- Home
- Libby Fischer Hellmann
Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series)
Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) Read online
Praise for Libby Fischer Hellmann
Havana Lost
“A many-layered adventure…smart writing, done in accomplished style by an author who never talks down to her readers.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
“A riveting historical thriller… This multigenerational page-turner is packed with intrigue and shocking plot twists.”
—Booklist
“A sprawling tale… the story of the Cuban revolution, as well as the Cuban military efforts in Angola, is fascinating…”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hellmann’s writing has matured considerably since her early novels. Her plotting has become more solid and assured, her characters more realistic, her settings wonderfully described. This is a fine, extremely well told novel.”
—Deadly Pleasures
A Bitter Veil
“The Iranian revolution provides the backdrop for this meticulously researched, fast-paced standalone …A significant departure from the author’s Chicago-based Ellie Foreman and Georgia Davis mystery series, this political thriller will please established fans and newcomers alike.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hellmann crafts a tragically beautiful story… both subtle and vibrant… never sacrificing the quality of her storytelling. Instead, the message drives the psychological and emotional conflict painting a bleak and heart wrenching tale that will stick with the reader long after they finish the book.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Readers will be drawn in through the well-researched inside look at Iran in the late 1970s and gain perspective on what the people in that time and place endured. A Bitter Veilis so thought-provoking that it especially would be a great title for book clubs to discuss.”
—Book Reporter
“A Bitter Veil… is a social statement about what can happen when religious fundamentalism trumps human rights, but that’s hardly a drawback in this suspenseful, well-researched book. It might even serve as a warning.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
Set the Night on Fire
“A top-rate standalone thriller that taps into the antiwar protests of the 1960s and 70s…A jazzy fusion of past and present, Hellman’s insightful, politically charged whodunit explores a fascinating period in American history.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Superior standalone novel…Hellmann creates a fully-realized world…complete with everyday details, passions and enthusiasms on how they yearned for connection, debated about ideology and came to belief in taking risks to stand up for what they believed.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Haunting…Rarely have history, mystery, and political philosophy blended so beautifully…could easily end up on the required reading list in college-level American History classes.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
Easy Innocence
“Hellmann brings to life the reality of bullying among teenage girls with enough twists and turns to keep you reading. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal, Starred Review
“Just what’s needed in a mystery… Depth of characterization sets this new entry by Hellmann apart from a crowded field.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“There’s a new no-nonsense female private detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money.”
—Chicago Tribune
Also by Libby Fischer Hellmann
Havana Lost
A Bitter Veil
Set the Night on Fire
♦
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES
ToxiCity
Doubleback
Easy Innocence
♦
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES
A Shot to Die For
An Image of Death
A Picture of Guilt
An Eye for Murder
♦
Nice Girl Does Noir (short stories)
♦
Chicago Blues (editor)
Nobody’s Child
Libby Fischer Hellmann
The Red Herrings Press
Chicago
This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events, organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not intended to be real.
Copyright © 2014 Libby Fischer Hellmann
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Miguel Ortuno
Interior design by Sue Trowbridge
ISBN: 978-1-938733-46-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908554
For Jan Gordon
who has my everlasting admiration and respect
I have nobody to talk to, to confide in and share my problems with. I have nobody to cheer me up when I’m down, nobody to love or love me back. I have nobody. I am alone.
Unknown
Contents
Praise for Libby Fischer Hellmann
Also by Libby Fischer Hellmann
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
> Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Acknowledgements
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES
SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE
A BITTER VEIL
HAVANA LOST
NICE GIRL DOES NOIR, Vol. 1 and 2
Chapter 1
They swarmed into the store like a plague of locusts. The rows of pants, jeans, and shirts were stacked in neat piles ready to tempt shoppers. The floors were swept, the windows sparkled, and punk music flowed out of the loudspeakers. Reggie Field, the store owner, didn’t much like punk. He preferred Dylan, the Byrds, even Motown, but oldies wouldn’t work for his customers.
He sipped the last of his latte, mentally congratulating himself for finally being in the right place at the right time. A serial entrepreneur, he’d failed more than not, but last fall he’d opened a designer discount store in Evanston, a suburb just north of Chicago. Evanston was a mecca for college kids, not only from Northwestern and the teachers college whose name he never remembered, but Loyola students and high school wannabes too. The store took off, and fourteen months later, he turned a profit. He’d been thinking about opening another store.
He was contemplating whether to flirt with his new salesgirl—it was only her third day, but she was cute, curvy, and blond—when the doors flew open and a horde of young males streamed in. There had to be more than twenty, all converging on the store. Reggie froze as they surged past him without a glance and slithered down the aisles. They planted themselves beside the counters, the wall units, even the display mannequins. Where had they come from? How had they managed to appear en masse, like they’d crashed a boring party and were taking over?
Wearing oversized jackets, backpacks, baggy pants, and gym shoes, these kids weren’t the preppy college kids who usually shopped here. A few had earbuds that trailed white cords and were bobbing their heads. Others grinned and laughed and shouted over the store’s speakers. The pungent smell of weed drifted over. All within a minute.
The new girl tried to ask one or two if they needed help, but they pushed past her, knocking her off balance. Reggie set his latte down next to the register.
“Hey. Watch it!”
But no one answered, and he soon saw why. The kids were too busy raking through piles of clothes and holding them up. It was when they started stuffing them into their backpacks and bags that Reggie ducked behind the cash register, pulled out his cell, and called 911.
“Designer Discount Den. I’m getting ripped off. Right now. About twenty. Maybe more. Get here right away!”
Still behind the counter, he pushed a button and a loud alarm sounded. Any normal person would have been startled by ear-splitting blasts that sounded like the end of the world. Not these punks. They kept grabbing clothes and stuffing them into jackets and backpacks, all the while laughing and high-fiving each other, clearly enjoying the bedlam they’d created. That’s what it was, Reggie realized. Sheer bedlam. Everything he’d worked for was turning to shit.
His pulse pounding, his blood pressure sky-high, Reggie tried to think. The best thing would be to get the hell out of the store. Lock the doors with them inside. They’d be trapped. He’d heard of another guy who did exactly that, but the assholes managed to sneak out the back, smashing windows as they ran. And what about his girl? He craned his neck, trying to spot her. He finally saw her, pinned against the wall by two punks. What were they doing? He couldn’t tell, but her eyes met his. She looked terrified. Fury knifed through him. He couldn’t abandon her—Maya, that was her name—to these barbarians. With a boldness he hardly recognized in himself, he tore himself from behind the counter and shouldered his way through the mob.
“Hey! Get away from her. Right now. Leave her the fuck alone!”
Two guys spun around, releasing their hold on the girl. As she sprinted toward the front door, one of the punks grabbed him from behind, while the other hit him across the jaw. A third belted him with an uppercut to his chin. The last thing Reggie heard as he slumped to the floor was Maya’s scream.
Chapter 2
Georgia Davis got the call two days later. She’d heard about the incident—the video was all over YouTube, and the media was full of it. How the flash mob ripped off five grand in inventory, how the owner ended up in the ER with stitches, how the punks scattered so fast the police had no suspects and were begging the public for leads. Even so, she was surprised when Reggie Field’s wife phoned.
“I just can’t believe it,” Shelly Field said a few seconds into the call. “Thirty years in retail and we’ve never seen anything like this. And the first week of January. Happy Fucking New Year.”
“Is your husband home from the hospital?”
“Oh yes. You know how they are. If you’re conscious and breathing, they kick you out. You could die on the way home, but they don’t care. Reggie’s still recovering, of course, and we’ve had to keep the store closed. I don’t know how we’re going to make up the losses. It’s just—just unlike anything we’ve ever dealt with.” The woman sighed theatrically.
Georgia listened with more than a trace of skepticism. The woman’s whines and complaints presumed an innocence about the ways of the world Georgia didn’t buy. Thirty years in retail would have taught anyone with half a brain about shoplifting, price gouging, and under-the-table deals. But she didn’t have to fall in love with her clients; she just had to tolerate them long enough to make their problem go away. She was a private investigator, not a therapist. Then again, being flash robbed was not your everyday event. She should probably fake a little sympathy.
“You have insurance, don’t you?”
The woman went on. “Yes, but they say they’re not going to investigate any more than the police already have. And, of course, the police have no idea who it was or how to catch them. Can you believe it? Going on the Internet and TV with our security tape? Do they think these thugs are just gonna give themselves up? Next thing you know they’ll offer ’em a reality show.”
Georgia stifled a giggle and covered it with a cough. The woman, intentionally or not, had a sense of humor. “Mrs. Field, I’m not sure I can do anything the police haven’t already done.”
“Call me Shelly, honey. And lemme tell you, they’re not doing anything. Look, I realize nobody got killed, and Reggie wasn’t seriously hurt, and the insurance—God forbid the rate hike that’s coming—will cover most of it. But you know? I gotta believe those punks knew that. And the cops—well, they won’t admit it—but this is on their back burner.”
The woman was right. Before she became a PI, Georgia had been a police officer for ten years, and despite the fact that she ultimately resigned, put-downs about cops still made her defensive. “It’s not that, Shelly; it’s just that they have to prioritize. This economy has hit cops hard too. They’ve got a—a boatload of homicides, arsons, sexual assaults, and fewer resources to handle them. They have to choose.” She almost smiled. She wished she’d recorded what she just said so she could send it to Dan O’Malley, her former boss, now the chief of police in Northview. He wouldn’t believe it.
“Yeah, yeah. A victimless crime. That’s what they keep saying,” Mrs. Field said. “But it wasn’t.”
“I agree. Especially with your husband getting hurt. If violence is involved, no matter—”
“It’s not just that, sweetheart.” The woman cut her off. “There’s a part of this that hasn’t come out. That’s why we called you.”
“What do you mean ‘hasn’t come out’?”
“Reggie’ll tell you.” Shelly hesitated, then issued a sigh. “You gotta remember this was our livelihood. Our entire life. Now Reggie’s practically ready to cash it in. Ya can’t blame him, you
know? We’re not getting any younger. But I just hate the thought of going on social security.”
“How did you get to me?” Georgia asked.
“One of our neighbors recommended you.”
“Who?”
“Um, she—they don’t wanna say. But you got a good rep. They say you know what you’re doing.”
“Where do you live?”
“Glencoe.”
Georgia wondered who the neighbor was. She didn’t know many people in Glencoe. Only one family, in fact. She tapped her fingers on her desk. It was the second week of January, typically a slow period until the post-Christmas cheer dried up and people went back to their greedy, thieving ways. She had time. And she could always use the money.