The press conference was the lead story on the news that night. Evanston’s mayor said all the right things: the cops were working hard; anyone with information about the gunman or victim should come forward; and here’s what we’re doing to make Evanston safer. There was no mention of evidence, the autopsy, or, thankfully, Georgia’s role.
She got up and turned off the tube. She was beginning to think the incident was random. If they’d found any evidence she was the target, the police would have told her—they were all over it. But they hadn’t. That was good. She made a grilled cheese sandwich. Halfway through eating it, she realized she wasn’t hungry. She pushed the plate away, got up, and retrieved the note from the paper bag.
She examined the smudge on the wrapper again. If it was blood, how did it get on the wrapper? Wouldn’t someone with a cut or scrape, or even a bloody nose, use a tissue? Unless there wasn’t one. In that case, someone might well have used whatever was lying around, including a food wrapper. Still, what were the chances the blood—if it was—came from the woman who claimed to be her half sister?
Georgia tried to think it through. If a client had a relative who was pregnant and in trouble and might have traces of blood on a food wrapper, what would she advise? Track it down? Ignore it? Wait for more evidence?
But was this wasn’t a client. This was personal. She thought about calling Sam to talk it over, but she hadn’t told Sam much about her family. There was one person who knew her history, but she wasn’t in touch with him. To call just because she had a problem wasn’t fair.
On the other hand, they’d always bounced ideas off each other. He was a good problem solver. Despite everything, on a professional level she trusted him. He’d been a cop too. She flicked on her phone and clicked on his name. His voice mail picked up.
“You’ve reached Matt Singer. Leave a message.”
She disconnected.
* * *
The next morning she dialed a number before she changed her mind.
“You’ve reached the Illinois Crime Lab.” A recorded voice told her to dial the extension she wanted. She punched in three numbers.
“Lou Simonelli here.”
“Hey, Lou. It’s Georgia Davis.” Lou, short for Louise, was a criminalist who’d worked a few cases with Georgia when she was on the force.
“Well now. Davis. I haven’t heard from you in years. How you be?”
“Good.”
“Gone private, I hear.”
“For a couple of years now.”
“So I hear. Not doing too badly either, baby cakes.”
Georgia smiled. She liked Lou. “Listen, Lou. I need a DNA test, and I need a referral.”
“What kind of test?”
“Identification and comparison. Possible siblings.”
“For a case?”
She didn’t answer.
“Does it need to be legally submissible? You know, hold up in court?”
“No,” she said. “Can you refer me to a good lab?”
“Are the mothers willing to give samples?”
Georgia blew out a breath. “The mothers? I don’t frigging know who the mother is. That’s why I need the test.”
“Hmm.” Lou paused. “I know it sounds crazy, but to get the best results, it’s better if you have the mothers’ DNA—at least one of them—for comparison.”
Georgia went rigid. She couldn’t get results unless she knew who the mother was. But the reason she was ordering the test was to figure out who the mother was. She was spinning around a Catch-22. But all she said was, “I don’t have the mother’s DNA.”
“In that case, you may not get conclusive results. Sibling DNA reports are tough. A lot of times you just can’t tell.”
Georgia thought about it. Too many variables. This was the time to end the call. To thank Lou and put the matter behind her. Then, “Do you know a lab that could do it?”
Lou was quiet for a minute. “Well, there’s a place in Lincoln Park we use when we’re backlogged.”
“Which means you use them a lot.”
Lou laughed. “They’re good, but they’re not cheap. In fact, if I were you—”
“That’s okay. Give me the name.”
“Hold on.”
Georgia heard the rustle of papers and a murmured conversation in the background. When Lou came back, she reeled off a name and number. “Ask for Jim. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“I’m ready for a drink anytime.”
“Soon.” Georgia hoped she sounded sincere.
Lou laughed. “I guess I won’t hold my breath. Hey, are you still—oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“No. Not important. Call me when you want to get together.”
Georgia disconnected. She hadn’t talked to Lou in years, and she knew what Lou was going to ask. There was no reason she would know about Matt—they traveled in different worlds. She checked the time. Barely eight thirty. She dialed the number Lou gave her, hoping someone would pick up.
A man’s voice answered. “Precision DNA.”
“I’m looking for Jim, please.”
“You got him.”
“Lou Simonelli referred me. I’m an investigator.”
“Lou’s good people,” he said. “What can I do you for?”
Georgia explained.
“We can do that—you’ll be giving us samples for comparison, right?”
“I can give you the potential sibling samples. At least I’m pretty sure I can.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have a sample that could be blood.” She hesitated. “Then again, it might be ketchup.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Well, I guess we’ll find out.”
She felt a little less foolish. “But I don’t have a sample from the mother.”
“You sure you want to do it that way? It would be a lot more accurate if you—”
“I know, I know. But I don’t have the mother,” she said. “How much are we talking about and how long will it take?”
“Well, if you really want to go ahead, I can ballpark it. Of course, it depends on the quality. What are they? Besides the blood or ketchup?”
“Blood from one sibling if you want it. And hair from—for the other.”
“Good. That’s relatively easy. I assume they’re in good shape?”
“One will be.”
He paused. “Well, assuming the other one is too, extracting DNA and comparing them will run you about five hundred. It can take about twelve working days, give or take a day. Of course, if it’s a heater, you can get it in four or five days.”
“If I want to pay more.”
“Right,” Jim said cheerfully.
“How much more?”
“Well, since you’re a friend of Lou’s, let’s say seven fifty.”
Seven fifty and five days. Just to follow up on what probably would be a waste of time and money. Not to mention the stress of waiting. She thought it over one more time.
At least they took credit cards.