Read Online Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) by Libby Fischer Hellmann - Free Book Online
Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
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one-story boxes. At the same time, the space between them expanded. Soon she was passing snow-covered fields that reflected the sun so intensely her eyes hurt. She opened the glove compartment, took out a pair of shades, and slipped them on. Out here you could see how flat the prairie really was. Every road seemed to stretch to the horizon. Georgia hunched her shoulders. The openness, the lack of a place to hide, was unsettling.
Half way to Kankakee, she reached University Park, which straddles the southern border of Cook County and spills into Will. A small planned city that seemed to spring fully formed from the belly of the prairie, the city was named for Governor’s State University, which was designed for working adults.
A few minutes later she pulled up to a low-slung white building, with, of course, a giant rosebud painted on the side. She parked in a small lot and went in. The reception area, if you could call it that, consisted of an interior window with sliding glass panels, behind which was an unoccupied desk. Across the room was a six-foot-square patch of blue carpet and two industrial-looking chairs. An artificial plant and a spread of outdated magazines lay on a small glass table. Someone had made a halfhearted attempt to be welcoming.
Georgia made her way past the sliding glass partition, wondering where the receptionist had gone. She knocked on a door leading off the reception area. No response. She turned the knob. Unlocked. She pushed through into a long hall with cinder-block walls and three doors. One was open.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
She heard the squeak of casters rolling across the floor. A male voice rang out. “In here.”
As she walked down the hall, she caught the scent of fresh bread. It was an appealing aroma, except Rosebud was supposed to be a food-service distributor, not a bakery. She reached the open door and peered into a small office. A roly-poly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard was just standing up, an open book and a half-eaten sub on his desk. Case of the bakery aroma closed.
The man was short, but he had the most cheerful blue eyes she’d ever seen. He must be Santa’s younger brother. He pushed away the sandwich and book. Though its cover was upside down, she could tell it was a crime novel by a popular Chicago author.
He caught her glance. “You like him? This is his latest. It’s good. It’s about a PI who—”
She cut him off. “I’m not much of a reader.”
A disappointed look came over his face as if he’d been ready for a serious discussion on the merits of the genre. He squared his shoulders. “Well now,” he said, his voice all business, “how can I help you?”
“Sorry to barge in, but I’m looking for some information and your company was suggested. My name is Georgia Davis, and—I’m—an investigator.”
His eyes widened. “An investigator?” He stole a glance at the book. “Like a PI?”
She swallowed. And nodded.
His jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it. All my life I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come through the front door.” He grinned and raised his hands. “And here you are!”
Georgia slid her hands into her pockets. Usually it was her looks that got in the way, and she’d have to waste time fending off come-ons and double entendres before she could get on to business. But little Santa was hot for her career. She tipped her head to the side, amused.
He closed the space between them and stuck out his hand. “I’m Rick Martin. And this is just my day job. I’m a writer. I’m working on a crime novel.” He yanked a thumb toward the book. “Reading helps.”
Georgia smiled and waved a hand. “So this—this place is just a hobby?”
“I wish.” He drew himself up. “I am,” he intoned dramatically, “the son of Rosebud.”
“Pardon me?”
“What can I say?” Martin rocked back and grinned. “My father loved
Citizen Kane
. Movies, books…Pop was a frustrated storyteller. Probably what
Half way to Kankakee, she reached University Park, which straddles the southern border of Cook County and spills into Will. A small planned city that seemed to spring fully formed from the belly of the prairie, the city was named for Governor’s State University, which was designed for working adults.
A few minutes later she pulled up to a low-slung white building, with, of course, a giant rosebud painted on the side. She parked in a small lot and went in. The reception area, if you could call it that, consisted of an interior window with sliding glass panels, behind which was an unoccupied desk. Across the room was a six-foot-square patch of blue carpet and two industrial-looking chairs. An artificial plant and a spread of outdated magazines lay on a small glass table. Someone had made a halfhearted attempt to be welcoming.
Georgia made her way past the sliding glass partition, wondering where the receptionist had gone. She knocked on a door leading off the reception area. No response. She turned the knob. Unlocked. She pushed through into a long hall with cinder-block walls and three doors. One was open.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
She heard the squeak of casters rolling across the floor. A male voice rang out. “In here.”
As she walked down the hall, she caught the scent of fresh bread. It was an appealing aroma, except Rosebud was supposed to be a food-service distributor, not a bakery. She reached the open door and peered into a small office. A roly-poly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard was just standing up, an open book and a half-eaten sub on his desk. Case of the bakery aroma closed.
The man was short, but he had the most cheerful blue eyes she’d ever seen. He must be Santa’s younger brother. He pushed away the sandwich and book. Though its cover was upside down, she could tell it was a crime novel by a popular Chicago author.
He caught her glance. “You like him? This is his latest. It’s good. It’s about a PI who—”
She cut him off. “I’m not much of a reader.”
A disappointed look came over his face as if he’d been ready for a serious discussion on the merits of the genre. He squared his shoulders. “Well now,” he said, his voice all business, “how can I help you?”
“Sorry to barge in, but I’m looking for some information and your company was suggested. My name is Georgia Davis, and—I’m—an investigator.”
His eyes widened. “An investigator?” He stole a glance at the book. “Like a PI?”
She swallowed. And nodded.
His jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it. All my life I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come through the front door.” He grinned and raised his hands. “And here you are!”
Georgia slid her hands into her pockets. Usually it was her looks that got in the way, and she’d have to waste time fending off come-ons and double entendres before she could get on to business. But little Santa was hot for her career. She tipped her head to the side, amused.
He closed the space between them and stuck out his hand. “I’m Rick Martin. And this is just my day job. I’m a writer. I’m working on a crime novel.” He yanked a thumb toward the book. “Reading helps.”
Georgia smiled and waved a hand. “So this—this place is just a hobby?”
“I wish.” He drew himself up. “I am,” he intoned dramatically, “the son of Rosebud.”
“Pardon me?”
“What can I say?” Martin rocked back and grinned. “My father loved
Citizen Kane
. Movies, books…Pop was a frustrated storyteller. Probably what
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