Monday morning Georgia headed back to Skokie. She’d spent last night trying to trace the four names on the vestibule of the apartment building Chad Coe visited, but she’d had no luck. Three had just an initial and a last name, and even if she were able to tie them to the address, she wouldn’t get far on her databases. Plus, they were renters, not owners, which often meant a patchy financial history. Millions of people were like that. Technology was a godsend, but it took time—and legal documents—to make a digital footprint.
After a weekend of winter sunshine, which produced a thaw of sorts, a swollen gray overcast ushered in another cold front. Georgia pulled on gloves as she climbed out of the Toyota. She noticed a child’s wagon and ball on the front lawn. They hadn’t been there Saturday. Someone in the building had kids.
She walked up to the door and studied the names in the vestibule again. The name on one of the first-floor apartments was G. McCune, with the ink-scrawled letters “Bldg Mgr” next to it. May as well. She pushed the buzzer. No response. She pushed again, heard a return buzz unlocking the door, and grabbed the door before it stopped. There was no intercom, and she proceeded into a small, square hall with two apartment doors opposite each other, and a set of stairs at the back. The door on one side squeaked open a crack, and an overweight woman in pink workout sweats, her hair in old-fashioned rollers, squinted through the gap.
“Yeah?”
“Are you the building manager?’
The woman looked Georgia up and down, not an easy task given the narrow slit of the door. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m—looking for an apartment to rent. I saw empty slots next to two of the buzzers, so I thought I’d ask.”
“I have one apartment. One bedroom. Seven fifty a month. Air-conditioning and heat extra.”
“That sounds great. Can I see it?”
The woman shrugged. “Gimme a minute.” Georgia heard a TV talk show blaring somewhere in the depths of the apartment. The woman closed the door. The TV noise grew muffled.
It was chilly in the hall, not much warmer than outside. Georgia heard the clank of keys. The door opened again.
“I’m showing an apartment, Joe,” she called out over the TV, then lumbered out and closed the door. She headed toward the stairs, glancing back at Georgia. “It’s on the third floor. But you’re young.” She paused. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha Mandor,” Georgia replied quickly, not exactly sure why she felt compelled to use an alias. She just had a feeling. “You’re Mrs. McCune?”
“Me and Joe live on the first floor. He’s the maintenance manager,” she said importantly.
They climbed up to the second floor. Mrs. McCune was already breathing hard. “You just move here?” she huffed.
“I did.” Georgia smiled. “From Kansas.”
“Got a job?”
McCune was checking her out. She rounded the second-floor landing and, leaning her hand on the banister, trudged up to the third floor.
Georgia decided to play the pity card. “I—I just broke up with my boyfriend. We were living together back in Lawrence. Over three years. But I have a good friend here, and she convinced me to move. You know, to start over.” The woman’s expression hardened. “Oh, don’t worry. I have savings. I can pay the rent.”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
“I have good typing and computer skills. I’ll work temp until I get a full-time job.”
McCune stopped at one of the doors on the third floor. The hall was well lit, Georgia thought, but the faded carpet gave off a musty smell. McCune exhaled into a harrumph. “Computers. Everybody’s high-tech these days.”
McCune fumbled with the key ring, found the right one, and unlocked the door. They walked in. It was empty and cleaner than Georgia expected, but the faint residue of a foreign scent drifted over her. She couldn’t place it. “Who lived here?” she asked.
McCune scratched her head, which was difficult to do with her hair full of rollers. “An Indian man. Engineering student. Don’t know where he went.”
Curry and saffron. That’s what the scent was. “Was he a good cook?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Georgia nodded. What kind of building manager doesn’t know their tenants? Unless she didn’t want to say.
McCune turned around. “You’re looking for a job? I might know one.”
“Really?” Georgia feigned interest.
“Yeah…got a friend who runs a hair salon. You good with hair?”
Georgia smiled. “Not really. I was sort of thinking of a business job.” Hadn’t the woman been listening?
“Good luck with that.” McCune looked her over again. “What kind of skills you got?”
Georgia hesitated. She’d already told the woman. She decided not to remind her. “I am pretty good with a computer. Word processing. Dictation. I’m organized, too.”
McCune harrumphed as if this was the first time she’d heard it. “Everybody’s high-tech these days.”
This did not bode well. Was the woman senile? Early Alzheimer’s? Georgia pretended to inspect the apartment. “You said there was AC. Just out of curiosity, what kind of heat does the place have?”
“Gas forced air. One of the only buildings on the block to have it. We’re lucky. The owner takes care of the place.”
“Who owns it?”
“A lawyer. Lives in Wisconsin. Retired.”
Georgia peeked into a closet, looked into the bathroom, and stood in front of the living room window. The view was of a similar building across the street, barely concealed by the branches of an elm or ash. She turned around.
“You said there was only one apartment available, but I couldn’t help noticing there were two empty slots next to the buzzers in the vestibule.”
McCune folded her arms. “Yes, well.” She went quiet.
Georgia picked up on it. “Well, what?”
McCune’s lips tightened. Then she cleared her throat. “We got a nice Mexican couple on the lease, but they have another place in Prospect Heights.” McCune paused. “So every once in a while, some of their cousins stay here for a few days. You know what I mean?”
Georgia knew. The unidentified apartment was a crash pad for illegals. She gazed at McCune.
McCune shrugged. “What am I gonna do? We need the income.”
Georgia frowned.
“Don’t worry,” McCune cut in. “This is a safe place. I ain’t never had no trouble. Me and Joey make sure of that.”
Georgia doubted that a woman who couldn’t remember who said what when could know trouble if it hit her in the face.
“Any hint of it, in fact, they’re out,” McCune was saying.
Georgia ran a hand across her forehead.
McCune took it as disapproval. “Look, we even have a kid here… her mom wouldn’t be here if she didn’t think it was safe. I babysit her sometimes.”
At some point during their conversation, McCune must have decided Georgia would be a good tenant. She was selling her now.
“A single mother?” Georgia asked. “Which apartment?”
“Second floor. Claudia Nyquist. Single woman.” McCune flashed her a smile. “Works at a hospital.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, Evanston Hospital. Think she’s in the computer department.” She motioned toward Georgia. “Just like you. I can put you in touch with her if you want.” McCune looked hopeful.
“That might be a good idea,” Georgia said.
“And there’s a contractor here too…you know, a remodeler. Nice single man. I keep thinking he and Claudia ought to go out. But she don’t seem interested. Maybe you?”
“What’s his name?”
“Bill Tuttle.” McCune proceeded to tell her all sorts of things that made Tuttle sound like the most boring man in the world.
“Who’s the fourth tenant? I thought I saw an Asian name.”
“Oh. They’re a Chinese couple. Just got here. Mr. and Mrs. Wong. Nice people. Not much English, though.” McCune smiled. “So what do you think? You like it?”
Georgia made sure to be slow to reply. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, better make up your mind. The place will go fast. Let me get you an application.”
“Sure.”
They went back downstairs, where McCune retrieved an application from her apartment and handed it to Georgia. She stuffed it into her jeans pocket and headed to the front door. As she was just about out, McCune asked, “How did you come to hear about this place?”
Georgia pretended she hadn’t heard. She waved as she jogged to her car.