The Barracks had to be one of the only bars on the North Side that opened at nine in the morning. Then again, military people typically didn’t drink on a schedule when they were deployed. Georgia suspected they didn’t give a shit when they started or stopped. Being alive was celebration enough to toss back a few.
She paused before entering and peeked through the window. A big table in front. Long bar, metal barstools, linoleum floor. Grimier and seedier than Mickey’s, it was still, like Mickey’s, a dive. Georgia had misspent much of her youth at similar establishments. Dive bars were comfort food, she would say. She knew what she was getting and it was mostly drunk. She pushed through the door. But she wasn’t that person anymore. Was she?
The place was empty. She walked the length of the bar and found a door she assumed led to the kitchen. “Hello?”
No response. A low-pitched machine noise whined on the other side. She raised her voice. “Hello? Anyone here?”
She turned to leave.
“One minute,” a reedy male voice replied.
The man who came through the door had significant scarring on the left side of his face, which puckered and raised his skin in random lines, some shot through with red.
Georgia must have gawked, because he said, “IED. Afghanistan. Kandahar. Ten years ago. What can I get you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Hard not to.” He paused. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Coffee?”
“I’ll get it.” He motioned to the empty barstools. “Try to avoid the crowd.”
She grinned and took a seat. Tall and skinny, with thinning hair, he wore a small white towel draped over his shoulder. Just like Owen.
A minute later, he came back with coffee, sugar, and creamer. “I’m actually an investigator,” Georgia said.
“I knew you weren’t a real customer.”
“How?”
“Most people who drink in the morning don’t have anywhere to go. You’re dressed for work.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Charlie Stokes.”
“That’s my nephew’s name. Charlie.”
He shot her a wry expression. “So, what do you want?”
“I’m looking for Kitty Jarvis.”
“Her?” He grimaced.
“You know her?”
He shook his head. “Lady had a rough time, I hear. But I started after she left.”
“She quit for good?”
“As far as I know.”
“You know where I can find her?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t leave an address or cell.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Since the end of February?”
He nodded.
“Would the owner know how to get in touch with her?”
“Maybe.” He grabbed a scrap of paper and scrawled down a number.
“Thanks.”
“A couple of guys who knew her brother drop in from time to time. Maybe they know something.”
“Who are they?”
“No idea. Military, I guess. Tats up and down their arms.”
She pulled out a card. “Next time they come in, could you give me a call?”
“Sure.” He read the card. “Well, Ms. Davis, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Georgia spent the rest of the day wearing out shoe leather, as the gumshoes would put it. She didn’t mind. Pounding the pavement was basic PI work, or it was before everything migrated online. Now investigators worried about carpal tunnel rather than blisters.
She tracked down the Barracks’ owner, who, it turned out, owned several dive bars in addition to the Barracks. He had no contact information for Kitty. Sure, he’d call her if Kitty got in touch but warned Georgia the chances were slim. Yes, he’d been interviewed by the FBI. Georgia sighed. Would she ever break new ground on this case?
She dropped in on Ruth Marriotti, who looked a lot healthier than she had the first time they’d talked. She had dispensed with the walker, there was color in her face, and her hair was styled. Even her apartment looked clean. Georgia noticed a couple of bright paintings on the wall, a collection of china figurines on an end table, and coasters that looked like tiny vinyl records. She had to admit the place had an eclectic charm. She sat on the sofa.
“Dena gave us whatever money we needed, but it wasn’t that much,” Ruth said.
“Money for what?”
“Oh . . . let’s see. There was signage for the demonstration—that was probably most of it. A huge banner on the stage, and posters in and around Grant Park. We had to pay for private security, too. That was a big chunk. Lot of good it did.” She snorted. “Let’s see. We had flyers to copy and post all over the city. We emailed them all over the country, too.” Her brow furrowed. “Oh yeah. Permit fees. They weren’t cheap. And DJ did some Facebook ads, mostly boosted posts. We also did some Google ads. Not cheap. Then there was office stuff, like printer ribbons and paper, you know. Oh, and Dena usually picked up the tab when we went out.”
“Where’d she get the money?”
“I assumed it was family money.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to. I mean, her grandfather was one of the richest men in Chicago,” Ruth replied with a trace of smugness. “Franklin Porter. He cornered the silver market forty years ago. Partnered with the Hunt brothers. He sold just in time and made a fortune. The Hunt brothers, not so much.”
Georgia changed the subject. “So other than what you just said, did Dena pay you a salary?”
Ruth pursed her lips into an annoyed expression, as if the question was beneath her. “ResistanceUSA is strictly volunteer,” she said. “Curt brought up the idea of starting an online store, you know, with T-shirts, mugs, and that kind of crap, but we had other priorities.”
Georgia picked up on Ruth’s patronizing tone. “You weren’t in favor of it.”
Ruth looked directly at Georgia. “We had a mission. The last thing we needed was a distraction. I wasn’t convinced it would generate enough to make it worthwhile.”
Was she was flexing her leadership muscles? “What did the other admins think?”
“DJ agreed with me. He wasn’t big on the idea.”
“And Dena?”
“She said she was okay with it, but someone else would have to manage it.” Ruth sniffed. “Probably because Curt came up with it.”
“Her boyfriend.”
She nodded. “But now DJ’s gone. And I haven’t heard from Curt since it happened. So, well, it’s still—um—unsettled.”
“The store?”
“Everything.”
“How are you doing?”
“Not bad. I go to the doctor later this week. If he gives me the okay, I’ll start back to work next Monday.”
“That’s great.”
Ruth managed a smile.
“What about the Facebook group? Who’s going to take it over?”
“Good question.” She hesitated. “Probably me.”
Georgia found it curious that Ruth sounded so blasé about a job to which she’d devoted more than a year.