A winter dusk descended, bringing with it lazy bands of snow as Georgia drove back to Evanston. At a red light she punched in Vanna’s cell. It went to voice mail. Where was she? The tickle of anxiety in her gut expanded. Although the nightmare a year earlier was over, her connection to Vanna was still tentative and fragile. Like the delicate web of a spider, family bonds could be destroyed by the slightest breeze or movement.
Back home, Georgia called Erica. She told her she’d look into the mysterious email but not to expect much. She’d work on the case for a week. Then they could reassess.
“Great,” Erica said. “What do you need from me?”
“A key to Dena’s apartment and permission to go inside. The passwords on her computer, if you know them. Emails, Facebook, other social media accounts.”
“I don’t know her passwords, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The FBI has her computer.”
“Do you have the names of the agents who took it?”
Erica told her. The names weren’t familiar. Georgia wrote them down.
“What was her email address?”
“She had a few. Her main one was Denaeaglewin@comcast.net.”
“Eaglewin?”
“Bald eagle. Baldwin.”
“Got it.” Georgia wrote it down. “And the others?”
“Dena@ResistanceUSA.org and DenaIQ160@comcast.net. Dena never dumbed herself down.”
It took Georgia a few seconds to get it. When she did, she kept her mouth shut. “So, let’s talk about ‘beef jerky.’ To your knowledge did she know someone who loved beef jerky? Did she like it?”
“Dena didn’t eat the stuff. Too many chemical additives, she said.”
“Okay. What about her brother? Would Jeffrey by any chance know?”
“I’ll ask him. Call you back.”
“Thanks. One other thing . . .” Georgia proposed her fee for the week. Erica accepted without hesitation.
Georgia checked her phone. A text from Jimmy; he was on his way down, but with the snow, he probably wouldn’t be there for another hour. Nothing from Vanna. She swallowed, then forced herself back to the case. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, booted up her computer, and went to the Facebook group.
ResistanceUSA was a public forum. Anyone could join. So she did and was told she needed to be approved by an administrator. Still, all the posts on the Facebook group were public. She read through them.
At the top of the page was a flood of condolence posts about Dena’s death, plus some panic-laden notes asking what they would do now. A few messages asked about Ruth Marriotti’s condition. The name sounded familiar; Georgia googled it. She was one of the people wounded at the demonstration. A few generic responses said Ruth was on the mend and she’d be back.
She scrolled down. Most of the posts were highly critical of the president; some were bitingly funny. She read a decree from Dena not to post memes, which, judging from all the quotes and graphics, had been ignored. A chorus of comments typically followed every post—with forty-two thousand members, that wasn’t surprising. But the rage bubbling just below the surface of many posts was. Georgia hadn’t realized how bitter people were that the political pendulum had swung away from them.
Not all, however. One poster wrote, This is the only place I can get accurate information. Thank you, Dena. Another wrote, This is my refuge from the insanity. It’s the first place I check in the morning and the last place at night. I don’t know how I’d survive without all of you. Dena must have been pleased—and proud—of what she’d created, Georgia thought.
She scrolled to posts dated before the demonstration. An air of excitement and resolve came through the page. Plans were crafted, critiqued, adopted or rejected. Earnest discussions about nonviolence and what to do if someone—God forbid the Chicago police—started using aggressive tactics. Many of the posts were barely articulate and were rife with misspellings, but their passion for becoming crusaders against injustice, if only for a day, was clear.
Dena posted more than anyone, sometimes a dozen times a day. Her comments were usually the last word on a subject, although to her credit, Georgia noted, she let the conversation keep going until posters started to repeat themselves. She also shared ideas; for example, she encouraged people who knew A-list celebrities to invite them to the demonstration. Some, according to comments, were actually coming. Dena applauded each member who’d made an effort. Good leadership skills, Georgia noted.
She clicked on the tab for “Members.” Besides Dena, there were three administrators, two women and two men. One of the women was Ruth Marriotti. Georgia’s eyebrows rose. A list of members in Chicago followed. She scrolled down. Almost six thousand. She scanned the list quickly and found Ruth’s name again. A stroke of luck.
She jotted down some notes, beginning with Dena’s family:
She got up and started to pace. The seventeen alphabet intelligence agencies used to be the only institutions that could pull off a huge data search. But now, with companies like Cambridge Analytica or that Israeli outfit, private organizations with just a few people were data mining regularly. Maybe there was a way for her to plug into one of them.
Georgia had a lot of work to do. But first, she needed Dena’s computer from the FBI. Or a flash drive with its contents. Jimmy knew someone at the Bureau. He’d have the guy’s contact info.
The meaty aroma of the cooked chicken in the kitchen wafted over her. She checked the time. After five. She hadn’t eaten since the coffee and pastry she’d downed that morning. No wonder her mouth was watering. She was setting the table in the kitchen when Vanna, Charlie, and Jimmy came in together, shaking snow off their boots.
Relief washed over her at Vanna’s return, but she tried to be casual. “Hi, guys. Did you drive home together?”
Vanna stared at her with dead eyes.
Georgia felt lost; how was she supposed to treat an angry sixteen-year-old? Fortunately, Jimmy took over.
“We bumped into each other out front. Where were you, honey?” he asked Vanna.
“Out.” Vanna whirled around and headed to her room. “I’ll go change Charlie. Is dinner ready? I’m starved.”
Georgia and Jimmy exchanged glances. Jimmy held up his hand, a signal for Georgia to let it go.
She did. For now.