Georgia drove to Riverwoods the next morning. Her route took her past the forest preserve, where sparkling trees were frosted with a dusting of white. Further on, the sun poured through a stand of elms, creating a halo effect that made her think God approved of her mission. He should only know the evil that clung to the dirt underneath.
Chad Coe lived on Portwine, a street with houses so rustic they could have been carved out of the forest around them. Coe’s house was recessed from the road, with a long driveway in front. The lot itself must have covered several acres and was so thickly wooded that it gave the feel of a retreat. Georgia slowed and peered up the driveway. A black Beemer was parked at the far end, next to one of those monster SUVs that North Shore mothers liked to drive. A quick glimpse of the house revealed a redwood exterior that blended well with the surroundings.
She turned around and parked about fifty yards north of the house. As she peeled the lid off her coffee, steam fogged the windshield. She cupped her hands around it, grateful for its warmth. Stakeouts were always a crapshoot, and this was Sunday, so she figured she’d familiarize herself with Coe and his family, then come back on Monday. Of course, she might luck out. This was the North Shore and work was king, even on weekends.
She ran the heater intermittently, trying to stay warm while she checked out the neighborhood. With the woods a natural barrier between homes, the giant lots, and the rustic setting, this seemed like a wonderful place to live. Quiet, tranquil, and soothing. A lone bird took flight and climbed high in the sky. She didn’t know whether it was a hawk or a vulture, but she watched it soar until it was just a black speck against bright blue. She was so captivated she almost missed the monster SUV backing out of the driveway. Dark red. Illinois plates. A female driver. Someone in back.
She started up the Toyota. The van turned and headed back toward Deerfield Road. She followed and stopped in back at the light. She could just make out a little person in a car seat.
For some reason, she hadn’t envisioned Chad Coe having a child. It struck a discordant note. How could the father of a toddler be involved in a black market baby ring? Didn’t the man have any scruples? Or maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe Chad Coe was simply working divorces and real estate deals.
She let the SUV pull a few cars ahead. No sense calling attention to herself. She tried to square the thought of Chad Coe, baby dealer, with the image of Chad Coe, father. Her former boyfriend, Matt, had been an observant Jew. He’d also been a homicide detective. Somehow he’d been able to separate the strands of his life and compartmentalize his values so they never clashed. For all she knew, Jimmy was the same way. Maybe most people were. She could work through how a man might rape a woman, then help a lost child find its mother without missing a beat.
She was a mile from Riverwoods when she decided to stop tailing the wife and kid. They weren’t her targets. She headed back to the house and waited. Two hours later the SUV returned, only the wife in the car. Was the child at a play date? A class? Georgia didn’t have time to ponder it because a few minutes later the Beemer appeared at the end of the driveway. Georgia straightened. A man was behind the wheel. She started her engine.
Coe drove south on Waukegan Road, then west on Shermer into Northbrook. Georgia followed a discreet distance behind. He wove around a couple of residential streets and stopped at a ranch house that was identical to every other house on the block except for the side to which the garage was attached. Georgia drove past the house, turned around, and backtracked. By then, the front door was just closing. She aimed her binoculars at a large front window, but the curtains were drawn. She jotted down the number of the house and plugged it into the Assessor’s Office website on her tablet.
The house was owned by Dr. Richard Lotwin. She quickly opened up FindersKeepers. Lotwin was a general surgeon. He’d been affiliated with Newfield Hospital for nearly twenty years, 1988 through 2007. Did that mean he wasn’t there any longer? If so, where was he? She started to Google him but had to stop when Chad Coe emerged from the house and headed back to his Beemer.
It was her first chance to take a good look at him. He had tight, curly dark hair, a thick nose, and bug eyes that flitted everywhere, never lighting on one spot for more than a second. He looked soft and round, not buff, and was casually dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. His only concession to the frigid weather was a muffler around his neck. Probably cashmere. He didn’t carry a briefcase; instead he had a combination backpack and satchel that trendy professionals carried.
Georgia slouched down in the driver’s seat. Coe pulled out of the doctor’s driveway and turned in her direction. When he passed, she averted her face as if she was rummaging in the glove compartment. She wasn’t sure if he’d seen her.
Once he reached the end of the block, she tailed him again. What business did Chad Coe have with a surgeon? If he was running a baby-breeding ring, shouldn’t he be dealing with an ob-gyn? Of course, he might be, and his visit to Lotwin was a different matter altogether. She checked the time. Whatever its objective, the meeting didn’t take a lot of time—less than twenty minutes.
Coe drove southeast to Skokie, a village in which Indians, Vietnamese, Jews, Hispanics, African Americans, and Middle Easterners elbowed one another in apparent harmony. It hadn’t always been that way. Thirty years earlier, a group of neo-Nazis were given a permit to march through what was then primarily a Jewish neighborhood. The sight of men in uniform goose-stepping past Holocaust survivors made for tense moments, which, of course, was what the marchers wanted. Long since ended, the marches were now part of the lore of Chicago history.
She tailed Coe to a block of small apartment buildings whose front yards were surrounded by chain-link fences. It was a utilitarian rather than pretty neighborhood, the faded yellow-brick buildings no taller than three stories, and their lawns littered with children’s tricycles, cars, and toys. Coe parked across from one of the buildings.
Georgia watched him go inside and swore softly. This wasn’t a single-family dwelling, which meant she couldn’t check out the occupants online. They were renters and wouldn’t be listed on any property records. She’d have to nose around the old-fashioned way. She realized how dependent she’d become on technology for sleuthing. Then she unwrapped a PB and J sandwich she’d slapped together before she left and wondered whom Chad Coe was visiting.
Her cell vibrated, startling her. The caller ID said Jimmy Saclarides. Her stomach flipped.
“Hey.” She smiled in spite of herself.
“It’s Jimmy.”
“I know.”
“Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
She wanted to tell him she was sorry for pushing him away. That she hoped he’d give her another chance. Instead, she said, “It’s okay. I know you must be busy.” She winced at how trite she sounded.
“Always…” He paused. “But I’m about to check out for the day. I know it’s late, but do you want to get together tonight? I can drive down.”