Easy Innocence (34 page)

“Low income regs, for example.”

“What are they?”

“New state regulations require a village to have a certain amount of low income housing available. Ten per cent, I believe. But a lot of villages on the North Shore aren’t in compliance.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Georgia cracked.

“The problem is that in a year the governor will establish a statewide panel. The Zoning Board of Appeals. It will have the power to overrule any decisions made by a local zoning board. Which means there’s a chance local villages could lose control of their own zoning process. Particularly if they aren’t in compliance with the low income housing regs.”

“How would that affect our theoretical property owner?”

“Villages are running scared. They’re afraid that if they have too much commercial property now, there won’t be enough land to provide enough affordable housing down the road, and they could lose local control of their zoning, and, ergo, their land.”

“But that’s over a year away.”

“It takes at least a year—usually more—from the time you get the zoning until the building goes up. Your theoretical owner would want to make sure the land is zoned now, the way he wants, before the shit hits the fan.”

Georgia scratched her cheek. “There’s really a chance that could happen? That land could be rezoned?”

“Probably not if it’s a going concern, but if the land has been vacant or idle for a while, who knows?”

“And might he hire a lawyer to help him push things through?”

“What are you getting at?”

Her answer was cut off by a knock at door.

“Come,” Ricki said.

The receptionist poked her head in. She was holding a pink message slip. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Feldman.” She paused for such a long moment that Georgia wondered if the interruption had been planned. “Come into the office five minutes after we start talking, Sally—” Ricki could have whispered over the intercom.

“A message just came in. From Mr. Perl.”

Ricki motioned with her hand. “Bring it over.”

The receptionist stepped in front of Georgia, blocking her view, and handed the pink slip to Ricki.

“Thanks, Ashley.” When the receptionist didn’t move, she added, “You can go.”

Ashley turned around and shot Georgia a look. “Yes, ma’am.”

Georgia smiled up at her. Ashley walked out of the room. “Guess you’re not such a silent partner after all.”

Ricki waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Harry uses the phone the way some people use email.”

“What do you mean?”

“His grasp of technology stopped around 1972. He won’t get near a computer.”

Georgia motioned to the slip of paper. “But he manages to stay in touch.”

“He tracks people down all over the world. He once called me from Greece. At home. At three in the morning. Made me wish I’d never given him my number.” She laughed nervously. “Now, if that’s all...”

Georgia made a decision. She leaned forward. “One more thing. Let’s say this theoretical piece of land had been a gas station in its former life.”

Ricki shifted.

“A gas station which leached all sorts of toxic chemicals into the ground. How long would the clean-up take before it could be redeveloped? Theoretically.”

A muscle beside Ricki’s eye began to tic. “I couldn’t begin to say. Years, I imagine.”

“So if this property—this theoretical gas station—was cleaned up in record time, say six months, and had an NFR letter from the state, that would be unusually fast.”

“It was?” She looked concerned, then tried to hide it. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. I figured you would be up to speed on all the appropriate waste disposal regulations. Given your—history,”

Ricki blanched. “You know, I really need to end this meeting. I have another appointment.”

“I thought you might.” Georgia smiled. “Well, thanks for your time.”

She left Ricki staring anxiously at the pattern of her granite desk.

THAT EXPLAINED
the urgency, Georgia thought as she drove north on Sheridan Road. Harry Perl wanted to cash in on the Glen property by building condos and a mall. He couldn’t risk it being rezoned in light of the upcoming low-income housing regulations. So after buying the land from Fred, Perl got Walcher to use his “leverage” with village officials to make sure the zoning went his way. He probably used the same “leverage” with Broadbent to come up with an environmental report that got a clean bill of health from the state.

A weak sun broke through the overcast. Georgia rolled down the window, bracing against the rush of cold air. She was close. When you examined Walcher’s business practices, factored in his relationship with Sara Long, his possible involvement with Derek Janowitz’s murder, maybe even the attempt on her life, even the most aggressive prosecutor—including Jeff Ramsey—would have to take a closer look.

But it wasn’t a slam dunk. She still had no proof Walcher had a hand in Sara Long’s murder. Kelly would insist that wasn’t necessary, that they had enough reasonable doubt to clear Cam Jordan, but Georgia wanted to find Sara Long’s killer. Not just for her own safety, but for Cam Jordan and his sister Ruth. For the Long family, as well, for Lauren, and for all the teenage girls who made decisions that put themselves at risk. The problem was she wasn’t sure of her next move, and she was running out of time to make it.

Her cell phone chirped. “Georgia Davis.”

It was her landlord. They’d finished the repair work, installed a new floor and window, even thrown a fresh coat of paint on the walls. She could move back in.

That afternoon she packed up her clothes, thanked Sam profusely, and went home. The living room was virtually empty, but the walls and new floor gleamed, and they’d put a special chemical coating on the walls and floor to seal in the lingering odor of smoke. The new furniture she’d ordered, thanks to a speedy resolution of her claim by her insurance company, hadn’t arrived, but her new computer, which the super had brought upstairs, was in a large box in the middle of the floor.

Her bedroom furniture was still intact, but her mattress reeked of mildew and smoke. She lugged it down to the curb and, anticipating the insurance reimbursement, went to buy a new one. It must have been a slow period at the mattress store, because they said they could deliver it that afternoon. She swung by Target on her way back and picked up new bedding, towels, and a pillow.

The mattress arrived on schedule, and she made up the bed. She was just pulling the computer out of the box, thinking she’d order a pizza before she assembled it, when there was a knock on the door.

Pete Dellinger grinned when she opened it. “I saw your lights were on. When did you get back?”

“Just now.” Georgia returned the smile. “Good to see you up and about. Are you okay?”

“The hospital kept me overnight, but I came home the next morning.” He kept one hand behind his back. “What about you? I heard someone tried to take a shot at you.”

“Looks that way.”

“Are you holding up?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Everyone in the building got a call from the detective in Evanston, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I asked if they had any leads. He said there hadn’t been much movement, but the case was still open.”

“That’s cop speak for ‘we don’t have a clue, and we can’t spend more time on it.’” When Pete frowned, she shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

“How can they just give up?”

“They don’t have a choice. There are always new cases that demand your attention. Cases that haven’t gone cold.”

“Do you think the shooting is related to your case?”

“Probably.”

“Jesus! How can you be so—so calm?”

“What makes you think I am? Hey, let’s talk about something else, okay?”

He looked at her unblinkingly for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, pointing to his leg. “Look.”

She did. His cast was gone, and he was wearing a sock and sandal on his bad leg. His ankle seemed thick. “I’m down to an Ace bandage. And a cane.”

She looked around. “Where is it? The cane?”

“Still upstairs.” He moved his other hand from behind his back and held out a bouquet of flowers. “These are for you. To thank you.”

Her cheeks grew warm, her neck too. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had brought her flowers. She felt suddenly shy. “Let me find something to put them in,” but even as she said it, she realized she didn’t own a vase. The empty mayonnaise jar under the sink would have to do. She started for the kitchen, then stopped and turned back to the door. “Oh— I’m sorry. Would you like to come in? I promise to scare off any snipers.”

He grinned and limped inside. He was wearing his usual khakis and a button-down shirt. The light blue color set off his sandy hair. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the day he moved in. He’d been wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She remembered how his biceps strained against the load.

“Sorry,” she heard herself say again. “I bought some new furniture, but it hasn’t come yet.”

“No problem.” He carefully got himself down on the floor near the computer box. “New?”

She nodded.

“Need help setting it up?”

She didn’t. Computers were easy to assemble. Even a kid could do it. “Sure.”

An hour later, it was done. Including the cable connection, which had somehow survived the fire.

“Did you salvage data from your old machine?”

“I haven’t tried. It’s in the basement.”

“Well, let me know if you want to try. Maybe I can help.”

“Thanks.”

“You want to go online now and send me a test email?” he asked.

“How about we order a pizza first? My treat.”

“Deal.”

After finishing the pizza, they tested out the broadband connection. Everything seemed to be working.

“Do you ever wonder whether all this email has made a difference in the amount of snail mail?” Pete asked. “I mean, the post office ought to be thankful, don’t you think?”

“Why? Their business is shrinking. Then again, we still get mountains of junk mail, so I guess they’re not suffering.”

“And there are always some Luddites who will never use email.” He laughed. “It’s a major accomplishment for them to use a cell phone.”

Georgia stopped short. She stared at Pete.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—you just said something that made me think.”

“About your case?”

She nodded.

“What? What did I say?”

“Cell phones. You said—” She shook her head. “Oh, never mind.”

He continued to gaze at her for a moment. Then, “You never stop, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Georgia didn’t know what he was thinking, and that made her uneasy. Pete must have felt the same way, because he said goodnight soon afterwards and went upstairs. As Georgia closed the door, she wondered if she should feel bad the evening ended on a sour note.

Then she pushed Pete Dellinger out of her mind. Ricki Feldman said Harry Perl didn’t go near computers. He used his cell all the time. He didn’t care who or what he interrupted. What if Walcher was with Sara Long when Perl called him? Lauren had said Sara had a special relationship with “Uncle Fred.” How Sara thought of him as the uncle she never had. What if Sara overheard something about Fred and his land and what Perl and Walcher were doing to get it? And what if Walcher realized she’d overheard? What would Sara have heard? And what would Walcher have done?

GEORGIA CALLED
Andrea Walcher’s cell, hoping to get Tom’s cell phone number, but Andrea didn’t pick up. Georgia left a message to call her back. She considered calling Lauren for her father’s number, but decided not to. Now that Andrea Walcher was cooperating, Georgia needed to “manage” her relationships with mother and daughter. They were both her allies—for the moment—but it was a tenuous balance. If Lauren knew her mother was involved, she might pull away. But Georgia needed Andrea—she was more informed about her brother’s property and in a better position to help.

She paged through the website files Lauren had printed out for her. According to the files, Sara’s last trick with Charlie was Wednesday, September 14. Three days before she was killed. And barely a week after Fred Stewart died in the fire.

She went online and downloaded a picture of Walcher from his law firm’s website. His bio said he’d been with Phelps and Mahoney for twenty years, and was head of the Real Estate Practice in Chicago. He had gone to the University of Chicago Law School, and he was a member of the firm’s Executive Management Committee.

Early Saturday morning, Georgia drove back to the McCormick Hotel. Most of the business clientele had departed the previous day, and the lobby was quiet. The coffee shop was virtually empty, but a fire roared in the fireplace, and a man sat before it poring over a newspaper. A hotel employee in a white jacket and black pants whisked the surfaces of tables with a brush.

Georgia went to the clerks at the front desk. At resort hotels, the weekend shift was the most important and was manned by senior staff. Not here. A young man and woman, neither of whom looked more than twenty, stood behind the marble counter. They both wore crisp white shirts, red ties, and gray blazers with the hotel insignia embroidered in gold on their pockets. Georgia debated which one to approach. The girl might be more cooperative, and she didn’t want suck up to the guy just to get information. Then again, the girl could be the type who always played by the rules.

Deciding to take her chances on the girl, she had just stepped up to the counter when another woman joined them. She wore same uniform as the others, but she was older and rounder, and when Georgia looked more closely, she spotted the word “Manager” on her jacket insignia. A pair of reading glasses was perched on her nose. She started to talk to the two clerks, gesturing to a sheet of paper in her hands.

Georgia was only a few feet away, and after a moment the woman looked up. A jolt of recognition seized her. It was the same woman who’d given her coffee the morning she and Matt broke up. The woman flashed her a puzzled smile that said she thought she knew Georgia too, but couldn’t quite place her.