Easy Innocence (35 page)

Georgia recovered first. “Good morning. You probably don’t remember me, but you did something very kind two years ago.”

“I did?”

The other two clerks stopped what they were doing. The woman smiled triumphantly, as if to say “I told you service was important.”

“You were working in the coffee shop. I had just broken up with my boyfriend. You poured me a cup of coffee. Said you thought I could use it.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “I remember.” She studied Georgia. “You were looking quite poorly that morning.”

“I felt poorly.”

The woman’s glance swept the lobby. “You’re—you’re not back with him...”

“No.” Georgia laughed.

“Good. So where’s your new guy?”

“I don’t have one. My name is Georgia Davis, by the way.” She extended her hand.

“Sherry Diehl.” They shook. “How can we help you?” Her gesture included the two clerks.

“Actually, it’s a personal matter.”

The woman gazed at Georgia, then turned to her charges. “It’s still slow. Why don’t you two head into the office and catch up on invoices?”

The clerks retreated into the back room. Once they were out of earshot, Georgia leaned slightly forward and placed her hands on the counter. “I’m an investigator and I’m working on a case. I have a photo of a man, and I’d like to know if you recognize him.”

Suspicion registered on the manager’s face. “Are you with the police?”

Georgia told her the truth. “Up until last winter, I was. I’m working privately now. But the police are working the same case. You may have heard about it.” She summarized it.

Although the lobby was warm, the manager shuddered. “I did hear. I have a fifteen year old daughter.” She frowned. “Wait. I thought they got the guy. A sex offender, something like that? Preying on young girls?”

“There’s evidence that suggests he didn’t kill the girl.”

“Is that so?” When Georgia nodded, she added, “And you’re trying to find the real killer?”

“We think a man who—may be connected to it—stayed here several times.” She pulled out the picture of Tom Walcher. “Do you know him?”

Sherry studied it. Then she looked up. Georgia saw the recognition in her eyes.

“Thank you.”

Sherry nodded. “Is that all?”

“Well, there is something else. I have reason to believe he was here on September 14
^th
. It would help me out a lot if you could confirm that.”

“You want me to check our records.”

Georgia nodded again.

Sherry didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice she said, “I can’t do that.”

Georgia winced. “We can subpoena them, but you could save us a lot of time. And money.”

“I don’t think you heard me.” Sherry’s voice was firm. “Our records are highly confidential. I could get fired for going into them without authorization.”

“You wouldn’t have to speak or say anything,” Georgia persisted. “Just nod or shake your head.” When the woman didn’t reply, she laid it on thick. “This is a bad guy. If we don’t get him, he could go on killing. Do you really want him out there? What if he runs into your daughter?” It was a shitty thing to say, but she needed the information.

Still, Sherry shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go through our corporate office. I can give you a name if you’re interested.”

Georgia’s shoulders sagged. In a perverse sort of way, though, she wasn’t sorry. Sherry Diehl was no pushover. The world needed more women like her. She let Sherry write down the name of some corporate officer and headed back to her car.

She had just exited 94 on Dempster heading toward Evanston when her cell trilled. She pulled to the side of the road and answered. It was Andrea Walcher with her husband’s cell number. Georgia could have kissed the woman. As soon as she got home she called her source in Florida. He said she’d have to pay double for a 24-hour-over-the-weekend turnaround. She gave him her credit card number without complaint.

“GODDAMMIT!” MATT’S
employer thumped his folded newspaper on the table. “What the hell happened?” Lenny hung his head, as if he was a kid on his way to the woodshed. “The fucker missed.”

His boss spun around. They were in his Lake Bluff study, a paneled room with a painting of a bearded rebbe and a student poring over the Torah on the wall. “I thought you were supposed to be a crack shot, Singer. The Mossad told me you could split a Goddammed hair.”

Matt frowned, but inside he felt relief. His cover was holding. He and the Bureau had created it, step by painstaking step, making sure the right people would vouch for him, back him up. “I don’t have an excuse, Mr. Perl. The window glass I was shooting through must have been too thick.” He shrugged. “Shit happens. I take full responsibility.”

Harry Perl glared at him. “You take responsibility. You....” He shook his head. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”

He stared back. “I can’t.”

“Well, boss...” Lenny shuffled his feet. “You could—”

“Was I talking to you?” Perl snapped.

Lenny closed his mouth.

Matt waited. This could be the end of his job. And his undercover work. Maybe even his life.

Perl’s cell phone jangled. “Perl...” A pause. “I can’t talk now, Ricki.” Matt went on full alert. “What are you talking about? You can’t!” Another pause. “I know what happened to your father. He was my partner. But what you’re proposing is unacceptable.” Silence. “
Your
reputation? This isn’t about you, Feldman. I’ll call you back.”

Perl broke the connection and tossed the phone down on the desk. He gazed at Lenny. “As long as the checks keep rolling in, everyone’s happy. Then the first time something is off, they all want to jump ship.” He picked up the phone and tapped it against the desk. “I told her father I’d look out for her, but she’s turning out to be a problem.”

Lenny nodded.

“Stop bobbing your head like a fucking chimpanzee. If I want your input, I’ll ask for it.”

Lenny looked chastened.

“If I weren’t so Goddamned busy, I’d—” He cut himself off, then sighed. “One step at a time.” He gazed at the painting of the rebbe. “I’ll give you one more chance, Singer. Here’s what I want you to do.”

As Perl explained, Matt felt a buzz along every nerve in his body.

WALCHER’S PHONE
records came back in less than 24 hours. Georgia pored over the calls he received on September 14. Six calls from one number, one of them around 4
PM
. After making sure her own number was blocked on Caller ID, she dialed it.

“Perl here...”

She hung up. Her heart was pounding hard enough to rattle her teeth.

***

Lauren lay on her bed, eyes closed, earbuds blasting Metallica. If she could only make the black penetrate everything in her mind, her problems would disappear. Nothing would be real. She concentrated on the darkness, hoping the rough, pounding beat would crush her thoughts into dust.

A gust of air rolled over her, and she opened her eyes. Her mother stood at the door. She came to the foot of her bed. Lauren couldn’t remember the last time her mother had actually come into her room. Usually, she’d buzz her on the intercom or shout up the stairs. She was wearing the same grey sweater and taupe slacks she’d worn this morning. Her mother never wore the same thing all day. And her hair looked as if she’d been trying to pull it out.

Lauren propped herself up. Her mother’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear her words. Her face was bathed in anger—it never went away—but something else was there, too. It took her a minute to figure it out, but when she did, a chill crawled up her spine. Fear. Her mother was afraid.

She waved her arms. Lauren removed the earbuds. A tinny bass spilled out of them.

“That Goddammed noise...”

Lauren pushed a button on her iPod, and the room went quiet. Her mother lowered her arms.

“What’s the problem?” Lauren asked.

“Someone called a few minutes ago. You answered the phone.”

“So?”

“Who was it?”

“Why do you care?”

“I need to know.”

Lauren cocked her head. Her mother rarely asked that kind of thing. “It was for Dad.” She had been trained from a young age to ask a caller’s name before transferring them to her parents. What if it was someone they didn’t want to talk to? A stranger, or, God forbid, a salesman? “A woman.”

“What woman?” her mother said.

“Ricki Feldman.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No. But she sounded pissed.”

“She did?”

Lauren reached for her headphones.

“Did you transfer the call to your father?”

“Do I look stupid? Of course I did.”

“Sorry.” She gazed around Lauren’s room. “So, what are you up to tonight?”

Lauren frowned at her mother. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I—I thought maybe we could watch a movie or something...”

“Together?”

“Something wrong with that?”

Had her mother been drinking? She didn’t look high, but after a lifetime of wine and martinis before dinner, who could tell? Lauren shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Good. I’ll be back. I just need to check with your father.”

***

It was Sunday night, and Georgia was gazing out the window at the red wagon across the street from her apartment when Andrea Walcher called. “I can’t talk, but something’s going on.”

“I’m listening.”

“Ricki Feldman called Tom half an hour ago. Lauren answered the phone and said she sounded angry. Afterwards Tom called Perl.”

Ricki hadn’t wasted any time. “And?”

“I went into his office and asked him what the calls were about. He wouldn’t tell me, but he said he might need to meet with Perl tonight.”

“On a Sunday night?”

“That’s what I said. He said it was important.”

“Did he say where? Or when?”

“No. But his expression—it was something I haven’t seen before.”

“What was it?”

“It was—empty. Absolutely empty.”

“Don’t let him leave,” Georgia said. “I’m on my way.”

“You can’t come here. He’ll—”

“Make him wait. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Georgia hung up and grabbed her coat. She’d wanted Ricki to raise hell about the fake clean-up; apparently, she had. She tugged on her boots, then stood up and scanned the shelves above her desk. She took her digital tape recorder and slipped it in her bag. She started down the steps two at a time, then paused at the second-floor landing. She turned around and went back up.

Inside her apartment she went to her closet and pulled out a shoebox. Lying underneath a soft cloth was her Sig Sauer 229. The Sig had the smallest recoil of any nine millimeter she’d used. She liked its feel, too. She’d had two Sigs when she was on the force. When she was suspended, she turned in one along with her badge. The other went into her closet.

She lifted it out along with the kydek holster it was nestled in. She’d bought the holster for times when a concealed carry was necessary. Although it wasn’t leather—a fact which Parker always pointed out—the plastic hugged the contours of her body.

She slipped the Sig out of the holster and checked the magazine. She found a small box of spearhead Gold Dot hollow points and loaded them into the clip. Then she went into her bedroom and changed from the thin black turtleneck she was wearing to a bulky white fisherman’s sweater. She snapped the holster over the belt of her jeans and slipped in the Sig.

As its weight settled against her hip, she realized she’d forgotten how safe a gun made her feel. She was no Robby Parker—her partner used to say that they could take down anyone they wanted, anytime. They were “the Law.” And yet, the Sig
did
make her feel safe. And powerful. Maybe she wasn’t that different from Parker. She rummaged through the closet again, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and dropped them in her pocket.

Outside, a light mist spit tiny droplets on the Toyota. She climbed in and turned on the defroster. The wipers smacked against the windshield. She eased out of her parking space and headed north on Green Bay Road. An accident was slowing traffic in Wilmette, so she cut over to Sheridan. As she made the turn, the rain started in earnest. She caught the sandy scent of just-wet concrete.

Despite Illinois’s reputation as a flatland, a string of bluffs hug the shoreline of Lake Michigan from Winnetka north to Lake Bluff. Between the cliffs are steep ravines, and Sheridan Road cuts through them. For a few miles, especially in Glencoe, the road turns into a sharp winding thoroughfare that’s wonderfully scenic but can be treacherous, especially in bad weather.

As Georgia sped north on Sheridan, she accelerated up a hill, crested the top, and started down a straight decline. At the foot of the hill was a sharp curve. She was winding around it when a sudden flash of light seared the darkness behind her. A loud crack accompanied it, and her rear windshield exploded. Glass shattered on the back seat. The sudden rush of air made the Toyota fishtail. She struggled to keep control of the wheel.

Air and rain poured in. She shot a glance in the rear view mirror. Headlights pierced the black void. The downward angle of the beams suggested a high-riding SUV or small truck. She could make out two figures in the front seat. The figure in the passenger seat was aiming a rifle out the window.

Another muzzle flash. She jammed the accelerator, preparing to swerve from side to side. But this stretch of Sheridan was only two lanes, and as she careened around a curve, another pair of headlights swam toward her: a car, speeding into the Toyota from the opposite direction. She jerked the wheel. The Toyota skidded and swerved on wet road. She barely missed the oncoming car. The other car’s horn blasted for a full ten seconds.

Georgia shot another glance into the rearview mirror. Her pursuers were still behind her. Suddenly a driveway materialized on the left, practically on top of her. She wrenched the wheel. The Toyota lurched off at an angle. Tires crackled on gravel. Trees flashed past, and she felt the car bounce wildly onto gravel and rocks. She slammed on her brakes and heard a terrifying screech. The car started to spin. The force propelled her forward, and she strained against the seat belt. She thought she might sail through the windshield. The belt threatened to slice her stomach in half. Another powerful shove threw her back against the seat. Her neck snapped back, but the seat belt held.