High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “You have the shipping info?”

  Betsy dug into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a folded paper. She handed it to Georgia. The paper was addressed to Scott Jarvis, 1280 West Morse Avenue, Chicago. The sender was International Yurt Limited, with an address in Washington State. Georgia frowned. “You wouldn’t know who their Chicago distributor is, would you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve never heard of a yurt.”

  Georgia pulled out her cell and took a picture of the label, which included a series of numbers, which she hoped was the order number.

  She bent down to inspect the various boxes. When did Jarvis buy a yurt? And why? Georgia was surprised he had the money. Yurts weren’t cheap. If it was custom-made, the price could run five thousand dollars. Unless it was a gift. But then why would he blow himself up afterward? If he was given a shelter that could be assembled almost anywhere, didn’t that indicate a healthy desire to stay alive? Could it have been compensation for killing Dena? Or did his sister buy it for him? Maybe she wanted him out of her hair. He’d been living with her since he was discharged from the military.

  Georgia straightened, took a step back, and bumped into something she hadn’t noticed. When she turned around, she realized it was a case for a huge musical instrument. “Sorry . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry. That’s just my cello. It’s here temporarily.”

  Georgia raised an eyebrow.

  “I used to play. In the Northwest Symphony Orchestra.”

  “Really?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “We played at Maine West in Des Plaines. They still do.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I broke my leg a few years ago. Had to miss the season. There were only four concerts anyway. Then Ken needed me, and we got busy here. I just let it go.”

  “Forever?”

  “I suppose nothing is forever.”

  “Sure. Maybe you’ll get back to it.”

  She didn’t reply. Georgia took that as a “no.” Too bad. The world needed people who could add beauty, however big or small their contributions.

  “I really should have Ken take it upstairs. It’s too damp down here,” she mused as if she was talking to herself.

  Georgia cleared her throat. “Do you have any idea where Kitty went? Or when she’ll be back?”

  “She said she had to get away for a while.” Betsy’s expression softened. “Can’t blame her.”

  “She must have left an emergency contact. Or a phone number? An address?”

  Betsy shook her head. “She didn’t want to be bothered. But she said she’d send the rent in if she stayed away longer than a few weeks.”

  “So she’s planning to come back . . .”

  “I assume so.”

  “Would anyone else here know anything? A neighbor? Someone on her floor, maybe?”

  “People here keep to themselves. My Kenny and I probably know more than anyone else.”

  “That’s what Joel said.”

  “So, what do you think? Can you get rid of this for us?”

  “I’ll do my best to track it down and have it returned.”

  Betsy gave Georgia a nod. “You’re an investigator, Joel says?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is something wrong? I mean aside from that girl being shot by Kitty’s brother? And then him committing suicide?”

  Isn’t that enough? Georgia bit back her reply. “There are—well—some loose ends I’ve been asked to look into.”

  Betsy nodded again. The muscles around her mouth loosened. “Well, I’ll ask around. You know, the building.”

  Georgia smiled. “Thanks.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Georgia spent the next twenty minutes in her car researching stores that distributed International Yurt products, but the clumsiness of finding the right websites on her phone drove her crazy. Besides, Jarvis, or whoever bought the yurt, might have ordered online from the company itself. She called International Yurt.

  “Hi. I’m in Chicago. Could you tell me who distributes your products here?”

  A woman’s voice said, “Hold on. I’ll connect you to sales.”

  A moment later, “This is Jerry. How can I help you?”

  Georgia explained.

  “So you’re interested in becoming a Chicago distributor? Hold on. I’ll transfer you.”

  Before she could say no, she heard a click and tinny music, which was interrupted with an ad for, of course, International Yurt Limited. She hung up and redialed.

  “Hello, this is Jerry. How can I help you?”

  “Hello, Jerry. You transferred me before I had the chance to say I’m not interested in becoming a distributor. I’m an investigator working on a case, and I’m hoping you can give me a list of your recent customers in Chicago. I’m happy to send you a fax of my license.”

  “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m private.”

  “In that case, I can’t do that without a subpoena or court order.”

  Georgia squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay. Then what about your distributors in the Chicago area?”

  “That’s easy. There are only three. I’ll transfer you to my assistant, who can—”

  “Wait.” This time she caught him before he disconnected.

  Betsy Start was right. It was becoming way too difficult to complete what should be simple tasks. “I’m interested in just one order. It was for a yurt from your company. I have the customer order number. Can you at least tell me which store sold it?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s proprietary information.”

  Georgia felt her teeth grinding in frustration.

  “But our distributors in Chicago are the Camping Unlimited chain. Actually, they’re our wholly owned subsidiary. There are three in Chicago.”

  “Can you tell me which store ordered the one for this customer? I have his name.”

  “Sorry. Privacy issues.”

  She sighed. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”

  She looked up Camping Unlimited: one in Northbrook, one in Naperville, one in Bloomingdale. Naperville and Bloomingdale were more than thirty miles away, but Northbrook was close by. She drove over. Camping Unlimited occupied a corner property in a recently built mall. A parking area lay in front of the store, but few cars were parked there.

  Inside was a huge sales floor filled with every piece of equipment a camper would need, as well as many they didn’t. Tents, even a yurt, it looked like, in one corner. Stoves, lanterns, ropes, dried-food packages, sleeping bags. She also spotted Wi-Fi connection products, even portable air-conditioning units. With gear like that, what was the point of leaving home?

  A huge customer service desk took up the middle of the sales floor. Georgia approached it. Recalling Jerry’s reluctance to share with her, at least over the phone, she decided on a different strategy.

  A younger version of Woody Allen stood behind the desk bent over a computer.

  “Good morning.”

  The kid looked up. “Can I help you?” he said in the sullen, minimum-wage, “I don’t really care if you live or die” voice.

  “I hope so.” She flashed him a cheery smile. “A friend of mine ordered a yurt here a few months ago. I’m interested in the same thing.”

  “Oh.” He gave no sign he knew about Jarvis. In fact, his tone signaled relief. “Let me get my manager.” Was a yurt too expensive or complicated for him to handle? He picked up the phone and pressed a couple of numbers. “Gail, there’s a customer here who’s interested in a yurt.” As he replaced the phone, he offered Georgia a weak grimace, which must have been his version of a smile. “She’ll be right out.”

  Gail, a blowsy woman in jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, emerged from a door across the floor. She trotted over. “So, you’re interested in a yurt?”

  Georgia gave her a bright smile too and nodded. “A friend of mine had one delivered to his apartment. I think he ordered it around Christmas, and I wanted to check prices and amenities and all tha
t.”

  Gail stepped behind the customer service desk to another computer. “What’s the customer’s name?”

  “Scott Jarvis.” Georgia held her breath, hoping the manager didn’t recognize the name of Dena Baldwin’s shooter.

  “Sounds familiar.” Gail frowned. Georgia tried to ignore the thumping of her heart. Gail hunkered over the computer and clicked a few keys.

  “Here it is. Jarvis. Rogers Park. Morse Street.”

  “That’s it! Can you tell me about the yurt? I think he said it was a custom order.”

  “Lemme see.” Gail read something on the computer monitor. Her eyebrows arched. Georgia fisted her hands. Had she just realized who Jarvis was?

  “Yeah, it was custom all right. Lots of bells and whistles,” Gail said slowly.

  “Like what?”

  Gail proceeded to read the order out loud. “Twenty-foot yurt. A door. One window. Outer cover. Stove and stovepipe.” She stopped and looked up. “Wow. Sounds like the guy was gonna move into it permanently.”

  “Really?”

  “These things are almost like RVs or trailers nowadays. Without wheels. Hold on.” She bent down to retrieve a catalog under the desk and handed it to Georgia. “Here. You can see what all’s involved. They are pretty cool.”

  “How much would one like his run?”

  Gail checked the monitor and whistled softly. “Over four grand when all is said and done.”

  Georgia made her eyes widen. “Well, I guess that’s that. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Gail grinned. “Who does?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t know Scott did either,” Georgia added.

  “Wait a sec.” Gail looked at the monitor again, then at Georgia. Georgia mentally crossed her fingers. “You should ask him yourself.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Indecision came across the manager’s face. “Sorry. I’m really—I’m not supposed to reveal financial information.”

  Georgia cocked her head. “It’s just—well—I don’t know Scott all that well. I’d like to know him better. You know what I mean? I just wanted to find out if there was someone—well, never mind.”

  A knowing look replaced Gail’s indecision. “You’ve got a thing for him, and you want to know if he’s got enough money to buy a yurt.”

  “Well . . .” Georgia hoped she was blushing.

  “Or if someone else bought it for him.”

  Georgia looked up. They were conspirators now.

  Gail hesitated. “Let me put it this way. I didn’t sell it to him.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Looks like it was another employee, Jackie.”

  “So you don’t know if . . .” Georgia let her voice trail off.

  “Like I said, even if I did, I couldn’t tell you stuff like that.”

  “Not even if someone else was here with him? I heard this rumor, and I— Well, it would really help me out.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gail’s expression was full of regret. But something else, too. Resolve. What had she discovered?

  “So, is Jackie here?”

  “She’s off until Monday.” Today was Thursday. “But she might remember something.” Gail kept a steady gaze on Georgia. “You should talk to her. Really.”

  Georgia knew what Gail was trying to tell her. “Thanks. I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Washington, DC

  “You hear anyone talking about me recently?” Carl Baldwin loomed in front of Vic’s office door.

  Vic looked up from his desk. His unexpected presence unnerved Vic, as Carl must have known it would. It had something to do with the angle of the doors. Vic’s office was across the hall from Carl’s, but not directly. He couldn’t see Carl exit his office, and Carl couldn’t see Vic leave his. But Carl could sneak across the hall and surprise him. Vic suspected Carl had designed it that way.

  “No more than usual, sir.” Vic hoped his boss would appreciate his attempt at humor.

  But Carl scowled and folded his arms. “Come into my office. We need to talk.”

  Vic glanced around his own office, wondering why it wouldn’t do. As if he knew what Vic was thinking, Carl said, “I just ran a sweep. I know it’s secure.”

  Vic slipped his cell in his pocket, took a legal pad and pen, and followed Carl across the hall. Despite the Euro-modern furniture, Carl’s office wore a spartan air. Plain vanilla blinds, empty bookshelves, one framed photo on his desk, and a signed baseball from former Cubs right fielder Sammy Sosa. The photo was of Dena in a bikini, hoisting the mainsail of a sloop on Lake Michigan. Carl stood behind, grinning at his daughter. Vic deposited himself in an Eames chair.

  Carl watched Vic gaze at the photo. “You still monitoring the group?”

  Vic nodded.

  “Anything new?”

  He shook his head. “It hasn’t been dormant, but traffic is nothing compared to the way it used to be.”

  “What about that PI in Chicago?”

  “I’m putting some background together. You’ll have it tomorrow.”

  Carl rubbed his hand across the stubble on his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved today and his button-down shirt was rumpled. “Something’s going on. And I don’t like it.”

  Vic angled his head.

  “Three fails in a row are two fails too many.”

  Puzzled, Vic flipped up his palms.

  “The Russians, the Uzbek arms deal, and fracking,” Carl said.

  “Fracking hasn’t come up for a vote yet.”

  “Hell, they haven’t brought it out of the goddammed committee. They’re sitting on it.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not like this. Someone’s jamming the bill. Chipping off members one by one.”

  Vic sighed inwardly. Everything was a battle with Carl. Lobbying used to be access and persuasion. Today it was pay-to-play. Which meant that when Carl was flush and could outbid the opposition, no one was a more stalwart, fearless gladiator for his clients. But when he was outplayed or outspent, he cried victim.

  “Do you have proof?” Vic asked. “Left-wingers? Environmentalists? Anti–fossil fuel group?”

  Carl shook his head. “That’s the thing. I can’t figure it out. And meanwhile, you were right. The word is out that I’ve lost my touch.”

  There was something different about Carl today. His customary narcissism was on display, but an undercurrent of worry ran through it.

  “Let me do some investigating. Could be fracking just isn’t a priority anymore. The Middle East is blowing up, and whenever that happens, oil is more valuable than gas. Plus, the earthquakes—”

  Carl cut him off. “You remember when I had you track Dena’s fracking activism?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if she pissed off the wrong people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Now Carl looked at Dena’s photo. “What if her murder was a warning shot? To me?”

  “Whoa, Carl. Slow down. DC doesn’t work like that.”

  “And you would know because . . .”

  Vic shifted in his chair. “Five minutes ago you’re railing against a left-wing conspiracy. Now it’s the oil industry. You don’t think you—that’s a little paranoid?”

  “Sometimes they are out to get you. Look at the past couple of months.”

  “You think someone is deliberately sabotaging your career?”

  “Like I keep saying, it’s your career too, buddy boy.”

  “But how would they do it? And why?” Vic templed his fingers. “It would require at least half a dozen congressmen to intentionally change their vote just to hurt you. I think it’s unlikely. It’s just a streak of bad luck.”

  Carl picked up the Sammy Sosa baseball from his desk and lobbed it from one hand to the other. “I don’t know.”

  You’re not that important. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Vic thought. Carl had always been aggressive. Full of bluster, sure. Yet focused like a lase
r when he needed to be. But he hadn’t been the same since Dena died. He gazed at his boss. His face was puffy and fleshier these days. The lines on his forehead dug deeper. Judging from his rumpled shirt and day-old stubble, his grooming, usually the pinnacle of precision, was slipping. Was he hitting the bottle? For the first time since he’d been working for Baldwin, he realized his boss was afraid. And he was sharing that fear with Vic.

  “Look, Vic. We have access, right? That’s what we offer our clients. Access and persuasion. But our clients aren’t satisfied with that. They expect us to perform miracles. Lift sanctions. Broker arms deals. Invest in their real estate. The United States may be up for sale, but there are strings attached to that sale. They want results, not just ‘access.’ And if they don’t get it, we’re vulnerable.”

  “Vulnerable? To what? You make it sound like we’re living in a third world country. A place where the rule of law doesn’t count.”

  Carl leveled a look at Vic but kept his mouth shut.

  That was the moment Vic decided to pack up and leave the shithole that was Washington. If this town could chew up a man like Baldwin, what would it do to him?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  A mild breeze, the first of the season, greeted Georgia as she left her apartment the following Monday. Grimy piles of snow on both sides of the road oozed water into gutters, and kids splashed in the puddles that formed. Sadly, the thaw wouldn’t last. Chicago weather was as fickle as that wind-borne feather in the Forrest Gump movie.

  She drove back to Northbrook and parked in the lot of Camping Unlimited. She pushed through the door and went to the customer service desk where she’d had the conversation with Gail. The young Woody Allen guy was nowhere to be seen, and the desk was unmanned. One of those steel call bells you see in hotels sat on the counter, and when Georgia pressed down, it chimed cheerfully.

  A young woman with blue and green hair, black nails, and a nose ring emerged from a back room and hurried over. She appeared to be younger than Gail but older than Woody.