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

the carry-out sign, and when it was her turn she ordered a corned beef on rye to go. She watched as they layered more than three inches of meat on the bread. Enough for a week. She asked for extra coleslaw and Russian dressing, and one of the women snapped, “Why you not ask for a Reuben?”
    She apologized with a smile and said, “Don’t forget the latke and pickle.”
    The woman shot her a look. “Whaddya wanna drink?”
    “Diet Coke.”
    The woman retrieved a small plastic container with coleslaw, another with Russian dressing. Then she wrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle, put everything and the drink into a white bag, and handed Georgia a yellow receipt. Georgia took everything up front to pay, winding around a couple of aldermen she regularly saw on TV. She also passed a man who looked remarkably like Senator Dick Durbin.
    Back in her car, she unwrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle but made sure to save the wrap. She bit into the sandwich. It was just as good as she remembered. It was a clear but frigid day, and she’d almost ordered matzoh-ball soup too, but the sandwich alone was so hearty she could eat only half. She had no room for soup. She finished the pickle, took a bite of the latke, then slipped everything else back into the bag. Dinner.
    She’d snagged a space across the street from the restaurant on Jefferson where she could watch people going in and out. She fished out her camera and took pictures of anyone exiting with a take-out bag, although she didn’t expect any leads. Still, she had to be thorough.
    The sun was slanting toward the horizon when a gray Hyundai with a placard on the roof that said “Benny’s” pulled up in front of the restaurant. Georgia straightened. A delivery guy.
    An average-sized man in a down jacket and a wool Bears hat climbed out of the Hyundai and went inside. Georgia got out of her car and stationed herself in back of the Hyundai, shivering in the arctic chill. The guy came out ten minutes later, carrying two cardboard boxes filled with bags with tickets stapled to them. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave. Guy had a rough night. He got in his car and drove away.
    Ten minutes later another car, a Corolla like Georgia’s, also with a placard on the top, pulled up. She watched a young African American man trot into the restaurant, emerging a few minutes later with a box of white bags. He stowed the food in his backseat and pulled out.
    She went back to her car and watched him pull away, but not before she’d scrawled down his license plate, just as she’d done with the first guy. She’d wanted to question both about their deliveries over the past few weeks, but they had no incentive to talk to her. Even if they did, they might tell those customers that a detective had been nosing around asking questions. Plus, she didn’t know which delivery guy knew what. She had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right guy. Which meant a fifty-fifty chance of choosing the wrong one too. It was time to go home and start digging.

Chapter 25
    T wo hours later Georgia knew enough about one of Benny’s delivery guys to make a return visit. Kroll’s and FindersKeepers revealed that Bruce Kreisman, the owner of the Hyundai, had fled the state of Florida six months earlier for kiting checks. Overdrawing on accounts at several banks, he’d made off with twelve grand. Miami still had a warrant out for his arrest. She was surprised Benny’s hadn’t picked it up during a background check. Unless they didn’t do one.
    She wolfed down the rest of her corned beef sandwich. The guy in the Corolla was clean. Dropped out of high school but was taking a correspondence course online. Worked as a night janitor downtown. The car was registered to Selma Hunter, who could have been his mother, aunt, or girlfriend.
    The next morning she was back at Benny’s before lunch. The gray Hyundai pulled up around eleven.
    “Hey,