It didn’t take long to track the girl’s cell. The owner of the Wilmette home was Carol Chernikoff. Georgia emailed her phone contact asking for the woman’s records. Her contact wasn’t pleased and complained that she was using up her favors; he wasn’t a goddammed 411. He had to be careful too. Georgia told him she’d pay extra. An hour later she had the records for two cells: one for Carol Chernikoff, and one for Carol and Emily Chernikoff. Mother and daughter.
The mother’s cell showed mostly calls to the 847 area code, the North Shore. Emily’s records, on the other hand, displayed a slew of calls to area codes 312 and 773, both in Chicago. Her calls spanned a three-week period, then abruptly stopped. Georgia checked the last day calls were made on her cell. Her pulse sped up. Ten calls. The morning of the robbery.
When Georgia tried the numbers, most of them came back as “unregistered,” which meant they were prepaid disposables or burners. Adrenaline pumped through her. She was close. All she needed was one number that wasn’t a burner. That belonged to a living, breathing person. A person who just might have gotten a call telling him to show up at Designer Discount Den just after the store opened.
She was carefully examining the cell records when her land line phone rang. Startled, she leaned over and picked it up. Name withheld. No caller ID. She considered not answering it. It could be the killer who did the drive-by closing in on her. Or not.
“Hello?”
There was no response. In the background she could hear two voices. Indistinct. Sounded like a male, one female.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” It was probably someone butt-dialing her. But that would mean she was on someone’s contact list, and she couldn’t imagine whose. She didn’t have many friends. Except Sam.
“Hey!” she yelled into the phone. “Sam! Is that you?”
A female voice in the background spiked. “No! I won’t!”
Georgia heard anger, but underneath the anger was fear. “Sam… are you there?”
A male voice cut off the female. Equally angry. Like he was issuing an order.
The female replied. Petulant, and still scared, but Georgia couldn’t make out the words. Seconds later, she was cut off by a sudden crack. Or slap. Or shot. The line went dead.
Georgia stared at her cell, wondering what the hell had just happened. She let out a nervous breath and punched in Sam’s number. After three rings, Sam’s voice mail kicked in. Georgia left a message. “Call me. Something weird just happened, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
She hung up. Who besides Sam had her number on speed dial? Maybe Ellie Foreman. She usually checked in once a month. Pete, her former neighbor who had gone back to his wife but still kept in touch. And her clients. Should she call them to make sure? No, that was overkill. She should just forget the call.
She went back to the cell records. Twenty minutes later she had it. One of the 312 numbers “Emily” called on the morning of the robbery was a landline registered to Tabitha Jefferson in Englewood on the South Side. When she cross-checked the woman’s street address on a public White Pages database, the Englewood address listed three other occupants, including someone named Willard, whose age was listed between fifteen and twenty.
All the cops had to do now was establish the daisy chain between “Emily’s” calls to Tabitha Jefferson and other calls made by either “Emily” or “Ms. Jefferson.” Georgia knew they’d find some. She picked up her phone to call the Fields.