspend disbelief.”
—Reviewing the Evidence
More at http://libbyhellmann.com
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES
“Hellmann brings to life the reality of hazing and bullying among teenage girls in a story with enough twists and turns to keep you reading to the end. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Just what’s needed in a mystery… Depth of characterization sets this new entry apart from a crowded field.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Georgia is a principled, compassionate character, determined to do the right thing, even if it doesn’t follow conventional assumptions… ”
—Booklist
“Libby Hellmann can get into the mind of a character, whether the character is a mentally ill man or a teenage girl. PI Georgia Davis, the no-nonsense heart of this tale… finds a darkness I didn’t see coming. This is good stuff, very good stuff.”
—Stuart M. Kaminsky, Grand Master, Mystery Writers of America
“There’s a new no-nonsense female private detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money… Hellmann knows how to distill the essence of a character in a few unadorned but dead-right sentences”
—Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune
“Hellmann’s done her homework here and it shows: the writing is assured, the voices authentic, and the understanding both of criminal investigations and relationships among cops, lawyers and prosecutors come to life with great urgency. Davis’ arrival on the mean streets is long overdue.”
—Sara Paretsky, author of the V.I. Warshawski series
“Libby Fischer Hellmann has indisputably crossed the line into the realm of great crime fiction writers.”—Crimespree Magazine
CHICAGO BLUES
“This classy anthology of mostly original short stories from 21 renowned Windy City authors blends the blues, crime and Chicago, quite surpassing Akashic’s recent Chicago Noir… This impressive volume has soul, grit and plenty of high notes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Twenty-one excellent reasons stay out of the Windy City…”
—Kirkus Reviews
Gritty, excellent.. has my highest recommendation!”
—Midwest Book Review
“An impressive group of stories… an amazing group of authors…”
—Crimespree Magazine
“If you want a sample of the gritty, sticky pavement of crime, of the grasping, panting, unredemptive jazz of big city noir, this one is a winner. A keeper.”
—Carl Brookins of Reviewing the Evidence and Mystery Scene
“A monument in words to this funky, mysterious and eternal American city… a fine collection.”
—Luis Alberto Urrea, The Hummingbird’s Daughter
“Chicago—its neighborhoods, its history and atmosphere, are all wonderfully captured in this terrific short-story anthology… a gem-filled anthology.”
—Oline Cogdill, Mystery Scene
More at http://libbyhellmann.com
Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 1 (Intro by William Kent Krueger) Page 8
