LeJeune met Georgia at the IMAX mall amid a crush of local and state police, fire, and public safety officers. He told them a squad of Bureau agents were on their way to take over the case. Georgia could see the disappointment on the local cops’ faces; this had to be the most important event to happen here in years, and they’d hoped to investigate on their own. But the Feds were the Feds. She remembered herself how disillusioned she’d felt when they moved in to handle cases the Village Police had salivated over.
LeJeune scanned the burned-out hulk that used to be Ryan Brown’s Honda. A light rain was falling, causing a few remaining wisps of smoke to float up from the wreck. “Well, that’s a pretty definitive statement. When you throw in Blackstone’s murder, I’d say we’ve got one less domestic terrorist to worry about.”
“What about the crime scene at the hospital? Are you finished processing?” Georgia asked.
“Our techs are finishing up.” He gazed at her. “You get a look at Blackstone’s body before you took off after Brown?”
“You mean the wire twisted around his neck?”
He nodded. “Not a pretty picture.”
“Listen, Nick. I need to tell you something about Ryan Brown. I met him in Kalamazoo. He was going by the name of Keith Bromley. Gave me a cell number that doesn’t exist. It’s a strange story.”
Georgia explained how she’d ended up at the bar near Jefferson Medical ten days earlier. The FedEx and UPS drivers she’d met. Holt, the granite-faced bartender. And Ginny, the bitch bartender who kicked her out. How Ryan Brown, AKA “Keith Bromley,” told her Ginny was really a softie underneath her tough exterior. And how he claimed to transport small lots of vaccine to the Chicago area. Which, according to Marianne Hofstader, head dispatcher at Jefferson Medical, would never happen.
“How would she know what happens a hundred miles away from home?” LeJeune asked.
“Exactly. She wouldn’t. Small amounts of vaccine could easily ‘fall off the truck.’”
“And land in Ryan Brown’s Honda.”
“Or with his pals in Kalamazoo.”
“Sounds like we’d better go straighten things up there after we search his apartment.”
“You have people in Arlington Heights now?”
“The warrant was a slam dunk. Our guys are going over everything. And now that I have some names, we can work faster. Good work, Davis.”
“Thanks.”
“We can tie up the loose ends tomorrow.”
Georgia looked down. “Um, I don’t know about that. I’ve got something to do. It’s personal.”
“What?”
“My mother was kidnapped last night. Worst case, she might be dead. I just don’t know.”
“What? And I’m just hearing about it now?”
“I know, I know.” Her apologetic tone made her feel guilty as hell, even to herself. What daughter wouldn’t immediately drop everything to find her abducted mother? Apparently, Georgia Davis.
“I have no idea why or how or if it relates to this case”—she bit her lip—“or to the Mormon problem I mentioned a while back. But I need to focus on finding my mother. Jimmy’s been quarterbacking today, but he’s got his own work in Lake Geneva. And now that this—” She broke off. LeJeune would understand what she was saying.
“Whoa, Davis. I barely remember the Mormons. Bring me up to speed.”
“We should get coffee. Who knows? You might even have a suggestion or two.”
He looked at his watch. “A drink would be better.”
They ducked into the mall and found a bar-restaurant around the corner. LeJeune ordered a bourbon, Georgia a Diet Coke with lemon. She filled him in on the mistaken identity with Eden Christiansen, her narrow brush with the black Honda, her trip to Nauvoo with Jimmy, and the anxiety she’d been living with since her mother was taken.
“You have any evidence to back up your…” he sniffed, “…anxiety?’”
She set down her drink, folded her hands, and glared at him. “Do you ever give anyone a break?”
“Do you?” He shot back. “Including yourself?”
She opened her mouth, but she didn’t have a reply. He was right. She blamed herself more than other people for her mistakes and imperfections. She took in a long breath, giving him a skeptical side-eye. Was he now playing shrink with her?
But LeJeune’s reaction was short-lived, as if he realized his question may have been over the line. He changed the subject. “You get a ransom call?”
She shook her head.
“Then chances are it might not be associated with these crazies. Are you thinking outside the box?”
She picked up her drink and nodded. “Her second husband was a trucker. He died in a highway accident when Vanna, my stepsister who lives with me, was just a child. Maybe there was more to the ‘accident.’ Maybe there’s someone back then who thinks my mother knew something she shouldn’t.”
“How old is your sister now?”
“Almost seventeen.”
“Unless it’s murder, any statutes of limitation are long gone.”
“I realize that.”
“Anything else?”
“There was a period of time when she was drinking heavily…”
“How long?”
“Almost ten years.”
LeJeune’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s some period.”
“She was running around the Southwest from city to city dragging Vanna with her. Who knows what kind of trouble she got into?”
“Write down her name. And any aliases she might have used. I’ll check. Oh, and the name of the Mormon woman. Her husband, too, if you know it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She got out her notepad and started writing.
“And don’t worry about Jefferson Medical. I’ll ride herd on my guys in Kalamazoo.”
She nodded her thanks.
“Anytime.” He paused. “Listen, Georgia. Remember something. You are a good detective. We all make mistakes. Miss things. Take risks that don’t pan out. That’s the nature of our jobs. Stop putting yourself down. You’re only human.”
That was LeJeune, sometimes good cop, sometimes bad, but someone she had grown to trust. She wanted to say she was grateful, but a wan smile was all she could muster.
He smiled back. He understood.