of professionalism not to tail Georgia when she left last night. I wanted to follow her and see where she was going, but I knew if she caught me, I’d have no way of talking myself out of it. She would be well and truly convinced I was following her. So I stayed back, ate my dinner from the grocery store deli, and analyzed every bit of evidence I’ve obtained so far. Which, admittedly, isn’t a lot.
Imagine my surprise when she returned home after 10p.m., carrying a replica of Monet’s Water Lilies. I know that one well because it’s one of the most expensive pieces displayed at The Art Institute of Chicago. It still doesn’t qualify as hard evidence, but it inches me toward being able to request more invasive surveillance equipment.
If I only have two months to solve this case, I need to make the most of it. So at 9a.m., after I’ve hit the gym for a sweaty hour of circuit training, I return to my temporary home to shower—in what I’d class as the world’s smallest bathroom—then venture to Georgia’s apartment.
Three taps at the door, and I listen closely for movement inside. Nothing. After thirty seconds, I knock again.
“Coming.” Some rustling sounds from the other side of the door and something slams, followed by “Ow!” Whatever she’s doing in there, it sounds rushed and panicked.
Perhaps hiding evidence. Though she should have made more of an effort of that last night when she marched in with her painting forgery.
Georgia opens the door another half a minute later and peeks her head around without opening it more than a few inches. Her hair is messy, piled on top of her head in a frazzled ponytail. “Hi. Oh, it’s you. Sorry, I just woke up.”
“Late night?” I try to glimpse inside her apartment, but the small gap isn’t enough for me to see anything.
“Kind of. I did this paint and wine night with my friends, then got home and wanted to capture something else, so I was up until 3:30.”
I’m impressed with how smoothly she delivered that statement. My deception-detection training is no help because I don’t sense the slightest bit of a lie. But I do notice a smudge on her right cheek and instinctively reach up to wipe it away with my thumb.
Our skin makes contact with a jolt of electricity that shoots up my arm. Georgia freezes under my touch, so I pull my hand away, afraid I’m overstepping. I’ve never felt inclined to even tell someone they had broccoli in their teeth. What possessed me to touch her?
“Sorry. You had black something…” I gesture at her cheek like she needs clarification.
“Th–thank you.”
I shake my hand out to rid it of the weird tingling sensation and refocus on why I’m here. I told my boss I was going to approach Georgia this morning, so something better materialize before I have to report back in. “Coffee. I was stopping by to see if you wanted to grab a coffee. Or whatever you want that comes to around fourteen dollars.”
She smiles, and I get the sense her guard is dropping. She pulls the door open a little wider. “Clearly I’m not dressed to go in public. Can you give me fifteen minutes? I promise I’m fast.”
I drop my eyes to examine her outfit. She’s wearing a short black T-shirt with a cartoon Tyrannosaurus rex and the word “roar” over its head and matching shorts with dinosaurs in domed space ships.
I can’t help but laugh. “How do they reach the steering wheel?”
Georgia scoffs, looking down at her shorts. She pulls the fabric out to inspect it. “Pretty sure if they’re driving space ships, they’ve worked out the whole self-drive function.”
I take a second to peek behind her now that the door is open wider. Her Monet replica is leaning against something on her dresser. Her floor plan looks similar to mine, which doesn’t allow for much delineation of space. Nor a lot of privacy.
“Did you paint that?” I ask, pointing behind her.
She moves to close the door part way, blocking my view of the inside again. “I did. Paint night. They often choose an impressionist to mimic.” She turns her head to look behind her, then spins back to address me again. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go back to my place. Just knock when you’re ready.”
She nods, then disappears behind her closed door. I walk to my unit and return inside. No sense in updating Lancaster after that brief interaction, but I make a note to look into this supposed paint night. I don’t understand why a trained artist would attend an amateur painting event. That’s like an MLB player showing up to Little League. I can’t imagine it’s much of a challenge.
According to a website for a studio not far from here, they had a Monet paint night yesterday. The timeframe coincides with Georgia’s exit and reappearance. I suppose that means she’s off the hook for this one. That just means I have to try harder.
Georgia knocks a moment later. She was faster than expected, because she only took eleven minutes. She’s dressed in dark denim and a SAIC hoodie, looking deceptively innocent.
“Ready?” she asks from behind a tentative smile, drawing attention to her pillowy pink lips.
“Ready.” I pat my jean pockets to make sure I have my phone, wallet, and keys, then step into the hallway. “Do you know a good coffee place nearby?”
“I don’t go out for coffee a lot, but Pete’s is pretty good,” she replies, ambling toward the elevator.
“Lead the way.” I press the call button, but it takes a full minute for the elevator to arrive. I notice Georgia smirk, but I don’t ask why.
We step inside and descend to the lobby without saying a word. I’m so intent on watching her non-verbal cues, I’m finding it difficult to maintain small talk. If I’m not careful, this could be our final interaction, so I need to be smart about my approach. This needs to go well enough she invites me to see more of her life.
“Tell me more about yourself. You’re an artist from a small town with a black belt in jiu-jitsu, and you like painting while drinking wine. What else is there to know?”
She makes that weird snort-laugh sound she made yesterday. “Wow, you take impressive notes. Good thing I didn’t tell you my social security number.”
I try not to let my face express that I already have that and every tax return she’s ever filed. “Now that’s two things you’ve learned about me. I listen and I have a good memory.”
Pete’s appears on our left, only two hundred feet from our building. I reach out to pull the door open for Georgia and one other woman who enters behind her.
“Do you know what you’re getting?” I ask, sliding in line beside Georgia as she stares up at the rustic menu board.
“Just a large black coffee.”
“Black coffee?”
She turns her gaze from the pastry display to look at me. “I thought you listened and had a good memory.”
“I do. That’s just… not what I expected.”
Her eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, as does the left side of her lips. “What did you expect?”
Suddenly, I feel put on the spot. Like my intention of gaining insight into her has backfired. But I play along. “Maybe a matcha latte with a fancy leaf image on top. Black coffee seems so plain. So un-artistic.”
She chuckles—without the snort this time—and steps forward as the person in front of us clears away. “Large black coffee, please. He’s paying.” She winks at me, which is also a surprise.
“Make that two,” I say to the cashier, whose name tag reads Tasha. “And an oatmeal with berries, please.” I turn my focus back on Georgia and ask, “Do you want anything to eat?”
She glances at the pastry display again, and her eyes settle on a cinnamon bun. “No, I’m good, thanks,” she replies, but doesn’t sound convincing.
“And a cinnamon bun,” I request from Tasha, then wink at Georgia. I don’t recall ever winking at a woman before. It’s never been a move in my repertoire, but I’ll do whatever it takes to play along here. If baked goods and silly facial gestures help me solve this case, I’ll chalk it off as part of the job.
A few moments later, we’re seated at a table for two along the back wall of the cafe. A law-enforcement habit: positioning yourself in a place that allows for a full visual. The chairs are worn and uncomfortable, but otherwise, the ambiance of the place is nice. It seems like a suitable spot for a surface-level conversation that can lay the foundation for a friendly relationship and lead to getting the answers I’m looking for.
“So I’ve also learned you’re no good at guessing coffee orders. Tell me something else about you, since you know more about me. We need to level the playing field.”
I’m not sure if she’s interested in me or if she’s being deceptive, but I don’t want to make her suspicious. Time to bust out the undercover identity Lancaster arranged for me. “I’m a fire-safety inspector at the OFI. Grew up in Ottawa. Second of four kids. Severely allergic to shellfish and cats.” Three out of four of those things are true.
Her eyes widen. “I’m allergic to cats too. When I was younger, I begged for a kitten. My parents finally caved. Within an hour, I was covered in hives and struggling to breathe, but I was clinging to that poor tabby, refusing to accept she was the issue. We had to take her back and never got another pet.”
The way she speaks with such conviction and passion, even with a hint of sadness in her eyes, it appears she’s being honest.
“Very similar to how I found out. My little sister brought home a box of abandoned kittens. Needless to say, it came down to saving me or them.”
“I hope your sister chose the kittens.”
I laugh a genuine laugh, which is an unusual feeling. Most of the time, with a suspect, every action and reaction are calculated, but Georgia keeps surprising me. “She did, but they had to stay in the garage. Though she put up some good arguments to move my bed out there instead.”
“Phew.” Georgia smiles wide, creating faint creases around her eyes. “As long as the kittens were okay. Sounds like a real cat-astrophe.”
I laugh again, nearly spitting out my sip of coffee. I watch as she rips apart her cinnamon bun, eating one small piece at a time. She tells me about her fervent love for any and all sporting events—something I had gathered from her social media posts. We discuss my “job” and my dual roles inspecting buildings to ensure they’re up to code and speaking in public schools about fire safety. They’re all predetermined tidbits of information to share in hopes she’ll see my capacity with the OFI as an opportunity to cut me in on future heists.
The strange thing is, I struggle to maintain the lie. There’s something so backwards about lying to someone in an effort to make them tell the truth. Or even worse, trying to catch them in a lie. But if people were inherently honest, I’d be out of a job.
A job that is important to me and I will succeed at, no matter the cost.