High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “You were right when you said yesterday.”

  “Can’t do it, Georgia. Even if I divide up the list, say, between five or six guys, it’s gonna take longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “For forty-two thousand names? A month at least. Maybe more.”

  Georgia bit her lip. “That’s too long. What if you had ten or twelve guys working on it?”

  “Even if I knew ten or twelve guys, it would still take a month.” He shook his head. “And at least twelve grand.”

  “Can’t you come up with some program that can automate the whole process?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Okay. A month. We’ll make it work. I have things to do in the meantime. Let me check with the client to make sure twelve is okay.” She called Erica, who agreed to the fee, then turned back to Zach. “Can you flag the people with issues and send them over as you work your way through the list? At least that way, I could start in on a few.”

  “We could do that.”

  She smiled. “Great. Well then, what are you waiting for?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ruth Marriotti lived in a two-bedroom condo on the northwest side of Chicago, Georgia discovered when she visited that afternoon. It was a small eight-unit building on a one-way street off Lawrence. Inside everything was so clean and neat it reminded Georgia of the formerly spartan look of her own place.

  Ruth herself was tall and gangly, with long curly brown hair tied back with a clip. Her hooded eyes gave her a suspicious cast when she smiled, which she was trying to do now. Above her forehead was a widow’s peak. Her pallor added to her drawn look, which, given that she was still recovering from a bullet wound, wasn’t surprising.

  “I’m so glad you’re out of the hospital,” Georgia said.

  Ruth nodded, clumsily manipulating a walker from the door toward a brown leather La-Z-Boy whose cushion was covered with a pillow.

  “Can I help you get settled?” Georgia asked.

  “I can handle it.” She lowered herself into the chair with a soft thud, looked around, then focused on Georgia. “Sorry I can’t offer you anything, but if you want something, be my guest.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of what Georgia saw was the kitchen.

  “I’m good. Thanks for seeing me. I’ll try to be brief; you can’t be very comfortable.”

  Ruth took her time arranging herself. Then: “I was hoping all the interviews and questions were over. Most of the press and social media already have what they need. I must have talked to fifty people, all told.”

  “I’m not with the press. I’m an investigator.”

  “You with the police? The FBI?”

  Georgia sat on a sofa upholstered in an ugly pink, brown, and green floral print. A scuffed coffee table sat in front of it. “I’m working for the family.”

  “Dena’s?”

  “They hired me to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.” Georgia waited. Ruth didn’t say anything, just stared at her with those hooded eyes. Georgia had to remind herself she was the one asking questions. She pulled out a spiral-bound pad. “So, you were an administrator for the group. One of three besides Dena, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Talkative, this one. “What does—did—an administrator do?”

  Ruth arched her eyebrows. “What didn’t I do? The group was huge. We really needed more admins, but we took what we could get. First off, we had to vet all the applicants. That took time. Then we had to monitor—”

  “How did you vet them? And why?”

  “We didn’t have to at first. After a month or so, though, hundreds of people joined the group every day, and a lot of trolls slipped through.”

  “Trolls?”

  Ruth waved an impatient hand. “You know, supporters of the president who gave us a hard time. Telling us they won and to deal with it. That we were special snowflakes.” She shook her head. “Dena would cut them down to size, of course, but a few of them were pretty aggressive. So Dena and I decided we needed a way to keep them out.”

  “What do you mean ‘cut them down to size’?”

  “Dena didn’t let any grass grow under her feet. She would call them assholes, kick them out, then block them for good measure. That’s one of the reasons I liked working with her. She was direct. You always knew what she was thinking.”

  “Got it.” Georgia smiled. Ruth seemed to loosen up. “So, how did you vet them?”

  “It wasn’t scientific. We’d check out their Facebook profiles. If there was some sign they were against the president or had doubts about the election or were a member of the Resistance, that was good enough. Sometimes if we weren’t sure, we’d check their Facebook friends.”

  “Smart. What if they didn’t meet the criteria?”

  “We didn’t let them in.” She paused. “But that was just one of our jobs.”

  “What else did you do?”

  “Well, we each had a shift where we kept an eye out on posts. If anyone advocated violence, that was an automatic removal. Oh, and there were no memes allowed. Dena thought they detracted from more substantial messages. Only articles. And editorials.” Her lips tightened.

  Georgia picked up on it. “You didn’t agree?”

  Ruth shrugged. “It wasn’t that important.”

  Georgia sensed she was holding back. “Did you know Dena before the group started? Seeing as how you’re both from Chicago.”

  She shook her head. “Just coincidence. Of course, she grew up on the North Shore.”

  “What about you?”

  “Bolingbrook. The other side of the tracks.” She snorted. “Well, not really. But you know what I mean. Buying this condo cost me almost more than I could manage.”

  Georgia tapped the pencil against her pad. She’d done a background check on Ruth before the interview; Ruth was telling the truth. She knew the answer to her next question but asked it anyway. “Where do you work? Your day job?”

  “I’m a middle school math teacher.” She paused. “But I’m on sick leave for another two weeks.”

  A moment of silence passed between them. Then Georgia said, “Big difference between the North Shore and Bolingbrook.”

  Another pause. “That’s true, but when you believe in the same things, you can be friends with someone who’s very different than you.” Ruth shifted uneasily. Then she gazed at Georgia as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Why are you really here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I worked with Dena over a year, and I learned there was always an ulterior motive where her family was concerned. What do they want?”

  Georgia inclined her head. “I told you. I’m working for Mrs. Baldwin.”

  “Mrs. ‘my daughter can do no wrong’ Baldwin.” Ruth scoffed.

  “Is that what you thought of her?”

  “Dena’s family—how do I say it—are opportunists. They use people. Dena was that way herself sometimes.”

  “I thought she was guided by her politics.”

  “Mostly. But when she saw an opportunity, well . . .” She rubbed a finger underneath her nose.

  “For example?”

  Ruth released the lever on the La-Z-Boy and sat up, leaning to one side. “Well, for one thing, we needed a tech person early on. To help us manage the site. You know, set up private folders for files, articles, a calendar of events. Things like that. We asked for volunteers, and this guy offered to help. Everything was fine for about a month. Then I got a message from her saying the guy disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “That’s the way she made it sound. That he disappeared into thin air. But I kept asking questions. Eventually she admitted he claimed he was in love with her and wanted her to meet him in Vegas.”

  “What? Did they know each other?”

  “No. Sounds crazy, right? Knowing Dena, my guess is that she probably flirted with him online and led him on so he would work for her.” Ruth turned wistful. “And the thing was
. . . I’m sure it worked. She could cast a spell over people when she wanted.” A noise that could have been a laugh if she’d let it. “Look at me. I worked for her for free for a year. On top of my day job. And all I got out of it was a bullet in my ass.”

  Georgia shot her a look.

  She ran a hand through her hair. “Well, okay. I was just being flip. I got the satisfaction of working against the monster in the Oval Office.”

  “Has it been worth it?”

  “Absolutely.” She leaned back again. “You know, after the guy ‘disappeared,’ I checked him out. Turns out he was married.”

  Georgia blinked. “Did Dena know?”

  “She says she didn’t. But pictures of his family were plastered all over his Facebook profile. He wasn’t hiding it.” She hesitated. “Not that it matters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dena already had a boyfriend.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Like I said, she has . . . had . . . kind of a magnetic personality. She was hard to resist.”

  “Who was her boyfriend?”

  “One of the other admins. Curt Dixon.”

  Georgia wrote it down, wondering if Ruth was jealous of Dena. From what she’d said, it was hard not to be.

  “What about the tech guy who was married? What was his name?”

  “Hand me my laptop. It’s over there.” She pointed to a table in the corner of the room.

  Georgia retrieved it. Ruth busied herself, tapping keys, then said, “Willie Remson. He’s on Facebook. From Maryland.”

  Georgia wrote it down. “Thanks. Whatever her motives, it sounds like Dena trusted you.”

  “We were close. But, like I said, that doesn’t mean we always agreed. We’d have arguments about how the group should be run. I’ve worked so hard, it’s hard not to feel proprietary, you know? And I’m sure Dena felt the same way. But we made it work.”

  “So who do you think killed Dena?”

  Ruth looked startled. “Jarvis did, of course. An act of domestic terrorism. And when I’m recovered, you can bet your bottom dollar I’m going to get back at those right-wing assholes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’ll probably run the group. That is, if Curt’s okay with it.”

  “Curt Dixon.”

  “Right. DJ and Dena were the other admins, but—well—they’re not here anymore.”

  Georgia nodded. “You said ‘assholes.’ Does that mean you think someone put him up to it?”

  “You know, the police asked me the same question. I’ll tell you what I told them. I didn’t have anything to do with her death. Shit. I almost died myself. And—and I miss Dena. Things—things just aren’t the same.”

  That wasn’t the question Georgia had asked. She noted it down and changed the subject. “Did she have any enemies?”

  “Oh yeah.” Ruth rolled her eyes. “We all did.”

  “Such as?”

  “Even though we were always on troll patrol, one or two slipped in. And, of course, she hated her father.”

  “Why?”

  “She blamed him for her parents’ divorce. Said he was cheating on her mother. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Georgia let it go. “What about her brother?”

  Ruth seemed to think about it. “She didn’t talk about him much. Just things like ‘we had dinner,’ or ‘we took Mom to a movie.’ Oh. There were a few creepy phone calls, Dena said. But she didn’t seem too bothered by them.”

  “Creepy phone calls?”

  “Hang-ups, she said. I told the police about them.”

  Georgia made a note.

  “I see. So what are your plans now?”

  “Not sure. The group will go on as long as Cheetoman is in the White House. And, like I said, Curt and I will have to talk about who takes over.” For the first time in their conversation, Ruth flashed Georgia what looked like a smile.

  “One more question. Do the words ‘beef jerky’ bring anything to mind?”

  “Huh?”

  “Beef jerky.”

  A faintly irritated expression flitted across Ruth’s face. “Not a damn thing. Hate the stuff.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Georgia made her exit a few minutes later and started back to Evanston. Ruth wasn’t the most likeable person: she was bitter at times, even catty. Georgia wondered if she was lonely—she hadn’t seen any get-well cards or flowers. She claimed she liked Dena, but she was judgmental about Dena’s personal life and the way she ran the group. Was Ruth a person who always found fault with everything? Or was she envious of Dena’s success? Maybe she had a crush on Dena, platonic or otherwise, that Dena did not reciprocate. She was ambitious too, based on her desire to take over the group.

  Georgia glanced out the Toyota’s window. A guy in a BMW sedan zoomed past her in the wrong lane. He gave her the finger as he passed. She almost replied in like fashion but at the last second managed not to.

  A news clip of Dena’s death flashed through her mind. Anyone who hired a killer had to have guts. And a burning hatred. Was Ruth capable of that much passion? Where would she have met Jarvis, anyway? Georgia made a note to cross-check Ruth’s background with Jarvis’s to see if there were any intersections.

  Driving north, she passed her old gym in Andersonville. On the second floor of a small building, it used to be an overheated, smelly place to which only serious lifters flocked. But it had recently changed owners, and they’d remodeled. Now, judging from the custom lights hanging from the ceiling, it was suspiciously trendy. She’d found another overheated, smelly gym.

  At the next red light a pang of worry struck her. What if she came up with nothing? She’d only been a PI four years; she had a lot more to learn. That meant investigating the way she’d learned to as a cop. Start with family members, widen out to friends, significant others, then work and professional associates. But that was the problem. With forty-two thousand people in the ResistanceUSA group, she could spend the rest of her life running down suspects. She hoped she was up to it.

  • • •

  She stopped in at the Jewel in Evanston and asked where the beef jerky was. The checkout girl pointed to another aisle. Georgia scanned the cashier’s lane first. There were three different brands. One looked like the kind of stale, cardboard meat strips from her childhood, but two had labels promising a softer, fresher chew. She picked up Applewood Smoked Beef. Looked interesting. She read the front and the back of the package, and dropped it into the handbasket she’d picked up at the front door. She grabbed a Smoked BBQ as well. Then she headed to the aisle, where there were half a dozen additional brands and flavors and chose several more. Back in the car, she popped one of the applewood strips in her mouth.

  Some people loved the peppery, tough texture, but Georgia wasn’t “partial to it,” as her mother used to say. Beef jerky reminded her of chewing tobacco, truckers, and country music. She knew she was stereotyping, but it was a part of Jarvis’s world. “Find the beef jerky?” She took another bite. The email was too unusual to ignore. What did it have to do with Dena’s murder?

  Back home, Vanna was in the kitchen, her papers spread over the small table. She was sketching a logo for an imaginary company the teacher had invented for a homework project. Charlie was in his baby seat, swatting a plastic giraffe and monkey that hung above his head.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Georgia smiled.

  “Hi.” Vanna’s voice was soft and bright, their spat from the other night apparently forgotten.

  “Here’s a snack.” Georgia dug out one of the packs of jerky and tossed it to her.

  Vanna picked it up with a puzzled look.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Vanna screwed up her face as only a teenager could. “Some new fad?” she said disdainfully.

  Georgia shook her head. “It might be related to a case I’m working on.”

  “Oh.” Vanna tossed the beef jerky on the table and went back to work.

  Charlie co
oed at Georgia with the contented “I’ve just been fed” babble that came with a full stomach. If only life was this good all the time. Georgia leaned over and kissed them both on the tops of their heads.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Washington, DC

  Vic Summerfield climbed into a cab with Carl Baldwin. Their office was only a short hop away. After Carl’s appearance at the health club, Vic showered and dressed in a hurry. His boss often went nuclear, attacking everyone, Vic included, for imaginary betrayals. But Vic had been working for Baldwin eighteen months now, and he’d learned not to take it seriously. His rants were frequent and furious, but they subsided quickly. Vic, who harbored a grudge for years, was often surprised at the ease with which Baldwin embraced someone he’d disparaged only hours before. It took immense self-control to pull that off, Vic thought. Which made it even more bizarre that Carl allowed himself to lose control in the first place. A fascinating, dangerous paradox of a man.

  And yet, Baldwin’s outbursts made Vic wonder if the lure of money—and there was lots of it in lobbying—was worth the drama. Assuming you had the right clients and contacts, lobbyists could rake in enormous amounts of dough. Carl Baldwin had both, and his contacts stretched into the Oval Office and beyond. At twenty-nine Vic was making more money than he’d ever imagined. He’d bought a town house just outside Georgetown, a Benz S-Class, and still had enough to send money to his parents.

  Riding through Rock Creek Parkway, Vic counted four joggers and three bikers. Back home in South Dakota, February was locked in the relentless grip of winter. Hell did freeze over in the Black Hills, his father would laugh. In DC, though, a temperate climate permitted outdoor activities all year. Another benefit.

  “Why didn’t you get back to me last night?” Baldwin’s tone was accusatory.

  Vic looked over, frowned. “I did.”

  Baldwin shook his head. “I never got a voice mail.”

  “I met Dimitri at the embassy cocktail party. I couldn’t use my phone. I sent you a text.”

  Baldwin’s eyes narrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe him. That went on the negative ledger. Baldwin demanded abject loyalty from those around him, but he could turn on you in an instant. Even after eighteen months. This time, though, Vic gave Baldwin some slack. His daughter had been gunned down in a horrific terror attack a few weeks earlier. She’d been his favorite child, though they hadn’t spoken in years, and he’d still kept tabs on her. In fact, part of Vic’s job was to monitor the ResistanceUSA group and report back on Dena’s activities.