Georgia Davis got the call two days later. She’d heard about the incident—the video was all over YouTube, and the media was full of it. How the flash mob ripped off five grand in inventory, how the owner ended up in the ER with stitches, how the punks scattered so fast the police had no suspects and were begging the public for leads. Even so, she was surprised when Reggie Field’s wife phoned.
“I just can’t believe it,” Shelly Field said a few seconds into the call. “Thirty years in retail and we’ve never seen anything like this. And the first week of January. Happy Fucking New Year.”
“Is your husband home from the hospital?”
“Oh yes. You know how they are. If you’re conscious and breathing, they kick you out. You could die on the way home, but they don’t care. Reggie’s still recovering, of course, and we’ve had to keep the store closed. I don’t know how we’re going to make up the losses. It’s just—just unlike anything we’ve ever dealt with.” The woman sighed theatrically.
Georgia listened with more than a trace of skepticism. The woman’s whines and complaints presumed an innocence about the ways of the world Georgia didn’t buy. Thirty years in retail would have taught anyone with half a brain about shoplifting, price gouging, and under-the-table deals. But she didn’t have to fall in love with her clients; she just had to tolerate them long enough to make their problem go away. She was a private investigator, not a therapist. Then again, being flash robbed was not your everyday event. She should probably fake a little sympathy.
“You have insurance, don’t you?”
The woman went on. “Yes, but they say they’re not going to investigate any more than the police already have. And, of course, the police have no idea who it was or how to catch them. Can you believe it? Going on the Internet and TV with our security tape? Do they think these thugs are just gonna give themselves up? Next thing you know they’ll offer ’em a reality show.”
Georgia stifled a giggle and covered it with a cough. The woman, intentionally or not, had a sense of humor. “Mrs. Field, I’m not sure I can do anything the police haven’t already done.”
“Call me Shelly, honey. And lemme tell you, they’re not doing anything. Look, I realize nobody got killed, and Reggie wasn’t seriously hurt, and the insurance—God forbid the rate hike that’s coming—will cover most of it. But you know? I gotta believe those punks knew that. And the cops—well, they won’t admit it—but this is on their back burner.”
The woman was right. Before she became a PI, Georgia had been a police officer for ten years, and despite the fact that she ultimately resigned, put-downs about cops still made her defensive. “It’s not that, Shelly; it’s just that they have to prioritize. This economy has hit cops hard too. They’ve got a—a boatload of homicides, arsons, sexual assaults, and fewer resources to handle them. They have to choose.” She almost smiled. She wished she’d recorded what she just said so she could send it to Dan O’Malley, her former boss, now the chief of police in Northview. He wouldn’t believe it.
“Yeah, yeah. A victimless crime. That’s what they keep saying,” Mrs. Field said. “But it wasn’t.”
“I agree. Especially with your husband getting hurt. If violence is involved, no matter—”
“It’s not just that, sweetheart.” The woman cut her off. “There’s a part of this that hasn’t come out. That’s why we called you.”
“What do you mean ‘hasn’t come out’?”
“Reggie’ll tell you.” Shelly hesitated, then issued a sigh. “You gotta remember this was our livelihood. Our entire life. Now Reggie’s practically ready to cash it in. Ya can’t blame him, you know? We’re not getting any younger. But I just hate the thought of going on social security.”
“How did you get to me?” Georgia asked.
“One of our neighbors recommended you.”
“Who?”
“Um, she—they don’t wanna say. But you got a good rep. They say you know what you’re doing.”
“Where do you live?”
“Glencoe.”
Georgia wondered who the neighbor was. She didn’t know many people in Glencoe. Only one family, in fact. She tapped her fingers on her desk. It was the second week of January, typically a slow period until the post-Christmas cheer dried up and people went back to their greedy, thieving ways. She had time. And she could always use the money.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll look into it for a couple of days. If I can’t see a way forward, I’ll let you know. I don’t want to take your money for nothing.”
“Well, that’s fair. I see why they like you.”
It’s why I’m barely eking out a living, Georgia thought. Aloud, she said, “How about I swing by later today?”