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The driver climbed out and helped Hannah step down from the passenger side. She waited while he opened the back door and let her kids out.

  I nodded toward Hannah. “There’s your basic four hundred forty million dollar woman.”

  Linda eyed Hannah’s simple, blue summer outfit. “She doesn’t dress like it.”

  “I noticed that when I first met her. Fashion doesn’t seem to be her thing.”

  The driver parked half way down the block and climbed out. He leaned on the front fender, lit a cigarette, and watched as Hannah ushered her kids through the gate into the park. I waved. Hannah waved back.

  “Since Molly’s late, you’ll have to help me learn more about Hannah,” I said to Linda.

  “Why not just talk to her?”

  “Like I told you before, the first time I met her here, I said I was interested in doing a column on her and her family. She immediately became standoffish, and now I’m worried she’ll shut down, if I start asking personal questions.”

  “Okay, I’ll help.”

  “Probably best not to mention her money.”

  “Hard for me not to, but I’ll try.”

  When Hannah accelerated her pace, her stride toward us became an obvious limp, and she needed the support of her sons. Her daughters skipped along in front of them.

  Hannah joined us. “Tina, so nice of you to invite us to meet all of you. The cookies were delicious.” Turning to her children, she motioned toward the jungle gym. “Go on and play. I will be here with Mrs. Thomas.”

  “I want you to meet my friends,” I said.

  Linda introduced herself and her daughter. Cas noticed what was going on and joined us with her two kids. As in my previous encounter with Hannah, she had trouble elevating her right arm to shake hands with Linda and Cas.

  Molly arrived. When she saw us with a woman she didn’t know, she switched to her model walk, which wasn’t easy because she pushed her two younger sons, Stevie and Cory, in a double stroller. Her two older boys ran to the jungle gym and began going head-first down the slides.

  I introduced Molly to Hannah. “Hannah and her family recently moved to our neighborhood from Israel,” I said, praying Molly would remember what I wanted her to do.

  “Do you live close to Hamlin Park?” Molly asked.

  “Our home is on West Henderson,” Hannah said.

  “Is it the house on the south side that just sold?”

  “It is.”

  “Sweet. We’re one block north of you on West Roscoe. Tina lives two blocks south on West Melrose so, see, we’re all neighbors.”

  “Where did you live in Israel?” Linda joined in. “I traveled there several times.”

  “First, we lived in Tel Aviv and then, more recently, in Jerusalem,” Hannah said.

  “How do you like it here?” Linda asked.

  “It is delightful — or will be, once the children adjust.”

  “I can so relate,” Molly said. “When we moved here, Chase and Rex, my two older kids, were totally bored before I joined the playgroup.”

  “You mentioned the group in your note, Tina,” Hannah said. “Tell me more about it.”

  I explained to her about the playgroup and how it started, but I didn’t include that I’d begun writing again because of it.

  “It sounds interesting,” Hannah said.

  “Would you like to join our playgroup?” Molly asked.

  Hannah glanced down at her hands. “I will have to speak with my husband. He makes all the decisions in our family.”

  55

  I’d told Linda about Micah not wanting me to interview Hannah, and she didn’t say anything.

  But Cas clenched her jaw muscles. “Your husband makes all the decisions?” she asked. “How interesting. What does he do?”

  “Micah is a physician,” Hannah said.

  “And Hannah’s a physician too,” I interjected. “A pediatrician.”

  “But I am no longer practicing,” Hannah said.

  “What’s your husband’s specialty?” Cas asked.

  “Obstetrics and gynecology.”

  “Super,” Molly said.

  Labor and delivery is one of her areas of expertise; in her view, having had IVF for her first pregnancy and three more natural child births in four years qualifies her as an authority.

  “With all the young families around here, I bet he’s way busy delivering babies,” Molly continued.

  “Micah does not see patients. He is presently devoting his life to medical research.”

  “What’s he working on?” Cas asked.

  “It is extremely technical. You probably would not be interested.”

  Wanna bet on that, sweetie?

  Molly winked at me. “Tina, why don’t you write a story about Hannah and her family? I’ll even try and read it, as long as it isn’t too long.”

  “Hannah, I think Molly’s spot on,” Linda said. “Having visited Israel and experienced what it’s like to be exposed to war-like conditions, I can say most of us would be fascinated to read about your transition from Israel to Chicago.”

  “For once, I agree with Linda,” Cas said. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through moving here with four kids. They must be in culture shock.”

  “And see, when you talk to Tina, we’ll get to know each other better,” Molly said. “That would be totally awesome.”

  “Works for me,” I said. “The scope of the story would be personal, not science.”

  Hannah hesitated. “I will discuss it with Micah.”

  Judging from the flat tone of her voice and her dour facial expression, it was a long shot at best.

  Molly seemed to pick up on that. “Hey, guys, I have a great idea,” she said. “Why don’t we have a welcome-to-the-neighborhood dinner party at Tina’s house on Saturday night? Micah can meet all of us, and we can convince him to let you join our playgroup.”

  Hannah smiled for the first time. “If he agrees, a week from Saturday would work better for us.”

  Eight people? For dinner? Yikes!

  “Let’s exchange phone numbers,” I said. “You can call me and let me know for sure.”

  I sure hope Carter will help.

  56

  On Thursday morning, I called Linda. “How about asking Molly to help us with al-Turk’s story too?”

  “I like it,” she said. “I was impressed with how she talked to Hannah yesterday.”

  “Let’s invite her to lunch at the Wishbone, and we can talk to her about it.”

  At 11:55 a.m., I pushed Kerry to the front door of the Wishbone, a southern comfort restaurant in a brick building at the corner of North Lincoln and West School Street, catty corner from Dinkel’s.

  Molly walked up behind me as I opened the door.

  “Where are your troops?” I asked.

  “The last time we ate here, Stevie and Cory had a meltdown, and the manager suggested they might want to ‘take vacation’ for a while.”

  “Like being put in the penalty box.”

  “Exactly, so I dropped my gang off with Hannah.”

  What?

  “Will that work with eight kids?” I asked.

  “No problem,” she said. “She has a manny.”

  “A what?”

  “A guy helping her instead of a woman.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “How did you find this out?”

  “I called her this morning to talk and mentioned you’d just called me to have lunch but I didn’t have a babysitter. She said she’d do it and it wouldn’t be a problem because she has a full-time manny.”

  “I saw a man driving her and the kids around in a black Escalade. Is this manny young and fit?”

  “You got it, and he changes diapers.”

  “Did he move with them from Israel?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. Hannah said that when they arrived in April, it took a couple of weeks for Micah to figure out she needed lots more help with the kids. He assigned a guy who works in the lab to stay at their condo an
d now at their house.”

  We walked into the Wishbone.

  “Over here,” Linda called out, waving Molly, Kerry, and me to her table in the back of the restaurant.

  As I pushed Kerry’s stroller toward the table, the aroma of spices and deep-fried foods from the chef’s southern reconstructive style of cooking made my stomach growl.

  “Where is Sandra?” I asked, as I secured Kerry into her booster chair.

  “There’s a luncheon event at my mother’s country club, and she wanted to show off the new designer outfit she bought for her only grandchild,” Linda said. “Where’s Cas?”

  “She’s teaching a class at XSport,” I said.

  Kerry loves eating at the Wishbone. She always wants the original mac n’ cheese, even for breakfast. I ordered buttermilk-fried chicken. Linda ordered the Carolina crab cakes. Molly had the Wishbone’s famous “Riverboat Tilapia.”

  “Linda and I want to include you in another story, Molly, but you have to keep it a secret.”

  “Will do. Tell me.”

  I did.

  “You need to tag al-Turk’s Range Rover,” Molly said, after I told her about the GPS device I’d planted on his Mercedes.

  “I don’t want to spend the money,” I replied. “Those things are expensive.”

  “Tell me,” Molly said. “That’s why I kept a couple I never returned to the farmers. We can use one of them.”

  “Do you have the software too?” Linda asked.

  “Yep,” Molly answered.

  “Once the second device is put on his Range Rover, I’ll follow both GPS systems,” Linda said. “I’ll email both of you a summary each day.”

  “And I’ll handle tagging his Rover,” Molly said. “Give me the plate number and where to look for it.”

  “His Mercedes is at the Twenties most of the time,” I said. “I don’t know about the Rover.”

  Molly smiled. My bet was she might visit the Twenties to look for al-Turk’s SUV.

  57

  On Friday morning, I sang along with Macy Gray as I ran past our alley to reach West Belmont. An unexpected honk from a car horn blasted through my ear buds and jolted me out of my reverie. I stopped and turned to see what idiot had done it.

  Tony!

  “You almost gave me a freaking heart attack,” I said, hoping the loud sound wouldn’t trigger a PTSD attack.

  He climbed out of the driver’s side. “Wasn’t sure if you wanted your husband to know we’re hanging out again so I parked in the alley.”

  “We are not ‘hanging out.’ You’re doing an old friend a favor.”

  “Gimme a break. I got what you need.”

  Seriously?

  “Not happening. I’m happily married.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Not interested.”

  His face was flat. “Whatever.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Got the lab reports,” he said. “There were four sets of prints on the trash you stole. Lab ran them through CODIS and IAFIS.”

  “And?”

  “One hit. Guy named Mohammad al-Turk.”

  “No other names?”

  “None.”

  “What about the other things you were going to test for?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What other things?”

  “You mentioned drugs,” I said.

  “None found.” He put his sunglasses back on and smiled. “By the way, where did this trash come from?”

  “Why do you need to know about a story that’s a dead-end?”

  “Sweets, I gave you what you wanted. I just paid my debt to you. Now, how about you helping me out here?”

  His smile widened.

  Something’s not right.

  Without answering, I whirled around and began sprinting toward Belmont. Until I figured out why he was lying to me, I wasn’t telling him anything else.

  “Goddamnit, Tina! Come back here!”

  He had al-Turk’s name. He could chase that clue down. I wasn’t going to do his detective work for him. I continued running and called Linda on my speaker phone.

  “I have the report about the trash I stole,” I said. “Al-Turk’s prints were confirmed, but there were three other sets of prints that weren’t in any system my cop used.”

  “At least we now know there are three other men living there,” Linda said.

  “No, we don’t,” I said. “All we know for certain is al-Turk lives there. The other sets of prints could have come from visitors.”

  “What about drugs?” she asked.

  “He said they didn’t find any, but I’m not sure he’s telling me the truth.”

  “Your cop doesn’t seem too reliable.”

  “He’s the only source I have, but I’ll keep working on him. How about the GPS data?”

  “There was one anomaly,” she said. “Al-Turk’s Mercedes went out to O’Hare and then came right back. Maybe someone was either being taken to a flight or picked up.”

  “I’ll tell Lyndell,” I said. “She can look for a different person going in and out of the house.”

  “Or a different car. If she sees one, maybe Molly can tag it too.”

  “Until we find that out, all we can do is follow the GPS reports,” I said.

  “What else we can do?” Linda asked.

  58

  On Saturday, I put off doing laundry and cleaning. Instead, Carter and I took our little girl to Lake Michigan to play in the water and watch the boats. On Sunday, with what little available time I had after doing my household chores and playing with Kerry, I went online to research both stories. I didn’t make any progress on either one.

  On Monday, Linda called me. “A question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “What about al-Turk’s religious beliefs and his connection to a business involving nearly-naked women?”

  “Cas wondered the same thing after we left the Twenties. I didn’t have an answer for her. What do you think?”

  “That his financial footprints at the Twenties would be invisible because no one would suspect a Muslim being connected with a business like that.”

  “You are so right. It makes the Twenties the perfect front for him to launder money.”

  “I used that as a platform and started with al-Turk here in Chicago,” she said. “He lived here for a year and a half in an apartment on the North Side before moving to this neighborhood. Shortly before he moved here, he sold his interest in Business Ventures, a company in New York. He deposited $254,373 into the BMO Harris Bank here in Chicago, which on the surface appeared to be his proceeds from the sale.”

  “But they weren’t?” I asked.

  “No, that money came to BMO Harris via a wire transfer from the First Caribbean International Bank in the Cayman Islands, not from the Doha Bank in New York where Business Ventures had its corporate account.”

  “Is that where the money trail stops?”

  “No, those funds actually came to the First Caribbean from JDL and Associates, a merchant bank in Luxembourg.”

  “Interesting. The First Caribbean is the same bank the Arun Corporation uses.”

  “And the Arun Corporation and its accounts are entwined with JDL and Associates too.”

  “Wow.”

  “This is just the beginning,” she said. “Using al-Turk’s account at BMO Harris, I hacked into the First Caribbean International Bank’s computers long enough to find out that a little over nine thousand dollars a month flows into his BMO Harris account.”

  “That amount is low enough to avoid any federal scrutiny.”

  “It is.”

  “How much did al-Turk pay for the Twenties?”

  “A little north of eight million dollars, which is more than it’s worth, in my opinion.”

  “When did he close on the sale of the club?” I asked.

  “April first.”

  “Did he finance the purchase?”


  “He did. The Gupta Fund in Panama provided 100 percent of the purchase price.”

  “Is that legal? Doesn’t the buyer have to put up his own money as a down payment?”

  “For U.S. banks he would, but it was a private foreign transaction without a registered U.S. broker. The purchase details are hidden in cyberspace. But guess who owns the Gupta Fund?”

  “JDL and Associates?”

  “And you would be correct.”

  “I wish you could figure out who owns JDL and Associates,” I said.

  “I’m going to try and find out, but with the murky international banking laws, I might not be able to accomplish it.”

  59

  Tuesday night, my landline rang while I was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Kerry played on the floor with several mixing bowls.

  “Mrs. Thomas, I need to speak with you about Lyndell Newens,” a deep male voice said on my answering machine. “Please call or text me at...”

  I picked up the phone before he finished.

  “Hi, this is Tina Thomas.”

  “This is Tim Newens, Lyndell’s son.”

  A bad feeling washed over me. “Is she okay?”