BOXED SET
THE GEORGIA DAVIS PI SERIES
By Libby Fischer Hellmann
Includes:
By
Libby Fischer Hellmann
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Libby Fischer Hellmann
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Libby Fischer Hellmann and David J. Walker.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Michael and Robin,
Both the best in the universe
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many wonderful people helped me with the research of this book including former Northbrook Assistant Chief of Police Mike Green, the folks at Toxicon, Former States Attorney Bob Egan, Northfield Chief of Police Bill Lustig, Editor Nora Cavin, and of course, my writing group, The Red Herrings. Please bear in mind that most of the writing and research was done before Nine-Eleven, so some of the procedures, especially with regard to toxic pathogens, have clearly changed.
I consider this a “prequel” to my Georgia Davis PI novels. She a cop in this book, but as soon as she jumped onto the page, I knew she and I had a long relationship ahead of us. I hope you enjoy the read. More about my other novels and short stories appears at the end of the boxed set.
1998
Prologue
It wasn’t supposed to be this easy, watching life seep out of a body. Knowing you were the cause of it. Standing in the motel room, fingers against the carotid, feeling the pulse dwindle to a weak, irregular tremor. Smiling, as his skin became translucent, a bluish tinge to his lips. Not so hard, now, to understand that doctor who helped people die. And sometimes stuck around to watch. Hadn’t someone said at the moment of death, he’d shout at his patients, imploring them to tell him what it was like?
The man on the bed wheezed softly. Not long ago, he’d been writhing, clutching his middle.
“Call an ambulance,” he’d gasped, the words barely audible. When there was no response, he struggled feebly for the phone.
Tying him down to the bed. Seeing comprehension dawn in his face. Telling him everything. Who knew how much he understood through his agony? But he did shudder, and he pursed his lips trying to spit. A final, futile attempt at resistance. Understandable. Who could blame him?
Waiting, light splashing across his face, as the convulsions wracked his body and his eyes bugged out until he stopped thrashing.
Easy. It had all been so easy. His face turned blue, and, like a gentle breeze that barely ripples the air, he was gone.
A quick shower, cleaning up with towels brought from home, wiping down surfaces. It didn’t take long.
A light tap on the door. The door swung open.
“You’re right on time.”
“Is it over?”
“Just like we planned.”
He hesitated, hanging back.
“Come on. He’s not going to bite.”
He stepped across the threshold, into the room, and together they dragged the body out. Following the dead man’s car, circling back. Dumping the car and the body and then heading back north.
Easy.
Chapter One
The driver, still working off a Sunday night six-pack, wasn’t sure whether he heard it or felt it. A muffled thump, a fleshy noise that rose above the tinny, grinding sound of the gears. He released the clamps that locked the high school dumpster to the back of the truck. Blade’s probably chewing through a bag of meat, he thought.
Then everything slowed down.
Shit. Truck’s acting up again. That’s the problem when companies get too big too fast. No attention to maintenance. He couldn’t complain too much, though. RDM, Regional Disposal Management, had been pretty good to him. He made good money driving those big blue trucks. Especially since they’d locked up most of the contracts on the North Shore. It beat working on the line like he used to, assuming you could even find a place that wasn’t overrun by wetbacks.
Another thud. Fucking teenagers. Too good for the food in the cafeteria. Plenty of people would be grateful for a square meal, but they didn’t live on the North Shore of Chicago. He threw the machine’s gears into neutral and was climbing out of the cab when the stench assailed him. Garbage was always rancid, especially rotten meat. But this was different. Pinching his nose closed, he moved to the bed of the truck and opened up the hopper. Hooking his arm over the edge, he stepped up and peered in. Then he retched.
***
Glenbrook Detective Matt Singer folded his tallis and carefully slid it in the velvet bag Georgia bought him for his birthday. He should have gone to morning prayers but he’d drifted back to sleep after Georgia left, so he did them at home. He placed the bag on the shelf in the closet. Before closing the door, he ran his hand over Georgia’s clothes. Strange to see skirts and dresses next to the few things he needed to hang up. But not unpleasant. When he pressed his face against the purple dress she’d worn last night and inhaled her musky scent, he hardened. Smiling, he shuffled into the bathroom.
He turned on the shower, then stepped in. The jets of water loosened his neck muscles, and as he lathered the soap into foamy white bubbles, he realized he was humming. Afterwards he toweled off and wiped the steam off the mirror. He was shaving when the call came in.
***
In the neighboring village of Northview, Detective Sergeant John Stone poured a cup of coffee. The lunchroom in the village police station wasn’t much of a room—a cramped windowless space with cinderblock walls and a couple of vending machines, but that’s where the guys on the force hung out. Two officers lounged at a table while a third read aloud from the morning newspaper.
“Two Chicago tactical officers were shot and killed last night as they intercepted a drug sale on the west side. Members of the Gangster Disciples are suspected...”
Stone dumped three packs of sugar into his coffee. Why did cops abuse themselves by reading the paper? The reporters always got it wrong— who did what to who and why. And that “special” relationship between cops and journalists? The few times the reporters did get it right, their arrogance was insufferable.
“Bunch of fucking cowboys.” One of the uniforms said, pointing at the paper.
The cop who’d been reading out loud looked up. “At least someone’s still out on the street.”
“Not for long, if these yo-yos keep screwing up,” the second officer said.
Stone bit back a reply. Northview was a bedroom suburb of Chicago, and the cops in the lunchroom were young, green, and cocky. Twenty years on the West Side would cure them. Still, they had a point. Chicago had been plagued with so many bad cops and scams in recent years even the Chief of Police had been forced to resign. Those who survived were either running for cover or trying to be super-heroes. Stone was glad he was out of it. Not much happened in the suburbs. That was good.
The crisp sound of leather heels clacking down the hall cut through his thoughts. Stone knew it had to be brass—the rest of the world wore Nikes. Seconds later, Hank Phillips ducked his tall frame through the door.
“Stone. I was just coming to see you.”
“What’s up, Hank?” Phillips was the kind of boss who would find you rather than make you cool your heels in his office. Unusual for a Chief of Police. Even in the suburbs.
“You know the Feldman construction site?”
Stone nodded. Stuart G. Feldman, a successful developer, had bought one of the last unimproved tracts in the village. His plans to build a retail center, which everyone knew was a euphemism for a mall, had unleashed a storm of resistance that was gathering force. Village residents didn’t need the tax revenues, didn’t care about the amenities, and didn’t want the congestion.
Phillips poured coffee into a plastic cup. “Well, a few weeks ago, some of the good citizens formed a coalition to fight the project. They’re calling themselves CEASE.”
“How’s that?”
“‘Citizens’ Effort Against Senseless Expansion.’ Supposed to have some ties to those preservationists over in the next village.”
Stone couldn’t suppress a smile. They should have saved their energy. Ultimately the project would go forward. They always did. Especially when Feldman was involved. He had clout. Not to mention his hands in the right pockets.
Phillips shrugged as if he knew what Stone was thinking. “We got a report of vandalism over at the site. Normally, I wouldn’t waste your time, but it’s Feldman. We gotta check it out.”
“What happened?”
“Someone smeared dog shit all over their sign and left a pile of it underneath.” Phillips spread his hands. “What can I tell you?”
Stone grunted. Such were the perks of working in the village. Chicago cops dealt with rape, drugs, and murder. He got to run down dog shit.
Chapter Two
In Glenbrook Georgia Davis stretched yellow tape around as much of the parking lot as she could. A squad car blocked the entrance, but dozens of Blazers, Jeeps, and compacts managed to pull in around it. A cool October morning, condensation coated the windshields, but a bright sun hinted at the warmth to come. Word had spread quickly, and students, ignoring the bell that marked the start of classes, gathered in knots to gawk.
At the edge of the crowd, Robby Parker, her partner, wore a worried look. About a dozen kids were massed and pushing against the tape. If they broke through, they’d contaminate the scene. Georgia sprinted back to her cruiser and pulled a megaphone out of the trunk. Moving back over, she yelled into the crowd.
“Back up. Show’s over. Get to class.”
A collective grumble went up from the crowd. Most of the students dispersed, but a couple of rowdy types made a fast break. Robby grabbed one by the elbow, and Georgia barreled her shoulder into the other. Falling back, one of them clutched his chest, muttering something about police brutality.
“You think that’s brutality pal,” she said, “stick around.”
The boy eyeballed her but slunk off.
She sighed. She’d probably hear about it later.
A black Honda Accord swung around the corner and stopped a few yards away. Matt cut the engine and climbed out of the car, leaving the blinking light revolving on top —a beacon of sorts for the medical examiner, Georgia guessed.
At five ten, with powerful, well-defined muscles, Matt was compact but strong. Curly dark hair framed an angular face, and his long narrow nose looked like it had been broken more than once. Behind his rimless glasses, though, his large brown eyes were kind and gentle, and Georgia was a sucker for kindness.
He moved to the bed of the truck and climbed up. He covered his eyes for a moment, then dropped his hand and waved her over.
“Georgia, I need you to confirm that techs are on their way. And make sure they have plenty of gloves and Vicks. Call around if you have to. This is a hell of a mess.”
She nodded. She’d taken a quick look earlier. The bed of the truck was covered with garbage but she could make out bits of white bone and bloodstained flesh mixed in. Patches of tattered plaid material made a colorful addition. In a corner, under a layer of half-eaten lunches and homework papers, was a body minus an arm and leg. It was covered by the same tattered plaid. Another lump of flesh covered with blood lay in the opposite corner. A missing limb. Or part of it. In her three years on the job, Georgia had never seen anything like it. She’d blown out short bursts of air that vaporized in the morning chill.
Matt went over to the driver, who had situated himself as far away from the truck as he could. As Matt spoke to him, the guy started to nod, and his body language relaxed. That was Matt. Making you feel you were the only person in the world who mattered.
A Jeep Cherokee entered the parking lot and pulled up to Matt’s Honda. A young Asian woman climbed out. Jenny Lee, an evidence tech from the state crime lab. Village cops usually did their own tech work. If Matt had called Jenny, this was big.
Jenny dug latex gloves out of her pocket and walked over to the truck. Hoisting herself up, she studied the bed of the truck. Then she jumped down, and beckoned to Matt, the photographer, and the Medical Examiner, who had just arrived. Georgia heard them discuss how to break down the scene. Jenny suggested a square grid pattern, with the torso in the truck as the focal point.
Matt made some quick sketches of the scene, then nodded. “Go ahead. There’s a lot to sift through.” He turned to Jenny. “We’ve got extra hands, too, if we need ‘em.”
Meaning her and Robby.
Jenny was good at her job, they said. As she made way for the photographer, Matt asked her something, and Georgia saw her hand him a jar of Vicks. He rubbed some under his nose—he liked to work crime scenes along with the techs. Kept him honest, he said. Then he went over to Georgia.
“Great way to start the day, huh?” He gently punched her in the shoulder. Before she could answer, he turned around to rejoin Jenny at the truck.
She watched him go, impressed by how well he could compartmentalize. Whether it was work, prayer, or sex, his mind placed everything in its assigned cubicle, filing the appropriate emotions until needed. She couldn’t do that. She knew she should be more professional and focused—like Jenny. But she couldn’t. She knew they were in the middle of an ugly death scene. She knew it was not a time for her mind to wander. But, Christ, all she could think about was the way Matt made her feel last night in bed.
***
Six hours later a local funeral home sent a hearse for the remains. The ME followed it to the morgue where he would determine cause of death. Or try to, he said. They had bagged the body and collected the missing limbs, but the ME said there wasn’t as much blood in the truck as he expected for someone who’d been through a meat grinder, and most of it was dark and viscous. Maybe the victim was already dead before they went into the dumpster. Matt dispatched Detective Pete Brewster down to the morgue.
By mid afternoon, an officer, foraging in the bed of the truck, found most of a red purse under a layer of garbage. Cards inside the wallet identified its owner as Julia Rose Romano. Georgia checked with the high school. Romano taught math but she hadn’t shown up this morning. The secretary checked her file, and her blue Saturn, its doors locked, was found not far from the dumpster. Matt instructed the techs to go over it from bumper to bumper and told Georgia and Robby to tag all the cars nearby. An early-bird student or teacher might have seen something.
An hour later Brewster called with a positive ID.
Chapter Three
Julie Romano lived in a tidy brick building on a quiet block off Shermer Road. The lot included a small fenced garden plot, now rangy and gone to seed. As Matt pulled up, he spotted a uniform patrolling the front of the building. It had warmed up since morning and dappled sunshine flickered through the trees. Leaving his jacket in the car, Matt went up to the officer and pulled out his shield. “Detective Matt Singer.”
“Reed Tremble.” Young with rosy cheeks, he must have just joined the force.
“You see a resident manager or janitor on the premises?”
The kid shook his head. “There’s a phone number on the door.”
“Make the call.”
A middle-aged man from Palatine Realty Company arrived carrying a metal ring bursting with keys. He didn’t know Julie Romano, he said, but a check of the files indicated she’d been renting from them nearly ten years. He tried one key unsuccessfully. Then another. Matt shifted his feet. He flashed him an apologetic smile. “Someone stripped the numbers off some of the keys. I guess they thought it was funny.”
Six keys later the front door opened. Matt asked the realtor to send Romano’s records to the station.
As they headed inside he noticed Tremble’s eager face. The kid wanted to go with him in the worst way. Matt understood—this could be the most exciting thing to ever happen on his beat. But he couldn’t risk a rookie trampling through the apartment; it might turn out to be a crime scene. “You stay here and make sure things stay secure. I’ll fill you in before I go.”
Tremble’s face deflated.
Raising his canvas evidence bag onto his shoulder, Matt and the realty agent passed through a small vestibule with six brass mailboxes on the wall. He knew the type of building: quiet and modest, with two apartments on each of three floors. He stepped into an equally small lobby with a console table wedged against one wall. Junk mail was spilled across the table; a framed mirror hung above it. A narrow elevator stood on one side of the table, a stairway on the other. He took the stairs.
Romano’s apartment, Two-B, was at the end of the hall, across from a second flight of stairs that probably led down to a back entrance. The realtor slid the key into the lock. It opened easily.
“Do you need me to come in?” The man asked.
“Actually it would be better if you didn’t.”
“Fine with me.” Raising his palms, the man backed away. “I probably should have you sign for the key, but under the circumstances…” He hesitated.
“I’ll make sure the key doesn’t get into the wrong hands.”
The agent turned and went towards the stairs. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough, Matt thought.
But when Matt stepped inside, he wanted to flee along with the realty agent. Heavy furniture, and too much of it, sat on dhurri area rugs, the kind that K-Mart sold for twenty dollars. Books, china figurines, and other curios, among them clowns, birds, painted pillboxes, cluttered the surfaces.
He wanted to open the windows but settled for a few deep breaths. Opening his bag, he dug out latex gloves and put them on. Then he pulled out his Polaroid. He snapped a few shots of the living room, then, inching past the narrow space that separated furniture from walls, went into the bedroom.
A full size bed with a patchwork quilt was neatly made. A television and VCR sat in the corner, and a crucifix hung on one wall. On another were two standing bookcases filled with hundreds of videotapes, all labeled and alphabetically filed. Without touching them, Matt ran his eyes over the “G”s: The Godfather, Gone With the Wind, Grapes of Wrath. Most of them were in cardboard sleeves and looked like they were recorded off television or cable. He checked the deck of the VCR. Nothing.
He took a few shots with the camera, then peered into the bathroom. Decorated in blue and yellow tiles, it was spotless. Two thick blue towels hung on a rack. The fixtures sparkled. Inside the mirrored medicine chest, he found nail polish and remover, toothpaste, an unopened bottle of aspirin, and antacid tablets. Two brown plastic prescription bottles sat on a lower shelf. The prescriptions were for Amoxicillin and Dyazide. The trashcan was empty.
Back in the living room, Matt spotted a small desk in a corner. Next to a blinking answering machine was a photograph in a silver frame. An elderly couple and two younger women, clearly twins. Dark hair framed attractive faces, and they both aimed cheerful smiles at the camera. One wore a dark jumper with a frilly white blouse; the other was decked out in black leather. The woman in the jumper had short, tightly curled hair; the other’s hung in lazy waves to her shoulder.
Matt pressed the button on the answering machine. A red digital numeral indicated two incoming calls, but all he heard were hang-ups. Pocketing the tape, he touched the outgoing message button. “You have reached 555-9823”, a singsong voice pronounced. “Please leave a message and we will get back to you.” He backtracked to the closet. Women’s clothes, not many. But the message on the machine said “we”. A recent separation or divorce? Or a single women’s security system? He looked around again. Despite the clutter, the apartment had a lonely feel.
He hesitated before rummaging through the desk. He didn’t have a warrant. He reminded himself the woman was dead; he wasn’t invading her privacy. He reached down and opened the one drawer. Inside were neat files of manila folders, alphabetically arranged with color-coded labels. He thumbed through insurance policies, the title to her Saturn, and several appliance guarantees.
He moved to the kitchen, a tiny space with counters running along opposite walls. Two bowls and some utensils lay in a drain-board near the sink. A double-door oak cabinet held dishes, pots and pans. Another contained spices, many of whose names Matt didn’t recognize. He shot some pictures, stripped off the film and was laying the prints on the counter when he noticed a brown envelope wedged between the counter and the wall.
Opening the clasp, he drew out a five by seven sheet of thick white paper. He turned it over. It was a black and white photograph of an empty field. Prairie grass in the foreground stretched to a line of trees and bushes in the back. But the shot was grainy and he couldn’t pick out any other details. Nothing indicated where—or when— the photo had been taken. He checked the envelope. No markings. He put the picture in an evidence bag, labeled it, and was slipping it into his backpack when the buzzer sounded. He pressed the intercom button.
“Tremble?”
“Yeah, Detective. There’s a woman down here who says she knows Romano. Wants to talk to you.”
Matt glanced around the apartment. “Bring her up.”
Moments later he opened the door to Tremble and a fiftyish woman whose heavy make-up and dyed blonde hair couldn’t hide the years of hard living on her face.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He stepped into the hall and showed her his badge. “How about you?”
“Annie Sears. I’m a friend of Julie’s. What’s wrong?”
He slipped his badge in his rear pocket. “Julie Romano is dead. I’m sorry.”
The woman didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “Why is it always the good ones?”
Matt didn’t answer.
She crossed herself, then pulled out a cigarette and matches from a black bag and started to light a match.
“Ma’am, you can’t smoke in here.”
“Sorry.” She looked around, as if searching for someplace to drop her match. “I just—Julie’s a lamb. The sweetest girl you’d want to meet. This can’t be happening.”
“How do you know her?”
The woman dropped the unlit match on the floor in the hall. “I wait tables at Adam’s Rib. You know, down the street?” A barbecue place that sold ribs by the slab, it was a popular hangout. Matt didn’t eat there, but other cops did. “Julie used to come in. We got to be friends. That’s why I’m here.” She dug into her bag again. “I borrowed this. I was just dropping it off.”
He looked at the videocassette she pulled out. “Klute.” Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland.
“How long have you known her?”
“Oh, I guess about a year.”
Matt retraced his steps to the kitchen and put the cassette on the counter. He turned around to find the woman had followed him in and was peering over his shoulder at the Polaroid’s he’d shot. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, you can’t come in here. You’ll have to leave.”
The woman eyed him with a sidelong glance. “Of course. I’m sorry.” He walked her back to the hall. “She was a twin, you know.”
“So I gather.”
“You should see them together. Spitting image up here.” She pointed to her face. “But otherwise different as night and day. Joanne, I think her name is.” She smiled brightly. “Like I said, Julie had this terrific collection of movies. Every hit you could think of. I always kidded her about opening her own store. Maybe on the internet.”
He nodded.
“She was a teacher, you know. At the high school. Taught math.”
“Sounds like you knew her well.”
She shrugged. “She’d come in. We’d talk. You know how it is.” She looked around the apartment. “So what happened? Did someone kill—”?
“When did you see her last?”
“Oh, I guess it was a week or so ago. She brought the tape to the restaurant. Around dinnertime.”
“Could I have your address and phone number, Mrs. Sears? In case we want to follow up?”
“Of course.” She rattled off an address and phone number in Mount Prospect, a suburb to the west. He wrote it down and nodded to Tremble. “This Officer will see you downstairs.” The kid led the woman to the elevator.
“Tremble?” Matt said as the elevator door opened. “You start canvassing the neighbors, okay? I’ll brief you downstairs.”
Tremble’s chest swelled, and he raised a hand as if he was going to salute. The elevator door closed.
Matt was packing up when his cell phone chirped. It was Brewster at the morgue. Based on the marked rigor in her torso, the ME was estimating time of death at eight to twelve hours prior to this morning. Which would make it between seven and eleven last night. Well before she went through the blade of the truck.
As to cause of death, the pathologist was stumped. Although the formal autopsy wouldn’t be until tomorrow, a quick inspection showed no gunshot wounds or contusions. And no assault, sexual or otherwise. But he had found traces of vomit and excrement. He’d open her up tomorrow and take a look.
Vomit? Excrement? Matt was glad he’d shot the pictures. Maybe he should call in some techs.
Chapter Four
Matt wanted to drive over to Romano’s parents’ home, a small colonial in west Wilmette, but he was detoured by a meeting with Sean Doyle, Glenbrook’s Chief of Police. With a wrinkled face, pugnacious chin, and sour expression, Doyle looked like a bulldog past its prime. Matt followed him into his office, a featureless room with grey walls, grey blinds, and grey carpeting.
“We’ve decided not to activate the task force.” Doyle tamped the bowl of his pipe. A recent innovation in suburban law enforcement, The Major Crimes Task Force allowed villages on the North Shore to share manpower and resources on important cases. Officers in over a dozen villages had standing orders to drop everything if called to serve. The catch was that it had to be convened within five to eight hours of the crime’s discovery, or it couldn’t be activated at all. Nine hours had passed since they’d found Romano’s body.
“Close the door.” Doyle leaned his elbows on the table.
Matt closed the door, and sat down. Doyle reached into a drawer for a match, struck it on the desk’s surface, and lit his pipe. “I persuaded the mayor we could handle this ourselves. With you as lead.” He made a few sucking sounds. “I made the right decision, didn’t I?”
Doyle would share the credit if Matt solved this case and none of the blame if he didn’t; still, he was handing Matt a huge opportunity. Matt took a breath, inhaling the scent of pipe tobacco. “Yes, sir. You made the right decision. But we’ll need help.”
“Use Brewster, the uniforms, outside consults, whatever. And I want to be kept informed. Regular updates. None of this left side doesn’t know what the right side is doing. And make nice to everybody, understand?” He nodded, as if to signal their meeting was over.
Matt rose and headed for the door. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“I’m sure you’ll earn it.” Curls of smoke drifted into the air.
***
Several cars were parked in the driveway at Romano’s parents. Skirting a red Blazer, Matt headed to the door, which was open. He rang anyway.
The woman who greeted him was clearly one of the girls in the photograph, but grief had distorted her face. In tight jeans and a sweatshirt, she looked haggard, her face almost opaque. Lines cut deep into her forehead.
“You must be Joanne. I’m Detective Matt Singer. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The woman stared at him, her expression blank.
“I’m investigating your sister’s death, and I want you to know that we won’t rest until we find out what happened to her. May I come in?”
She led him into the living room, modestly decorated in shades of beige. A crucifix hung on a wall.
“How are your parents?” he asked.
“The doctor just left.”
Matt nodded. Tranquilizers, booze, whatever it took.
“Look, I’ve already talked to one cop. Do we need to do this again?”
“It’s never the right time,” Matt said. “But you might remember some detail you didn’t include before. I’ll try to be quick. Can you ask your parents to come down?”
Joanne didn’t seem happy about it, but she went up the stairs. Matt heard a soft knock and muffled words. Five minutes later Mrs. Romano, a tiny, white-haired lady, probably in her seventies, came down. She leaned unsteadily on her daughter’s arm. Whether that was from age or the drugs the doctor had probably pumped into her, Matt wasn’t sure. Mr. Romano, tall and stooped, followed the women. Both sat stiffly at the dining room table.
Matt started with the easy questions. As far as the family knew, Julie was in good health.
“Was she taking any medications?”
Mrs. Romano answered. “She had kidney stones several years ago. She took water pills—diuretics. They were supposed to help prevent them.”
That explained one of the prescriptions in her bathroom. “What about other substances? Drugs? Alcohol?”
Mrs. Romano shook her head. “Julie was an angel, officer. Never got into trouble. Called every day. Visited three or four times a week. Why, just last Friday, after school, she took me over to Fields to get a new blouse.” Mrs. Romano looked reproachfully at Joanne.
The sister’s jaw tightened.
“What about friends, Mrs. Romano?”
“Oh, Julie had lots of friends. She was always talking about them, wasn’t she dear?” She gazed at her husband. Mr. Romano nodded, a vacant look unfolding across his face. Matt had the feeling it was a reflexive habit honed by years of marriage.
“Have any names?”
The older woman’s brow furrowed. She turned to her daughter. “You tell them, Joanne. You know them better.”
Joanne frowned. “Me?” She looked at Matt. “We didn’t travel in the same circles,” she said.
“Well, maybe you and I can make a list when I’m finished with your parents.” He went on. “When did Julie start teaching?”
“About ten years ago,” Mrs. Romano replied.
“Only math?”
“She taught algebra, plane geometry, and trig.” The mother’s gaze wandered.
“Her personnel file says she was hired by the high school six years ago.”
“I – that sounds about right,” Mrs. Romano said.
Hang on a few more minutes, Matt thought. “What about before that?”
“She subbed.”
“Julie was in her forties, correct?”
The mother nodded.
“What did she do before she started teaching?”
“She was a book-keeper.”
Matt thought of the neatly arranged files. “She changed careers?”
“She said book-keeping was dehumanizing. Too many numbers—not enough people.” Mrs. Romano’s lip quivered. “She loved people. Especially kids.”
But she didn’t have any of her own. “What about a boyfriend? Was there someone special in her life?”
“Not that I was aware of. Joanne?” She turned to her daughter.
“Julie didn’t date much,” Joanne said.
“She was the shy one,” Mrs. Romano said. “Religious too. They are—were very different girls.”
Joanne’s face turned crimson.
Matt cleared his throat. “Did anything unusual happen to her recently?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she receive any unusual packages or letters? Strange phone calls? Visitors?”
Mrs. Romano shook her head again, but Joanne pressed her lips together. Matt pulled out the brown envelope and extracted the photograph he’d found. “Does this mean anything to you?”
Mrs. Romano studied it, shook her head, and passed it to her husband. Mr. Romano glanced at it briefly, then handed it to Joanne.
She looked it over. “I don’t recognize it. Was it Julie’s?”
“This is a copy of a photo I found it in her kitchen.” Matt had realized the detour by Doyle wasn’t a complete waste of time. It had given him a chance to scan a copy of the photograph of the field. “Was Julie the outdoors type? Perhaps a hiker or camper?” “Are you kidding?” A wan smile tugged at the sister’s mouth. “Julie was lucky to know what season it was. She was always inside, you know, recording or watching her movies.”
“Did she have plans to go away this weekend?”
“Not that I know of.”
“She the neat type? Always make her bed? That kind of thing?”
“Julie? You’re kidding. She was a slob.” Joanne’s eyes softened. “We used to share a room and I would always be telling her how mother would kill us if she— “She bit her lip. Mrs. Romano leaned over and patted her daughter’s arm.
Matt remembered the spices in the cabinets. “Did she like to cook?”
Joanne looked up. “If you call opening a can of soup cooking.”
Matt frowned. He asked a few more perfunctory questions, then handed a card to Mrs. Romano. “If anything else comes to you, anything at all, please call.”
A vacant stare was his response. Joanne helped her mother out of her chair and out of the room. Mr. Romano followed. When Joanne came back, the air felt less tense.
“So, what’s going on that you didn’t want your parents to know?” Matt asked.She sat and folded her hands. “Julie didn’t have many friends. And I don’t have a clue who they are.”
“But your mother said —”
“Julie was gay, Detective.”
Matt closed his notebook.
“I’ve known for years, but Mom and Dad don’t.” She paused. “I don’t see any reason to tell them now, do you?”
Matt didn’t respond. “So—whatever she told your mother —”
“Was fantasy. Made up. So Mom and Dad would think she was ‘normal’.” Joanne sniffed. “Whatever that means.”
“Did she have a significant other?”
“There was someone a long time ago, but it ended. She didn’t go out much. You saw all those movies. She wasn’t looking, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did she meet people?
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“So there was no one special in her life now?”
“Well, she never said so—” She squeezed her hands.
“But?”
“Julie could never pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. You could read her a mile away. At least I could.” She blinked, fighting back tears. “The last time I saw her, Friday, I think, she was all smiles. Bubbly. You know, the way you get when you have a secret you don’t want to tell?” Matt nodded. “When I asked her what was up, she giggled.”
“And?”
“That’s it,” Joanne snapped. “Look, Detective, I don’t give a shit about her sexual orientation. But whoever made mincemeat out of my sister has to pay for it. I want them crucified.”
“We don’t know for sure that it was a homicide.”
“Bullshit. You think she said, ‘let’s see… what can I do for kicks tonight? Oh, maybe I’ll shred myself to bits in a dumpster?’ Come on.” She stood so forcefully that the chair wobbled behind her. “Someone tossed her in there, knowing what would happen to her. If she wasn’t already dead, she would be soon enough.”
***
The sister had a point, Matt thought on his way home. He didn’t know much about the case, but anyone who had suffered as gruesome a death as Julie Romano deserved a thorough investigation. He tried to swallow, but his throat was thick. He knew that feeling. It would be with him until he found Romano’s killer.
Chapter Five
Someone had been busy with a pooper-scooper, Stone saw when he got to the construction site. At least four mounds of dog shit were piled on the ground under the SGF Development sign. The sign was smeared with it too. Someone had spent time and effort to embarrass Stuart Feldman.
He called over to Public Works who promised to clean it up that afternoon. Then he began hiking around the perimeter of the ten acre site, most of which was overrun with brush, trash, and puddles of fetid water. If CEASE was allied with the preservationists trying to save the prairie, they should have chosen a better spot. This lot was barely worth it.
Back at the station he discovered that hearings on the Feldman project were scheduled that night at Northview’s Village Hall. Maybe he should make an appearance. Phillips would need something on paper.
***
“This is one of the best things to happen to the village in years,” Deanna Steele said as the waiter pulled out her chair.
Brasserie B, a trendy French bistro, had become a popular watering hole since it opened a few years ago. The place boasted art deco walls, white floor tiles, and lots of pretense. Stone would have been more comfortable at Mickey D’s than Brasserie B’s, but this was Deanna’s kind of place, and he felt noble for not begrudging her a few letters of the alphabet.
“I’m starved.” Deanna eyeballed the menu. With long auburn hair, fair skin dotted with freckles, and fine features, she looked terrific at seven months pregnant. Even more gratifying to Stone was her joy at being pregnant. Despite the added weight, there was lightness to her step that hadn’t been there before.
He looked at his watch. “We’ve got forty minutes.”
“So much to eat, so little time.” Deanna sighed.
A white-aproned waiter approached and reeled off a list of wines in French. Guy thinks I’m a rube, Stone thought. In some ways, he was. His features were craggy and he could stand to lose a few pounds. He favored clothes from Men’s Warehouse, and his hair wasn’t styled at Sergio’s. But Deanna refused to let him change a thing. Plainspoken, almost gruff, with sandy hair and eyes that changed color depending on what he wore, he was the Sean Connery type, she said. She could live with that. He felt like the luckiest man in the world.
The waiter cleared his throat. “May I suggest —-”
Deanna cut him off with a stream of fluent-sounding French. The waiter froze. “I said I’d prefer seltzer.” She smiled prettily.
“I see,” the waiter replied after a beat. “And you, sir?”
“Coke.” The waiter headed primly back to the bar. Stone covered Deanna’s hand with his.
Deanna laughed. “Hey, Stone, there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“I took your blue suit to the cleaners.”
Stone bent his head.
“Along with my white dress. Well, off-white. You know. The summer thing I wear.”
Stone frowned.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Thick as a slug.” Deanna pushed back her chair and knelt on the floor. “Okay. Just remember. You forced me into it.” With her belly protruding, she scooted back onto her knees so she wouldn’t knock into the table. She almost lost her balance but steadied herself. Stone grabbed her arms and tried to pull her up, but she shook him off.
“John Stone,” she said in a voice that carried over most of the room. “Will you marry me and give our baby a name?”
Deanna said later it was only a few seconds, but Stone felt light and spongy, as if time had suddenly stopped. In the eighteen months they had been together, marriage was something they never discussed. Both of them had come from unhappy ones, and though there was no way he could live without her, he didn’t want to screw up a good thing. Especially with the baby.
“Well?” Deanna asked. “Are you in or out?”
“Come on, man. She’s begging you,” a shout came from across the room.
“Yeah, buddy, better do the right thing,” another called.
“You don’t say yes, I will,” someone else said.
He leaned over, cupped Deanna’s face in his hands, and kissed her. Several times. In between, he answered yes.
Deanna raised two thumbs in the air. Applause broke out. Stone helped her settle back in her chair.
The rest of the meal was a blur. He must have done something very good at some point to deserve this woman. And the child she was carrying. He even smiled peaceably at the waiter, who presented them with cappuccinos on the house.
“How about next Sunday?” Deanna sipped her coffee.
“You don’t waste any time, do you, Steele?”
“Not when I know what I want, Stone.”
She named the few people she’d like to invite and suggested they go to Greek town afterwards. He hated Greek food, but he nodded. He didn’t care what they ate, as long as he got her.
While he was busying himself with the check, a woman brushed by their table. Slender and dressed in an expensive-looking beige pantsuit, she was a knockout with dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to capture the light and hold it inside. As she passed the maitre d’, he smiled and kissed both her cheeks. Stone turned back to Deanna, who was watching the woman too.
“That’s Ricki Feldman,” Deanna said. “Daughter of Stuart.”
“She must be going to the hearing.” Stone glanced around. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Sweetheart, your stereotypes are showing. She’s been running the company herself for over a year.”
“How do you know?”
“She was my boss when I did that gig up at Fort Sheridan last winter.” Deanna did free-lance public relations work.
“That was a Feldman deal?”
Deanna nodded.
The woman, followed by several other people who were clearly part of her entourage, pushed through a revolving door. He had dealt with Stuart Feldman on a case last year. Now he was dealing with the man’s daughter. The Feldmans got around.
Chapter Six
Despite a recent renovation, the Village hearing room was still as dull as the meetings that were held in it. Molded grey chairs filled most of the room, except for a curved blond wood desk in front. Microphone stands curled over the desk, and a podium stood a few feet away. But the raised dais that used to separate petitioners from decision-makers was gone. Everyone was now on the same level, the same “playing field.” Had to be the brainstorm of some industrial psychologist, Stone figured. Architectural populism hits the suburbs.
The room was filled to capacity, and an overflow lined the halls. A few people held hand-printed signs with the letters “CEASE,” scrawled in black markers. Others had green ribbons pinned to their jackets.
Ricki Feldman and her staff settled in the front row, seeming oblivious to the many looks that were flashed her way. Stone checked his watch. The meeting was called for seven thirty; it was seven forty-five. He squeezed into a seat.
Seven people filed into the room and took seats at the desk, each setting a name placard in front of them. The crowd quieted. A ruddy, blond man gaveled the meeting to order. Stone checked the placard. Chairman Sandy Pilsen. Stone knew the name; his son had been stopped for a DUI a month ago.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Pilsen smiled politely. “First of all, let me apologize for the lack of space. We didn’t expect this kind of turnout. What we have managed to do is pipe the PA system out to the hall, so at least everyone will hear the proceedings. We’ll find a larger location for the next meeting. Please bear with us.” He started to read from a paper.
“The role of the Planning and Zoning Commission is to make recommendations to the Board of Trustees on specific planning and zoning issues. Tonight, we begin a series of hearings on the parcel of land at the southeast corner of Waukegan and Willow Roads. The Commission will hear from the applicant, SGF Development. Then we’ll take comments.”
Stone forced himself to pay attention.
“Let the record reflect the presence of the applicant’s architect, lawyer, and traffic expert, as well as the Executive Vice-President of SGF Development. You take it from here, okay?”
Pilsen looked over at Ricki. A silver-haired, well-dressed man on her right rose from his chair, walked to the podium, and placed some papers on it. He scanned the crowd.
“Good evening, Mr. Chairman, members of the commission, and residents of Northview. I’m Paul Landon, architect for SGF Development. I’ll begin with a brief summary of our plans for the proposed Northview Center.” He launched into a description of the mall: a ten-acre complex with approximately six hundred thousand square feet of commercial space, three major anchor stores, fifty to seventy five smaller retail outlets, and twelve hundred parking spaces.
Twenty minutes later, Landon was still taking the crowd through the plans. Stone got up to stretch. He wandered to the back of the room, nearly colliding with a middle-aged woman and a younger man leaning against the wall. The woman, who looked to be in her fifties, had blond hair with dark roots. She was gazing at the Feldman woman as if trying to memorize her features.
Stone didn’t recognize her, but he was surprised at how many others he did. Only a year had passed since he’d moved in with Deanna, but the number of nods he exchanged made him feel settled, a part of the community.
When Landon finished, the commission members peppered him with questions about height restrictions, setbacks, and ventilation systems. Landon seemed prepared and answered smoothly, including some thorny questions about fire lanes and visual sight lines.
Next was the traffic consultant’s turn. A tall man with a pinched face, he promised there would be no new congestion in the area. Stone knew the man was headed for trouble.
“Excuse me, sir.” Christine Renfrow, a commissioner whose over-sized glasses gave her an owlish expression, interrupted. “How can you possibly claim that rush hour traffic, which is already a nightmare on Willow Road, won’t be affected by the mall?”
The traffic expert said the two egresses, one on Willow, and one on Waukegan, would prevent additional tie-ups.
“But you’re going to have hundreds of cars feeding into a two lane road,” Renfrow went on. “Cars that aren’t there now. Your conclusions were drawn from a study that was conducted at mid-day when traffic is minimal. That makes it virtually useless.”
The traffic engineer tried to parry, but a buzz went up from the audience. “Why don’t you re-do your traffic study during rush hour?” Renfrow said, “Then let us hear the conclusions.”
The traffic engineer scowled. Mumbling something off-mike, he looked relieved to sit down.
“That concludes the applicant’s presentation,” Pilsen said. “After a ten minute break, we’ll hear from members of the community.”
During the break, someone placed a microphone stand in the center aisle and a line of people queued up at it. Once again, Pilsen gaveled the meeting to order. An elderly man with a shock of white hair and a green ribbon pinned to his jacket was first. “I’d like to go on record —” he said in a raspy voice.
“Excuse me, sir, please state your name and address,” Pilsen cut in.
“Sorry.” The man cleared his throat. “I’m Timothy Stargis, Two Twenty-five Bosworth, and I’d like to go on record as saying developments like this are slowly but surely stripping our community of its heritage and turning it into a faceless suburb. Now, I know my time is nearly over, but what kind of legacy are we leaving our children? Enough is enough.”
The audience applauded. Pilsen banged his gavel. Stargis moved back to his seat. Several audience members pumped his hand.
Next was a thirty-something woman with a green ribbon pinned to her denim jacket. Stone thought he recognized her. “Good evening. I’m Ann Heller. I live on Sunset Drive, and I’m very upset about this proposal. It puts all our children’s lives at risk. We all know the added traffic and density will force the county to widen Willow. We’ll have a six-lane highway running through the center of town. How many children are going to lose their lives because of reckless drivers? Please, do not approve this.”
More applause from the audience. Heller smiled as if she’d won a victory. Pilsen frowned. Stone remembered how he knew her. Ann Heller walked her dog down Happ Road. It was a big dog.
A man in a glen plaid suit was next. “Gerald Krieger, Woodlands North. I’m an attorney, and I have a question. Is the village board bound by your recommendation?”
Pilsen shook his head. “No. Of course not.”
“No? Then why does this sound it’s like a done deal? That we’re just going through the motions?”
Pilsen reddened. “I can assure you that is not the case, Mr. Krieger. The commission won’t take a vote for several weeks.”
“Look. I know for a fact that the developer on this proposal has already spent a lot of money, and I’d like an accounting of that money. I think we’re entitled.”
The audience buzzed. Pilsen’s mouth tightened. “Mr. Krieger, as an attorney, you know that a privately owned business is not required to disclose to the village how much they spend on a proposal. Nor is it in our purview to ask. I would direct you to ask SGF Development yourself. But understand they are not required to answer.”
The audience fidgeted; a reporter from the weekly newspaper scribbled.
“I see.” Krieger paused. “Well that being the case, I suggest the village ask itself a fundamental question.” He waved a hand toward the commissioners. “Why are we allowing this to go forward? Is it greed—or need?” Krieger shaped his fingers into a gun and pointed it at Pilsen. “Mr. Chairman, no one has convinced me there is a need for this development, so I can only assume it is greed that is driving this project. And that” he paused again, “is unacceptable.”
Krieger slid the mike back into the mike-stand with a flourish. The audience went up for grabs. People shouted; some rose from their seats.
Pilsen, red-faced and sweaty, pounded the gavel. “If we can’t keep this civil, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll call it a night.” He looked at his watch and then at the line of speakers behind the floor mike. “Unfortunately, we have time for only one more speaker, but those of you who would like to comment can do so in writing.”
A grumble went up from the line of people, but they dispersed without incident. One woman remained at the mike. Ricki Feldman leaned over to whisper to the architect.
“Barbara Michaelson. 2044 Suffork Road. I am spearheading CEASE, the Citizens’ Effort Against Senseless Expansion. Over four hundred of us have banded together to oppose this project. Members of the PTA, the church, the synagogue, the Village Caucus, the League of Women Voters, even the Garden Club. In other words, we are the village. We believe this development scheme is too large, too late, and too disruptive.
“We have commissioned our own traffic study which directly contradicts the Feldman document. We believe that in a matter as important as this, it is critical that the commission weigh more than one opinion. Now you have a second. We demand that you analyze it before you make a decision. Do not approve this project.”
Pilsen bent his microphone. “Mrs. Michaelson, we will certainly review your study. Thank you.”
By now the mood in the room had soured, and many residents were filing out. Whether they were confident of victory or full of despair, Stone couldn’t tell. The woman and the young man he’d seen earlier brushed by him, the woman looking furtively at the Feldman group.
An older woman raised a defiant fist as she hurried from the room. “You haven’t heard the end of this. CEASE will prevail!” It was Florence Armstrong, a well-known village activist. Stone jotted down her name.
Chapter Seven
Matt squeezed his eyes shut and recited Kaddish. Working his first homicide a year earlier had changed Matt in ways he still didn’t quite understand. He’d decided to try again with Georgia. She was life, the antithesis of death. He needed that. But they had to keep their relationship quiet— it was against policy for village cops to fraternize. The only other cop who knew was Stone, but he knew to keep his mouth shut.
He’d also started going to synagogue again. As a boy, he’d been dragged to his parents’ synagogue, a small, dark building on the North side where they spoke as much German as English. He remembered the elegantly adorned Oren Kodesh, the ark in which the Torahs were kept. A gift from a wealthy congregant, it was covered with delicately carved woodwork depicting different Biblical scenes. Matt would study it during the long boring service, wondering how long it had taken to carve and what had passed through the artist’s mind when he was doing it.
Now, at the end of prayers, Rabbi Joel Altman tapped Matt on the shoulder. A round, cheerful man with a white beard, they’d seen a lot of him over the High Holidays. Georgia thought he’d missed his calling—he would make a perfect Santa Claus. In that case, Matt said, it wasn’t just his calling he’d missed. Tonight, though, Altman’s face was solemn.
“I heard about the body at the high school,” he said. “How do you do it, Matt?”
Matt shrugged.
Altman stroked his beard. “You found it in a garbage truck?”
Matt nodded.
The rabbi hesitated. “I want you to know something. Georgia came to see me yesterday. We’re going to meet again in a day or two.”
Georgia wasn’t Jewish, but she was considering converting. “That’s good news.”
“It is, but you need to remember something.”
“What’s that?”
“This process is never easy. You’ll both become impatient, frustrated, angry. And there’s always the possibility that, in the end, she might decide not to.”
Matt nodded.
“There’s something else. And I say this to you alone, Matt.” Altman lowered his voice. “No matter how it turns out, you should know that anyone who is willing to explore something as fundamental as religious conversion, because another person wants them to, must love that person very much.”
***
Matt went back to Romano’s apartment. Tremble reported that none of the neighbors heard or saw any visitors at the victim’s apartment, but Matt wanted to double-check. When he knocked on doors, neighbors told him how shocked they were, what a lovely girl she was. Mrs. Morys, an elderly woman who shared the floor with Romano thought she heard laughter from Romano’s apartment a few nights before her death, but when Matt questioned her about it, she admitted it might have been the sound track from a movie or TV; her hearing wasn’t so good.
He drove home. Inside the apartment, the smell of hot pizza and sight of Georgia setting the table chased away his frustration. She had changed into a pair of cut-offs and a cropped T-shirt, and her thick blond hair, usually tied back, was down. She turned hazel eyes to Matt.
“Hey, Singer boy. You okay?”
“Just peachy.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of seltzer.
“How about a glass of wine?” Georgia refilled her glass from an open bottle.
“No, thanks.” He closed the refrigerator door.
Before he could turn around, her hands crept up his back and slowly kneaded his shoulders. His tension eased. He turned around and slowly kissed her, his hands getting tangled in her hair. She leaned into him. His lips moved down to her throat. She groaned softly. He led her into the bedroom.
***
“She was gay,” Matt said afterwards. They were eating pizza in bed, the table Georgia set forgotten. She draped the sheet across their naked bodies.
“So?” Georgia dropped a half-eaten crust back in the box.
“It could be relevant.”
“How?”
“The ME hasn’t determined cause of death yet.”
“It’s not a big secret when all you have are body parts.”
“We’re concerned about what happened before she went into the truck,” Matt explained. “The ME’s ‘gonna do a full tox screen.”
“A teacher who wore plaid skirts OD’d?”
“It might tell us if she was already dead when she went into the dumpster.” Matt reached for another slice of pizza.
“Oh.” Georgia pulled the sheet more tightly around her.
“Who knows?” He chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe she did a few lines after school. To get herself in the mood for her evening activities.”
Georgia flicked a crumb off the sheet and pursed her lips. “Tell me something. Why is it that when you find out someone is gay, you automatically assume their life is warped or sleazy?”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re the one who’s not fair. It’s not personal, Matt. It’s all of us. Especially cops. We jump to the filthiest conclusions.”
“We’re usually right.”
“What if her killer was a student? Someone she’d flunked, for instance?”
Matt put his half-eaten slice back in the box. He shook his head.
“Why not? They found her at a high school.”
“Yeah, but, the MO is all —”
“You don’t have an MO,” Georgia said.
He changed the subject. “What about the parking lot? What did you find?”
“The first person to pull in this morning was a teacher. At six-thirty. She remembers the Saturn. Thought it was strange Romano was in so early.”
“So her car could have been there all night.”