glad not to have to go back to work, I think.”
“Was it run by the state?”
“No. It was run by a private foundation. I think someone had given the foundation a lot of money at some point, and it ran this place as a non-profit. It was called the Grant Settlement House.”
“Is it still there?” I asked.
“As far as I know. It had been in business for thirty or so years when Connie worked there. They’re on East 63rd Street, almost right under I-94. In fact, the address for Vivian is the same as for the Grant.”
“You’ve been a big help, Dr. Jarski. I’m sorry I had to bother you.”
“Look, Mr. Royal, I don’t know what this is all about, but if you find out that someone is impersonating my wife, I’d like to know about it.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out Dr. Jarski.”
Chapter 11
My airline guide book told me that the first flight I could get out to Midway Airport in Chicago was at six o’clock the next morning. I found a motel off the interstate near the airport and checked in. I ate a greasy country fried steak dinner in the motel coffee shop, and headed for my room. I read a few chapters of Dennis Lehane’s latest novel and went to sleep.
I got up early, dressed and drove to the airport, turned in my car and took the shuttle to the terminal. I boarded an American Trans Air flight, a small passenger jet, and was offered a cup of coffee and a sweet roll for breakfast. I arrived at Midway at 7:30, rented a car at the Hertz desk, got into a new Chevrolet and left. I took 63rd street out of the airport and drove the few blocks to the Grant Settlement House.
Just as I was parking the car, my cell phone rang. It was Logan.
“How are you, buddy?” he asked.
“Great. Look Logan, was Connie a real red head?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You saw her naked.”
“Oh. Nah. She was red on top and black on bottom. Like a Georgia football player. Why?”
“Not funny, Logan. I was just wondering. How are you doing?”
“About the same. Still moving around. Where are you?”
“In Chicago.”
“Chicago. What the hell are you doing there?”
“I’ll tell you later. Call me in a couple of days. Gotta go now.” I clicked the off button on the phone and got out of the car.
The Grant Settlement House was a four story nondescript building, set in a block of buildings that looked much the same. A glass double door had its name painted at about eye level. I pushed through the door and found myself in a small reception area that was furnished with two straight back chairs and a sofa that looked a little more comfortable. There was a green metal desk in front and to the side of a door that I assumed led to the rest of the building. A woman in some kind of uniform sat at the desk. She was about forty with close cropped brown hair going to gray. She was trim, wearing glasses and a smile. Her uniform shirt, open at the neck, had a badge and a shoulder patch with a private security firms logo.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes. I’m trying to find out some information about a woman who worked here several years ago. Is there someone I can see who might help me?”
“I’m sure our Ms. Turner would be the one to see. She’s the director. Have a seat and let me see if she can see you now.” She picked up a phone and turned her back to me, speaking softly. She hung up and said, “Ms. Turner will be right out.”
I took a seat on the sofa. I was still wearing my lawyer suit and tie, and felt like a professional. I wondered what kind of woman Ms. Turner would be. Probably some matronly type, I guessed. I was right. A woman of about sixty came through the door and approached me. She was a few pounds overweight with gray hair hanging almost to her shoulders. She wore a green dress, a gold wedding band on her ring finger, and no other jewelry. She was smiling and holding out her hand. “I’m Cynthia Turner,” she said. “Can I help
“Was it run by the state?”
“No. It was run by a private foundation. I think someone had given the foundation a lot of money at some point, and it ran this place as a non-profit. It was called the Grant Settlement House.”
“Is it still there?” I asked.
“As far as I know. It had been in business for thirty or so years when Connie worked there. They’re on East 63rd Street, almost right under I-94. In fact, the address for Vivian is the same as for the Grant.”
“You’ve been a big help, Dr. Jarski. I’m sorry I had to bother you.”
“Look, Mr. Royal, I don’t know what this is all about, but if you find out that someone is impersonating my wife, I’d like to know about it.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out Dr. Jarski.”
Chapter 11
My airline guide book told me that the first flight I could get out to Midway Airport in Chicago was at six o’clock the next morning. I found a motel off the interstate near the airport and checked in. I ate a greasy country fried steak dinner in the motel coffee shop, and headed for my room. I read a few chapters of Dennis Lehane’s latest novel and went to sleep.
I got up early, dressed and drove to the airport, turned in my car and took the shuttle to the terminal. I boarded an American Trans Air flight, a small passenger jet, and was offered a cup of coffee and a sweet roll for breakfast. I arrived at Midway at 7:30, rented a car at the Hertz desk, got into a new Chevrolet and left. I took 63rd street out of the airport and drove the few blocks to the Grant Settlement House.
Just as I was parking the car, my cell phone rang. It was Logan.
“How are you, buddy?” he asked.
“Great. Look Logan, was Connie a real red head?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You saw her naked.”
“Oh. Nah. She was red on top and black on bottom. Like a Georgia football player. Why?”
“Not funny, Logan. I was just wondering. How are you doing?”
“About the same. Still moving around. Where are you?”
“In Chicago.”
“Chicago. What the hell are you doing there?”
“I’ll tell you later. Call me in a couple of days. Gotta go now.” I clicked the off button on the phone and got out of the car.
The Grant Settlement House was a four story nondescript building, set in a block of buildings that looked much the same. A glass double door had its name painted at about eye level. I pushed through the door and found myself in a small reception area that was furnished with two straight back chairs and a sofa that looked a little more comfortable. There was a green metal desk in front and to the side of a door that I assumed led to the rest of the building. A woman in some kind of uniform sat at the desk. She was about forty with close cropped brown hair going to gray. She was trim, wearing glasses and a smile. Her uniform shirt, open at the neck, had a badge and a shoulder patch with a private security firms logo.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes. I’m trying to find out some information about a woman who worked here several years ago. Is there someone I can see who might help me?”
“I’m sure our Ms. Turner would be the one to see. She’s the director. Have a seat and let me see if she can see you now.” She picked up a phone and turned her back to me, speaking softly. She hung up and said, “Ms. Turner will be right out.”
I took a seat on the sofa. I was still wearing my lawyer suit and tie, and felt like a professional. I wondered what kind of woman Ms. Turner would be. Probably some matronly type, I guessed. I was right. A woman of about sixty came through the door and approached me. She was a few pounds overweight with gray hair hanging almost to her shoulders. She wore a green dress, a gold wedding band on her ring finger, and no other jewelry. She was smiling and holding out her hand. “I’m Cynthia Turner,” she said. “Can I help
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