I went back to the search results and quickly scanned them, not sure what I was looking for but certain this approach was unlikely to bear fruit. After an hour of reading obituaries, searching numerous databases, and looking at several Merriweather family trees, I threw up the white flag and left the office.
CAROLINA AND I SAT down at Kanela’s, two blocks from my building. The aromas of sizzling bacon and fresh dough baking in the oven made the inside of my mouth tingle. We took a booth facing what used to be the River East Art Center. Several men in hard hats were at work across the street, trying to finish the construction on the new Carson’s Ribs restaurant.
“I didn’t know Carson’s was expanding,” Carolina said.
“They’re not,” I said. “They’re closing down their location over in River North and moving over here.”
“After forty years? I liked that old building. A throwback to the eighties.”
“Real estate is too expensive over there to keep a small restaurant on a corner lot. They’re putting up another high-rise.”
“How many more high-rises does that area need?” Carolina said. “The prices are already through the roof.”
“Welcome to the more-is-better world of real estate developers,” I said. “Build, build, build until there’s too much inventory; then the prices tumble, and everyone’s sitting with their banker, begging to refinance.”
The waiter came, and we placed our order. I chose the baked french toast with a crispy cinnamon crumble crust. Carolina ordered an egg white omelet with mushrooms, avocado, tomato, broccoli, onion, green pepper, and salsa verde. I suggested they change the name to a garden with egg omelet. The harried waitress didn’t get the joke.
“So, how will you find Robert Merriweather?” Carolina said.
“Short of hacking into the Hertz computer system?”
“Yes, short of that.” She laughed.
“Probably run his name through one of the county databases.”
“You should try the county’s Recorder of Deeds. All their records are available to the public. You might get a hit.”
“I guess it’s as good a place as any to try. But I can’t stop thinking about why someone who had rented a car drove it to that part of Englewood—not once, but twice.”
50
EARLIER IN THE AFTERNOON I had spent hours searching the Cook County Recorder’s website, but nothing came of it. I had no real plan B yet other than to find a vulnerable employee at Hertz and try to slip them some cash. I thought about Cliff, but he didn’t work with the computers. Then I got a call from Penny Packer.
“I just got back from playing Albany a couple of days ago,” Penny said. “The course was in terrific shape.”
Albany was an exclusive golf resort in New Providence, Bahamas, minutes away from the Packer’s winter compound. I had played it once, thanks to Penny’s husband, who had a complete disinterest in the game. It was one of the best golf courses in all the Caribbean.
“What did you shoot?” I asked.
“Seventy-nine the first day and seventy-eight the second.”
“Were those scores for nine or the whole eighteen?”
“Very funny,” she said. “I was in such a zone. My driver couldn’t miss. Twelve fairways in regulation. Felt good to be out. Temperature was perfect, each day in the eighties. You have to come back down with us this winter.”
“Have clubs will travel,” I said.
“I called to ask you about the Gerrigan girl,” she said. “Whatever happened to her?”
“I’m still trying to figure it out,” I said. “Her boyfriend is dead, she still hasn’t shown up from what I can tell, and her mother fired me.”
“Fired you?”
“Walked into my office a few days ago and told me that my services were no longer needed.”
“Strange,” Penny said. “I just saw her last night, which is why I ask. We were at the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society dinner. She and Randy looked perfectly happy. Not a mention of Tinsley or anything that was happening.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Their facade is thick as cinder block.”
“Robert and Cecily never mentioned anything either.”
“Who are they?”
“Cecily Morgan is Hunter’s mother, one of Violet’s best friends. Robert Merriweather is Hunter’s stepfather. I figured they might say something, but not a peep.”
“Say that again?”
“Which part?”
“The name of Hunter’s stepfather.”
“Robert Merriweather. He runs the VC firm Merriweather Capital Partners. Gives away a lot of money. Happens to be a scratch golfer too.”
“Do you know if he’s connected to a charity called Lunch for All?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “He was the one who founded it. He’s still on the board, but now it’s being run by their son, Weston. He took over after he and his wife moved back from Denmark.”
I barely heard a word she said after that. My mind was focused on only one question. Why was a prominent man like Robert Merriweather driving a rented Suburban in Englewood at the same location where Chopper McNair’s body was found?
51
MECHANIC SLOWLY PULLED OFF as I parked under a line of trees in front of an old yellow-brick house with freshly painted white shutters. He had pulled the graveyard shift with nothing to report. I figured something would be stirring soon as daylight reclaimed the sky.
The hedges lining the front lawn had been meticulously cut into an assortment of shapes and geometric designs that gave the illusion of something extraterrestrial. A fluffy gray poodle with grooming that seemed to match the hedges sat imperiously in the window. Only one car was parked on the entire block. It was a white Chrysler 300 with polished chrome. I thought about Cliff driving it slowly
