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“Ah. I see.” He returns to his computer. “Spell your grandmother’s name.”
“L-o-c—”
He stops typing. “Her first name.”
“Oh. Right.” I snicker. “M-a-e-v-e, Maeve.”
Garrett types and I wait. For what, I’m not sure.
“Ah-ha. Here it is.” He glances at me then back at the screen. “Hm.” I wait for him to elaborate. It takes a few minutes. “It says here the detective assigned to this case was William Bloom.”
“That’s right. I remember my grandma mentioned that name.”
“He retired ten years ago. Let me read his notes.” I wait some more until he sighs. Sighs that don’t sound good. At all.
“What? What’s the matter?” I lean forward, trying, once again, to read his screen.
“There’s not a lot here, Ms. Locket.”
“Call me, Lucy, please.”
“I hate to say this, but it doesn’t appear that the detective in charge did much follow-up on this.”
“He didn’t? Why not?”
Garrett turns in his seat, places his hands on the desk, and sighs again. I’m starting to hate those. “His notes only say he had no leads.” Garrett stops talking. He’s looking left, then right. Leaning in, he whispers, “It says here he thought this was more of a domestic issue.”
I’m not quiet. “Domestic issue? Stealing a priceless heirloom is-is domestic?” I’m so angry I could spit.
“Lucy, calm down.”
I hate when people tell you to calm down, especially when a situation requires quite the opposite. “You calm down.” He smirks and it’s cute, which is annoying as heck. Time to refocus. “Well, what about my mom? What about that lead? Couldn’t he find her?”
“I’m not sure he looked for her.”
I’m appalled. “Well, wasn’t that his job? To look for the person who stole the stupid thing?” I’m so angry, spitting isn’t enough.
“Let’s try this.” He turns back to the computer. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Lily. Lily Locket.”
Garrett stares for a long moment. “That’s the name I recognize.”
“Huh?”
He faces his computer and types something. Turning the ancient, boxy monitor my way, I see it’s an enlarged image of a driver’s license for the state of Illinois. Garrett asks, “Is this her? Is this your mother?”
I blink a few times. “I don’t remember her. I’ve only got my grandma’s photos to go by.” It sure looks like her, except her hair used to be the same color as mine, a strawberry blonde. This woman’s hair is brown with lots of gray streaks. I lean in closer and gasp, “Wait a second… I’ve seen her before.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.” I can’t believe my eyes. “She-she works at a convenience store in my neighborhood.” Does she wear a nametag? Would I have recognized her if she had? Would I have put two and two together? I stand to get an even closer look. “No. I would never have known.” Something else strikes me. “She lives here?” I point down at the desk. “In Chicago?” And if that’s the case, has she always lived here?
“She does live here. She works at the Mighty Mart on South Halstead in McKinley Park.”
“That’s right.” But how does he know that? “How did you know?”
“She was involved in a robbery a few months ago.”
