Saturday morning Georgia drove to the affluent part of Northfield where Chase Bartell lived. The January thaw was a distant memory; it had snowed three inches last night. The roads were clear and the air carried the brittle chill of winter. Georgia layered up, energized at the prospect of a little old-fashioned surveillance. She fished out her tiny video camera and slipped it in her pocket with her iPhone.
She pulled up to a huge white brick colonial off Happ Road with a three- car garage, an enormous entrance door, and a fenced-in backyard that held a tennis court. She frowned. Why would a kid who lived here, where the sense of entitlement was so broad and deep you could swim laps in it, work at a cheap clothing store in Evanston? His hourly wage wouldn’t pay for a tank of gas. Maybe Reggie Field was right and the kid’s parents were trying to instill some kind of work ethic in him. If so, she should cut them some slack. It had been a good idea. The problem was that they’d succeeded too well. The kid had marshaled his organizational skills and talent to destroy his boss’s business.
She ran the Toyota’s heat intermittently, prepared to stake out the house all day. An hour later, though, around ten, the kid came out. He slid into a red four-by-four, keyed the engine, and took off. Georgia tailed him at a discreet distance as he turned onto Happ Road, then twisted and threaded his way southeast.
The kid stopped in front of a redbrick ranch home in Wilmette and honked. Georgia parked a hundred yards away. While not as upscale as Northfield, Wilmette was itself a well-heeled North Shore village. What was Chase doing there? Making a delivery? A buy? She pulled out her camera and started recording. Moments later the front door opened, and a fresh-faced brunette bounded out and climbed into the SUV.
The kid turned the car around and headed back down the street. As he passed Georgia, she slumped and averted her face. Once they were gone, she started following again, glad they were teenagers who’d never check for a tail.
They soon arrived in Evanston. Like the suburbs they’d just come from, the affluent part of Evanston was north, the seedier section south. Chase flew through the Northwestern campus down to Main Street. He made two more turns and ended up at a small apartment building with iron bars on the windows. He honked again. Georgia, fifty yards away, picked up her camera and started shooting. An African American kid in extra-large sweats but no coat emerged, hands in pockets. He looked in both directions, then made his way to Chase’s car and leaned against the driver’s side. The window lowered.
A conversation between Chase and him ensued. No. It was an argument. Twice the black kid poked his index finger at the kid’s chest, after which Chase flipped up his hands as if to say, “What do you want me to do?” The black kid motioned Chase out of his car. Nothing happened, and Georgia suspected the girl was telling Chase not to get out. But when the kid gestured again, Chase reluctantly climbed out. Something was happening. A moment later, Chase spun around and beckoned the girl. She got out of the SUV and trotted over. Then she dug out her cell, handed it to Chase, and watched as he made a call.
Georgia got it on tape.