Doubleback: A Novel (3 page)

I tried to look hopeful. “But I know someone who does.”

chapter
3

M
oney can’t buy happiness, but it sure is a start. Hunched over her laptop, Georgia tried to remember who said that. She was in the middle of a search for the title of a vacation home in Galena, Illinois. A couple, one of whom was her client, had been married thirty years but was now locked in a bitter divorce battle. Both parties claimed the property, but even with a subpoena, neither the husband nor the wife—or their respective lawyers—had coughed up enough information to verify the claim. Georgia was slogging through public records on the state of Illinois’s website, hoping to find the title to the property, but so far she’d had no success. She was cursing Paul Kelly, the lawyer who’d sent her the job, when her cell trilled.

“Davis here.”

“Hi, Georgia. It’s Ellie Foreman.”

Georgia sat up. She’d known Foreman for years, since she’d been the youth officer on the village police force. She’d counseled Foreman’s daughter, Rachel, through a dark period when the girl was twelve. A year later she and Ellie had found themselves on the same side of a case involving white slavery and the Russian Mob. Foreman was the kind of woman who seemed to attract trouble; it was a small miracle she was still alive. Georgia hadn’t heard from her in almost a year, which was a good sign. That she was calling now wasn’t.

“Hello, Ellie. Is everything ok? How’s Rachel?”

“She’s fine. She’s a senior now. Applying to college soon.”

“No way. I’m not that old. Where does she want to go?”

“We’re hoping to cheer on the Hawkeyes.”

“Great school.”

“It’s her first choice. But that’s not why I called. I need your help, Georgia. It’s an emergency.”

•   •   •

Georgia hung up, went into her bedroom, and opened her bureau drawer. The furniture in her Evanston apartment was still new— she’d had to replace it all after a fire last year—and she felt a sense of satisfaction as the drawer slid smoothly across the metal tracks. She took out a white tank top, then went to her closet and pulled out a pair of beige slacks and a lightweight navy blazer. She had four nearly identical blazers: two for summer, and two for winter. They were all loose fitting and had plenty of pockets. You never knew what you might have to stash in them.

In the bathroom, she peered into the mirror. She normally wore her blond hair in a ponytail, but today she left it down. It softened the sharp planes of her face and made her nose seem less prominent. Her blue eyes were wide and unflinching, but her eyelashes and brows were so light they seemed to disappear on her face. Even so, Pete said that she reminded him of Scarlet Johannson. She smiled at the thought and applied some lipstick, her only concession to fashion. Then she stuffed her wallet, keys, notebook and pen in her pockets and took off.

Driving her red Toyota up Green Bay Road, she thought back to what Foreman said on the phone. Of all the crimes against people, kidnapping was the most personal. And cruel. To steal a child, someone’s flesh and blood, suggested a viciousness that was hard to understand. Even if the resolution was good and the child was returned uninjured, the family would bear the scars forever. The parents would always worry about the people who came into their child’s life. And if it turned out that one of the parents had taken the child, as so often happened, the other would never sleep through the night again.

Foreman had said Christine Messenger was recently divorced. Had it been ugly? If so, the ex-husband could be involved. He might have skipped town, maybe the country. Fathers sometimes did. Even so, the chances were good no harm would come to the child. Which was oddly reassuring. In the event it was a stranger abduction, the kidnapper probably wanted money. That also usually meant the child wouldn’t be harmed, at least until the ransom was paid. The problem was if there was no demand. No communication from the kidnappers. Georgia didn’t want to think about that.

Whatever the situation, the police were better equipped to handle it than she. Foreman knew that. Georgia wondered why she hadn’t insisted the mother call it in. Foreman wasn’t a fool. Maybe she needed a third party to reinforce her advice. Georgia tapped the steering wheel with her palm. Being a good PI meant knowing when to take on a case and when to hand it off. This one practically screamed “hands-off.”

•   •   •

“I don’t understand why we have to talk about that now,” Christine Messenger said. “The man on the phone was not my ex-husband.”

Georgia sat in Christine Messenger’s kitchen at the butcher block table. Foreman was still there, but her friend, Susan, had left. “A major factor in child abductions is the relationship between the child’s parents. A bitter divorce can be a motivating factor.” She paused. “As for the voice on the phone, that could have been anyone: a friend of your ex, a brother, a cousin. Tell me, what was Molly’s father’s reaction when you told him?”

Christine didn’t answer. Then in a small voice, she said, “I haven’t.”

“Why not?” Georgia knew her voice was sharp.

“You don’t understand. Terry’s always accusing me of being a horrible mother. Of putting my career before Molly. This— well, he’ll see this as the last straw. He’ll file for sole custody. I— I couldn’t handle that.”

“Mrs. Messenger.” Georgia tried to keep her voice neutral. “The issue right now is getting Molly back safely. Not whether your husband—sorry—ex-husband—approves of your lifestyle.” She looked at her watch. “Molly’s been gone for almost three hours. He needs to know. Where does he work?”

“He’s a doctor at Rush.”

“You need to call him right away.”

Christine eyed her doubtfully. “Please. He’ll use it against me. I’m telling you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, though she didn’t appear to be crying. Then she took a long breath. “It was a horror show.”

A spit of tension thickened the air.

“The divorce?” Foreman asked softly.

The woman nodded. “It’s been final less than a year.”

Ellie crossed her legs.

“So he’s bitter?” Georgia asked.

Christine made an ugly noise, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “Him? I couldn’t say
. I
am.”

Georgia exchanged glances with Ellie.

“Why?” Georgia followed up.

“My father died ten years ago. Right after we got married. He left me—and my brother—some real estate. A shopping center in Joliet. It turned out to be pretty lucrative when it was sold. It was clearly an inheritance, but my ex-husband tried to claim it was part of our marital assets. We had to jump through hoops to prove it wasn’t.”

“I see.”

Christine crossed her arms. “No, I don’t think you do. I had to waste over a hundred thousand dollars. On top of supporting Molly, since I make more than Terry.”

“I thought you said he’s a doctor,” Georgia said.

Christine’s mouth tightened. “He is.”

Must be nice to make that kind of money, Georgia thought and looked over at Foreman, who was frowning. Was she thinking the same thing?

“And then, when the lawyers realized they’d soaked us for as much as they could, and made their quota for the week or the month or whatever, they settled the case. In three days. Don’t ever mention the word ‘lawyer’ to me.”

Foreman ran a hand down her arm. Her ex-husband was a lawyer, Georgia recalled.

“Was any of your—bitterness—directed toward Molly?”

Christine shook her head. “We tried to keep her out of it. We knew we would probably share custody, regardless of the money situation, and we didn’t want to put her in the middle of it. At least I didn’t.”

Her words sounded scripted. Was she hiding something? “Do you have any reason at all to think your ex-husband took your daughter?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Where do you work?”

“At Midwest National Bank. I’m the director of IT.”

“Information technology?”

She nodded. “I used to run the computer systems. Make sure they’re secure. Make acquisitions. Do maintenance. Facilitate our online activities. Manage the staff. But I was promoted recently. I still have responsibility for IT, but I’m also an Officer in Account Management.”

“What’s that?”

“Basically hand-holding major customers. Making sure they’re happy. Encouraging them to use as many of our services as possible. That kind of thing.”

“That’s a promotion?”

“That’s what they tell me,” she said dryly. “Midwest isn’t really that big. Despite the building downtown. We...” Her voice suddenly trailed off as if she’d just realized how inappropriate it was to be talking about her job at a time like this.

Georgia persisted. “That’s an unusual mix: computer geek and customer service.”

Messenger’s expression was tight. “I was part of a new business pitch for a customer who requires a lot of online banking. It made sense to have me work with them. But, really, I don’t understand what this has to do with Molly.”

If Christine Messenger earned more than her husband, a doctor already earning a nice chunk of change, she was a
very
senior level officer. Still. Georgia checked her watch. “Mrs. Messenger, you need to call your ex-husband. And then you need to call the police.”

“I told Ellie. No police. They said they’d hurt Molly.”

Georgia leaned forward. “Listen to me. The police get these kinds of cases all the time. They know how to deal with them. They’ll work the case in a quiet, clandestine way so that Molly is protected.”

Christine tilted her head, as though she hadn’t considered that.

“And they have capabilities neither Ellie nor I have. Resources and connections all over the country, not just Chicago.”

A look of horror shot across Christine’s face. “Do you think they took my baby to another state?”

Georgia dodged a direct answer. “As I understand it, there hasn’t been a ransom demand yet, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What, exactly,
did
he say when he called?”

Christine tightened her lips. “Just that he had Molly, and that if I wanted her back unharmed, I’d be here when he called again.”

“Nothing more?”

She shook her head.

“Do you have any idea what he might be after?”

“No.” Her voice was reticent, even timid.”

“Maybe he’s trying to figure out how much he can demand,” Ellie said.

“Maybe,” Georgia said. “Or he’s still working on a getaway plan.”

“But why Chris? Why Molly?” Ellie looked at Chris. “You have no idea?”

“How many times do I need to tell you? I don’t know a goddam thing. All I know is that I want my baby back.” Tears welled in Christine’s eyes. “Whatever it costs, I’ll pay. You need to know that.”

Georgia sighed. “I get it. Which is why you really need to bring in the police. They can trace the call when it comes. Maybe bring in the FBI to help. And, by the way, if your ex-husband is involved, they’ll know that, too. I can’t emphasize it enough. You’re doing your daughter a disservice if you don’t.”

A tear rolled down Christine’s cheek. “If you heard the man on the phone, you wouldn’t say that. His voice was... so cold. He specifically said that I had to—just—please. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“The longer you hold off, the harder it gets. A trail grows cold quickly. I wish I could help you, Mrs. Messenger, but this is the best advice I have. If you want, I’ll call my former boss. His name is Dan O’Malley, and he’s the Deputy Chief of Police for the village.”

“If I do—call the police—and my daughter is hurt or...” Christine couldn’t finish. She slumped in her chair.

Georgia pulled out her cell and went into the hall to call. Waiting for it to connect, she gazed around. Clustered around a window in the living room was a group of plants. Their leaves were thick and shiny. Georgia remembered the flowers outside, growing in gay abandon. In addition to a high-powered career, Christine Messenger had a green thumb. Georgia had bought plants for her apartment last fall. She watered them, fed them, even talked to them, after someone told her it would help. By Christmas, though, they looked sick and weak, and by the end of January, they were dead.

chapter
4

“H
ow do you know God exists?” Rachel asked. “How do you know He doesn’t?” my father answered.

I was in the kitchen chopping celery and eavesdropping. It had been three days since Georgia Davis and I met Christine Messenger. After Georgia called the police, we waited outside the house until an unmarked drove up. We chatted about Dan O’Malley finally receiving the promotion he deserved, and I thanked Georgia for coming. Then I went home.

I thought about Molly over the next two days, but there was nothing in the news about her disappearance. I figured the police were working quietly. I prayed for her safe, speedy return, but feared that, in this case, no news was bad news. I had to let it go for my own sanity. I tuned back into Rachel’s conversation with Dad.

“... want to know what
you
think, Opa.”

“And I want to know what
you
think, Rachel,” Dad said, emphasizing the first syllable and adding a throat-clearing sound to the “ch,” which was the Hebrew pronunciation.

An exasperated sigh was her reply.

I could relate. My father likes to use the Talmudic method of answering a question with a question. He says it helps define one’s thoughts. The problem is that there’s never a definitive answer— just more questions, like the endless “why” game kids play. For a garden-variety neurotic like me, who needs the clarity of a concrete answer, it’s maddening. Apparently my daughter felt the same way.

She took a stab anyway. “Okay, Opa,” she said. “I think natural disasters, like tsunamis, fires, and tornados, plus the fact that we’re running out of water, plus the fact that millions of people on this planet still don’t have enough to eat, is proof there is no God. Or if there is, He’s turned His back on us.”

“Maybe we’ve turned our backs on Him.”

“But I thought God—if He exists—is supposed to be generous, all loving and forgiving. Even toward non-believers.”