Georgia slept in the next morning. She was still tired from the weekend with JoBeth and Vanna. Yes, it had been pleasant, even fun, and though she was loath to admit it, she was beginning to like her mom. But the stress of worrying about whether they’d all get along had added to her fatigue. She got dressed, and by the time she had gulped down three cups of coffee, she felt ready to tackle another piece of the vaccine puzzle.
She needed to find out what companies did when a trained, unionized labor force wasn’t available for the final part of the shipment. How did air freight workers, local truck drivers, rural medical facilities, and semi-professional people who actually put shots into arms know exactly what to do? Who taught them that the Covid vaccine wasn’t that hardy, and that whatever instructions they were given had to be precisely followed?
She fired up her laptop. All around the country, the health-care industry was hiring thousands of people to haul the vaccine without breaking vials or contaminating them; thousands more to prepare it once it arrived at its destination; and thousands more to actually jab syringes into peoples’ arms.
No wonder local law enforcement, the National Guard, and even the military were helping out. Georgia and Jimmy had been vaccinated by the Illinois State Police. Now that she was thinking about it, how was the young man who had slid the needle into her arm trained? Was he an experienced health-care worker? Or just a reservist in the National Guard who was put to work for a few months? Should she have worried?
More questions. More calls. Thank God for Google.
Georgia’s doorbell buzzed while she was talking to a nurse practitioner who’d injected people at various Chicago sites. She went to the intercom to ask who it was.
“Nick LeJeune,” the voice said crisply.
Georgia told the nurse she would call her back, disconnected, and opened her door. LeJeune had just reached the landing on the second floor.
“To what do I owe this honor, Special Agent LeJeune?”
LeJeune winced at the words “Special Agent.” Was she being too formal? Or was he unhappy she’d announced her visitor’s occupation within earshot of anyone who might be listening? But his face smoothed out as he replied. “I was in the neighborhood and said to myself, you know, I think I’d like to drop in on my favorite PI.”
He gave as well as he got, Georgia had to give him that. She shot him a thin smile and opened the door wider. The FBI agent strode in as though he knew her apartment intimately, even though this was his first visit. They’d known each other for years, worked together once or twice, but she still didn’t know whether to like him or hate him. That was the enigma of Nick LeJeune.
He sniffed the air. “Got any of that coffee left?”
“I’ll make you some.” She went into the kitchen, put a mug under the machine, threw in a pod of light roast, and pressed a few buttons. A stream of rich dark coffee filled the mug.
“How do you take it?”
“Black, please.”
She brought the coffee to her tiny kitchen table and gestured for him to sit. She’d placed the table underneath the window so she could contemplate the world outside when she was working: the single mother across the street with kids who never picked up their toys; the old man and his dog—she was never quite sure who was walking whom; the couple next door who left their home at seven thirty every morning and didn’t get home until seven at night.
LeJeune cleared his throat. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something animal and sexy about him. His hair was a pale sandy color that mixed so well with gray that you couldn’t tell the difference. Mostly he wore a ball cap to hide what must be a bald spot. His eyes were green one day, blue the next. He had grown up in rural Louisiana Cajun country and could talk with that lazy Southern French patois. But he’d spent the past twenty years in Chicago, and he could switch to the flat Midwest accent to criticize “da Bulls” or “da Bears.” LeJeune was a chameleon, which was why he was so hard to pin down. Perversely, it also made him a very good detective.
He sipped his coffee. He looked pleased. “This is really good.”
“It’s the caffeine.”
He grinned. “So, there I was last week, trying to keep out of trouble, when I hear that a pretty blonde reporter was nosing around Jefferson Medical. Up in Kalamazoo.”
“Is that so?” She suppressed a buzz of nervous energy.
“Apparently she was using the name Georgia Davis.”
“You don’t say.”
“Naturally, I was curious.”
“I would be too.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“The same thing you would have done. Or already did, from what you’re telling me.”
He sighed. “Enough. I call. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
She nodded. “Sure. You go first.”
“Why don’t we start with Emily Waldorf?”