Georgia turned the key in the lock of her Evanston apartment. She couldn’t recall ever being so glad to be home. She shuffled over to the sofa and settled down to call Jimmy. They’d spoken while she was waiting to board her flight; now he said he’d be there in an hour. Georgia booted up her laptop to check in on ResistanceUSA. She’d been doing that periodically. She was curious whether anyone might have mentioned, even in clandestine fashion, her activities in DC.
The action had picked up in the group since the last time she’d logged in. Brisk threads on several different topics covered the page. Of course when you had a president with a fresh scandal every day, it wasn’t difficult for people to express themselves. Immigration and the separation of immigrant children from their parents had triggered a communal rage. Georgia noticed that Ruth Marriotti was in the middle of it, comforting some, encouraging others, and soliciting ideas from still others.
Georgia checked the “About” tab on the group’s menu. Ruth was now the director/administrator. With Curt Dixon gone, and DJ dead, there were several new admins as well. They’d seen a new administration take office. Georgia checked the size of the group. It had dropped with Dena’s murder but was trending back up. Good for Ruth. She scanned posts from yesterday and today. Nothing obvious or even veiled about her goings-on in DC.
She’d promised Paul Kelly she would call the FBI when she was home. LeJeune called her back five minutes later. She told him about Carl Baldwin’s disappearance, the thugs who ambushed her and the first name, Reince, of one. She also told him about Vic Summerfield’s murder, and her missing Glock.
“I’m certain the bullets that killed Summerfield will turn out to have come from my Glock,” she said.
“You’ll need to come down for an interview, cher. The boys will want to hear this.” He paused. “From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
She groaned at his attempt at humor. “Of course.”
“You think Summerfield was working against Baldwin but something went wrong?”
“I don’t know what I think. I don’t know if the thugs are connected to the Baldwins at all. But I know you guys will find out.”
“I agree. I’ll connect with our DC guys. You reported the murder before you left DC, right?”
Georgia paused, then cleared her throat. “I did. Anonymously.”
“Ahh. I see. So. Expect to come down here when you’re back on your feet.” They disconnected.
A key scratched in the lock. The door opened, and Jimmy was there. He took one look at her. “Oh my God.”
She got up and limped over. “Hey, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
He embraced her gingerly. “You shouldn’t be up and around. You’re going to bed.”
She inclined her head. “I will on two conditions. First, you run me a hot bath. And second, you join me in it.”
Georgia allowed herself two full days to be waited on. Jimmy brought her meals from his family’s Greek restaurant in Lake Geneva, flowers, get-well cards, and plenty of advice. Her friend Sam Mosele called to make sure she was okay, and late the second afternoon, Paul Kelly paid a visit. He wanted her to take more time off, as did Jimmy, but Georgia had planned her next move, and she was ready to pick up Kitty Jarvis’s trail. After listening to both Jimmy’s and Paul’s adamant refusals, and declaring that she’d do what she damn well wanted, they negotiated a four-hour workday.
The next morning Georgia knew she’d go stark raving mad if she was confined any longer. She did some exercises to limber up. With her bruises fading, her ankle stronger, and the pain in her ribs subsiding, she retrieved her back-up and second favorite pistol, a Sig Sauer 9 millimeter, from the closet. She made sure it was loaded, and strapped it into her shoulder holster. She drove to Rogers Park to see if Kitty Jarvis might have come home. She hadn’t. Georgia debated whether to ask Betsy Start if she’d heard from Kitty—she had done the building super a favor by having the yurt picked up—but decided not to. If Kitty wanted Betsy Start to know where she was, Georgia would have known, too. She had to give Kitty credit. If she seriously wanted off the grid, it was safer not to tell anyone.
She trudged out of the building and was halfway to her car when she turned around. There were two apartments on each floor, and Kitty lived in 1B. The first floor. She walked around to the back of the building. Like many Chicago brownstones, this building had a staircase that led up to separate porches for each apartment. A window in each unit gave onto the porch, a back door, too.
She sneaked a look around. It was mid-morning. She had time. But would she be spotted? She glanced at the adjacent buildings. Most of the windows were covered with shades, but one or two weren’t. She imagined a little old lady with nothing better to do spying on her through the window and calling the police. But what choice did she have? She had to find Kitty Jarvis.
She took a breath and climbed the porch steps. She guessed that 1B, Kitty’s apartment, was on the left. She crept to the window and tugged on its frame. It was locked. She moved to the back door. Locked as well. She glanced around again and, seeing no one, fished out her lockpicks from her blazer. She worked with them for about two minutes, alert not only for the click of the tumbler, but to any sounds that meant she had been observed. It was a double lock, and it took time, but she finally managed to unlock the door. She twisted the knob, praying Kitty had no alarm. It was quiet. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her.