Easy Innocence (32 page)

“Big date?” Sam grinned.

“You could say that,” Georgia said, applying mascara to her lashes.

“Is it the guy in your building?”

“You mean Pete?”

“Who else?”

Meeting Sam’s gaze in the bathroom mirror, Georgia realized she wished it was. She shook her head.

“So? Who’s the secret admirer?”

“It’s work related.”

Sam cocked her head. “What kind of work takes you to Carson’s to buy new clothes? And put on makeup?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Sam would never go the extra mile for work. Sure, her career was important, but her personal life took precedence. Sam had never understood why Georgia wanted to be a cop. Happily, it didn’t affect their friendship.

Still, Sam rolled her eyes. “Priorities, kid. Priorities.”

Georgia had her priorities. She kept her mouth shut.

***

Georgia reached the hotel by three-thirty, parked in the back, and headed through a large revolving door. The lobby looked just the same as she remembered: crystal chandeliers, tufted upholstery, thick oriental carpets, and lots of dark wood. A bar took up most of the space on the left. A coffee shop was off to the right. A ten-foot marble fireplace occupied most of the back wall. Three comfortable chairs were grouped around it. She went into the bar and positioned herself on a stool where she had a view of the entrance. Her plan was to watch who came in, then tail them when they left.

She ordered a Perrier. The place was empty except for a man in a suit, talking in the too-loud had-a-few-already voice, and a woman, also in a suit, who looked bored.

She nursed her drink and tried to collect her thoughts. The fish guts were an immature prank. But the bullet through her window was serious. Someone wanted her out of the way.

The only person she’d been in direct contact with recently was Lauren Walcher, and Lauren was cooperating. There was the incident in Starbucks with Andrea Walcher, but that had been serendipitous. Which left Fred Stewart’s land deal. She’d talked to Jimmy Broadbent, asked him pointed questions about the clean-up, tied him to Harry Perl. That night someone took a shot at her. She sipped her Perrier. She hadn’t mentioned the real estate deal to the Evanston cop. Maybe she should have.

She checked her watch. Ten till four. The entrance to the coffee shop was directly across from the bar. She remembered that coffee shop. She and Matt had come down for breakfast the morning they broke up. The weekend was supposed to be a special getaway, a few romantic days together. They’d planned it for months, making sure they both had the weekend off.

But when it came, everything went wrong. They didn’t make love, and Matt wouldn’t look her in the eye. When he ended it the next morning, he was mercifully brief. They hadn’t even ordered coffee when he told her he’d met Ricki Feldman and was in love with her. He should have canceled the weekend, but he didn’t know how. He knew how much she’d been looking forward to it. He was so sorry. Then he left.

A numbing coldness had swept over her, her face freezing into a block of ice. She didn’t dare move a muscle. If she did, she’d crack. So she stayed at the table—she never knew how long—trying to decide whether to go on living. Eventually, the hostess of the coffee shop walked over carrying a pot of coffee. “You look like you could use this,” she said sympathetically. She poured coffee into a delicate china cup, smiled down at her, and walked away.

Georgia could still see the delicate china cup. And the woman’s kind face. She wondered whatever happened to the woman. Was she still at the hotel, doling out free cups of coffee to jilted lovers? Georgia didn’t remember how she’d gathered the strength to go home. How she drove from the hotel back to her apartment. She was surprised to find she had no memory of the ride. In fact, she was so steeped in the past that she almost missed the swing of the revolving door. She snapped back. It was ten past four. She slid off her stool and slipped back into the shadows of the bar.

A man wearing a suit and carrying a brief case pushed through. He stepped into the lobby and looked around, as if he was expecting to meet someone. But he was at least forty feet away, and Georgia didn’t have a clear view of his face. She took a few steps forward, still hugging the shadows. When no one came to greet him, the man shoved a hand into his pocket. A moment later, when no one had yet approached him, he looked at his watch and tapped his foot in irritation. When another minute passed, he spun around to leave.

As he did, Georgia finally caught a clear view of his face. The man had blond hair, ruddy cheeks, small eyes, and a weak chin. Tom Walcher.

GEORGIA GRIPPED
the wheel as she drove back to Sam’s. Tom Walcher was Charlie. Charlie was having sex with Sara. Sara had serviced her best friend’s father. Made possible by the actions of his daughter.

In one way, she wasn’t surprised Tom Walcher was catting around. His wife Andrea was a cold fish, and a hostile one, at that. She could understand Walcher seeking comfort elsewhere. But screwing his daughter’s best friend? An underaged teen? What would make a man so reckless? Was he that arrogant? Or just stupid? The website files said he’d hooked up over two dozen times. He’d put his entire legal career in jeopardy. How could he risk it?

She turned south onto Sheridan Road. It was one thing to discover a supposedly respectable lawyer was making it with a teenage hooker. It was another thing to accuse him of murder. She had no evidence Walcher was involved in Sara Long’s death. And it was possible his showing up was a coincidence. Still, she knew she should go to Kelly with what she did have. They had enough reasonable doubt to sink a battleship.

But something inside her rebelled at doing that. Maybe Kelly was right. Maybe she still was a cop at heart. Cops didn’t just create reasonable doubt. They solved crimes. Or maybe it was her ego. Maybe Georgia just wanted to prove to Robby Parker and the rest of the force that she knew what she was doing. Or maybe it was just that since the fire, the case had become personal. Self-preservation was an excellent motivator.

She stopped at a light just south of Winnetka Road. Twilight came quickly this time of year, cloaking everything in a hazy purple light. She glanced through the windows of homes she passed. Women were preparing dinner in cheerfully lit rooms. Kids lounged in front of the TV or sat at tables. As a little girl, she remembered playing outside on brisk fall afternoons, stopping only when it turned dark and she was sniffling from the cold. She loved coming inside to the warm, cozy house where her mother was waiting, where the aroma of a hearty dinner floated through the air. That stopped when her mother left. Georgia was twelve. She hadn’t seen her since.

Which brought her to another reason she wanted to keep digging. She’d promised to protect Lauren Walcher. No one else was looking out for her—no parent, no one in school, not even her friends. How many times had Georgia wished for someone to watch her back? If she went to Kelly now, Lauren’s life would be shattered. She wanted to delay that—at the very least cushion the repercussions—until she could find a way to shepherd the girl through them. A seed of trust had sprouted between them. She didn’t want to let her down. A shiver ran through her. Was this what it felt like to love a child?

Although she knew the route by heart, she stared through the windshield, suddenly unsure where she was. Dark shadows loomed on both sides of the street, and the landmarks she normally took for granted fell away. Was she still on Sheridan Road? Had she made a wrong turn and wandered into lost territory? The landscape looked eerie and alien, like a dream that was only half-familiar. She was about to pull over when the trill of her cell phone broke the trance. She snapped back. Yes. There was the strip mall with the 7-11. And the print shop next door. She pulled into the 7-11’s lot and answered her cell.

“Davis, it’s O’Malley.”

“Dan, I was just thinking of you.”

“Evanston told us about the fire. And the shooter. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good.” She heard relief in his voice. “I think it’s time for you to fold your tent, Davis. Things are—forgive me—getting too hot to handle.”

She ignored the lousy pun. “I’m fine, Dan. In fact, I was—”

“I didn’t expect you to say anything different.”

She transferred the phone to her other ear. “Look, I know you feel responsible because you handed me the case. But I’m making progress. I’ll have it nailed down soon.”

“Assuming someone doesn’t use you for target practice again.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Look, I’d feel better if you turn it over to us. We’re on it.”

“Does that mean Parker is rethinking the Cam Jordan angle?”

“It’s clear there’s something else going on besides a mental running around the Forest Preserve.”

“I appreciate it, Dan, but I’m not quitting.”

“I figured you’d say that, too. Can’t blame me for trying.” He sighed. “Listen... do you still have your—what you need to protect yourself?”

“I’m fine, Dan.” She assured him. “Don’t worry. Now I have a question. I know it sounds crazy, but, have you—or did anyone say they’d seen Matt recently?

“Matt Singer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not for a long time. Last I heard he was running around the Holy Land finding religion. Why?”

She frowned. “Nothing. Hey, take care of yourself, okay?”

GEORGIA SPENT
another night at Sam’s going over the events of the past few days. Tom Walcher figured prominently in Sara Long’s activities. As Harry Perl’s lawyer, he might also have been involved in a land deal that was, at the very least, suspect. He might have some connection to Derek Janowitz’s death. Maybe even to the attempt on her life. At any rate, she had enough questions about him to warrant a closer look. But to do that, she needed help.

She woke up early the next morning, dressed, and crept out of the apartment without waking Sam. Twenty minutes later she was staked out down the street from the Walcher home. About 7:45 Lauren’s Land Rover rolled down the driveway and turned onto the street. A few minutes later, Tom Walcher left too. Andrea Walcher was alone.

Georgia slid out of the Toyota. She was about to walk up to the house when Andrea Walcher emerged at the end of the driveway. She was wearing a fancy warm-up suit, and a sweat band was stretched across her forehead. She looked both ways, but didn’t appear to notice the Toyota. She started to power walk down the street in the opposite direction.

Georgia followed her, hugging the trees to stay inconspicuous. But after a few minutes, Andrea broke into a jog. It was a crisp, sunny November morning, and Andrea was in good shape. Georgia was too, but her thick work boots and jeans slowed her. Within a few minutes Andrea lengthened the distance between them. Georgia abandoned her pursuit and trudged back to the car.

Thirty minutes later, Andrea walked slowly back up the street, breathing deeply, her arms pumping. Georgia waited until she was walking up her driveway. She stepped in front of the Toyota.

“Mrs. Walcher.”

The woman turned around and looked at Georgia. A mix of emotions: surprise, recognition, and anger roiled her face. “Get away from me, or I’ll call the police.”

“That might not be a bad idea.”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed.

“I know about your brother Fred. And the land deal he was involved in.”

“So?”

“Someone tried to kill me, and it could be connected to the sale of that land. I need you to tell me what you know about it. And what role your husband played in the deal.”

“You can’t just show up here, make wild accusations, and demand that I talk to you. Who the hell are you? I won’t do it.”

“I understand completely. In that case, maybe you’d rather talk to the police. Or the State’s Attorney.”

A flash of panic streaked across Andrea’s face. “You can’t do that.”

Georgia stood her ground. “Someone took a shot at me a few days ago. I haven’t given them your husband’s name. Yet. But I will, if you don’t talk to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Georgia explained.

“You can’t possibly think my husband was trying to kill...” she paused. “...
you
?” Her face was a mask of annoyance, but Georgia could see an underlying anxiety. Andrea fixed her eyes on Georgia. “What do you
really
want? How much?”

“I don’t want a dime. But I do want to know who took a shot at me the other night. And who killed Sara Long. And if they’re related.”

“Related? How could they be? You’re grasping at straws. People like you—you’ll do anything to get at us. Take us down.”

Georgia shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to play it, fine. But you might regret that choice.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Georgia tried to remember that rage was the flip side of fear. No one could sustain it indefinitely. “Of course not.” She made her voice sound conciliatory. “It is in your self-interest to talk to me, Mrs. Walcher. There are things going on that aren’t right. And your husband is in the middle of them. It might take me some time, but I will get to the bottom of whatever he’s doing, be assured of that. This could be your last opportunity to help yourself. And your daughter.”

“Opportunity? How can you call it an opportunity when you strongarm your way onto my property?”

“You’ll understand after we talk.”

Andrea gazed at Georgia, seemingly trying to gauge her seriousness. She ran her tongue around her lips. Then she took a quick look around, as if checking to see whether anyone was watching them. Finally, she capitulated. “You’d better come in.”

She went to the kitchen door and opened it. Georgia followed her in. Andrea motioned to one of the stools at the granite-topped island and went to the coffee pot. She poured herself a mug, then held the pot up.

Georgia nodded and sat down at the island. Andrea filled another mug and brought it to the counter. “What is it you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your brother’s gas station. Did you know the land underneath it was contaminated?”