Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (10 page)

A
fter Kreisman left, Georgia trudged up the driveway and jiggled the handle on the garage door. It was securely locked and felt way too heavy to force. She leaned her ear against it. Nothing but the tinny sound of wind blowing through the cracks. She walked around to the side to the banging screen door, the door the girl in the pink bathrobe presumably ran out of. The screen door opened, but a padlock was attached to the door behind it. The door was metal, probably steel. She bent down and peered under the crack at the bottom of the doorjamb. No light.

She circled the building and saw a second metal door in the rear, but it was padlocked as well. A green Dumpster stood a few yards away. She went over and lifted the lid. The stench was unbearable. She held her breath and peered in.

It was filled with broken bottles, Chinese food containers, paper plates, and the remnants of half-eaten sandwiches. She grabbed a stick and poked around the top layer of garbage. She saw tissues with lipstick, an empty tube of toothpaste, and a few other objects she couldn’t identify and didn’t want to. She levered the stick to reveal more of the Dumpster’s contents. Underneath some crumpled newspapers and fast-food wrappers, she caught a glimpse of something pink. She angled the stick trying to expose more. A pink bathrobe. She lowered the lid and threw the stick away.

What was this place? A holding pen? Why was no one around? When had they left? And why was the pink bathrobe in the Dumpster? She thought about canvassing the adjacent warehouses, then reconsidered. What if those buildings were owned by the same people? Or what if they were looking out for the place in the owner’s absence? What would happen when they reported that a strange woman was checking it out?

She took a few steps back and glanced up. No second story. Nothing but a flat roof. She walked around to the driveway and headed to her car. It was a bleak day, layers of gunmetal-gray clouds pressing down on their way to earth. No one was hanging around outside. She opened the Toyota’s trunk, took out her bolt cutters and a Maglite, and went to the rear of the warehouse.

But when she picked up the padlock to examine it, the lock fell away from the hasp. It was unlocked. She froze. Why? Was someone inside? She backtracked to her car, put away the bolt cutters, and grabbed her baby Glock. Slipping it into her holster, she approached the back of the warehouse again with the Maglite, unsure whether to go in. She waited another minute but heard nothing that indicated a human presence. Cautiously she opened the door and stepped inside.

Right away a peculiar odor, both sweet and rancid, washed over her. She couldn’t quite place it. Rotting food? Perfume? Both? She breathed through her mouth. A yawning dark cloaked the place in black. She flicked on her Maglite.

On either side were two rooms, both with doors, both closed. In front of one of the rooms was a bathroom. A center aisle led her to the front part of the warehouse. A light switch hung on the wall nearby. She flipped it. Nothing happened. She swept the Maglite around a room about the size of a six-car garage. Concrete floor. Cinder-block walls. Empty, except for an air mattress, mostly flat, on the floor. In the center of the room a few plastic chairs were grouped around a scuffed TV table. No TV.

Georgia wiped a hand across her brow. She was sweating. Mostly from fear, she knew, but she forced herself to suppress it. She needed to focus. This was a warehouse, but there was nothing to indicate goods were being stored or transported. Unless those goods were human.

She aimed the Maglite into a corner. The familiar white bags, the kind Benny’s used, were crumpled up, but that hadn’t stopped rats or other rodents from foraging. She frowned. That must be part of the odor. As she moved the beam to the other corner, something glinted in the light. She stepped closer and saw bits of tinfoil, some with scorch marks. She kept probing the light and saw a couple of brown plastic prescription vials.

As she backed up she tripped, and something clattered on the concrete floor. She started and swung the Maglite down. A can of Diet Coke skittered across the floor and was still rocking. She let out her breath. Had this place been the den for a sex-trafficking ring? Women snatched from who knows where, enslaved, and kept docile by hooking them on meth or smack? And was one of these women her half sister?

She retreated to the back of the warehouse and opened the door to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet was distorted, making her mouth and chin unnaturally large. She looked into the cabinet. Nothing, not even a bottle of aspirin.

Then she checked out one of the other small rooms in the back. Nothing there either, except trash piled in a corner. She focused the light on the pile and was able to make out a mound of discarded tissues and toilet paper. An empty cardboard box was part of the pile. She took a closer look. A home pregnancy test kit.

The last thing sex traffickers wanted was a girl to become pregnant. They needed working girls. So if one of them did get pregnant, wouldn’t they make sure she had an abortion? Georgia thought back to the body of the blond, pregnant girl found on the road near Harvard. But that was fifty miles away.

She fished out her iPhone and was shooting some pictures when a squeak startled her. Someone was coming through the back door. She snapped off the Maglite. A dark gloom descended. It was impossible to make out objects. She pulled out her Glock and spun around.

Footsteps shuffled on the concrete floor. Just one person. With an uneven tread. The intruder had a limp. Which gave her an advantage. Hell, what was she thinking?
She
was the intruder.

She crouched on the floor of the small room. A dark, hulking shape passed by the open door, then stopped. He’d seen her. He backtracked, his shape filling the door frame.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said. “I’ve got a gun.”

T
he shape seemed to shift its weight.

“I said, stop where you are. Right now.”

The movement ceased. A moment passed. Then a phlegmy cough broke the silence. “I hear yuh.”

A southern drawl. Georgia felt her breath catch. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“This be where I live. Who is you?”

Relief surged through her. Suddenly, she was terribly tired. She stood up. “How long have you lived here?”

“Few nights. Maybe more.”

“Sit on the floor.”

The figure did.

“Okay, I’m going to turn a light on.”

“No. No light.”

“I need to make sure you’re not armed.”

“You the police?” His accent was on the first syllable.

She didn’t answer. She snapped on the Maglite with one hand, still aiming her Glock with the other.

A black man in sweatpants and cowboy boots. Some kind of jacket, but no gloves or hat. Salt-and-pepper hair, a ragged face, plenty of stubble. The guy was shivering, but he tried to smile. “Hey, you shine that light somewhere else? I can’t see shit.”

She angled the light to the side.

“You ’bout scared the living piss out of me. But I got a bottle in my jacket. And I could really use a drink right about now.” He started to reach toward his pocket.

Georgia moved the light back to his face. “Don’t even think about it.”

His hand stopped. He tried to block the glare with it. “Ain’t no gun; I don’t have none. Why you here? Ain’t no one supposed to be here no more.”

“What do you mean?”

“I seen ’em leave.”

“Who?”

I don’t know who. But they all pack up and left.”

“When?”

“I told you. About a week ago.”

“Who were they?” Georgia repeated.

“Lady…I keep telling you. I don’t know. Now, you wanna let me get my bottle?”

“In a minute.” He was probably out of range, all the way across the room, but better to be careful.

“You said you didn’t know much about the people who were here.”

“That’s right.”

“Were they mostly women?”

“There be men too.”

“Could you tell what they were doing?”

“Figured they was hos and pimps.”

“What made you think that?”

“When I get here, there’s perfume, hair stuff, makeup too. I cleaned up some, but you know…” His voice trailed off. “Guess they was in a hurry.”

“What else?”

He shook his head. “Nothin.’ I be staying here now. It ain’t half-bad.” He stopped. “Hey, I told you what I know. You wanna help me?”

“How?”

“You wanna blow some air into that air mattress yonder? My breathing ain’t so great.”

Georgia crept closer and shone the light into bloodshot eyes. She could see he was breathing hard. Emphysema? He gazed at her with such a beseeching look that she couldn’t turn away. The guy hardly had breath enough to live. Much less come after her.

“Okay.” She holstered her gun, lowered the light, and walked past him into the other room where the air mattress was . She hoped there were no bedbugs or roaches nesting in it . “You can get your bottle now.”

T
he homeless man raised questions for which Georgia had no answers, so she swung back to Benny’s to wait for Bruce Kreisman. An hour later he hadn’t shown up, so she went inside. It was midafternoon but business was still brisk. She ordered a bowl of matzoh-ball soup to go, and when they handed her the white bag at the take-out counter, she asked about Kreisman.

“Oh, he no here,” one of the Hispanic women said, her accent thick.

Georgia frowned. “Your delivery guy just left?”

“
Sí
. Almost
una hora
, one hour now.”

“Did he say where he was going? Or when he’d be back?”

The woman shook her head. “He say he have important business. But you know, boss is no happy. He could fire.” She clucked her tongue. “You wan’ I tell him you come?”

It was Georgia’s turn to shake her head. “It’s not important.” She carried her soup back to the car, not liking the fact that he was doing some “business.” Especially since she’d given him her card.

She ate her soup in the car, then headed to the Eisenhower. She figured she could make it to Oakbrook where Susie’s Café was before rush hour. But traffic was building and progress was slow, which gave her time to eye the billboards on the side of the freeway. Signs for McDonald’s, a gambling casino, and a car dealer flashed by, but after those was a black billboard with a photo of a pregnant African American girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve. Fuchsia letters blasted the words “People who have sex with children are criminals. Stop teen pregnancy.”

Georgia gripped the wheel. She wasn’t a proponent of unmarried pregnancy without a damn good reason. Despite her Catholic upbringing, she used to recommend abortions for the pregnant hookers she busted when she was on patrol. Until the day she’d been downtown at a museum and wandered into a shamelessly pro-life exhibit. She mentally prepared herself not to be swayed, but one of the display cases showed actual three-dimensional models of what fetuses looked like at various stages of pregnancy. Even at twelve weeks, the model looked remarkably like a tiny baby. When she realized those tiny beings were alive, she’d had to flee the museum. Once in a while, images of those babies still came unbidden.

She snapped on the radio. The all-news station was predicting four to five new inches of snow, and a few errant snowflakes were already landing on her windshield. She would be caught in traffic after all.

S
usie’s Café occupied the corner of a shopping center in Oakbrook between Chico’s and a jewelry store. Red and blue signs promised a Euro cheerfulness, which was enhanced by blue-checked plastic tablecloths inside, replicas of windmills on the walls, and lots of travel posters. The place was nearly empty, and only one woman was behind the counter, but the meager offerings of pastries and sandwiches in the display case indicated either that lunch had been successful or that the place was on its last legs.

Georgia approached the woman, who was wearing a blue-checked gingham dress with an apron tied around her waist. She looked ridiculous.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound pleasant.

The woman gave her a curt nod. Not the warmest of welcomes. Did she feel as foolish as she looked?

“I’m in the mood for something sweet.” Georgia smiled.

“Well”—the woman waved her hand toward a line of pastries—“we only have these left.”

Georgia pretended to study them but tried to peer through the display case to see if there was any wrap on the counter. Nothing. She glanced up. “Glad business is so good.”

The woman’s gave her a blank look. Maybe it wasn’t.

“I can’t decide. Why don’t you recommend something? Oh, and it’s to go. I need to get home before the snow starts.”

The woman studied her for a moment, then slid the display case open and removed a small apple crumb cake. “How about this?”

“Perfect. How much?”

“Four fifty-nine.”

“Okay. Could you wrap it for me?”

The woman disappeared into the back with the crumb cake.

Georgia shifted her weight. A moment later the woman reappeared with a small white bag. Did every restaurant use white bags? Georgia dug out a five from her wallet and peeked into the bag while the woman rang it up. It had been wrapped, but the wrapper was very different from Benny’s. It was a tissue decorated with blue and white checks, not the red and yellow stripes Benny’s used. Georgia pulled out the pastry. “Oh, what a nice wrapping,” she said.

The woman scowled as if Georgia had just said the lamest thing in the world. Which she had.

“It matches the tablecloths,” the woman said in a dull voice.

Georgia glanced at a table. “It sure does.” Then she said, “You know, when I was here before, I thought I remembered the wrapping being red and yellow. Or at least it had those colors in it.”

The woman’s expression seemed to imply “What kind of idiot focuses on the wrap?” But Georgia was the customer. “We haven’t used those in six months. We upgraded.” Her listless emphasis on the word “upgraded” made Georgia think the woman didn’t give a damn about wraps one way or the other.

“Six months? It’s been that long since I’ve been here?” She paused. “I guess time really does fly.”
Oh God. Couldn’t she do better than that?

The woman tilted her head, but her scowl deepened. “Will there be anything else?”

“No. You’ve been very helpful.”