There was no “other side of the tracks” in Glencoe, an affluent suburb on Chicago’s North Shore. At the southern edge of the village, though, not far from Green Bay and Washington, a small black community had taken root in the 1880s. It was largely dispersed now, but at one time it was the only African American neighborhood between Evanston and Lake Forest. Reggie and Shelly Field lived in a small older brick house near the old St. Paul AME Church, and as she pulled up Georgia wondered if the place had once belonged to a black family.
It was a crisp, sunny day, the roads were wet with melting snow, and the ground smelled earthy. Chicago was in the midst of a January thaw. As she climbed out of her Toyota, Georgia caught her reflection in the car window. She’d bundled up before she left home, but now she loosened her muffler and flicked her long blond hair over it. The shades she wore masked brown eyes, but they made her nose seem sharper and more prominent. Not much she could do about that. The weather was so mild she unzipped her parka, displaying her fisherman’s sweater and jeans.
She mounted three concrete steps to a tiny porch surrounded by an iron banister. The screen door had one of those initials in the center, in this case, a cursive F. She pressed a buzzer to the right of the latch.
The woman who opened the door was not what Georgia expected. She’d anticipated an elderly woman with no shape and flyaway gray hair. To her surprise, Shelly Field was thin, with black hair and red lipstick. She wore a stylish warm-up suit and had that taut, stretched skin that comes from a facelift or two. Is that where the profits from the store went?
“Shelly?” Georgia said. “I’m Georgia Davis.”
Shelly appraised her, frowning slightly. Georgia wondered if she’d expected something different too. Then she opened the door wider. “Come in. Reggie’s anxious to meet you.”
Shelly’s tone, clipped and businesslike, was so different from her phone personality that Georgia was taken aback. No whining, no sour grapes. Did she hide that side of her from her husband? The woman led her into a small living room with overstuffed furniture, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and ornate gilded picture frames. The sharp odor of ammonia drifted over the room, announcing the presence of a cat, which, on cue, jumped down from a chair, blinked, then without a sound swished its tail and skulked out of the room.
Reggie Field lay on a brocade sofa, clutching an iPad. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind him. He was a big guy, bald except for few strands of comb-over gray. His hair was longer on the sides and back and had the consistency of steel wool. His nose was tiny and turned up like a pug’s. A gauze bandage with adhesive tape covered one cheek, and Georgia saw a nasty abrasion on his chin.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, not bothering to paste on a smile.
Shelly sat in the chair the cat had vacated and motioned Georgia into its mate on the other side of the coffee table.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Field?” Georgia asked.
“I’ll live. And call me Reggie. Everyone does.”
She nodded. “As I told Shelly, there may not be much I can do that the police and your insurance company haven’t already done.”
His eyebrows arched. “Oh yes, there is. I can vouch for it.”
Georgia inclined her head.
He set his iPad down and with a huge effort sat up. His weight settled in his gut, making him look like an overripe pear.
“I’m gonna save you a lot of time.” His expression tightened, and he poked a finger at Georgia. “I fired my assistant manager last week. Name of Chase Bartell. He’s behind the whole thing, but I can’t prove it.”
Georgia straightened. “Tell me.”
“He was dealing drugs right out of the front of the store. Cocaine, reefer, pills. Caught him red-handed.”
Georgia hadn’t heard anyone use the word “reefer” in years.
“I got him on the security tape. Fired his ass right away. After the flash rob, I turned everything over to the cops. Told them exactly what happened and who was behind it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Bubkes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except that the tape showed up on YouTube.”
Georgia frowned.
“Bartell’s a snot-nosed rich kid from Northfield. I was doing his parents a favor. They begged me. Said he needed something to keep him out of trouble. So, I think, okay, I’m a nice guy. I’ll give the kid a chance. I shudda known. He was doing something, all right.” Reggie’s face darkened. “The cops wanted to file charges, but the parents hired a fine and fancy lawyer who makes a big deal that the tape isn’t clear enough and doesn’t really show a drug transaction. And that there’s no way in hell anyone could connect his client to the flash mob.”
“But you say otherwise?”
“Damn right I do.” He shook his head angrily. “I gave their kid a chance. And this is how they repay me?”
Georgia kept her mouth shut. She had worked with video specialists in the past and knew all sorts of magic could enhance images that would stand up in court. The fact that the cops or the State’s Attorney hadn’t gone that route suggested that the Bartells—or their lawyer—had clout or great connections or both.
“Then, well, bottom line, the cops decide not to pursue charges after all, and the kid gets off. Not even a fucking slap on the wrist.”
“But you think he was out for revenge and set up the hit on the store.”
“I know he was,” Reggie said. “The kid was pissed. He threatened me when I fired him.”
“Did the police check his cell phone? His Facebook friends? All that?”
“Said they did. Said he’s clean. But I’m telling you he ain’t. I know the little bastard did it. That’s why I called you.”