case, Georgia, just forget it. I can make a few calls. I know O’Malley, too.” She hiked her bag further up her shoulder and turned towards her Volvo.
Georgia watched her take a few steps, then called out, “Wait.”
Foreman spun around.
“O’Malley’s not going to know anything. The accident happened on the Eisenhower. It’s the Illinois State Police you need to talk to.”
Foreman cocked her head.
Georgia blew out a breath. “Shit. I’ll call around and see if there’s an accident report. But that’s it.”
Ellie smiled.
“And I probably won’t know anything for a few days. When there’s a fatal, they do a pretty thorough investigation.”
“Thanks, Georgia. You’re doing a real mitzvah.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
“I know,” Foreman said.
A few fat drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. “Go home and give Rachel a hug.”
chapter 8
T he next day Georgia didn’t know much more than she had the day before. As soon as she got home, she filed a freedom of information request with the Illinois State Police. Twenty-four hours later, she had the preliminary accident report on Arthur Emerlich, Christine’s boss.
The problem was it was inconclusive. The cops had brought a photographer as well as a reconstruction expert to the scene, but after dozens of photos and measurements, an analysis of the speed and impact of the collision, skid marks, and debris, all they knew for certain was that the brake fluid was low, which could have caused the brakes to fail.
Sure, it was suspicious, but whether someone had drained it, or the deceased—like so many drivers—had just neglected to maintain proper fluid levels, they couldn’t say. Without more evidence, the incident appeared to be exactly what it was—a tragic accident. Cook County would be doing an autopsy and a tox screen, which might provide more clues, but those findings wouldn’t be back for another week.
The Illinois State police report had redacted most of Emerlich’s personal information. Curious, Georgia went to her computer and clicked to the Midwest National Bank’s website. There he was on the list of bank officers: Arthur Emerlich, Vice-President and Chief Operations Officer. His bio said he had a wife and two grown children. She Googled his name and learned that he was a member of the Crest Haven Country Club and had won their golf tournament two years running. He was also on the Board of Directors of the West Suburban Theater. He and his wife, Dierdre, lived in Hinsdale, an affluent western suburb. In other words, there was nothing unusual about Arthur Emerlich. He seemed to be a model member of society, a successful executive inching toward retirement.
Georgia filled Ellie in and said she’d call Christine Messenger, but there was no answer when she did. She left Messenger a voice mail saying she’d copy the report and drop it off. Then she checked her calendar. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, the start of a three-day weekend. Whatever she needed to do, she’d have do today or wait until next week.
She went through her closet, pulled out a sundress she rarely wore and put it on. She applied make-up, something else she rarely did. Then she pulled down directions from Mapquest, got into her car, and set out for More-Than-Friends, the dating service in Palatine that allegedly stole her client’s identity.
Forty minutes later she entered a newly built office park with three buildings, two restaurants, and a manmade lake. She was surprised. She’d been expecting a small, sleazy office tucked away in the wrong part of town. She parked in the lot behind one of the office buildings and proceeded into the lobby, a space with marble floors and enormous glass windows with a view of the lake. The building directory indicated that More-than-Friends was on the fourth floor.
She took the elevator up and was surprised again to find a set of glass doors, with the name of More-than-Friends in elegant lettering. Inside was a
Georgia watched her take a few steps, then called out, “Wait.”
Foreman spun around.
“O’Malley’s not going to know anything. The accident happened on the Eisenhower. It’s the Illinois State Police you need to talk to.”
Foreman cocked her head.
Georgia blew out a breath. “Shit. I’ll call around and see if there’s an accident report. But that’s it.”
Ellie smiled.
“And I probably won’t know anything for a few days. When there’s a fatal, they do a pretty thorough investigation.”
“Thanks, Georgia. You’re doing a real mitzvah.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
“I know,” Foreman said.
A few fat drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. “Go home and give Rachel a hug.”
chapter 8
T he next day Georgia didn’t know much more than she had the day before. As soon as she got home, she filed a freedom of information request with the Illinois State Police. Twenty-four hours later, she had the preliminary accident report on Arthur Emerlich, Christine’s boss.
The problem was it was inconclusive. The cops had brought a photographer as well as a reconstruction expert to the scene, but after dozens of photos and measurements, an analysis of the speed and impact of the collision, skid marks, and debris, all they knew for certain was that the brake fluid was low, which could have caused the brakes to fail.
Sure, it was suspicious, but whether someone had drained it, or the deceased—like so many drivers—had just neglected to maintain proper fluid levels, they couldn’t say. Without more evidence, the incident appeared to be exactly what it was—a tragic accident. Cook County would be doing an autopsy and a tox screen, which might provide more clues, but those findings wouldn’t be back for another week.
The Illinois State police report had redacted most of Emerlich’s personal information. Curious, Georgia went to her computer and clicked to the Midwest National Bank’s website. There he was on the list of bank officers: Arthur Emerlich, Vice-President and Chief Operations Officer. His bio said he had a wife and two grown children. She Googled his name and learned that he was a member of the Crest Haven Country Club and had won their golf tournament two years running. He was also on the Board of Directors of the West Suburban Theater. He and his wife, Dierdre, lived in Hinsdale, an affluent western suburb. In other words, there was nothing unusual about Arthur Emerlich. He seemed to be a model member of society, a successful executive inching toward retirement.
Georgia filled Ellie in and said she’d call Christine Messenger, but there was no answer when she did. She left Messenger a voice mail saying she’d copy the report and drop it off. Then she checked her calendar. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, the start of a three-day weekend. Whatever she needed to do, she’d have do today or wait until next week.
She went through her closet, pulled out a sundress she rarely wore and put it on. She applied make-up, something else she rarely did. Then she pulled down directions from Mapquest, got into her car, and set out for More-Than-Friends, the dating service in Palatine that allegedly stole her client’s identity.
Forty minutes later she entered a newly built office park with three buildings, two restaurants, and a manmade lake. She was surprised. She’d been expecting a small, sleazy office tucked away in the wrong part of town. She parked in the lot behind one of the office buildings and proceeded into the lobby, a space with marble floors and enormous glass windows with a view of the lake. The building directory indicated that More-than-Friends was on the fourth floor.
She took the elevator up and was surprised again to find a set of glass doors, with the name of More-than-Friends in elegant lettering. Inside was a
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