Easy Innocence (19 page)

Lauren shot her an almost angry look, Georgia thought, then tried to cover it. “Well, I’ll be going now. Nice meeting you all. Bye.”

Georgia watched her go. She felt heavy and lethargic. Questioning Lauren Walcher would wait. She turned around and headed back outside. As she pushed through the revolving door, she spotted a man getting into a car on the other side of the parking lot. She couldn’t see his face, but he had a slim build and curly, dark hair. Like Matt. No. It was just her imagination.

WHEN GEORGIA
went back to Burhops in Glenview, the afternoon manager told her someone
did
come in last Friday, looking for a bag of fish entrails.

From the back of the shop came the sound of a radio turned up too high. Spanish rock. “Can you describe the person?” She tried to rein in her excitement.

“A man. A boy, really,” the manager said.

“How young?”

“Maybe in high school. Small. Skinny. Sharp nose.”

“Clothes?”

“Jeans. T-shirt. Work shoes. Oh,” He smirked. “And lots of jewelry.”

“If I showed you a yearbook, could you identify him?”

The manager laughed. “No way! There’s gotta be—what—three thousand pictures in those things? I don’t have time.”

Georgia bit her lip. “Well, tell me this. Did you give him the fish waste?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Less crap for us to get rid of.”

Georgia thanked the manager and left. Was this the kid who was responsible for the mess in her apartment? She thought about running his description past Rachel, Ellie Foreman’s daughter. And if he turned out to be a friend of Monica Ramsey... Then she reconsidered. Better not to get Rachel involved. Lauren Walcher was still her best bet.

That night it rained. A cold, stinging rain that stripped the leaves from trees, clogged gutters, and turned the satisfying crunch of shoes on dry leaves into a slippery ordeal. Georgia started to wander around the apartment. It felt empty and brooding. Too big. She grabbed her jacket and umbrella and headed to Mickey’s.

The place smelled like a combination of wet wool and grease, but because of the rain, it wasn’t crowded. She went to a booth in the back. Owen brought her food promptly. She was on the second bite of her burger when she felt someone’s gaze on her. She looked up. One of the men at the bar was watching her. The light was dim, and she couldn’t quite make him out, but he looked friendly. Indeed, he was smiling. She squinted. He had sandy hair, long on top but short on the sides. Rimless glasses partway down his nose. Jesus! Her upstairs neighbor. She looked down at her plate.

He didn’t get the message, because he picked up his drink and started over. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t interested, but something stopped her. Afterwards, she admitted she didn’t know what it was. Not his clothes; ordinary khakis and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem to care that his clothes were fifty years out of date. He looked comfortable with himself. Or maybe it was his smile. Not the plastic grimace she saw on so many men, especially men on the make. His was warm, and that warmth was mirrored in his eyes. Or maybe it was just that it was a bad night, and she was tired of feeling lonely. Whatever it was, when he reached her table, beer in hand, she gave him a nod.

He sat down, the scent of Aramis drifting over to her. “Catch any big ones lately?”

She blinked.

He put the glass down. “Fish. The fish guts.”

“Oh.” She ran a hand through her hair. “You were right, you know.”

“About what?”

“Compost. As a disposal method.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“I went online.”

“First time.”

“What?”

He looked at her. “First time someone said I’ve been right in a while.”

She cocked her head and took a bite of her hamburger. It was missing something. Ketchup? Relish?

“My name’s Pete Dellinger.”

She swallowed her food. “Georgia Davis.”

“Like the state?”

“You got a problem with the South?” But she grinned when she said it. He grinned back. Yes, it was a good smile.

He motioned to his glass. “Can I buy you one?”

She looked longingly at his beer. It had been a tough day, coming up against her nemesis. A beer would take the edge off. A lot more than Diet Coke. Probably make the burger taste better, too. She wanted it. Deserved it. Just this once. Anyway, it was free. The word tumbled out, almost of its own accord. “Sure.”

He got up, went to the bar, and gave Owen the order. Owen dipped his head at Georgia, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Owen shrugged and poured the beer into a glass. Pete brought it back.

“The bartender seems to know you. Do you come here often?”

The oldest line in the world and the guy said it with a straight face. She bit back a reply. “Yes,” she said simply.

“I like it.” He gazed around with a satisfied expression.

“Glad we have your approval.” She lifted the glass of beer, hesitated, then took a long pull. Just like she remembered it. Frosty and tart with a grainy aftertaste that danced on her tongue. How long had it been? A year? Eighteen months? Damn. There was nothing like a cold brew. She set the glass down and stole a glance at the bar. Owen was watching her, hands on his hips. She looked away.

“So how do you like our building?” She focused on Pete.

“It’s fine.”

“Except when somebody spreads fish guts in the hall.”

“I’m guessing there’s a good story there.”

Georgia took another long swallow. Half gone already. “I’m a private investigator,” she began. Ten minutes and another beer later, she’d told him about the case. Again, she surprised herself. When she was on the force, she rarely talked to civilians about her cases.

Pete listened attentively—she had to give him that. Even though she left out some information, he didn’t interrupt, something Matt used to do all the time. He’d claim he just wanted to understand, but it often felt like he was interrogating her. Pete nodded at all the right times and kept his mouth shut. When she was done, he leaned his elbows on the table.

“So what’s your next step?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, I have a theory, but not enough evidence.” She finished off her beer.

“Want another?” He pointed to her empty glass.

She hesitated. She’d already downed two. A third would be asking for trouble. But he had to be on his fourth or even fifth by now. If he could handle it, so could she. “Okay.”

He returned with their drinks and settled in, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. She wondered what was so amusing but felt too shy to ask. Instead she asked, “So what about you? Why did you move in?”

“My wife and I separated.”

“Sheila,” she murmured.

A flush crept up his neck.

“I heard you two arguing the other night,” she added, remembering how quickly Sheila had exploded.

“Oh.” The flush spread to his face. “Yeah. She came over.”

“Sounds like she wants you back.”

“She’s... well...” He shook his head, flustered. “It’s not gonna happen...” He looked over. “Let’s not go there.”

Georgia shrugged and took another bite of her burger. Pete watched with a curious expression.

She caught his look and pushed the food toward him. She wasn’t hungry any more. Alcohol did that.

He frowned at the plate.

“Something wrong?” She asked.

He shook his head again.

She looked at him, then at her plate. “You’re a vegetarian.”

He shot her an embarrassed smile. “Will you still talk to me?”

“Hey, it’s your life.”

A vegetarian. Probably a “my body is my temple” guy. She sighed. How come she always ended up with the weird ones? Truth was, until Matt, her relationships with men had been limited. She’d only had sex with three men. They’d all been sweet, but slightly off: a software geek in high school, an accountant for a chain of pet stores a few years later, then Matt, who, for a cop, was bookish. She must have been sending out subtle signals: all nerds welcome.

She tossed back the rest of her beer. Ricki Feldman wouldn’t do that, she’d lay odds. She’d set her sights on the richest, most handsome man in the room. And get him too. Georgia set her glass down carefully. Too carefully. The room was starting to wobble.

Pete’s eyebrows arched. “You downed that one pretty fast.”

“It’s been a bad day.”

“Aren’t they all?” He asked a little sadly.

He was right. Everyone suffered. She wasn’t so special. Why did she think she was? Suddenly, she couldn’t think. Three beers and practically no food. What happened to her tolerance? She used to be able to toss back four or five with no problem. Now, her head felt too big and too far away from her body. She needed to lie down. She balled up her napkin, tried to pitch it on the table. She missed, and the napkin bounced onto the floor. She stood up unsteadily. “It’s time for me to go.”

THE THING
was to act like you weren’t there for anything important. Like you couldn’t care less. That was what she’d told them. After a while you could layer on a smile if you wanted. Make them feel special. Lauren checked her watch. Being prompt was important, too. Clients didn’t have all day. Neither did she. And Derek was late.

She slouched on the bench, wondering whether to call him. Not that it would do much good. He’d have to stop whatever he was doing and call her back. And time was growing short. She looked around the mall. Monday was always slow. Things didn’t heat up until mid-week; Thursday and Friday were busy. And Saturdays were crazy. She usually took off the first two days of the week. Worked out, did her homework, chilled. Her cell phone buzzed. She checked the caller ID. Heather. She ignored the call.

Tonight was meant to be a business meeting. She and Derek had to talk. Derek was recruiting girls who—well—just weren’t good enough. He’d started cruising Golf Mill and Woodfield, but frankly, Mount Prospect and Schaumburg weren’t the North Shore. The girls weren’t as classy— though she’d be the last to admit the North Shore had cornered the market on class. She’d seen plenty of clients who picked their noses, chewed with their mouths open, or sported bellies that hung over their belts. Still, there was a cachet about North Shore girls. After she trained them, they were good. She was proud of her work.

Derek’s point was they had to expand, maybe even start another branch. To stay where they were meant they were falling behind. But this wasn’t fast food, and they weren’t McDonald’s. She liked the control of a small operation. They were pulling down great money. That was important. People respected women with money. Their own money. Like Ricki Feldman. They’d only met for a minute, but they were two of a kind, she and Ricki. She could see it in the woman’s eyes. They understood each other. Lauren recalled her comment about how beautiful her mother was. That was code. Ricki didn’t like her mother. Lauren understood.

She and Derek had to discuss Sara, too. The PI had talked to Claire and Heather. Neither of them knew shit, but it wouldn’t be long until she came back to her. Georgia Davis. Lauren scoffed. Who had a name like Georgia? She hoped Georgia was focusing on Monica Ramsey. She’d planted the seed herself the night she followed her to the grocery store. To take the heat off her and the business. Still, there were problems. The PI had just discovered Sara wasn’t working at the bookstore. And now suddenly Heather was calling all the time, asking tons of questions, like she was going to do some big investigation for the school news. Lauren knew Heather was just being nosy, in that high school kind of way. She should just grow up.

Lauren crossed one leg over the other, letting her foot jiggle the air. Sara had screwed up the bookstore thing. The manager had been a client. He’d lied for Sara, took messages when someone called her at the store, even filled out bogus time sheets for her in return for a blowjob or two. But he had been fired over the summer—they’d caught the jerk with his hands in the cash register—and the new manager didn’t know about Sara’s “employment.” Lauren had told Sara to find another “job”—fast— but two months had gone by, and Sara hadn’t come up with one. Then she was killed.

Lauren’s foot dangled back and forth. They had the crazy guy. The cops were still sure he did it, despite the hazing. Why was a PI on the case? That was the other reason she needed to talk to Derek. He said he would take care of Georgia Davis. She hadn’t seen anything yet. And then there was that text message he’d sent a while back about Charlie, one of their regulars. Whether Lauren had heard from him and to let Derek know if she did.

She uncrossed her legs and checked her watch. Now Derek was really late. She dug out her cell and punched in his number. The call went straight to voice mail. “Hi, leave your name and number.” Nothing cute or fancy. All business. She disconnected.

She got up, walked over to Bath and Body Works, and ducked inside. She bought some Vanilla Cream body lotion but kept one eye on the mall. No Derek. She came back out, her irritation mounting. Damn him. How dare he stand her up?

***

Derek’s apartment in Deerfield was only twenty minutes from the mall, but driving on rain-slicked streets made it take longer. He had two roommates. She’d met them once; she didn’t like either of them. They talked with heavy European accents, and they were a lot older than Derek. One of them wore thick gold chains around his neck, and the other had an ear that was pierced in five places. But when she asked Derek about them, he said they were cool.

How would he know
, she wondered as she cut across Deerfield Road. Derek didn’t talk much about his life. His family lived—or used to live— in a small ramshackle house in Wilmette. He had a brother who died two years ago; after that the family fell apart. His mother drank herself to death, and his father didn’t care about anything. Derek had dropped out of school.

She’d first met him in a chat room and started emailing. When he told her he’d gone to Newfield, she met him for coffee. One thing led to another, and they decided to work together. From then on, the business took off. They were both pulling down serious money. So were the girls.