Chicago
A few flakes of snow spit sideways as Georgia left the coffee shop. She hurried to her Toyota, trying to guess whether the granite clouds overhead would produce a full-blown storm. She keyed the engine and ran the heat. Once the temperature was bearable, she made a call.
She’d been completely honest when she told Erica Stewart her resources were meager compared to the FBI’s. But what she hadn’t told her was that the people she relied on, whether ethical hackers, private DNA experts, or forensic fraud experts, were themselves former FBI or IC agents who had mastered their respective skills.
Her call went to voice mail. Zach Dolan, a former hacker who’d found redemption and lots more income on the right side of the law, was probably out walking his dog. She left a message and drove south on Green Bay Road.
Paul Kelly’s office, no longer in the raunchy part of Rogers Park, occupied a suite in a small office building on Touhy Avenue. He’d hired a receptionist, too, a matronly woman with old-fashioned blue-white hair. She greeted Georgia with a cheerful smile.
“May I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Georgia Davis, and I’d like to see—”
“You’re Georgia?” The woman’s eyes widened. “The PI, right? Oh, I’m thrilled to meet you. Paul talks about you all the time.” The receptionist rose from an office chair with wheels, came around, and pumped Georgia’s hand. “Welcome! I’m Joan Chase . What can I get you to drink?”
Georgia felt her cheeks get hot. She wasn’t used to someone fussing over her with effusive welcomes. She was saved from an awkward reply by a voice calling out from the back.
“Joan, is that who I think it is?”
“Come out and see, Paul.”
The door to an office opened, and a man, somewhere in his sixties, walked out. Paul Kelly wasn’t tall, but he was compact. Light bounced off his shiny bald head like it always did, but the shabby blue blazer, khaki pants, and blue shirt he used to wear had been replaced with a well-tailored suit, crisp shirt, and respectable rep tie.
Georgia ran her hands down her jeans. It occurred to her she might be underdressed.
“You’re late,” he said, pulling out a new iPhone. Things were clearly going well in Paul Kelly Land.
“Um, late for what? I didn’t know we had an appointment.”
“We didn’t.” His face cracked into a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “But I knew you were meeting with Erica, and I bet Joan a buck you’d end up here before the end of the day. Didn’t I, Joanie?” He spread his arms for a bear hug.
Georgia hugged him back.
“He did indeed.” Joan grinned. Either he was telling the truth, or she’d perfected the art of covering for him.
Paul guided her back to his office, a spacious room. Even a large desk and small conference table in a corner didn’t fill it completely. Georgia pulled up a chair at the table. An unusual amount of light flooded through the windows.
“In that case, I’m guessing I’m your insurance policy. So you can tell Erica you’ve done everything possible to help.”
“When did you get so cynical, Davis?” But the top of his ears reddened. That was his tell. Always had been. “As you undoubtedly know by now, I told her to meet with you.” He sat opposite her. “That you would give her an honest appraisal of her needs and your capabilities.”
“Paul, I can’t do anything for her. The FBI already told her the email was untraceable.”
“And you believe them? Those bastions of truth, justice, and the American way?”
“Not you, too.” She sighed. “Not everything is a conspiracy. There are times where if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .” She left the rest of the sentence unfinished.
“You’re looking at it like a cop. Levelheaded. Logical. Sane.”
“Someone has to.”
“You know the FBI took over the case from CPD, right?”
“What else is new?” She thought about it. “Probably not a bad idea, given what Dena was doing and who her father is.”
“Yeah, well, you know how well that went over with my cop buddies.”
Georgia nodded. Turf battles between Chicago Blues and the feds were common, at least in Chicago.
“Erica’s a nice lady. What happened to her is horrible. No mother should ever have to endure what she has,” Paul said.
“Tell me about the ex-husband in DC. The lobbyist.”
Paul leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. “You know how Illinois keeps sending our governors to prison?”
“Yeah . . . ,” Georgia said uncertainly.
“Well, for every governor in jail, there are three lobbyists who should be but aren’t. Baldwin’s one of ’em.”
“Why? What does he do?”
Paul unclasped his fingers and grabbed the arms of his chair. “What every lobbyist does. Bribes and threats. Google him. You’ll see.”
“Do you think he was involved in his daughter’s death?”
“I hope to hell not. But according to Erica, the daughter sliced him out of her life like a sharp knife a couple of years back. Look. Can you just make a call or two? It would set her mind at ease.” He threw her a knowing look.
“What about the son, Jeffrey? What’s his story?”
“Interesting. He was one of those entitled North Shore kids. A bully. Into everything that wasn’t nailed down. He was busted a few times. Once for a B and E to steal cash for Molly. The drug. Dad got his record expunged. Then the kid moved out to Hollywood to be an actor.”
“Really? He was with Erica today. He appeared to be worried. But he said he didn’t want his mother to hire me. That it was dangerous for them.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“What?”
Kelly held up a finger indicating she should be patient. “So, Jeffrey came back after Erica started the foundation.”
“Foundation?”
“She’s the daughter of Franklin Porter.”
Georgia flipped up a hand. “Who?”
“Old Chicago money. Lots of it. A grandfather or great-grandfather, I don’t remember which, made a killing in silver mining out west. Moved here and bought their way into society. Been here ever since.”
“You’re saying Erica underwrote her ex-husband’s business?”
“At first, but he was in the right place at the right time. And with her connections, he parlayed that into a fortune all by himself.”
“Okay. What about this foundation?”
“After Erica divorced Baldwin, she started the foundation.” He paused. “The Baldwin Foundation for the Future.”
“What’s it do?”
“What do you think? It hands out money.”
“For what?”
“Basically, whatever they want. As long as it has to do with the future. You know, emerging businesses, artists, new tech ideas. The MacArthur Foundation meets Elon Musk.”
“A what meets who?”
“Never mind. Not important.”
“Why’d she start it?”
“Tax shelter. And to give her kids something to do. Neither wanted to work for their father.”
“Dena worked at the foundation?”
“She ran the place.”
“Wait . . . you said both kids.”
“Right. About a year after she started it, the son realized he wasn’t gonna make it in La-La Land, cleaned up his act, and came back to Chicago. Erica was thrilled. She gave him a job at the foundation.”
“How did that work out?”
“Surprisingly well, I’m told.”
“The kids got along?”
“Apparently. The timing was good. Dena was becoming more politically active when her brother was settling into his job. He basically took over. With everyone’s blessing.”
Georgia thought it over. “I still don’t think there’s much I can do.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve got contacts. Your boyfriend. That Foreman woman and her boyfriend. You could poke around.”
Jimmy was in law enforcement, and Ellie Foreman’s boyfriend was probably as rich as Erica Baldwin. They probably ran in the same circles. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Just dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. Gotta justify my outrageous malpractice premiums.” He grinned and leaned back. “So, how’s tricks with you?”
Georgia suspected he already knew, but she filled him in on her news. In another life Paul Kelly might have been her favorite uncle. And she did owe him her start. When the small talk was over, he inclined his head. “So?” he asked.
“Okay. I’ll turn over a few rocks. But the cops and the Bureau have been all over this. Don’t expect much.”
“That’s my gal.” He beamed.
How did he always manage to get his way?