It was after one in the morning when Georgia got home, but she was pumped. She booted up her computer, took a quick shower, and threw on some sweats. This called for a celebration. She’d accomplished her mission. Neat and clean, so to speak. How often did that happen? She wished she had a beer. Too bad she didn’t drink anymore.
She got a pop instead, took a sip, and carried it to the computer. She got out her notepad. Starting with an online white pages directory, she entered Cherry Hill, New Jersey, then Edward Wrobleski. The website promptly spit out an address and phone number. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? She wrote down the number; she’d call first thing in the morning.
She went back to the directory and entered Kirk Brewer and Oklahoma City. Five Brewers came back, but none of them Kirk. She wondered if one of the five was a relative. She printed out the page, just in case. Then she went into one of her subscription databases and entered his name. Two addresses came back. The first was in Oklahoma City but wasn’t one of the five from the directory. The other was in Tallahassee, Florida. She wrote them both down and clicked onto a reverse directory for the phone numbers. Nothing came up for Oklahoma City, but the Tallahassee address yielded a number. She wrote it down.
Next she tried Rafael Peña. She searched across half a dozen public and private websites, but nothing came back. One website indicated that Rafael Peña was in their database, but unlike the more reputable websites she paid money to, this one was just a come-on. Without more information, she was stuck.
Then, just for the hell of it, she Googled Thomas Pattison. Pattison had served in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne in ’68 and ’69. After being awarded two Purple Hearts, he went back to college and graduate school, earning an MBA from UNC. Surprisingly, Pattison went into the public sector and worked at the Treasury Department during the Reagan administration. Which meant he probably had some heavy-duty clout. Once Reagan left office, though, Pattison went private, working for Chase, First National of Chicago, and Harris Bank. He’d taken the chairman’s position at Midwest National five years ago. Georgia clicked on more links. Apparently Pattison had a sterling reputation and was highly respected both in and out of government. Midwest National had hired a big deal.
She picked up the pop—she’d only had the one sip—and poured the rest of it down the drain. She needed a few hours of sleep.
• • •
By seven-thirty Monday morning, armed with a strong cup of coffee, Georgia was ready to make her first call. She disabled her caller ID, then punched in Edward Wrobleski’s number in Cherry Hill. She heard a faint swish as the call connected. It rang once. Twice. Then again. On the fourth ring, it went to voice-mail. “Hi. This is Eddie. You know what to do.”
Georgia hung up. There could be all sorts of reasons why Wrobleski wasn’t answering. She’d try again later. Still, after her success last night, she couldn’t help hoping she was on a streak. She went back to her notes, found the Tallahassee phone number for Kirk Brewer, and dialed.
After three rings she was about to disconnect when the phone was picked up.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice. Low-pitched, smoky. A Southern drawl.
“Is this Kirk Brewer’s residence?” Georgia asked.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Georgia Davis. I’m calling from Chicago. Is this Mrs. Brewer?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Brewer. Please. It’s a financial matter.”
“Financial? What do you mean by financial?” Georgia picked up something in her voice besides the drawl.
“Are you Mrs. Brewer?” She repeated.
The voice hesitated. “Who’d you say you were?”
The woman was playing cat and mouse. Georgia didn’t want to divulge anything, but she needed information. She had to give her something. “Georgia Davis. I’d really like to talk with Mr. Brewer, if that’s possible.”
Another pause. “It isn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kirk isn’t here.” Her words were slurred. Now Georgia got it. The woman was drinking. Georgia automatically checked her watch. Barely nine in the morning in Florida.
“When do you expect him?”
“I don’t.”
Georgia forced the edge out of her voice. “Ma’am, this is an important matter. Do you know how I could get in touch with him?”
The woman didn’t answer for a minute. Then, “I s’pose you could, if you can communicate with the other side.”
Georgia gripped the phone. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Kirk is dead. That’s what I’m saying.”
Georgia felt like she’d been punched in the gut. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah. Well.”
“Was—I mean—when did this happen?”
“I think you’d better tell me what you want.”
Georgia realized she had to come clean. “I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case in which Mr. Brewer’s name has come up. Apparently, he received a large sum of money recently. I’m trying to understand why.”
The woman’s sudden intake of breath told Georgia she knew something.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” Georgia asked.
“I’m Mary Louise. Kirk’s fiancée.”
“Mary Louise, I’m sorry for your loss. But could I ask you a few questions?”
“You can ask.”
Mary Louise might be drinking at nine in the morning, but her brain was still functioning well enough to be cautious. “How did Kirk die?”
“They say it was an accident.”
“An accident? Where?”
“Kirk was working a job out in Arizona.”
“Who was he working for?”
“Delton Security.”
Georgia sat up. “What did he do for Delton?”
“He was a security specialist.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Don’t know. He wouldn’t never talk about it.”
“Where in Arizona was he?”
“Place called Stevens. Near the border.”
“He was there how long?”
“Couple months. Maybe three.”
“Mary Lou, did you know he’d received a lot of money recently?”
There was silence. “Lady, I don’t know who you are. Who you’re working for. So I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
She knew. Georgia thought about it, then decided to approach it from another way. “You said he died in an accident?”
“I said they said it was an accident. A training accident.”
“You don’t believe them?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Why? What happened?”
“It was about three weeks ago. They were working with explosives. Something went wrong. They said he just—blew up. Didn’t even have enough body parts to send home.”
Georgia winced but pushed on. Three weeks ago would have been the end of June. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“Delton.”
“Mary Louise, do you doubt what they said?”
“Look, Davis? That’s your name, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, Davis, let me tell you something. My Kirk knows— knew—what he was doing in the field. He did two tours of duty for the Army, both of them in Iraq. He knew about explosives, IEDs, land mines. All of that. He quit the Army ’cause Delton said they’d pay him ten times what he’d been making. A year later he’s dead because of a ‘training’ accident? You say you’re some kind of investigator. You figure it out.”
Georgia frowned. “Mary Louise, could you tell me—”
“No. I don’t got nothing more to say. We’re done here.”
“Wait. Just one more question. Have you ever heard of Edward Wrobleski?”
“Eddie? He was Kirk’s buddy. They met in Iraq. Both of them went to work for Delton.”
“What about Rafael Peña?”
“Never heard of him. And now we are done. And please, don’t call here again.” Georgia heard a click followed by the hiss of empty air.
• • •
The white pages directory for Cherry Hill had a listing for Milos G. Wrobleski on Chestnut Street, but Georgia couldn’t bring herself to call. It was a hazy, hot July day, but she felt chilled. She stood and went to her window. The glass was new—it had been replaced last year after a bullet pierced it, hit a candle, and set her apartment on fire. She peered out. The house across the street had kids’ toys scattered across the lawn. The walkway up to her apartment had two cracks in the concrete. The yews flanking the walkway were thriving. Everything looked normal.
But it wasn’t. A little girl was traumatized, three people were dead, and Georgia had a feeling the body count would be going up. Mary Louise, Brewer’s fiancée, knew something but was holding back. Was she being paid to keep her mouth shut? Or was she just afraid? Too bad Georgia couldn’t go to Florida to find out, but she wasn’t sure it had anything to do with Molly Messenger’s kidnapping.
Still, she should find out what Brewer—and Delton—were doing in Arizona. Delton had sent Brewer a million dollars from a secret account. And then tried to close the account in a clumsy, ultimately unsuccessful, maneuver. Now, Brewer was dead and his fiancée, for one, thought the reason for his death—a training accident—was suspicious.
What about Eddie Wrobleski, Brewer’s “buddy,” who also got a million dollar check from Delton? Was he in Arizona? And what about Rafael Peña? He got the third million. Why couldn’t she get a handle on him? Georgia turned from the window and glanced at her computer. Before going back, she lowered the blind.
• • •
The man who answered Milos Wrobleski’s phone sounded curt and impatient. “What is it?”
“Hello, Mr Wrobleski. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’m calling from Chicago. Do you have a son by the name of Edward?”
An irritated sigh confirmed she had the right person. “What do you want now?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Everyone keeps calling, sending me these fucking forms, telling me they need this and then that and who knows what the fuck else. And it’s all gotta be done yesterday. Can’t you assholes let us mourn in peace?”
Georgia went rigid. She found it hard to catch her breath. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“What the hell do you want?”
She forced air into her lungs. “I’m an investigator, and I’m looking into the money your son received a few weeks ago.”
She heard a hollow laugh. “Yeah. You and everybody else.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the bank, lawyers, even the IRS has been dogging me about it. Well, fuck you all. It’s ours. Eddie’s will was crystal clear.”
“He put it in his will?”
“He changed his will right after he got it. Even faxed me a copy. Not that anyone believes me, of course.”
“When was this?”
“Who’d you say you were?”
“I’m a private investigator. We think the money that was sent to your son may be related to other cases here in Chicago.”
“Well, I don’t know about any case in Chicago. And I don’t give a shit. All I care about is that a million dollars went into my boy’s bank account. Less than a month later, he’s dead. I don’t need to know any more.”
As long as you can keep the money, Georgia thought. But aloud she said, “Was he in Arizona working for Delton Security when he—died?”
“So? What if he was?”
“Mr. Wrobleski, how did he die?”
“It was an accident. Some explosives he was working with were screwed up, and they blew. Took him along. Look, lady, I don’t want to talk any more.”
“I understand. Just one more question. Have you ever heard of Rafael Peña? He might have worked at Delton with your son.”
There was a long sigh. “The only one Eddie ever talked about was Brewer. Kirk. They were buddies from the military.”
Georgia blinked. She should tell him about Kirk Brewer’s death. It would be the right thing to do. It might change his attitude. She kept her mouth shut.
“Thank you, Mr. Wrobleski. I won’t bother you again.”