Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

they? Fire? Stars? A castle? Nazi symbols?”
    “How do you know about those?”
    She smiled inwardly. “I worked a case years ago where tattoos were important.”
    “They were on his chest. And his back. And his arms. Stars, military insignias, even a frigging fortress.”
    “You know that’s all code, right? Like how high up they were before they went in, how many years they spent in prison—”
    “We’re working on it.”
    Of course they were. She cleared her throat. “What about the owner of the SUV? I seem to recall one or two names that sounded like they were from that part of the world.”
    “We’re on that, too.” He was quiet for a minute. “Listen, Davis, we’re not planning to release anything about the tattoos. So if it leaks, I’ll know who.”
    “Got it.”
    “Anything else?”
    She debated whether to tell him about the note. She decided not to and clicked off. A few years ago while she was still a cop, someone had dropped off a videotape at Ellie Foreman’s home. She still wasn’t sure what to call Foreman: a friend, a colleague, a pain in the ass? The tape showed the murder of an unidentified woman. Both she and Ellie had traced the woman, helped in part by a tattoo on the dead woman’s wrist. That tattoo, a star rising out of a torch, had been favored by Russian criminals.
    She headed down to the coffee shop. A lot of bad guys had slipped into the country after the Soviet Union collapsed. They were called Mafiya, but in truth, they weren’t that organized. Russian mobsters had no loyalty. No omertà. Or quid pro quos. They were vicious, soulless thugs who would rather kill than negotiate. For them, murder—the more violent the better—was simply the cost of doing business.
    If the vic who’d been shot the other day was Russian Mafiya, it put a new spin on things. Maybe the guy hadn’t been tailing her to get or give information. Maybe she was just his mark; maybe he was planning to mug her. Which meant she’d ended up in the crossfire by chance. Her lucky day. Or maybe he was being taught a lesson by someone else. Concepts like loyalty and friendship held no meaning for these scumbags. They’d off each other as easily as they would outsiders.
    The coffee shop was crowded for late morning. Machines steamed, belched, and spouted. Georgia waited in line, wondering how many customers were gapers who’d come in to check the crime scene. She looked through the window. The scene had been released, and there were no more reminders of it, no flutter of yellow tape or cast-off evidence bags. Still, people hungered to be part of it. To share the terror of near disaster.
    “Hey, peaches.” Paul’s voice brought her back. “The usual?”
    She looked up and smiled. “Sure.” She glanced at the row of pastries in a glass-enclosed case. “And a blueberry muffin. To go.”
    Paul slid the door open, grabbed a white food wrapper, and reached for the muffin. He dropped it in a small bag and handed it over. “On the house.”
    “Why?”
    He waved at the people in line. “It’s the least I can do. I’m having the best week ever.”
    “Homicide’s good for business, huh?”
    He flipped up his hands.
    “You know, I do have a question,” she said. “Where do you get those wrappers for the pastries?”
    “The wrappers?” He looked confused. She pointed to the box on the counter.
    “Oh, those. From the food-service company.”
    “Do they sell more than one kind?”
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    “Do you have the company’s name and number?”
    “It’s in the back. I can check when it’s a little quieter. Want me to text you?”
    She looked at the line behind her. It wasn’t long, and she had no plans for the afternoon. “I’ll wait.”

Chapter 17
    R osebud Restaurant Supply was about as far south as you could go and still be in Cook County. Once Georgia was on I-57, traffic eased. Downtown skyscrapers were replaced by ten-floor buildings, two-story constructions, and finally