High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Why not?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “When?”

  “A few weeks . . . maybe a month ago. Not long after her brother shot that woman.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Georgia frowned. “Did you know her brother?”

  He shook his head. “I only . . .” Then he stopped. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

  Georgia sighed and pulled out her license. “I’m an investigator. Private. The family hired me to look into a couple of things.”

  The neighbor scanned the license. A white sedan pulled up, the Uber decal festooned on the windshield. He handed her license back. “Well, whoever you are, I gotta go.”

  “Can you at least tell me where she worked?”

  The neighbor shifted, conflicted. The Uber driver, who was holding up traffic on one of the busiest streets in Chicago, gestured impatiently. The neighbor ran his tongue around his lips. “Before she left, she tended bar at the Barracks. You know, off Sheridan.” He opened the back door of the Uber and climbed in.

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  He nodded. The car was about to pull away, when Georgia grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. The brakes squealed, and the driver shouted, “Lady, watch it! You almost lost an arm.”

  Georgia held up her hand, dug in her bag, and pulled out a card, which she handed to the neighbor. She tried to smile. “Please call me if you find out where she went. Or anything else, for that matter.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Barracks had to be one of the only bars on the North Side that opened at nine in the morning. Then again, military people typically didn’t drink on a schedule when they were deployed. Georgia suspected they didn’t give a shit when they started or stopped. Being alive was celebration enough to toss back a few.

  She paused before entering and peeked through the window. A big table in front. Long bar, metal barstools, linoleum floor. Grimier and seedier than Mickey’s, it was still, like Mickey’s, a dive. Georgia had misspent much of her youth at similar establishments. Dive bars were comfort food, she would say. She knew what she was getting and it was mostly drunk. She pushed through the door. But she wasn’t that person anymore. Was she?

  The place was empty. She walked the length of the bar and found a door she assumed led to the kitchen. “Hello?”

  No response. A low-pitched machine noise whined on the other side. She raised her voice. “Hello? Anyone here?”

  She turned to leave.

  “One minute,” a reedy male voice replied.

  The man who came through the door had significant scarring on the left side of his face, which puckered and raised his skin in random lines, some shot through with red.

  Georgia must have gawked, because he said, “IED. Afghanistan. Kandahar. Ten years ago. What can I get you?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Hard not to.” He paused. “So, what’ll it be?”

  “Coffee?”

  “I’ll get it.” He motioned to the empty barstools. “Try to avoid the crowd.”

  She grinned and took a seat. Tall and skinny, with thinning hair, he wore a small white towel draped over his shoulder. Just like Owen.

  A minute later, he came back with coffee, sugar, and creamer. “I’m actually an investigator,” Georgia said.

  “I knew you weren’t a real customer.”

  “How?”

  “Most people who drink in the morning don’t have anywhere to go. You’re dressed for work.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Charlie Stokes.”

  “That’s my nephew’s name. Charlie.”

  He shot her a wry expression. “So, what do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Kitty Jarvis.”

  “Her?” He grimaced.

  “You know her?”

  He shook his head. “Lady had a rough time, I hear. But I started after she left.”

  “She quit for good?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “You know where I can find her?”

  He shook his head. “She didn’t leave an address or cell.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “Since the end of February?”

  He nodded.

  “Would the owner know how to get in touch with her?”

  “Maybe.” He grabbed a scrap of paper and scrawled down a number.

  “Thanks.”

  “A couple of guys who knew her brother drop in from time to time. Maybe they know something.”

  “Who are they?”

  “No idea. Military, I guess. Tats up and down their arms.”

  She pulled out a card. “Next time they come in, could you give me a call?”

  “Sure.” He read the card. “Well, Ms. Davis, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  • • •

  Georgia spent the rest of the day wearing out shoe leather, as the gumshoes would put it. She didn’t mind. Pounding the pavement was basic PI work, or it was before everything migrated online. Now investigators worried about carpal tunnel rather than blisters.

  She tracked down the Barracks’ owner, who, it turned out, owned several dive bars in addition to the Barracks. He had no contact information for Kitty. Sure, he’d call her if Kitty got in touch but warned Georgia the chances were slim. Yes, he’d been interviewed by the FBI. Georgia sighed. Would she ever break new ground on this case?

  She dropped in on Ruth Marriotti, who looked a lot healthier than she had the first time they’d talked. She had dispensed with the walker, there was color in her face, and her hair was styled. Even her apartment looked clean. Georgia noticed a couple of bright paintings on the wall, a collection of china figurines on an end table, and coasters that looked like tiny vinyl records. She had to admit the place had an eclectic charm. She sat on the sofa.

  “Dena gave us whatever money we needed, but it wasn’t that much,” Ruth said.

  “Money for what?”

  “Oh . . . let’s see. There was signage for the demonstration—that was probably most of it. A huge banner on the stage, and posters in and around Grant Park. We had to pay for private security, too. That was a big chunk. Lot of good it did.” She snorted. “Let’s see. We had flyers to copy and post all over the city. We emailed them all over the country, too.” Her brow furrowed. “Oh yeah. Permit fees. They weren’t cheap. And DJ did some Facebook ads, mostly boosted posts. We also did some Google ads. Not cheap. Then there was office stuff, like printer ribbons and paper, you know. Oh, and Dena usually picked up the tab when we went out.”

  “Where’d she get the money?”

  “I assumed it was family money.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She didn’t have to. I mean, her grandfather was one of the richest men in Chicago,” Ruth replied with a trace of smugness. “Franklin Porter. He cornered the silver market forty years ago. Partnered with the Hunt brothers. He sold just in time and made a fortune. The Hunt brothers, not so much.”

  Georgia changed the subject. “So other than what you just said, did Dena pay you a salary?”

  Ruth pursed her lips into an annoyed expression, as if the question was beneath her. “ResistanceUSA is strictly volunteer,” she said. “Curt brought up the idea of starting an online store, you know, with T-shirts, mugs, and that kind of crap, but we had other priorities.”

  Georgia picked up on Ruth’s patronizing tone. “You weren’t in favor of it.”

  Ruth looked directly at Georgia. “We had a mission. The last thing we needed was a distraction. I wasn’t convinced it would generate enough to make it worthwhile.”

  Was she was flexing her leadership muscles? “What did the other admins think?”

  “DJ agreed with me. He wasn’t big on the idea.”

  “And Dena?”

  “She said she was okay with it, but someone else would
have to manage it.” Ruth sniffed. “Probably because Curt came up with it.”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  She nodded. “But now DJ’s gone. And I haven’t heard from Curt since it happened. So, well, it’s still—um—unsettled.”

  “The store?”

  “Everything.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Not bad. I go to the doctor later this week. If he gives me the okay, I’ll start back to work next Monday.”

  “That’s great.”

  Ruth managed a smile.

  “What about the Facebook group? Who’s going to take it over?”

  “Good question.” She hesitated. “Probably me.”

  Georgia found it curious that Ruth sounded so blasé about a job to which she’d devoted more than a year.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  On her way home Georgia tried to reach Curt Dixon, but there was no answer on his cell, and he didn’t return a text. She wondered if he’d gone back to Tennessee. He’d said he might. Maybe he wanted to forget all about Dena and the Resistance and move on with his life.

  Back home she fixed a Diet Coke with lemon and called Paul Kelly.

  “So what’s this I hear about Franklin Porter cornering the silver market?”

  Kelly cackled. “Old news. That was forty years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Kelly launched into an explanation of how the Hunt brothers hoarded silver in the 1970s and drove up the price more than seven hundred percent. “At the time Porter was more of a wannabe tycoon, but he’d bought a bunch of silver, too. Turned out he wasn’t as greedy as the Hunts.” Once the commodities exchange levied heavy restrictions on borrowing to buy silver, the Hunt brothers defaulted on their loans, and the market panicked. “Porter was careful not to overleverage himself, so when prices dropped he made out like a bandit,” Kelly said.

  Georgia wasn’t sure how people made money when prices fell, but she was willing to take Kelly’s word for it.

  “Who told you about Porter?” he asked.

  “Ruth Marriotti.”

  Kelly harrumphed. “The woman knows her history.”

  They talked more about the case. Georgia told Kelly she was looking for Jarvis’s sister but so far had been unsuccessful.

  “You sure that’s where you should be spending your time?” he asked.

  First Erica. Now Paul. It was enough to make her second-guess herself. But she didn’t tell him that. “Actually, I am. At least for the time being.”

  • • •

  Dusk was settling in when she heard the scratch of a key in the lock. The door opened. Jimmy.

  She greeted him with a smile. “Howdy, stranger. This is a surprise.”

  He came over and took her in his arms. “I missed you.” He kissed her.

  When she came up for air, she said, “Me too. I’m sorry for being a bitch the other night. The night I left.”

  “You okay now?” He searched her face.

  She ran her hands over his hair, pulled him to her, and kissed him again. He tightened his hold. When they parted, she said, “Much better now.” She released her hold. “Hey, did you come down here the other day when I was out?”

  “When?”

  She told him.

  He shook his head. “That was the day we busted a meth dealer in Kenosha. Why?”

  “I think someone might have broken in, but I can’t figure out how.”

  Jimmy stiffened.

  “They didn’t take anything. But things were, well, moved around. Like my laptop.”

  “Do you think someone was copying your hard drive?”

  “There’s nothing much to copy.”

  “Except your history. All the background checks you did. Other info you downloaded.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. But why?”

  “You’d know better than me.” He went to her laptop and raised the cover. “I suppose we could have someone take a look at it at the crime lab.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but what do I use in the meantime?”

  “I don’t like the idea that someone is surveilling you.”

  “You think I do?”

  “On the other hand, maybe it was Vanna or JoBeth. Maybe Vanna forgot something of Charlie’s. Or needed to know where to pick it up.”

  Georgia considered it. “I hadn’t thought about that. You’re probably right.”

  “But if it wasn’t, I don’t think you should be alone right now. Why don’t you come to the apartment?” He grinned. “We can do a test run.”

  “A test run?”

  “Of living together.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Wow.”

  “Wow, what? You don’t like the idea?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” She smiled. “It’s tempting.”

  “That’s the second time you haven’t ‘thought about it.’ Think about this. If we lived together, imagine all the things I could help you think about.”

  She laughed. “That’s got to be the most convoluted thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

  “And I thought it was pretty clever.”

  “So tell me. What kinds of things can you help me think about?” She brushed her fingers down his cheek.

  “I’ll show you.” He took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They slept in the next morning, and when Georgia woke up, she wanted to make love again. She’d missed Jimmy’s body and the way it fit so perfectly with hers. She made coffee for them, which she carried into the bedroom, but after two sips, she set her mug down on the bedside stand and took his away too. Then she leaned over and lowered her face to his chest, using her mouth to make sure he knew what she wanted. He closed his eyes, sighed, and took her head in his hands. They were ready to go to the next step when her cell trilled.

  “Crap,” she said.

  “Let it go.” His voice sank to a whisper.

  She considered it, but she’d put out several feelers yesterday. It could be someone with new information. “I’m sorry, love.”

  Jimmy groaned and rolled over. “You owe me. Big-time.”

  She brushed her fingertips across his chest and picked up her cell. An unfamiliar Chicago number. “Davis here.”

  “Joel Siegenthaler. We met, uh—on the corner of Sheridan and Morse yesterday.”

  “Of course. Thanks for calling, Joel. What’s up?”

  “So this weird package was delivered the other day. For Kitty. Well, it was actually for her brother.”

  Georgia rocked forward, alert and focused.

  “It’s a yurt.”

  “A yurt? You mean one of those tents shaped in a circle?”

  “I guess. Not my thing. First I heard of ’em.”

  Georgia slid out of bed and went to her laptop. “Hold on.” She googled “yurt” and clicked on “Images.” A page of photos popped up. Yurts were round portable tents with wooden frames. Nomads in Central Asia had used them for centuries, covering the tents with animal skins. But modern yurts, made from stronger materials, could function as vacation cabins as well as extra guest rooms, home offices, or just a place to relax. Most yurts today weren’t portable, and many were custom-made.

  “It didn’t come assembled, did it?”

  “No. It came in a big box with a bunch of smaller packages inside.”

  “And this yurt had Jarvis’s—I mean Scott’s—name on it?”

  “That’s what the super said.”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “About two weeks ago. I told the super about meeting you, and she told me about the thing. It’s been sitting in the basement. She wants the company to pick it up since Jarvis is gone.”

  “What’s her name and number? The super?”

  “Elizabeth Start.” Siegenthaler gave her the number. “I told her you might call. She and her husband probably know more about Kitty than anyone else in the building.”

  “You rock, Joel. Thanks
for following up.”

  “Well, you never know when I might need a PI.”

  “Damn straight.”

  • • •

  Georgia threw on some clothes, kissed Jimmy good-bye, and headed out. While she waited for the Toyota to warm up, she called Elizabeth Start.

  “The quicker you can get rid of this thing, the better,” she told Georgia. “It’s taking up all the space in our basement.”

  “On my way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The woman who opened the door at Kitty Jarvis’s building wore a paisley granny dress that had to be a relic from the sixties. A pair of round Benjamin Franklin glasses perched on her head. Long frizzy brown hair threaded with gray was held back with a clip. Georgia extended her hand. “Georgia Davis.”

  “Elizabeth Start.” She shook Georgia’s hand. Georgia immediately thought of Elizabeth Smart, the woman who’d been abducted at fourteen and held captive nearly a year. As if she knew what Georgia was thinking, Start said, “I’m not Elizabeth Smart.”

  Georgia grinned.

  “Most people call me Betsy. Come on. We need to go through the back.” She threw on a coat and led Georgia around to a few steps that led down to a back door framed by latticework on both sides. She fished out a key, unlocked the door, and flipped a light switch as she went inside.

  It was an unfinished basement, with a cracked concrete floor and a strong musty odor. The exterior walls, also concrete, were fortified with several green strips of hardened foam that indicated the foundation was cracked and had leaked water. It reminded Georgia of the basement in the house on the West Side where she’d grown up.

  “So.” Betsy pointed to the center of the room. “Can you take these boxes of whatever out of here?”

  Half a dozen boxes of assorted sizes and shapes occupied most of the basement floor. Georgia tried to pick up one, but it was too heavy. “How did they get here?”

  “A delivery service. Not UPS, but I don’t know the name. My husband keeps telling me he’s called several times, but it’s been two weeks and nothing’s happened.” She shook her head and folded her arms. “It’s getting impossible to get anything done these days. No accountability. People don’t care about anything except themselves.”