Easy Innocence (29 page)

“Did you know the owner?”

“Of course, I knew Fred. Fred Stewart.”

Andrea Walcher’s brother. Uncle Fred. “Did you like him?”

“Everyone did. He was real people. Always willing to help out, cut you a break if you needed it. My nephew used to work there over the summer. Never had a bad thing to say about the man. ’Course, after he took ill, he had to close up.”

“When was that?”

The woman squinted. “Over a year ago, now. Last summer. He had a stroke, they said.”

“Who said?”

“I don’t know. The builders he sold it to, I guess.”

“And when did they start coming around—the builders?”

“I guess it was about six months ago when Mr. Fancypants said they were gonna build them condos. And I was gonna have to sell and move.” She glared at the “Under Contract” sign on her neighbor’s lawn. “I’ll probably be the last holdout.”

“I see.” Georgia nodded. “Well, thanks. I appreciate the information.”

The woman spat on the ground. “So you gonna be able to stop ’em?”

Georgia hesitated. “If I was you, I would call my nephew,” she said carefully. “And take him up on his offer.”

GEORGIA WAS
cleaning her apartment. She’d been fantasizing about cooking a dinner—lamb roast, baby potatoes, a vegetable, probably broccoli, and salad—and had stopped in at the grocery store earlier that morning. She wasn’t sure who she was cooking it for, but the notion was surprisingly appealing. The phone rang in the middle of sweeping the floor. She’d been thinking about salad dressing, a balsamic vinaigrette. She picked up the phone.

“Cam Jordan’s BCX is back,” Paul Kelly said. “It’s not good.”

“BCX...” The behavior clinical exam. The fantasy dinner melted away. “It came back fast. Didn’t you just ask for it?”

“Less than a month ago. At the arraignment, first week in October.”

“So what does it say?”

She heard paper rustling. “I’ll read it.‘Pursuant to your Honor’s order, the undersigned’.. yadda, yadda.. Hold on. Here it is.‘Based on the above examination and review of pertinent records it is my opinion with a reasonable degree of medical certainty that Cameron Jordan is presently fit to stand trial. He does not manifest any active symptoms or signs of any mental disorder which would—”

“No signs of ‘disorder’? Is that a joke?”

Kelly snorted. “Listen.‘He is cognizant of the charge, understands the nature and purpose of the court proceedings and shows the ability to cooperate with counsel if he chooses to.’”

“That’s bullshit. The guy doesn’t know what day of the week it is.”

“I told you before. Mucho heat on this case.”

“But Ramsey’s out.”

“Doesn’t mean squat. It’s still a heater case. Maybe even more now that everyone knows his daughter was there. Who knows who’s really calling the shots, anyway?”

“Who did the testing? Who wrote the report?”

“Says here a shrink from Forensic Clinical Services.”

“I don’t get it. How can they come back with something so—inaccurate?”

“You can’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“I guess not.” She sighed heavily. “What happens now?”

“I’ll ask for a second opinion, of course. From a private shrink. But I don’t know if the judge will grant it or how long they’ll have to put it together.”

“What’s your best guess?”

“A few weeks. Maybe a month.” He cleared his throat. “But I don’t think we can ignore the signals. We’ve got to start dealing the cards we have.”

“What are you saying?”

“I start talking plea.”

“But he didn’t do it.”

“We still can’t prove it.”

“You don’t have to. Cam’s home, and public opinion’s swinging our way. Put Ruth Jordan in front of the cameras.”

Kelly harrumphed.

“Actually, we’re closer than we were.” She told him what she’d learned about Sara Long and the teenage prostitution ring.

Before she finished, Kelly interrupted. “So the girl really
was
a whore.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?—you can’t make that kind of allegation without proof.”

“I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“More like who. The girl who was running her.”

“Her pimp was another girl?”

“Her best friend.”

“Christ Almighty! Were they on drugs?”

“No.”

“Runaways.”

“No.”

“Did their fathers sexually abuse them?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are teenage girls—”

“Money.”

“Huh?”

“Sara Long wanted to buy things her parents couldn’t afford. Clothes. Makeup. Fancy cell phones.”

“And the other one? The—pimp?”

“That one I’m still trying to figure out. It’s—it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

He went quiet. Georgia wondered what was going through his head. Then, as if remembering he was a jaded lawyer who wasn’t supposed to be shocked by anything, he switched gears. “This is wonderful! It’ll throw the case wide open! How’d you find out?”

“Long story.”

“Which you’re going to tell me, right? In fact, you’re on your way down even as we speak, right?”

“Not really, Paul. I have a few things to nail down.”

“Davis—”

“I have a lead on one of the johns. Someone Sara Long was seeing regularly. Maybe even her last trick.”

“No. Let the police run with that. We need to tell them—Christ! This could be our big break. What we’ve been waiting for!”

“Wait a minute, Paul. This isn’t some pimp running whores for the Outfit. We can’t just throw it out there and—”

“Davis, our job isn’t to find the killer. It’s to raise enough doubt about Cam Jordan so a jury won’t convict him. This goes a long way toward that.”

“I understand, but—”

Kelly made a throaty sound, somewhere between a grumble and a snort. “No you don’t. You’re still thinking like a cop. You want to find the offender and revel in the glory.”

“Is it that obvious?” When Kelly didn’t answer, she went on, “Paul, just a couple more days. Cam’s not in jail anymore. And you can request another BCX. This thing is moving. We’re going to get the asshole. I know it.”

“I should be talking to the state right now. And taking the evidence with me.”

“I’ll get it to you. I promise. As soon as it’s in my hands.”

“I thought you already had it.”

“I do. But I want more.”

“Like what?”

“Documentation. A confession.” She paused. “Maybe even the guy who did it.”

“And just when is all of this going to fall into your lap?”

“A day or two. A week at the most.”

“You’re killing me, Davis. I’m too old for this.” He sounded exasperated.

“Thanks, Paul,” she said cheerfully. “You won’t regret it.”

He grumbled again. “So what else have you found that I need to know?”

He was in a chatty mood. “Well, as a matter of fact, there is something. I don’t think it’s connected to the case, but I had some time, so I kind of looked around, and—”

“Get to the point, Davis.”

She told him about Andrea Walcher’s conversation with Harry Perl and the property near the Glen.

“Walcher? Why do I know that name?”

“He’s the lawyer who’s working with Perl. And the father of the girl who’s running the prostitution ring. You checked him out.”

“He’s back?”

“Maybe.”

He blew out air. “Circles inside circles...”

Georgia went on. “Anyway, the land in question belonged to Walcher’s brother-in-law. Fred Stewart. He sold it to Harry Perl six months ago. It used to be a gas station, but now they’re building a condo and an indoor mall.”

“A gas station?”

“Yeah.”

“And the land was sold six months ago?”

“According to the woman who lives across the street.”

“You say they’re already building?”

“They’re about to.”

“Interesting.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“You happen to know if anybody got an environmental impact statement on the land?”

“Why?”

“Any time you have a gas station or dry cleaner, there’s all sorts of contamination and crud that needs to be cleaned up. I had a client once with a dry cleaners. It was an EPA nightmare.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those businesses spill all sorts of crap into the ground. With dry cleaners it’s chemical solvents and shit. With a gas station, it’s worse. You can have underground storage tanks that leak; accidental spills that drain into the ground. The dirt is laced with all sorts of toxic stuff. You have to clean it up. If it leaches into the water supply, for example, you’re up the creek without a paddle...” Kelly was clearing warming to the subject. “Even if it doesn’t, you pay a frigging fortune to clean it up.”

“So?”

“The point is that the clean-up can take at least a year. Usually more. First you got to test it and get the land classified. Then you got to do the clean-up itself, test it again, and submit a final report. Anyone who’s building just six months after they bought a gas station is cutting it pretty close.”

“Really?”

“I told you. My client who bought the dry cleaners couldn’t do anything with the land for nearly three years. It just sat there, sucking money and blood out of everyone.”

“Maybe I should find out more about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, Davis?”

“Yeah?”

“This case is finally going places. Be careful.”

“Sure.”

Then, “Teenage whores on the North Shore. Christ Almighty.”

***

On the Illinois EPA website, Georgia learned about brownfields, abandoned lots and eyesores that were never redeveloped because of abnormally high clean-up costs, lengthy clean-up processes, or liability risks. The dry cleaners Kelly was talking about must have been one of those. But Fred Stewart’s gas station wasn’t. It was being redeveloped right away.

She combed through the website trying to find an EPA field office on the North Shore so she could talk to someone in person, but the closest she came was a post office box in Elgin. She did find a staff directory for Community Relations officials in Springfield. She picked up the phone.

On the third transfer she got a live human. She explained what she was interested in and was promptly transferred. A new voice mail said to press “0” for assistance. She did.

A female voice with a decidedly southern Kentucky twang answered. “Zane here.”

“Hello. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’m interested in the status of a specific site. I was transferred to you by...” she back-clicked on the website. “... Ginger Mitchell.”

“Uh-huh,” Zane said after such a long pause that Georgia wondered if she was still there. “And what site is it?”

Georgia gave her the location of the land.

“Hold on.”

Georgia took the phone into the kitchen, grateful there was no music or annoying radio station chatter while she was on hold. She opened the refrigerator to check the leg of lamb she bought that morning. She had enough to feed a dozen people. The only problem was she didn’t know a dozen people. She was starting to wonder why she’d bought it in the first place when Zane came back on.

“I see the report here, but you’ll need to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act to get a copy.”

“How do I do that?”

Zane told her there was a website through which she could request the file. Or she could write a letter.

“I’d like the website, please.”

Zane gave it to her.

Georgia clicked to the site and started entering information while she was talking. “This is great. In the meantime, while I’m waiting for the report, could you answer a question for me?”

“What’s that?”

“Can you tell me the name of the company that submitted the report on that property?”

“Well, ma’am, technically, I should wait until I get the FOI request.”

“I’m just sending it now.”

“Uh-huh.” She paused.

Georgia waited.

“Well, I guess it’s okay. Says here the company is Environmental Engineers, Inc.”

“Thank you. Do you have an address for them?”

Zane reeled off an address in Skokie.

Georgia decided to press her luck. “I assume everything was in order? I mean the report met your specifications and all?”

“Well, ma’am,” Zane said, stretching the two words into five syllables. “The NFR letter went out two months ago.”

“The what?”

“When a piece of land is cleaned up right we send out a letter that says no further clean-up is required. It’s called a no further remediation letter.”

“And that went out two months ago?”

“Ma’am, I’ve already told you more than I should. You’re going to have to look at the report yourself.”

“Of course. Thank you very much.” Georgia disconnected and finished sending her FOI request. They said they’d send her the report within two weeks. Too long to wait. She checked the time. Despite Andrea Walcher’s threats, she and Lauren had exchanged hurried emails yesterday. Lauren promised to call after school with the passwords to the website.

That was still hours away.

ENVIRONMENTAL ENGINEERS
was in the industrial backwoods of Skokie, a locale that was dotted with warehouses and small plants. There was a quiet sameness to the buildings: most were one-story, flat-roofed structures made from indistinguishable yellow bricks. Georgia skirted the grass, almost the same pale yellow as the buildings, and walked up to two glass doors. White letters on the left-hand door indicated she’d arrived at the best kitchen remodeler on the North Shore. Black letters on the right spelled out the company she was looking for.

Inside was a small room with a hallway off the back. A young woman in a black t-shirt, black pants, and black fingernail polish sat behind a gray desk. She looked up from a magazine as Georgia walked in.

“May I help you?” she asked in a voice that bordered on surly.

“Possibly. I’m looking for Mr.—uh...” Georgia pretended to search in her bag for a piece of paper.

The girl failed to help her out. “He’s not here.”

Georgia smiled. “I’m sorry. What is his name?”

“Jimmy Broadbent.”

“Of course. How could I have forgotten?”