Chapter Eight
Washington, DC
Legs together, toes pointed, just the right amount of spring, Vic Summerfield launched into a shallow dive. Once he hit the pool, he churned through the water. First one direction, then the other, as regular as a metronome. Swimming laps was not as easy as it looked. A good swimmer fought the water to advance, then used the resulting force to glide. All in the same stroke. Life was the same way, he thought. First resistance, then surrender. Yin and yang. The trick was to know when and where to apply each.
Vic had suffered the hard knocks of failure, relished the results of success. But he’d been willing to make the effort, to go the extra lap. Not many of his generation did. They grew up thinking they were special snowflakes, entitled to unlimited success and happiness just because they’d won a goddam trophy in third grade for “achievement” in soccer. Or hockey. Their only achievement was showing up, which their mothers had made them do. They were all a bunch of whiners, complaining that the world owed them greatness.
He executed his flip turns, allowing himself a touch of pride. How many other swimmers knew how to poise their body, flip over, and push off without missing a beat? You had to be precisely the right distance away from the end of the lane when you made a somersault, then apply the force of your legs to propel you forward. It took skill. And practice.
But wasn’t that the prescription for success? Especially in this town. If you wanted to make it in DC, you had to know when to push and when to concede. Without showing your hand. That was rule one. Maybe the only rule, despite the chaos that had ensued from the election. He’d once dated a woman who quit her job in broadcasting because she couldn’t bear the thought of walking into yet another party knowing she wanted to exploit the politicos in the room for a story, while they wanted to exploit her to get their guy on the news. She couldn’t handle the cynicism. Vic was of tougher stuff. He wouldn’t quit.
He performed another turn and swam his last length. He’d done almost a mile. Time to get out, shower, get to work. He made himself sprint to the shallow end, pulled up, and started to inhale a chlorine-scented breath. The acidic smell brought back happy memories of the community pool in which he’d thrashed and learned how to swim. Now, though, his reverie was cut short by a pair of Berluti boots at eye level, filling the view through his goggles. Vic looked up, ignoring the tiny rivulets of water that streamed down his cheeks. A man in an impeccably tailored bespoke suit glared at him.
“How much did the assholes pay you to fuck me over?” his boss, Carl Baldwin, hissed.
Chapter Nine
Chicago
A few flakes of snow spit sideways as Georgia left the coffee shop. She hurried to her Toyota, trying to guess whether the granite clouds overhead would produce a full-blown storm. She keyed the engine and ran the heat. Once the temperature was bearable, she made a call.
She’d been completely honest when she told Erica Stewart her resources were meager compared to the FBI’s. But what she hadn’t told her was that the people she relied on, whether ethical hackers, private DNA experts, or forensic fraud experts, were themselves former FBI or IC agents who had mastered their respective skills.
Her call went to voice mail. Zach Dolan, a former hacker who’d found redemption and lots more income on the right side of the law, was probably out walking his dog. She left a message and drove south on Green Bay Road.
Paul Kelly’s office, no longer in the raunchy part of Rogers Park, occupied a suite in a small office building on Touhy Avenue. He’d hired a receptionist, too, a matronly woman with old-fashioned blue-white hair. She greeted Georgia with a cheerful smile.
“May I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Georgia Davis, and I’d like to see—”
“You’re Georgia?” The woman’s eyes widened. “The PI, right? Oh, I’m thrilled to meet you. Paul talks about you all the time.” The receptionist rose from an office chair with wheels, came around, and pumped Georgia’s hand. “Welcome! I’m Joan Chase . What can I get you to drink?”
Georgia felt her cheeks get hot. She wasn’t used to someone fussing over her with effusive welcomes. She was saved from an awkward reply by a voice calling out from the back.
“Joan, is that who I think it is?”
“Come out and see, Paul.”
The door to an office opened, and a man, somewhere in his sixties, walked out. Paul Kelly wasn’t tall, but he was compact. Light bounced off his shiny bald head like it always did, but the shabby blue blazer, khaki pants, and blue shirt he used to wear had been replaced with a well-tailored suit, crisp shirt, and respectable rep tie.
Georgia ran her hands down her jeans. It occurred to her she might be underdressed.
“You’re late,” he said, pulling out a new iPhone. Things were clearly going well in Paul Kelly Land.
“Um, late for what? I didn’t know we had an appointment.”
“We didn’t.” His face cracked into a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “But I knew you were meeting with Erica, and I bet Joan a buck you’d end up here before the end of the day. Didn’t I, Joanie?” He spread his arms for a bear hug.
Georgia hugged him back.
“He did indeed.” Joan grinned. Either he was telling the truth, or she’d perfected the art of covering for him.
Paul guided her back to his office, a spacious room. Even a large desk and small conference table in a corner didn’t fill it completely. Georgia pulled up a chair at the table. An unusual amount of light flooded through the windows.
“In that case, I’m guessing I’m your insurance policy. So you can tell Erica you’ve done everything possible to help.”
“When did you get so cynical, Davis?” But the top of his ears reddened. That was his tell. Always had been. “As you undoubtedly know by now, I told her to meet with you.” He sat opposite her. “That you would give her an honest appraisal of her needs and your capabilities.”
“Paul, I can’t do anything for her. The FBI already told her the email was untraceable.”
“And you believe them? Those bastions of truth, justice, and the American way?”
“Not you, too.” She sighed. “Not everything is a conspiracy. There are times where if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .” She left the rest of the sentence unfinished.
“You’re looking at it like a cop. Levelheaded. Logical. Sane.”
“Someone has to.”
“You know the FBI took over the case from CPD, right?”
“What else is new?” She thought about it. “Probably not a bad idea, given what Dena was doing and who her father is.”
“Yeah, well, you know how well that went over with my cop buddies.”
Georgia nodded. Turf battles between Chicago Blues and the feds were common, at least in Chicago.
“Erica’s a nice lady. What happened to her is horrible. No mother should ever have to endure what she has,” Paul said.
“Tell me about the ex-husband in DC. The lobbyist.”
Paul leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. “You know how Illinois keeps sending our governors to prison?”
“Yeah . . . ,” Georgia said uncertainly.
“Well, for every governor in jail, there are three lobbyists who should be but aren’t. Baldwin’s one of ’em.”
“Why? What does he do?”
Paul unclasped his fingers and grabbed the arms of his chair. “What every lobbyist does. Bribes and threats. Google him. You’ll see.”
“Do you think he was involved in his daughter’s death?”
“I hope to hell not. But according to Erica, the daughter sliced him out of her life like a sharp knife a couple of years back. Look. Can you just make a call or two? It would set her mind at ease.” He threw her a knowing look.
“What about the son, Jeffrey? What’s his story?”
“Interesting. He was one of those entitled North Shore kids. A bully. Into everything that wasn’t nailed down. He was busted a few times. Once
for a B and E to steal cash for Molly. The drug. Dad got his record expunged. Then the kid moved out to Hollywood to be an actor.”
“Really? He was with Erica today. He appeared to be worried. But he said he didn’t want his mother to hire me. That it was dangerous for them.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“What?”
Kelly held up a finger indicating she should be patient. “So, Jeffrey came back after Erica started the foundation.”
“Foundation?”
“She’s the daughter of Franklin Porter.”
Georgia flipped up a hand. “Who?”
“Old Chicago money. Lots of it. A grandfather or great-grandfather, I don’t remember which, made a killing in silver mining out west. Moved here and bought their way into society. Been here ever since.”
“You’re saying Erica underwrote her ex-husband’s business?”
“At first, but he was in the right place at the right time. And with her connections, he parlayed that into a fortune all by himself.”
“Okay. What about this foundation?”
“After Erica divorced Baldwin, she started the foundation.” He paused. “The Baldwin Foundation for the Future.”
“What’s it do?”
“What do you think? It hands out money.”
“For what?”
“Basically, whatever they want. As long as it has to do with the future. You know, emerging businesses, artists, new tech ideas. The MacArthur Foundation meets Elon Musk.”
“A what meets who?”
“Never mind. Not important.”
“Why’d she start it?”
“Tax shelter. And to give her kids something to do. Neither wanted to work for their father.”
“Dena worked at the foundation?”
“She ran the place.”
“Wait . . . you said both kids.”
“Right. About a year after she started it, the son realized he wasn’t gonna make it in La-La Land, cleaned up his act, and came back to Chicago. Erica was thrilled. She gave him a job at the foundation.”
“How did that work out?”
“Surprisingly well, I’m told.”
“The kids got along?”
“Apparently. The timing was good. Dena was becoming more politically active when her brother was settling into his job. He basically took over. With everyone’s blessing.”
Georgia thought it over. “I still don’t think there’s much I can do.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve got contacts. Your boyfriend. That Foreman woman and her boyfriend. You could poke around.”
Jimmy was in law enforcement, and Ellie Foreman’s boyfriend was probably as rich as Erica Baldwin. They probably ran in the same circles. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Just dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. Gotta justify my outrageous malpractice premiums.” He grinned and leaned back. “So, how’s tricks with you?”
Georgia suspected he already knew, but she filled him in on her news. In another life Paul Kelly might have been her favorite uncle. And she did owe him her start. When the small talk was over, he inclined his head. “So?” he asked.
“Okay. I’ll turn over a few rocks. But the cops and the Bureau have been all over this. Don’t expect much.”
“That’s my gal.” He beamed.
How did he always manage to get his way?
Chapter Ten
Fifteen Months Earlier
Things began to go south around nine thirty pm on election night. Dena had commandeered a booth in her Lincoln Square neighborhood tavern with a few friends. Normally sports channels blared on the half dozen flat-screen TVs, but tonight the screens were tuned to the networks and CNN. Early returns reported East Coast states falling pretty much as expected; her candidate had been piling up votes. Early calls had been proclaimed, accompanied in the pub with congratulatory cheers and drinks on the house. The crowd, mostly millennials, was in a good mood. The torch was passing in the expected way.
“Let’s have some wine,” Dena said. “We deserve it.” She ordered four bottles.
The first hint something was amiss happened during the second round of poll closings. Reports from Florida, always a thorny state, indicated the race was much closer than expected. Then came Virginia. Then a slew of too-close-to-call rust-belt states. When Michigan, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Wisconsin, and even New Hampshire showed a lead for the Republican, the bar went quiet. Dena felt queasy. An hour later, she developed full-fledged nausea. And by the time they called the election, Dena joined ranks with the other shell-shocked voters who hadn’t seen it coming.
Her gut tightened with rage. How could this have happened? Bottom line—it couldn’t have. Something had gone horribly wrong. Someone or something had rigged the system. Ironically, that’s what the Republican candidate had been alleging throughout the campaign. Projection, maybe? He was as easy to read as a crystal bowl. Always blaming others for whatever didn’t go his way.
But this was a travesty. A miserable misogynistic narcissist had no right to the presidency. Like a pilot light that’s been lit, Dena’s rage exploded. She swilled the rest of her wine fast and hard.
As she did, the man she was currently sleeping with shot her a sympathetic glance. She eyed him with revulsion. How dare he feel sorry for her? She fucking wanted to belt him. This couldn’t go unanswered. In fact, this was war. She got up, went to the bar, and positioned herself next to a man she’d never seen before. He was drinking alone. She signaled for another glass of wine and ordered him a draft. When their drinks came, she took stock. Nice body, clean clothes, bedroom eyes. He would do.
She tossed back her drink in one go.
“That was fast,” he said.
“I dare you,” she said.
“Dare me what?”
“How fast can you swig that draft?”
“Why would I want to?”
“Because I want to get out of here, and I want you to come with me.” Even though it almost always worked, Dena braced for that split-second judgment every man made about her. She was attractive, she knew, with long, wavy black hair and big blue eyes. She still had a willowy figure, as well as a unique hippie-gone-straight style. She could have been a social worker, a millennial lawyer, even—she chuckled—a dedicated nonprofit executive. But this guy looked young. Happily, in the dim lighting of the bar, he couldn’t see her crow’s-feet, the permanently carved lines on her forehead, or the just-a-bit-too-flabby tummy that nature conferred on a thirty-fiveish woman.
A knowing smile came across the man’s face, and he threw back his beer. Dena smiled too. She threw a twenty on the bar, took his arm, and made sure her now former lover saw her before she sashayed out of the pub.
By the time they got back to her condo, they still hadn’t called Florida, but Michigan was looking grim. She retrieved the celebratory bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured them two glasses. Then she smashed the bottle into the sink. A flying shard nicked her finger. She sucked the blood off, picked up the glasses, and led him into her bedroom.
Chapter Eleven
The Present
Three inches of snow would hide a lot of ugliness, Georgia thought as she climbed into her Toyota. It wasn’t coming down yet, but the skies were gray and threatening. She stopped into the supermarket for baby formula, a cooked chicken, and salad. She was about to go to the checkout lines when a greasy, sugary aroma made her backtrack to the bakery, where she picked up a box of cookies just out of the oven.
Back home she nabbed a parking space in front of her building—the gods were granting her parking karma today. Inside, she headed toward the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, I’m home.”
There was no answer. She put the food away and checked Vanna’s room. No Vanna. Or Charlie. She grabbed her phone and texted, “Hey. Where are you?” Vanna usually replied right away.
Georgia checked the calendar in the kitchen. Vanna didn’t have class on Tuesday. When Vanna didn’t respond after five minu
tes, a tiny prickle of worry edged up her spine. She called Sam, but her friend’s voice mail picked up. She left a message. “Hi, Sam. Is Vanna with you?”
She was just disconnecting when her cell buzzed. Probably Vanna. She checked the incoming number. It wasn’t. She picked up.
“Oh, hi, Zach.”
“Gee. I’ve had warmer welcomes from a statue.”
“I’m sorry. I was—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
A high-pitched canine bark spilled from the phone’s handset.
“Doesn’t sound like Joshua. New puppy?”
Zach, and his brother Mike, had been rescuing big dogs for years. Shepherds, Rottweilers, retrievers. Despite their size and seeming ferocity, they were well trained and gentle, at least to the brothers’ friends.
“As a matter of fact, Jeremiah has joined the family.”
“Still with the biblical Js,” she said. Their other dogs, Joshua and Jericho, had crossed over the Rainbow Bridge.
“We wouldn’t want to tempt our higher power. Whose name, Jehovah, we say in all reverence.”
She hesitated. Was he kidding? Because Georgia didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t see, hear, touch, or taste, the fact that others could, especially those she respected, baffled her.
He laughed, as if he knew what she was thinking. “So. What is it today?”
“Can I buy you a beer? I’d rather talk in person.”
“Come on over. Bar’s open.”
Thirty minutes later, Georgia was sitting inside Zach Dolan’s office tucked away in an industrial park in Northbrook. Zach still looked like the brunette son of Santa Claus: burly, with dark eyes and long hair that blended into a full beard. He was attempting to nurse a beer, but a curious shepherd puppy kept nosing its head into Zach’s lap, demanding to be part of the conversation.
“Meet Jeremiah,” Zach said.
Jeremiah pricked up his ears at the sound of his name, and his tail began to swish like a windshield wiper on high speed.
High Crimes Page 4
