Excerpt
Chapter One
They swarmed into the store like a plague of locusts. The rows of pants, jeans, and shirts were stacked in neat piles ready to tempt shoppers. The floors were swept, the windows sparkled, and punk music flowed out of the loudspeakers. Reggie Field, the store owner, didn’t much like punk. He preferred Dylan, the Byrds, even Motown, but oldies wouldn’t work for his customers.
He sipped the last of his latte, mentally congratulating himself for finally being in the right place at the right time. A serial entrepreneur, he’d failed more than not, but last fall he’d opened a designer discount store in Evanston, a suburb just north of Chicago. Evanston was a mecca for college kids, not only from Northwestern and the teachers college whose name he never remembered, but Loyola students and high school wannabes too. The store took off, and fourteen months later, he turned a profit. He’d been thinking about opening another store.
He was contemplating whether to flirt with his new salesgirl—it was only her third day, but she was cute, curvy, and blond—when the doors flew open and a horde of young males streamed in. There had to be more than twenty, all converging on the store. Reggie froze as they surged past him without a glance and slithered down the aisles. They planted themselves beside the counters, the wall units, even the display mannequins. Where had they come from? How had they managed to appear en masse, like they’d crashed a boring party and were taking over?
Wearing oversized jackets, backpacks, baggy pants, and gym shoes, these kids weren’t the preppy college kids who usually shopped here. A few had earbuds that trailed white cords and were bobbing their heads. Others grinned and laughed and shouted over the store’s speakers. The pungent smell of weed drifted over. All within a minute.
The new girl tried to ask one or two if they needed help, but they pushed past her, knocking her off balance. Reggie set his latte down next to the register.
“Hey. Watch it!”
But no one answered, and he soon saw why. The kids were too busy raking through piles of clothes and holding them up. It was when they started stuffing them into their backpacks and bags that Reggie ducked behind the cash register, pulled out his cell, and called 911.
“Designer Discount Den. I’m getting ripped off. Right now. About twenty. Maybe more. Get here right away!”
Still behind the counter, he pushed a button and a loud alarm sounded. Any normal person would have been startled by ear-splitting blasts that sounded like the end of the world. Not these punks. They kept grabbing clothes and stuffing them into jackets and backpacks, all the while laughing and high-fiving each other, clearly enjoying the bedlam they’d created. That’s what it was, Reggie realized. Sheer bedlam. Everything he’d worked for was turning to shit.
His pulse pounding, his blood pressure sky-high, Reggie tried to think. The best thing would be to get the hell out of the store. Lock the doors with them inside. They’d be trapped. He’d heard of another guy who did exactly that, but the assholes managed to sneak out the back, smashing windows as they ran. And what about his girl? He craned his neck, trying to spot her. He finally saw her, pinned against the wall by two punks. What were they doing? He couldn’t tell, but her eyes met his. She looked terrified. Fury knifed through him. He couldn’t abandon her—Maya, that was her name—to these barbarians. With a boldness he hardly recognized in himself, he tore himself from behind the counter and shouldered his way through the mob.
“Hey! Get away from her. Right now. Leave her the fuck alone!”
Two guys spun around, releasing their hold on the girl. As she sprinted toward the front door, one of the punks grabbed him from behind, while the other hit him across the jaw. A third belted him with an uppercut to his chin. The last thing Reggie heard as he slumped to the floor was Maya’s scream.
Chapter Two
Georgia Davis got the call two days later. She’d heard about the incident—the video was all over YouTube, and the media was full of it. How the flash mob ripped off five grand in inventory, how the owner ended up in the ER with stitches, how the punks scattered so fast the police had no suspects and were begging the public for leads. Even so, she was surprised when Reggie Field’s wife phoned.
“I just can’t believe it,” Shelly Field said a few seconds into the call. “Thirty years in retail and we’ve never seen anything like this. And the first week of January. Happy Fucking New Year.”
“Is your husband home from the hospital?”
“Oh yes. You know how they are. If you’re conscious and breathing, they kick you out. You could die on the way home, but they don’t care. Reggie’s still recovering, of course, and we’ve had to keep the store closed. I don’t know how we’re going to make up the losses. It’s just—just unlike anything we’ve ever dealt with.” The woman sighed theatrically.
Georgia listened with more than a trace of skepticism. The woman’s whines and complaints presumed an innocence about the ways of the world Georgia didn’t buy. Thirty years in retail would have taught anyone with half a brain about shoplifting, price gouging, and under-the-table deals. But she didn’t have to fall in love with her clients; she just had to tolerate them long enough to make their problem go away. She was a private investigator, not a therapist. Then again, being flash robbed was not your everyday event. She should probably fake a little sympathy.
“You have insurance, don’t you?”
The woman went on. “Yes, but they say they’re not going to investigate any more than the police already have. And, of course, the police have no idea who it was or how to catch them. Can you believe it? Going on the Internet and TV with our security tape? Do they think these thugs are just gonna give themselves up? Next thing you know they’ll offer ’em a reality show.”
Georgia stifled a giggle and covered it with a cough. The woman, intentionally or not, had a sense of humor. “Mrs. Field, I’m not sure I can do anything the police haven’t already done.”
“Call me Shelly, honey. And lemme tell you, they’re not doing anything. Look, I realize nobody got killed, and Reggie wasn’t seriously hurt, and the insurance—God forbid the rate hike that’s coming—will cover most of it. But you know? I gotta believe those punks knew that. And the cops—well, they won’t admit it—but this is on their back burner.”
The woman was right. Before she became a PI, Georgia had been a police officer for ten years, and despite the fact that she ultimately resigned, put-downs about cops still made her defensive. “It’s not that, Shelly; it’s just that they have to prioritize. This economy has hit cops hard too. They’ve got a—a boatload of homicides, arsons, sexual assaults, and fewer resources to handle them. They have to choose.” She almost smiled. She wished she’d recorded what she just said so she could send it to Dan O’Malley, her former boss, now the chief of police in Northview. He wouldn’t believe it.
“Yeah, yeah. A victimless crime. That’s what they keep saying,” Mrs. Field said. “But it wasn’t.”
“I agree. Especially with your husband getting hurt. If violence is involved, no matter—”
“It’s not just that, sweetheart.” The woman cut her off. “There’s a part of this that hasn’t come out. That’s why we called you.”
“What do you mean ‘hasn’t come out’?”
“Reggie’ll tell you.” Shelly hesitated, then issued a sigh. “You gotta remember this was our livelihood. Our entire life. Now Reggie’s practically ready to cash it in. Ya can’t blame him, you know? We’re not getting any younger. But I just hate the thought of going on social security.”
“How did you get to me?” Georgia asked.
“One of our neighbors recommended you.”
“Who?”
“Um, she—they don’t wanna say. But you got a good rep. They say you know what you’re doing.”
“Where do you live?”
“Glencoe.”
Georgia wondered who the neighbor was. She didn’t know many people in Glencoe. Only one family, in fact. She tapped her fingers on her desk. It was the second week of January, typically a slow period until the post-Christmas cheer dried up and people went back to their greedy, thieving ways. She had time. And she could always use the money.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll look into it for a couple of days. If I can’t see a way forward, I’ll let you know. I don’t want to take your money for nothing.”
“Well, that’s fair. I see why they like you.”
It’s why I’m barely eking out a living, Georgia thought. Aloud, she said, “How about I swing by later today?”
Chapter Three
There was no “other side of the tracks” in Glencoe, an affluent suburb on Chicago’s North Shore. At the southern edge of the village, though, not far from Green Bay and Washington, a small black community had taken root in the 1880s. It was largely dispersed now, but at one time it was the only African American neighborhood between Evanston and Lake Forest. Reggie and Shelly Field lived in a small older brick house near the old St. Paul AME Church, and as she pulled up Georgia wondered if the place had once belonged to a black family.
It was a crisp, sunny day, the roads were wet with melting snow, and the ground smelled earthy. Chicago was in the midst of a January thaw. As she climbed out of her Toyota, Georgia caught her reflection in the car window. She’d bundled up before she left home, but now she loosened her muffler and flicked her long blond hair over it. The shades she wore masked brown eyes, but they made her nose seem sharper and more prominent. Not much she could do about that. The weather was so mild she unzipped her parka, displaying her fisherman’s sweater and jeans.
She mounted three concrete steps to a tiny porch surrounded by an iron banister. The screen door had one of those initials in the center, in this case, a cursive F. She pressed a buzzer to the right of the latch.
The woman who opened the door was not what Georgia expected. She’d anticipated an elderly woman with no shape and flyaway gray hair. To her surprise, Shelly Field was thin, with black hair and red lipstick. She wore a stylish warm-up suit and had that taut, stretched skin that comes from a facelift or two. Is that where the profits from the store went?
“Shelly?” Georgia said. “I’m Georgia Davis.”
Shelly appraised her, frowning slightly. Georgia wondered if she’d expected something different too. Then she opened the door wider. “Come in. Reggie’s anxious to meet you.”
Shelly’s tone, clipped and businesslike, was so different from her phone personality that Georgia was taken aback. No whining, no sour grapes. Did she hide that side of her from her husband? The woman led her into a small living room with overstuffed furniture, white wall-to-wall carpeting, and ornate gilded picture frames. The sharp odor of ammonia drifted over the room, announcing the presence of a cat, which, on cue, jumped down from a chair, blinked, then without a sound swished its tail and skulked out of the room.
Reggie Field lay on a brocade sofa, clutching an iPad. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall behind him. He was a big guy, bald except for few strands of comb-over gray. His hair was longer on the sides and back and had the consistency of steel wool. His nose was tiny and turned up like a pug’s. A gauze bandage with adhesive tape covered one cheek, and Georgia saw a nasty abrasion on his chin.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, not bothering to paste on a smile.
Shelly sat in the chair the cat had vacated and motioned Georgia into its mate on the other side of the coffee table.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Field?” Georgia asked.
“I’ll live. And call me Reggie. Everyone does.”
She nodded. “As I told Shelly, there may not be much I can do that the police and your insurance company haven’t already done.”
His eyebrows arched. “Oh yes, there is. I can vouch for it.”
Georgia inclined her head.
He set his iPad down and with a huge effort sat up. His weight settled in his gut, making him look like an overripe pear.
“I’m gonna save you a lot of time.” His expression tightened, and he poked a finger at Georgia. “I fired my assistant manager last week. Name of Chase Bartell. He’s behind the whole thing, but I can’t prove it.”
Georgia straightened. “Tell me.”
“He was dealing drugs right out of the front of the store. Cocaine, reefer, pills. Caught him red-handed.”
Georgia hadn’t heard anyone use the word “reefer” in years.
“I got him on the security tape. Fired his ass right away. After the flash rob, I turned everything over to the cops. Told them exactly what happened and who was behind it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Bubkes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except that the tape showed up on YouTube.”
Georgia frowned.
“Bartell’s a snot-nosed rich kid from Northfield. I was doing his parents a favor. They begged me. Said he needed something to keep him out of trouble. So, I think, okay, I’m a nice guy. I’ll give the kid a chance. I shudda known. He was doing something, all right.” Reggie’s face darkened. “The cops wanted to file charges, but the parents hired a fine and fancy lawyer who makes a big deal that the tape isn’t clear enough and doesn’t really show a drug transaction. And that there’s no way in hell anyone could connect his client to the flash mob.”
“But you say otherwise?”
“Damn right I do.” He shook his head angrily. “I gave their kid a chance. And this is how they repay me?”
Georgia kept her mouth shut. She had worked with video specialists in the past and knew all sorts of magic could enhance images that would stand up in court. The fact that the cops or the State’s Attorney hadn’t gone that route suggested that the Bartells—or their lawyer—had clout or great connections or both.
“Then, well, bottom line, the cops decide not to pursue charges after all, and the kid gets off. Not even a fucking slap on the wrist.”
“But you think he was out for revenge and set up the hit on the store.”
“I know he was,” Reggie said. “The kid was pissed. He threatened me when I fired him.”
“Did the police check his cell phone? His Facebook friends? All that?”
“Said they did. Said he’s clean. But I’m telling you he ain’t. I know the little bastard did it. That’s why I called you.”
