Doubleback: A Novel (12 page)

“So you don’t think it was an accident?”

She looked down at her ballet slippers, flexed her feet, pointed her toes. “Arthur bought a Mercedes two years ago. It was his baby. He took care of it—well, like Carol takes care of Sam. I can’t believe he would have let the brake fluid drain out.”

Georgia nodded. She hated to ask the next question. She eased into it. “How well did your husband know Christine Messenger?”

“You mean was he having an affair with her?” Georgia’s pulse sped up until she saw the shadow of a smile cross Dierdre’s face. “If he was, more power to him. Arthur had prostate surgery last year. He wasn’t—the straightest fork in the dishwasher.” She clasped her knees and rocked forward. “He enjoyed attention, of course. All theater people do. My friends used to call him a flirt. But that’s as far as it went. He knew where to draw the line.”

“Can you remember any comments he made about Chris?”

“Actually, we talked about her quite a lot. He was concerned. In a paternal way. Being divorced. Having the child. She used to bring Molly out here every once in a while. She called us Molly’s surrogate grandparents.” She paused. “I think she was grateful we were there.”

Georgia’s skepticism must have shown on her face.

“Look, I know where you’re trying to go. The other detective tried, too. But Art wasn’t that way. I never saw any hints of it, and believe me, I know. I’m an actor. I recognize the tics, the looks, the body language when you’re hiding something. Arthur didn’t have any secrets. We were married nearly fifty years, you know.”

“Were
you
ever unfaithful?”

Dierdre’s mouth opened. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. You don’t have to—”

“You know something?” She cut in. “I’ll answer that. Because it might prove something. The answer is yes. I was unfaithful. Art and I had been married six months, and I thought I’d made a horrible mistake. I started seeing a man I used to go out with. He was also married, but we had an affair. I pulled all the tricks you pull when you’re involved with someone. About two months later I realized I’d made the right choice after all and that Art was the man I wanted to spend my life with. So you see, I know what unfaithful spouses do. Art wasn’t capable of deception. There was no way he was having an affair with Chris.”

•   •   •

“So where do we find the accounting supervisor?” Ellie asked the next morning.

“
We
don’t. I do,” Georgia said.

They were in Foreman’s kitchen. When Georgia had climbed back into her car in Hinsdale, she found three messages from Ellie on her cell. They discussed what Ellie had learned. The next morning, Georgia drove to her house. Cruising up Green Bay Road, she had the eerie sense that someone was following her. She slowed, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was tailing her, but she saw no one. When she arrived at Foreman’s, she even searched under the carriage of the Toyota for a bug or GPS locator. Nothing.

Inside, Ellie held up a pot of coffee. The rich aroma filled the room. “How do you take it?”

“Black.” Georgia sat at the table.

Ellie poured and slid a mug toward Georgia. “So what do you think?”

“I’m trying not to make any assumptions.”

“Apparently there were a lot of complaints about this service charge. If someone slapped—say a ten dollar charge on 10,000 accounts—that would add up to serious money. Money that could have been used for a ransom.”

“Are you saying Chris was putting one over on everyone? That there was a ransom demand after all? And she somehow paid it with these service charges?”

Ellie nodded.

Georgia frowned. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to connect the dots. I have to find out more. When the charges were levied. How much. On which accounts. There could be a perfectly legitimate reason.”

“What if you find out the service charges were levied on the same day or the day before Molly was released? Wouldn’t that clinch it?”

Georgia shrugged and sipped her coffee.

Ellie set the coffee pot down. “Hold on. She
did
go down to the office, remember? To pick up her laptop. Didn’t you tell me O’Malley said—”

“I’m way ahead of you. If—and that’s a big ‘if ’—ransom money changed hands via the bank, the internet, or any other means—why was Arthur Emerlich killed? Messenger either, for that matter?”

“Because the accounting supervisor figured out what happened and told Emerlich?”

Georgia raised three fingers. “Three problems. Assuming the kidnapper got what he wanted, why would he care how Chris came up with the money? It’d be her neck on the chopping block, not his. Second, how would the kidnapper have figured out Emerlich knew about them? And third, it’s rare for a kidnapper to come back once he’s negotiated a successful ransom. Almost never happens.”

“Maybe the accountant found where Chris parked the money.”

“That would have been pretty stupid, wouldn’t it? I mean, Chris was the director of IT. Wouldn’t she know how to hide money so it wouldn’t lead back to her—or the kidnapper?”

“Maybe that was her way of letting people know who did it.”

“They had her daughter, Ellie. They were going to kill her if she didn’t meet their demands. If it was Rachel, would you take the time leave a clue so people could figure out who did it?”

“You’re right.” Foreman sighed. “You think the police are asking the same questions as we are?”

“Hard to say.” Georgia closed her hands around the mug. “If they are, they might even be farther along. They have resources we don’t.”

“I could call Cody back. Maybe get Sandy’s last name.”

Georgia shook her head. “I appreciate it, but you’ve done enough. For now.”

Ellie pursed her lips. “Just tell me one thing, Does that mean you’re dropping the pregnancy angle? Her secret lover and/or a jealous wife or girlfriend?”

“Everything’s still on the table. Why?”

“Because I spoke to my friend Susan and found out who Terry Messenger was dating.”

Georgia sat up straighter. “Is that so?”

“The woman’s a pathologist at Rush. I can arrange to bump into her if you want.”

“Not right now. If I need more help, I’ll let you know.”

chapter
14

B
ack in her apartment, Georgia picked up the phone and called Midwest National Bank. A recorded greeting offered her a laundry list of options. Normally Georgia would be irritated by the antiseptic, depersonalized, and largely useless nature of business communication, but today, that was exactly what she was counting on. She pressed “4” for the bank’s departmental directory, then “8” for Accounting. The system prompted her for an individual, but she didn’t know Sandy’s last name, so she punched “0.” Eventually a real person came on the line.

“Hello. I’m trying to find Sandy in accounting. She’s a supervisor. The problem is I don’t know her last name. Can you help me?”

The operator’s voice was cool. “We don’t release employees’ names as a matter of policy.”

Georgia sighed audibly. “In that case, what would you suggest I do?”

“I really couldn’t say.” The voice was frigid.

Georgia forced herself to remain polite. “Then, perhaps you could connect me to the general accounting extension.”

“One moment.”

A series of clicks ensued, followed by a female voice. “This is Laura. How may I help you?”

“Hello, I’m one of your customers, and I got a call from someone named Sandy in accounting. But my secretary must have written her last name incorrectly because I couldn’t find her on the automated system. Can you help me?”

“Oh. Are you calling about the service charges?” Laura sounded friendly.

“Um... as a matter of fact... I am.”

“You want Sandy Sechrest. Her extension is 4397. I’ll transfer you.”

“Thank you.” Georgia smiled to herself as the transfer proceeded. Sandy Sechrest’s phone rang four times, then went to voice-mail. Georgia hung up without leaving a message, and went online to a White Pages Directory. No Sandy Sechrest. Or S. Sechrest. She sighed and checked one of her subscription databases. Nothing. Finally, she went to Kroll and entered the paltry information she had. S. Sechrest was listed on the 4800 block of North Claremont, Ravenswood. She jotted down the address and the phone number.

That evening, she drove down from Evanston. Sechrest’s block was a tidy residential area made up of sturdy row houses and small apartment buildings. A construction dumpster was wedged between parked cars at one end of the block. Georgia remembered hearing how Ravenswood property values had skyrocketed since the neighborhood had taken on the more fashionable name of “Lincoln Square.” But the area still had a homey feel, and as she got out of the Toyota and slammed the door, a squirrel scurried up a nearby tree.

Sechrest’s home was a small, older brick row house with a porch in front. The home looked neat and in good repair, but it hadn’t been renovated. The porch, with latticed slats below it, reminded Georgia of her childhood home on the West side where she used to play hide and seek. One day she’d hidden herself so well that her mother couldn’t find her. She remembered her mother’s frantic yells, and how, when she finally revealed herself, giggling at her subterfuge, her mother had seized her and held on much too tight. “Never hide from Mommy again, Peaches. Mommy gets scared when she can’t find you.”

Ironic, given that her mother walked out a few years later.

Now she mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell. A thin buzzer sounded. No response. She rang again. Nothing. She knocked. Still no response, Georgia wondered if she had the right Sechrest. Or whether Sechrest might be living elsewhere, with a boyfriend for example, and used this place only when they had a fight. She tried to peek through the blinds but couldn’t see anything.

She clattered down the steps and strode to the house next door. Although the layout looked like a carbon copy of Sechrest’s, it wasn’t in very good shape. The steps up to the porch were rickety, the exterior needed a coat of paint, and the eaves above the door sagged. The windows, double-hung with an old-fashioned lock, looked about a hundred years old.

Georgia rang the bell. A buzzer identical to Sechrest’s sounded, and she heard feet shuffling almost immediately, as if whoever was there had been expecting her. The door remained closed, but a thin male voice called out.

“Who’s there?”

If he’d been spying on her, he already knew, but she played along.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Georgia said. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m looking for Sandy Sechrest.”

“Name?”

“Georgia Davis.”

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

She pulled out a card, bent down, and slid it under the door. “Here’s my card.”

There was silence, then a phlegmy cough.

“You’re Davis?”

“Yes sir.”

“How do I know you didn’t just get those cards made up so you could get me to open the door?”

“Sir, I’ll be happy to show you my driver’s license, but I won’t slide it under the door.”

“Show it to me through the window.”

Shaking her head, she fished for her license and took it out of her wallet. The glass was covered by a dark curtain, but a bony hand appeared and lifted the material. She could just make out a frail, elderly man with pale skin. He was wearing a striped bathrobe. She pressed her license against the glass. Squinting, he took his time examining it. Then he looked her up and down. “Anyone with you?”

“No, sir. Just me.”

More coughs. He gestured to the front door. Georgia stepped toward it.

He opened it. “Can’t be too careful these days, you know.”

“I understand.” She slipped her license back in her wallet and extended her hand.

“And you are?”

“Guy Lasalla. Lived here over fifty years.”

Lasalla looked to be in his eighties and was bald except for a soft gray frizz on the sides of his head. His nose was red and bulbous, his eyes rheumy, and he needed a shave. Georgia smelled alcohol on his breath. Although she couldn’t see into the house, it smelled of too many cats and too few litter boxes. She stepped back. She didn’t like cats.

“Thank you for speaking to me, Mr. Lasalla. As I said, I’m looking for Sandy Sechrest. Do you know where I can find her?”

He cackled an old man’s cackle. “Join the club.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the first person to come lookin’ for her. But you are the first ’un I opened the door for.”

She smiled gratefully, although she wondered who else had been here. But first things first. “I take it Sandy’s not here.”

“Hell no. She took off like a bat outta hell a couple days ago.”

“When, exactly?”

“Over the weekend.”

A striped tabby cat suddenly appeared and rubbed himself against the man’s bare leg. Lasalla scooped it up and started to massage the back of its neck. The cat blinked disdainfully at Georgia as if to say, “See what I can get anytime I want?” Arrogant creatures, Georgia thought, not for the first time.

“Do you know where Sandy went?”

Both man and cat stared at her. Georgia had the sense they didn’t think her worthy of being told. But she needed information. “You said someone else came looking for her. Did you get as good a look at them as you did me?”

The cat jumped down and streaked back into the gloom.

“Mr. Lasalla, I think Sandy might know something—something important. I need to find her. Before whoever else is looking for her does.”

“It’s about her job, isn’t it? Those two bankers who died.”

“It could be.”

Lasalla rubbed the grizzled hair on and under his chin. He pulled a few folds of loose flesh in the process. “She did look pretty scared.”

“Who else came here?”

“Don’t know. A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Only saw him from a distance. A ball cap hid his face.”

“Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”

“Average.”

“What about his clothes?”

“Jeans. Black t-shirt, I think.”

“Do you remember what kind of car he was driving?”

“Dark. Black maybe.”