Easy Innocence (3 page)

“Aren’t they all?”

O’Malley shrugged. “What’s interesting is that he lives on the North Shore.”

“Is that right?”

“Winnetka,” O’Malley nodded. “Has a daughter at Newfield.”

“Oh.”

Newfield was considered one of the most prestigious public schools in the country, but it was a place that mirrored both the best and the worst of teenage life. People talked about the famous actors, cabinet secretaries, and CEOs who graduated from the school, but with over four thousand students, how any one of them got enough personal attention so they could rise to the top was a mystery to Georgia. She’d gone to St. Michael’s parish school on the West Side of Chicago, where there were forty kids in the entire grade.

“Tell me about the suspect.”

“Cam Jordan is thirty-five. In and out of institutions his entire life. Yes, he’s a sex offender. But he never attacked anyone and he’s never shown any signs of violent behavior. He’s basically just a peeping tom who whacks off in parks and other public places.”

“And scares the shit out of high school girls.”

“There is that,” O’Malley admitted. “But you know the law. You don’t have to be much more than a wand waver to get registered these days. But that’s only one of his problems.” He went on. “We have his prints on the bat, and her blood on his shirt.”

“Sounds like a lock,” Georgia said. “How come you think it’s fucked up?”

O’Malley didn’t answer.

She leaned forward. “Who’s Jordan’s lawyer?”

“A public defender at first. But I heard the sister just got a private defense lawyer.”

“You don’t know who?”

He shook his head. “She told me, but I didn’t know the name. Kelly, I think.”

“Who’s lead detective on your end?”

O’Malley hesitated. “Robby Parker.”

Robby Parker had been Georgia’s partner for two years. She’d endured him. Barely. “Parker’s a dick now?”

“Just.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Christ, man, what are you doing to me?”

“That’s not the best part.”

Their waitress appeared with a pot of coffee. Although she’d only had a sip, Georgia let her warm it up. When the waitress left, Georgia leaned back. “So, what is—the best part?”

“What the girls were doing in the Forest Preserve.”

Georgia thought about it. Two years ago, when she was still on the force, a group of high school senior girls had attacked some juniors in the Forest Preserve during what was supposed to be an all-girls powder puff football game. Several of the girls were hurt badly enough to go to the ER. Unfortunately, someone brought a video camera, and when shots of the fracas appeared on TV, a scandal broke nationwide.

She’d been the youth officer on the force at the time, and she remembered questioning some of the kids. It turned out the incident was part of a hazing tradition that had been going on for years. It also turned out that some of the students, including boys, who’d witnessed the hazing, had been drinking beer. And the beer, as well as baseball bats, buckets, and other materials used during the hazing, were supplied by the kids’ parents. Some of the victims filed suits against the school and each other, and nearly thirty students were suspended. Strict anti-hazing rules were enacted, but no one believed the practice had disappeared. It had just gone underground.

“Hazing,” Georgia said softly.

“There’s no video this time, but that’s the operative theory.”

“Was there booze?”

“Looks that way.”

Georgia nodded. “The reports say the girls found her body in a secluded part of the woods.”

“Part of the ritual. They blindfolded her, dumped a bucket of fish guts on her head, then ditched her. She was supposed to find her way back to the picnic area.”

“What about clubbing her with a baseball bat? Was that part of the ritual?”

O’Malley shot her a look. “Just the fish guts. They claim they never used the bat.”

“Right.” She laced her fingers together. “So tell me, Dan. Why do you think the case is moving so fast?”

O’Malley shrugged.

Georgia didn’t say anything. Then, “It hasn’t been reported by the press. The hazing part.”

“It will be. They’ve been sniffing around.”

“But it’s been a few weeks since her murder.”

O’Malley just looked at her.

“Maybe they needed time to get the girls all lawyered up,” she said.

O’Malley spread his hands. “Hey, this is the North Shore.”

GEORGIA HEADED
home on Ridge, turning west and then south on Asbury. She started looking for a place to park on a side street, but a large orange U-Haul in the middle of the road blocked her. She cursed, squeezed by the truck, and drove further down the block. Five minutes later, she found a spot, parked the car, and jogged back to her building. As she approached, two men were hefting a large bureau toward her front door.

She cut across the grass past the men and climbed up three steps. The door opened into a vestibule just big enough for six brass mailboxes and a small table. Normally junk mail, coupons, and flyers were fanned across the table, but today they were strewn on the floor. She scooped up a couple of pizza delivery coupons. She hoped whoever was moving in was almost done. It was nearly dusk, and despite what the Chamber of Commerce proclaimed, Evanston wasn’t the kind of place to keep your front door open after dark.

She started up the stairs to the second floor. A loud thump made her stop.

“Hey, man. Can’t you be more careful? This belonged to my grandmother.”

“You want a professional mover, hire one,” the other man grumbled.

Georgia peeked over her shoulder. The men looked about her age. One was husky and big like a defensive tackle. The other was tall and thin with sandy hair, long on top, but razor short on the sides. A pair of glasses slipped down his nose. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The strain of the load made his biceps stand out nicely.

She watched them brace the bureau against the railing as they hoisted it up the steps. It would be a sharp ninety degree turn to get it inside. As the man with the glasses gripped the table and maneuvered it sideways through the door, the light glinted off a thin gold band on his left hand. Georgia turned around and continued up the steps.

She let herself into her apartment, kicked off her boots, and grabbed a pop from the fridge. She took it back into the living room, which doubled as her office. The apartment was spare, even severe. A plain brown couch, beige curtains, two easy chairs, a desk with several shelves above. Once upon a time, she’d collected things: candles, a clock, a bronze rooster, a cloisonné bowl. They were packed away now. Better not to have too many possessions. Who said that? Some French writer, she thought.

She had two jobs lined up: a skip trace, which, if the Internet Gods were favorable, might only take a few hours, and a possible insurance fraud scam. There was no reason she couldn’t handle another job. As a cop, she’d multi-tasked for years.

The problem—as it always was—was money. There probably wouldn’t be much if she took Cam Jordan’s case. Then again, this was the kind of work she’d been yearning for. Something that required more than taping an adulterous affair. She hadn’t confirmed it with Ruth Jordan or the public defender, but she assumed her task would be to establish reasonable doubt that Cam Jordan had killed Sara Long. At least enough to convince a jury.

She’d have to insert herself in the middle of other people’s lives. Which presented a problem. People on the North Shore didn’t take kindly to interference by outsiders. And up here people considered anyone they didn’t already know an outsider. There was also the pressure of a heater case, one that the State’s Attorney apparently wanted to wrap up fast. And she’d be facing her former partner on the other side. That didn’t bother her; she could run rings around Robby Parker. And she did have some knowledge of teenagers on the North Shore from her stint as youth officer. She even knew one or two who might talk to her.

Peeling off her jeans, she went into the bathroom in her underwear. As she splashed cold water on her face, she heard banging and a curse coming from the hall. Groans and scuffles as the furniture was hauled up to the third floor. The new tenants must be moving into the apartment one floor up and across from hers. At least they wouldn’t be thumping on her ceiling.

She rolled the can of soda across her forehead and sat down, tapping a finger against the can. Then she got up and grabbed the cordless phone on her desk. She punched in a number.

***

Lauren Walcher’s hand shook so much she was afraid she might stab herself in the eye. She lowered the mascara brush and stared at herself in the mirror. Thick black hair framed an oval face with blue eyes, thick lashes, and pale skin. With or without the mascara, she knew she was attractive. Even her mother, during those rare moments of intimacy, still called her Snow White. She remembered as a little girl trying to find the magic mirror on the wall. She was sure it was hidden underneath the wallpaper in her bedroom. All she needed were the right words, and the mirror would magically swim to the surface and tell her who was the fairest one of all.

Now, her face illuminated by the theater lights, Lauren knew better. The mirror would never appear. People carried their mirrors on the in-side. They should. Most people were ugly. She raised the brush again and leaned toward the glass. She’d bought the mascara at Sephora last week for twenty-five dollars. It was good stuff. Everyone used it. She tried again to apply it, taking care there were no clumps or goop, but the tremor in her hand wouldn’t stop.

She took a breath to steady herself. She couldn’t fall apart. Everything depended on her. Where was he? She’d called him an hour ago. He always called back. A chirp from the computer sounded, alerting her to an incoming e-mail. He did have a Treo. Maybe he was e-mailing.

She went into her bedroom, a lavender and white kingdom with a huge four poster bed. The dainty print canopy matched the quilt which blended with the curtains and the carpet. A collection of teddy bears and other stuffed animals were piled in a corner. Her mother kept telling her to get rid of them, to give them to needy children. But Lauren couldn’t bear to part with them. She’d named them all.

Next to the menagerie was an arrangement of shelves, drawers, and desk, holding her CD-DVD player, TV, and computer. She clicked on the e-mail. It wasn’t him. She read the message, made some notes, and typed a message back. Then she rummaged in her bag for her cell and made a call.

When she finished, she popped in a CD and lay down on her bed. John Mayer’s mellow voice welled out of Bose speakers. She closed her eyes. What was the last thing Sara heard before she died?

***

It was the beginning of junior year. The toughest year, everyone said. Term papers, ACTs, grades that counted. The powder puff football game in the Forest Preserve was the last frivolous activity before they knuckled down. Even so, Sara hadn’t wanted to go. Neither did Lauren, but she thought it was important to make an appearance. Sara wasn’t convinced until the night before when she called Lauren to say she’d come after all.

“How come you changed your mind?” Lauren asked.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Sara said.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I—I just want to talk.”

Lauren and Sara had drifted apart recently. After being best friends for years, she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just the way it had to be. Now Sara seemed to be opening the door again. At least a crack.

“Okay,” Lauren replied. “We don’t have to stay long. We don’t even have to play.”

The morning of the game was one of those late summer days that breaks your heart with its perfection. A warm sun, a soft, cloudless blue sky, the trees and bushes still plump and green. Lauren waited for Sara at the field. They’d be in and out in a flash, then head over to Starbucks.

She hadn’t counted on the seniors. She didn’t know they were planning to haze them that day. When Heather and Claire ran up, breathlessly whispering what they’d overheard, Lauren scowled. How could her friends be so excited? They seemed almost hungry for the chance to be humiliated. Lauren wanted to leave right then. She should have.

Two seniors sauntered over, both holding cans of beer. Lauren knew them; uninspiring girls whose interests were limited to boys, clothes, and cars. One of them twirled a lock of hair. They wanted Sara, they said.

“Sara?” Lauren replied. “What for?”

The girls exchanged glances. “She needs some attitude readjustment,” one said.

Lauren crossed her arms.

“She thinks she’s hot shit,” the other chimed in. “It’s time to teach her a lesson.”

“Sara? Are you kidding? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know.” The first girl threw her a meaningful look.

An icicle of fear slid down Lauren’s spine. “No. I don’t.” Sara was beautiful. Every boy in school probably had wet dreams about her. But Sara didn’t flirt. Or lead them on. Lauren had seen her back off when some guy mustered up the courage to approach her. Still, that didn’t stop people from being jealous.

“You ever heard about invasion of privacy?” The second girl took a swig of beer.

So that was it. Lauren broke eye contact with her.

“She’s got to stop messing around in everybody’s business. Trying to know it all,” the first girl said. “She’s not Diane Sawyer. Time for her to realize that.”

Lauren shrugged, as if it couldn’t mean less to her. Except it did. Sara had been getting a reputation for asking personal questions. Trying to find out who was doing what with whom. She read other people’s notes, and someone even accused her of stealing their diary, although why anyone was dumb enough to bring a diary to school was another thing. Lauren thought she knew why Sara was doing it and warned her to tone it down. Sara countered that she wasn’t the only one. Heather, for example, was worse. But Heather wasn’t beautiful like Sara.

Now Lauren steeled herself. “What are you going to do?”

“Actually, you’re going to do it. You and her other little friends.”

When they told her what they wanted her to do, Lauren didn’t like it. Still, if she didn’t go along, the seniors would make her life miserable. Sara’s too. That was something they didn’t need. So when Sara arrived, Lauren told her to be cool and just go with the program. Let them take her into the clearing and put the bucket on her head. Sara hesitated but finally agreed once Lauren promised it would be over in a few minutes and everyone would tell her what a good sport she’d been. Sara always wanted everyone to like her.