High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “You can’t park there,” he said through the passenger window. “There are spaces on the street.”

  “I don’t plan on being here long,” Georgia piped up from the back seat. “Could you ring Vic Summerfield and ask him to come down?”

  The doorman looked her up and down. “Mr. Summerfield isn’t here.”

  “Did he go to work this morning?”

  The doorman sniffed. “I have no idea, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Georgia climbed out of the Uber, fished out her PI license and a twenty-dollar bill, and handed both to the man. “I’m investigating a case that involves him. I would appreciate your cooperation.”

  The doorman pocketed the cash smoothly and returned her license. “I don’t know where he is, but he left here this morning with a large suitcase.”

  • • •

  DC’s Reagan Airport, just across the Potomac River from the city, wasn’t very large. But that was the point. It had originally been built for the government’s convenience and no one else. With only a quick—and cheap—cab ride from Capitol Hill, politicians and bureaucrats could get out of town in ten minutes. Georgia Ubered to the terminal. She was stiff, bruised, and hungry. She wanted her own bed. She checked for flights from DC to Rapid City, South Dakota. Several airlines flew the route, but they all required changing planes in Chicago. But only one flight left within a two-hour window of the time Summerfield left his apartment. Not only was it in the same terminal as her flight, but it was boarding now.

  She wasn’t sanguine about intercepting him but hurried to the gate anyway. She scanned the passengers. Most were impatient to board. She never understood why. Who would want to be trapped in a metal tube that would take them vast distances? What if something went wrong in that tube? Would they regret their eagerness to rush into certain doom?

  She waited while travelers boarded the flight. Vic Summerfield wasn’t among them. At one point she thought she saw him, head down, interacting with his cell. But when she approached, she realized it wasn’t him. She continued to wait until the airline employees closed the door to the access ramp. Vic was a no-show. An uneasy feeling climbed up her back.

  • • •

  She limped outside to the taxi stand, slid into a cab, and told the driver to take her to the Kalorama house. It was mid-morning, and for some miraculous reason, traffic wasn’t congested.

  “Going home, are we?” The cabbie wanted to chat.

  “Not exactly.”

  He tried to make eye contact with her in his rearview, but Georgia refused to look at him. He got the message, and they drove the rest of the twenty-minute trip in silence.

  Once she was at Baldwin’s home and she was sure the cabbie was gone, she dug out her lockpicks and walked around to the side door. She peered through the glass insets into the kitchen. Nothing looked out of order. She inserted the pick, but she was rusty and had to work longer than she expected to unlock the door. She quietly let herself in.

  The odor was unmistakable. It had only been a few hours since Vic’s doorman claimed he’d left with his suitcase, but the stench of death was already fouling the air. Georgia swallowed and covered her nose with a kitchen towel. She stayed in the kitchen, frozen in place, until she was sure there was no movement or sounds from the other downstairs rooms. Then she took a few tentative steps across the kitchen floor. When nothing happened, she took a few more. And a few more, until she was outside Vic Summerfield’s office.

  Despite her years as a cop, and an all-too-intimate familiarity with dead bodies, what she saw inside Vic’s office made her retch. Vic was slumped at his desk. His suitcase lay on the floor. Most of the right side of his head had been blown away, leaving a mess of brain matter, shards of bone, and hair matted with blood. From the blood oozing out of his middle, it looked like he’d also been shot in the gut.

  But what shocked her the most was that her khaki bag—the bag she’d brought from Chicago and into which she’d dropped her Glock when she first entered the Kalorama house—lay on the floor next to the suitcase. She went over, grabbed it, and rummaged inside. Change of clothes, toiletries, extra burner phone she kept for emergencies. Her jacket still there, too. But no Glock. Which meant she knew whose gun had been used to murder Vic Summerfield. And who the cops would be looking for once the forensics were analyzed.

  She took a breath through her mouth, willing her fear away. They had been thorough. But they hadn’t expected her to discover Vic’s body. For once she had an edge. She debated what to do next. She didn’t want to, but her cop DNA forced her. She powered on the burner, called 911, and reported Vic’s body. Anonymously. Then she picked up her jacket and bag, retraced her steps through the kitchen, and hurried back outside. She had a plane to catch.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Georgia turned the key in the lock of her Evanston apartment. She couldn’t recall ever being so glad to be home. She shuffled over to the sofa and settled down to call Jimmy. They’d spoken while she was waiting to board her flight; now he said he’d be there in an hour. Georgia booted up her laptop to check in on ResistanceUSA. She’d been doing that periodically. She was curious whether anyone might have mentioned, even in clandestine fashion, her activities in DC.

  The action had picked up in the group since the last time she’d logged in. Brisk threads on several different topics covered the page. Of course when you had a president with a fresh scandal every day, it wasn’t difficult for people to express themselves. Immigration and the separation of immigrant children from their parents had triggered a communal rage. Georgia noticed that Ruth Marriotti was in the middle of it, comforting some, encouraging others, and soliciting ideas from still others.

  Georgia checked the “About” tab on the group’s menu. Ruth was now the director/administrator. With Curt Dixon gone, and DJ dead, there were several new admins as well. They’d seen a new administration take office. Georgia checked the size of the group. It had dropped with Dena’s murder but was trending back up. Good for Ruth. She scanned posts from yesterday and today. Nothing obvious or even veiled about her goings-on in DC.

  She’d promised Paul Kelly she would call the FBI when she was home. LeJeune called her back five minutes later. She told him about Carl Baldwin’s disappearance, the thugs who ambushed her and the first name, Reince, of one. She also told him about Vic Summerfield’s murder, and her missing Glock.

  “I’m certain the bullets that killed Summerfield will turn out to have come from my Glock,” she said.

  “You’ll need to come down for an interview, cher. The boys will want to hear this.” He paused. “From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

  She groaned at his attempt at humor. “Of course.”

  “You think Summerfield was working against Baldwin but something went wrong?”

  “I don’t know what I think. I don’t know if the thugs are connected to the Baldwins at all. But I know you guys will find out.”

  “I agree. I’ll connect with our DC guys. You reported the murder before you left DC, right?”

  Georgia paused, then cleared her throat. “I did. Anonymously.”

  “Ahh. I see. So. Expect to come down here when you’re back on your feet.” They disconnected.

  A key scratched in the lock. The door opened, and Jimmy was there. He took one look at her. “Oh my God.”

  She got up and limped over. “Hey, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  He embraced her gingerly. “You shouldn’t be up and around. You’re going to bed.”

  She inclined her head. “I will on two conditions. First, you run me a hot bath. And second, you join me in it.”

  • • •

  Georgia allowed herself two full days to be waited on. Jimmy brought her meals from his family’s Greek restaurant in Lake Geneva, flowers, get-well cards, and plenty of advice. Her friend Sam Mosele called to make sure she was okay, and late the second afternoon, Paul Kelly paid a visit. He wanted her to take more time off, as did Jimmy, but Geo
rgia had planned her next move, and she was ready to pick up Kitty Jarvis’s trail. After listening to both Jimmy’s and Paul’s adamant refusals, and declaring that she’d do what she damn well wanted, they negotiated a four-hour workday.

  The next morning Georgia knew she’d go stark raving mad if she was confined any longer. She did some exercises to limber up. With her bruises fading, her ankle stronger, and the pain in her ribs subsiding, she retrieved her back-up and second favorite pistol, a Sig Sauer 9 millimeter, from the closet. She made sure it was loaded, and strapped it into her shoulder holster. She drove to Rogers Park to see if Kitty Jarvis might have come home. She hadn’t. Georgia debated whether to ask Betsy Start if she’d heard from Kitty—she had done the building super a favor by having the yurt picked up—but decided not to. If Kitty wanted Betsy Start to know where she was, Georgia would have known, too. She had to give Kitty credit. If she seriously wanted off the grid, it was safer not to tell anyone.

  She trudged out of the building and was halfway to her car when she turned around. There were two apartments on each floor, and Kitty lived in 1B. The first floor. She walked around to the back of the building. Like many Chicago brownstones, this building had a staircase that led up to separate porches for each apartment. A window in each unit gave onto the porch, a back door, too.

  She sneaked a look around. It was mid-morning. She had time. But would she be spotted? She glanced at the adjacent buildings. Most of the windows were covered with shades, but one or two weren’t. She imagined a little old lady with nothing better to do spying on her through the window and calling the police. But what choice did she have? She had to find Kitty Jarvis.

  She took a breath and climbed the porch steps. She guessed that 1B, Kitty’s apartment, was on the left. She crept to the window and tugged on its frame. It was locked. She moved to the back door. Locked as well. She glanced around again and, seeing no one, fished out her lockpicks from her blazer. She worked with them for about two minutes, alert not only for the click of the tumbler, but to any sounds that meant she had been observed. It was a double lock, and it took time, but she finally managed to unlock the door. She twisted the knob, praying Kitty had no alarm. It was quiet. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Fifty

  Inside was a musty, unused smell overlaid with a soiled cat litter box. No cat was visible, though, unless it was hiding. She didn’t see any food or water dishes out, which meant Kitty must have taken the cat with her. She glanced around. She was in a surprisingly big kitchen that sported new appliances and even a table and chairs. And it was clean. No dishes in the sink or on the counter, and the surfaces looked like they’d been wiped down. A hum from the refrigerator indicated it was still running, but nothing was in it; there were only two ice trays in the freezer above. Napkins lay on the table in a brightly painted holder that must have been bought at an art festival.

  Georgia methodically opened all the drawers and cupboards. She scanned plates and bowls, mugs and glasses, flatware and wineglasses. Where was Kitty’s junk drawer or cabinet? Every kitchen had one; it was the place where stray papers, letters, and other notes were stashed. Maybe she’d find the address of the family cabin there. She opened a drawer that held screwdrivers, Allen wrenches, pliers, duct tape, nail polish, a Metra schedule, and an eraser.

  No papers, notes, or letters. Another drawer was filled with carryout menus for pizza and Chinese.

  A scraping noise in the backyard made Georgia stop short. Who was there? She ducked down below the window frame and peeked out. She heard the clang of a metal garbage can, the thud of trash being deposited, and the clash of the lid as it was refastened. She allowed herself to breathe.

  She counted down two minutes, then began to explore the rest of the apartment. The largest bedroom, clearly Kitty’s, contained a polished walnut bureau with a silver tray of perfumes and lipsticks on top. A queen bed was covered by a flowery duvet with matching curtains on the windows. Georgia searched through Kitty’s drawers. She found underwear, sweaters, and jeans. She made sure to feel around the clothes in case any items were hidden underneath, and when her hand reached a bulky package buried under a sweatshirt, her pulse sped up.

  She uncovered the package, which turned out to be a large manila envelope. She opened it and withdrew a pile of letters wrapped in a rubber band. The return address was an APO in San Francisco. Scott’s letters to his sister while he was deployed abroad. She pulled out a few and stuck them in her pocket. She finished by opening Kitty’s closet, but it was tiny and contained no clothes. Kitty must have taken them. Given the scarcity of clothing, Georgia wondered if Kitty planned to come back.

  The other bedroom was smaller and barren. Jarvis’s room. A double mattress occupied most of the space, a blanket thrown over it. A chest of drawers stood in a corner. On top of the chest was a piece of paper anchored by a snow globe of Wrigley Field. Georgia grabbed the paper. It was the receipt from Camping Unlimited, acknowledging the sale of the yurt. She checked both sides, looking for an address. Nothing. She pocketed the receipt.

  After checking the closet, which was smaller than Kitty’s and just as empty, she came out of the bedroom, deflated. Maybe Jimmy and Paul were right. She was exhausted, and she’d only been working an hour. It was time to wrap up. She checked the bathroom: nothing.

  The living room was last. It was cozy and comfortable. Most of the furniture was modern, except for an old-fashioned rolltop desk, which took up one corner. She hurried over. The roller was closed. She opened it and let out a soft exclamation. There it was! A beige leather address book with flowers on the cover.

  She picked it up and slowly flipped through it. She didn’t have to go past the letter C. There, underneath the word “cabin,” was an address:

  9415 Lakeland Road

  Sand Lake, MN 55745

  Georgia couldn’t believe her luck. She scribbled down the address on the back of the Camping Unlimited receipt, closed the rolltop, and started back to the kitchen. As she trudged down the hallway, a jangle of metal at the front door tore into her gut with panic. Someone was coming into Kitty’s place. Georgia frantically tried to find a hiding place. Not Kitty’s closet. Not Scott’s either.

  The front door squeaked open. Georgia ran into Scott’s room, threw herself under the bed, and pulled the blanket over the side of the mattress facing the hallway. The floor was filthy with dirt, dust bunnies, mouse droppings, and who knows what else. She hoped to hell she wouldn’t sneeze.

  “Who’s here?” a female voice called out. Betsy Start. What was she doing here? Had someone seen Georgia outside and called? Georgia held her breath. The clunk of boots thumped on the hardwood floor, growing louder with each step. Georgia lay perfectly still. She heard Start sniff, as if trying to detect an odor that didn’t belong. Georgia thanked the Lord she wasn’t wearing perfume.

  Start went into Kitty’s bedroom. Georgia heard the closet door open and then close. Same with a drawer in the bureau. The thud of her boots grew louder and she came into Scott’s room, stopping no more than a foot from Georgia’s head. Start opened the closet in this room too, then closed it. She stood for a moment, not moving. Georgia swallowed silently. Then Start walked out.

  The thump of her boots told Georgia that Betsy Start was now in the kitchen. Had Georgia closed all the drawers and cabinets? She thought so, but there was always a chance she’d forgotten one or closed it with something sticking out. Apparently not, because after what seemed like an eternity, Start opened the back door and exited the apartment. Georgia heard her lock the door. Relief flooded through her. Even so, she forced herself to stay where she was for fifteen more excruciating minutes.

  She traced her steps back to the kitchen, unlocked the door, and crept out to the porch. Less than a minute later she was in her Toyota driving back to Evanston.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  For Georgia the drive from Duluth to Sand Lake was like rewatching a movie she hadn’t liked the first time. About nine
summers earlier, Georgia had driven up to a remote lake in Wisconsin and was met by the barrel of a shotgun. Luckily, the standoff had been resolved without violence. Georgia later helped the woman elude her pursuers and hid her in a safe house.

  This time, however, northern Minnesota was still in the throes of a bitter winter. Worse, snow was forecast. Georgia hated to drive in snow. Not only did the absence of traction scare her, but the knowledge that one small twist of the wheel could force a car to careen across the highway, skid for yards on ice, or plow into an eighteen-wheeler was a nightmare scenario. Plus, snow was a silent killer. A plane crash was accompanied by loud explosions and a fireball, flames hissing and eating everything in its path. But snow often muffled sight and sound in its inexorable path to oblivion. Sometimes bodies wouldn’t be found until spring.

  She shook off the morbid thoughts. Jimmy had begged her not to go. Paul Kelly thought she was nuts, and Erica Baldwin was not sanguine about her success. But Georgia felt in her gut that Kitty Jarvis knew more about her brother and why he killed or was recruited to kill Dena Baldwin. She might even know about the beef jerky. Finding Kitty Jarvis was nonnegotiable. But she did compromise. She would fly to Duluth, rent a car, and drive about an hour to Sand Lake.

  Jimmy was still concerned. Plenty of places in rural Minnesota still had no cell service. “What if you get into trouble? No one will know where you are.”

  “I’ll call you every hour.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  Georgia shook her head. “If Kitty was spooked enough to flee Chicago, she’s not going to be happy to see a pair of folks she doesn’t know. Let me handle her.” She didn’t add that a woman alone could probably connect with Kitty more quickly.