By the time the security guard arrived five minutes later, Georgia had confessed to Letitia Wallace. She handed over her PI license and told Wallace she was a PI working on the Covid deaths, that she knew Blackstone was MIA, that she had hoped to figure out the supply chain from hospital to third-party vaccine site so she could narrow down the suspects who might or might not have tampered with the vaccine.
“What’s going on?” The security guard huffed when he burst in. A beefy man in khaki garb that resembled a police uniform with a star on his shirt pocket, he shifted impatiently as if he was eager to detain her and lock her up with cuffs and shackles. She swallowed.
Meanwhile, Wallace was still examining her PI license. Technically, PIs didn’t have a specific wallet card like a driver’s license. In Illinois, PIs were given a certificate from the Department of Financial and Professional Regulation. But some small businesses printed up official-looking wallet cards with a photo of the PI. For a fee. It wasn’t a bad idea, and Georgia had one made. She also had an Illinois FOID card, which allowed her to own and carry a weapon, and that did have her photo on it. She’d handed that over to Wallace as well.
Wallace studied the cards, then put them down on her desk. “Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”
The security guard licked his lips.
“I have half a mind to call the State of Illinois and tell them what you did. I’m sure it’s illegal to impersonate someone. Even for a private investigator.”
Actually, it wasn’t. Police organizations, even the FBI, did it all the time when they used attractive female cops to impersonate hookers when they were doing a john roundup. That’s what a sting was all about. But ethically? Wallace had a point. Many people considered it entrapment. And if the woman made the call, Georgia would need to hire a lawyer to get her out of the mess. With money she didn’t have. And then try to explain it to Jimmy, to whom she’d promised she would stop.
“The worst part is that you’re trying to get proprietary information about a deadly disease using subterfuge and lies. Why didn’t you just call me and make an appointment? How do you know I wouldn’t have just shared whatever information I could?”
“Because—because it’s been tough as nails to get reliable data about Covid from anyone in the health-care system.”
“Probably because so many people are spreading lies about it.” Wallace snorted. “All that misinformation and those political screeds.” She shook her head again, beads clacking. “It’s disgraceful what people are doing.” She inclined her head. “You’re not working for someone like that, are you?”
“No ma’am. Not at all.”
“I suppose you were just looking for the truth.”
Surprised that Wallace was sharing her opinion so openly, Georgia replied with equal candor. “My clients are the family of a woman who collapsed and died after getting her booster.”
The security guard relaxed but a glum expression washed over him. Did he understand he might not lock up Georgia after all?
Wallace sighed. She looked at Georgia’s cards again, picked them up, and handed them back. “You get out of here, PI Davis. I don’t want to see you again until we have an appointment.” She opened a desk drawer and slipped out her card. “You want the 411, you call me. I’ll tell you what I can. But don’t think you’re getting away with this. I’m writing this up, and you’ll hear from hospital officials, who will give you a stern talking to. You got that?”
Georgia was relieved. She was getting off. And Wallace had offered to talk to her. Still, she would face some consequences. She could survive a stern lecture about protocol. She should be grateful. But her embarrassment and shame stung.
“I appreciate that, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh,” Wallace muttered. “Until the next time.”
“No ma’am. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Wallace arched her brows. “Go on. Get out now. I have work to do.” She turned to the guard. “Henry, escort our PI out through the loading dock.”
Henry took Georgia’s arm, squeezing it harder than he had to.