The Present
Sheridan Road is home to both the priciest and the shabbiest buildings in Chicagoland. Mansions line streets from Evanston to the Wisconsin state line, and expensive apartment buildings form canyons from Lake Shore Drive south to the Field Museum. In between, though, are modest neighborhoods and even pockets of blight. Rogers Park, just south of Evanston, is on the modest end, and that’s where Georgia was headed the next morning.
When she turned onto Morse Avenue from Sheridan, she recognized Katherine Jarvis’s building right away. She’d seen it on the news. Tucked away a block west of Sheridan, a pair of three-flats were flanked by taller apartment buildings. One of the three-flats had been renovated and sported a bright red door and tidy lawn. But Katherine Jarvis’s building was marked by peeling paint, uneven porch steps, and windows lined with a sludge of filth that looked baked in.
She parked, trudged up the rickety steps, and entered the vestibule, a tiny room with mailboxes on one side. “Jarvis, K” lived in 1B. She hit the buzzer and waited a full minute. Nothing. She buzzed again. Still nothing. Jarvis wasn’t there. Georgia was disappointed but not surprised. She probably had a job. Georgia went back to the Corolla and settled in to wait.
Clouds scudded across the sky, creating two distinct climates that vied with each other. When the sun hid behind the overcast, it was a dreary late winter day in Chicago. But when the clouds parted, the sun was a cheerful harbinger of daffodils and warm weather. The dichotomy reflected Georgia’s mood.
While she waited, she called Katherine Jarvis’s cell, which she’d found online. It was disconnected. Her Facebook page had disappeared too. She couldn’t blame her. After all the press coverage and tumult and invasion of her privacy, her life had to be a mess. She probably hadn’t had time to mourn her brother. Still, she might have switched to an unlisted number. Georgia would continue to stake out her home.
She checked her messages. Two voice mails. One was a telemarketer. How did they get her number? Did they buy lists from phone providers? Had to be a scam. She should look into it. Someday. She deleted the call.
The second call came from a number she didn’t recognize. She clicked on the replay.
“Georgia, this is JoBeth. Vanna and I have been trying to find you. We want to talk. I’m thinking of staying here in Chicago. I could take care of Charlie while Vanna finishes school. Peaches, you’ve done a wonderful job with Vanna. She’s matured. Thoughtful, thinking ahead. That’s all because of you. Please call us. I know you miss Charlie. He’s something, isn’t he?” Her chuckle sounded nervous. “Anyway, think about it. I love you.”
Georgia stared at her cell’s screen. She hadn’t been JoBeth’s “peach” for twenty-five years. Then, like the mottled sky that intermittently blotted out the sun, Georgia’s mood swung. Her mother was bouncing her on her knee. She couldn’t remember when or where she was, but a recording of Ray Charles warbling “Georgia on My Mind” in his gravelly voice played in the background. JoBeth sang along. Georgia felt safe and protected. And loved. But the song’s mournful lyrics sparked a twinge of regret too. An omen of things to come? Georgia deleted the number. She was on the outside. Even if it was her own choice.
By ten that night Georgia decided Jarvis’s sister wasn’t coming home. She drove back to Evanston. She was back the next morning before eight with a steaming latte. Still no answer when she buzzed. She bundled up in her car to wait.
Twenty minutes later, a young man burst out of the vestibule and down the steps to the sidewalk. Checking his cell, he hurried toward Sheridan Road. He waved to hail a passing bus, but the vehicle didn’t stop. Georgia climbed out of the Toyota.
He dug out his cell and tapped a few keys. Calling an Uber? If so, she had about five minutes before it arrived. She jogged to the corner. His back was to her.
“Hey, sorry to bother you. I know you’re late.”
“How did—” Jarvis’s neighbor whirled around. A quilted North Face jacket, khaki pants. Wavy brown hair, a cleft chin, round, suspicious eyes.
“I saw you come out of the three-flat down there.” Georgia gestured toward the building.
Those round eyes narrowed. “Are you stalking me?”
Everyone thought the world revolved around them. “I’m looking for Katherine Jarvis.”
“Oh.” Comprehension dawned. He studied her. “You don’t look like a reporter.”
“That might be because I’m not.” She hesitated. “We were friends in grade school. I wanted to see how she was doing.”
His eyebrows arched, as if he didn’t believe her. She didn’t blame him. It was a lame pretext.
“Do you know where she is?” she asked.
“You really don’t know her, do you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you did, you’d know everyone calls her Kitty.” He drew himself up. “And you won’t find her.”
“Why not?”
“She’s gone.”
“When?”
“A few weeks . . . maybe a month ago. Not long after her brother shot that woman.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know.”
Georgia frowned. “Did you know her brother?”
He shook his head. “I only . . .” Then he stopped. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
Georgia sighed and pulled out her license. “I’m an investigator. Private. The family hired me to look into a couple of things.”
The neighbor scanned the license. A white sedan pulled up, the Uber decal festooned on the windshield. He handed her license back. “Well, whoever you are, I gotta go.”
“Can you at least tell me where she worked?”
The neighbor shifted, conflicted. The Uber driver, who was holding up traffic on one of the busiest streets in Chicago, gestured impatiently. The neighbor ran his tongue around his lips. “Before she left, she tended bar at the Barracks. You know, off Sheridan.” He opened the back door of the Uber and climbed in.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
He nodded. The car was about to pull away, when Georgia grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. The brakes squealed, and the driver shouted, “Lady, watch it! You almost lost an arm.”
Georgia held up her hand, dug in her bag, and pulled out a card, which she handed to the neighbor. She tried to smile. “Please call me if you find out where she went. Or anything else, for that matter.”