Easy Innocence

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “No.” Lauren frowned. “I don’t. What things?”

  “The thing with Cash, for instance.”

  Lauren waved a dismissive hand. “Ancient history.”

  “Well, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Better not tell the cops that. Or the investigator,” Lauren said. “They might think you had something to do with her murder.”

  “Ewww…” Heather whined, stretching the sound into three syllables. “That’s disgusting.”

  “And to top it all off, the woman made me late for my math teacher.” Claire clacked her gum again. “I’m gonna fail this quarter for sure.”

  Lauren yanked her thumb toward Heather. “She’s smart. She’ll tutor you, won’t you, Heather?”

  Heather pursed her lips.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SO FAR the job had been routine. So mundane, in fact, that he wondered why his employer needed protection. Maybe he was the type who thought his footsteps made an indelible imprint, who was sure nothing could be accomplished without his intervention. Sitting at the right hand of God.

  One thing was clear, he thought as he wiped down the Jag. The man was a micromanager. Down to his instructions on how to wash the car. What cloths to use. How much wax. How long to buff. Still, he was grateful to be working at all. It had been a while. He’d provided references. Impressed them with his resume. And they’d scooped him up. Good thing, too. Any longer and his skills might have deteriorated. He practiced, tried to make sure he was still sharp. But until you were actually on the street, you never knew.

  He was the back door guy, the outsider. He didn’t even have chauffeur status. It would stay that way until he earned their trust. But he’d expected that, and he was prepared to take it slow. It was important to be a team player.

  He finished buffing the car and went around to the back. A huge turquoise swimming pool bordered by marble statues lay behind a wide veranda. Beyond that was a sweep of broad, sloping lawn with thick green grass. His employer emerged from the water, sun-sparkled droplets beading the gray hair on his chest. A silver mezuzah around his neck flashed in the morning light. Wrapping himself in a soft white towel, he gazed around his estate with a satisfied expression.

  A cell phone trilled. The man grabbed it, listened, barked a response. Then he tossed the phone down on the table. He spotted him at the edge of the cabana. His bushy eyebrows rose.

  “Lawyers!” His boss spat out. “They don’t do what you want, and they fuck you while they’re not doing it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE PUNGENT smell of pizza from someone’s apartment wafted through the air vents, making Georgia realize she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She finished her notes, went into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but mayo, wilted lettuce, eggs, and a hunk of muenster cheese. She got out her one good Cutco knife, sliced a piece off the cheese, and wolfed it down.

  Her first full day on the case, but it wasn’t very productive. First she’d played telephone tag with Cam Jordan’s social worker. It was just a courtesy—she figured the social worker would echo what Ruth Jordan said. Still, the call had to be made. Paul Kelly might be able to use the information in his defense, particularly if it turned out Cam had never been known to be violent. But the woman was either in a meeting or out of the office, and when she called back, Georgia was at the gym. She dutifully left her number on the woman’s voice mail again.

  She did manage to question Claire Tennenbaum, one of Sara Long’s friends, before school. She hadn’t found out much that wasn’t in the police reports—just that Sara had been taken away from the game “to teach her a lesson,” the girl said. When Georgia asked why, she admitted Sara was a busybody. “Sara had to know what everyone was doing. She’d read people’s notes. Diaries, too.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t always that way.”

  “So this—behavior just started recently?”

  Claire looked uncomfortable, as if she’d said too much. “I guess. Maybe.”

  The most interesting piece of information she’d picked up was the name of one of the seniors who’d been at the Forest Preserve. Monica Ramsey.

  Now, she went back into the living room and turned on the news. She was startled to see a photo of Sara Long behind the shoulder of the anchor woman. She turned up the volume.

  “… a high school hazing was taking place during the powder puff football game at which Sara Long was killed last month,” the newscaster said. “According to sources, the victim was taken to another part of the forest where she was subjected to taunting and a series of practical jokes. As you recall, hazing is not a new activity on the North Shore…”

  File footage from someone’s video camera two years ago flashed across the screen, including shots of girls on the ground covered in what Georgia knew were feces, urine, paint, pig intestines, and fish guts. More video showed girls being punched, kicked, and pummeled with buckets.

  The story cut to Police Chief Eric Olson, Georgia’s former boss, who said while the hazing was regrettable, it would not change the course of justice. In a statement that sounded scripted, Olson maintained they had apprehended the offender and had solid evidence to back up their case. They would, however, continue to conduct a thorough investigation into every aspect of this heinous crime. Robby Parker, tall, blond, and smug, stood at Olson’s side, hands clasped behind his back.

  So much for keeping the hazing under wraps. Now that it was out, the question of why it had been kept quiet in the first place would undoubtedly surface. Who would take the heat, Georgia wondered? Would school officials claim something about an internal investigation and wanting to be sure before they went public? Would parents admit pressuring the authorities to keep it quiet? Or would the cops and the State’s Attorney’s Office offer some half-assed explanation?

  She turned off the TV. The good news was that the fact of a cover-up, however short-term or benign, could help raise reasonable doubt about Cam Jordan. She and Kelly ought to brainstorm some strategies. Maybe talk to a friendly reporter. She’d call Kelly tomorrow.

  She looked around the apartment, aware she’d been alone most of the day. Too much isolation wasn’t good. She grabbed her jacket, locked her door, and went down the stairs.

  The night air had a snap to it, and a breeze carried the tang of burning leaves. She zipped up her jacket. Another month and she’d be wearing her down jacket. She jogged the six blocks to Mickey’s on the east side of Ridge and pushed through the door.

  “Hey, Davis.” Owen Dougherty, Mickey’s owner, grinned. A big man, he wore a flowing white shirt and a bartender’s apron over his pants. He looked a lot like Jackie Gleason in the reruns of The Honeymooners she’d caught on cable. Even the same mustache.

  “How’s it goin’ Owen?” she asked, enjoying the rhyme for about the thousandth time.

  “Can’t complain.” Over the past few years Evanston had become fashionable, its new condos, upscale eateries, and shops a haven for empty-nesters and singles who didn’t want to live downtown. With its dim light, scarred wood, and good burgers at decent prices, Mickey’s was one of the last of the old neighborhood places. “What about you, Davis?” He wiped down the bar with a damp cloth.

  Everyone went by last names at Mickey’s except Owen, and, presumably, the Mickey who owned it before him. She didn’t mind. It made her feel she belonged.

  “Surviving.”

  Dougherty had bought the place eight years ago. “Didn’t have to change a thing,” he’d said proudly. Gazing at the old neon signs, shabby tables, and scuffed floor, Georgia wasn’t sure that was a good thing. While its grunginess was comfortable, almost endearing, Mickey’s was becoming a dinosaur. Which made it ripe for a buyout. Of course, that could have been Dougherty’s plan all along, which would make him a lot cagier than she thought. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar.

  “So what’ll it be, tonight? The usual?”

  She nodded. Dougherty filled a tall glass with
ice, reached under the bar for a nozzle and spritzed cola into the glass. He reached under the bar again and came up a slice of lemon which he anchored on the rim. “One Coke, plenty of ice and lemon.”

  “Thanks.” She took a pull, wondering why Coke always tasted better here than at home. Swiveling around, she checked out the crowd. The bar was half-filled; most of the faces were familiar. Of the five booths, three were taken, two by couples, and one by a family with two kids. A jukebox stood in the corner, but no music was playing. Instead, a TV above the bar tuned to ESPN was replaying clips from Sunday’s games. At least it wasn’t the news. Georgia took her drink to one of the empty booths. “This okay?” she called out.

  He nodded. “Gemma’s not here tonight. You want food, order through me.”

  “Make it a burger and fries. Rare, this time.”

  He appraised her. “Raw meat, huh? You got something going I should know about?”

  “Nope. I’m saving myself for you.”

  He ducked into the kitchen. Georgia settled herself in the booth, and thought about the hazing announcement. Two days after she talked to O’Malley, the hazing surfaced. Had he leaked it? It was possible; he clearly wasn’t happy with the way the case was going. But O’Malley was a team player. No matter how unhappy he was, he wouldn’t cause trouble. Or stick his neck out. Leaking the hazing took guts.

  She stared up at the TV. A pretty boy with a blow-dry haircut breathlessly proclaimed that last week’s offensive play by Number 49 was a masterpiece. She hardly listened, preoccupied with another issue—this one of her own making. When she interviewed Claire Tennenbaum that morning, she’d had the stack of discovery documents with her, and she pored through them at strategic points during the conversation. She’d let the girl think she was a cop—at least, she hadn’t said anything to contradict it.

  The problem was she wasn’t a cop any more. And it was against the law to impersonate one. Ironically, when she was a cop, she’d learned it was okay to lie in certain situations. She’d watched O’Malley extort information from suspects by playing them off against each other, insisting—falsely—that one was framing the other. The tactic usually worked. But Claire Tennenbaum was a kid. Lying to a kid—even misleading her— didn’t feel right.

  There was another problem too. Georgia no longer had the insulation that being a cop provided. What if Claire Tennenbaum told her parents she’d been questioned by a cop, and her parents called to verify it? When they found out she’d been posing as one, she could be in trouble. She stared up at the TV, willing her stomach to stop churning.

  Ten minutes later Owen arrived with her food. “Burger and fries. Rare.” He set the plate down. “You could do the breast stroke in the blood.”

  She took a bite. “Perfect.”

  He went back behind the bar, but she knew he was pleased. She remembered the first time she’d come to Mickey’s. Matt had brought her here one rainy spring night three years ago. He’d said it was a comfort zone, the kind of place where people knew you on the surface and didn’t need to dig any deeper. He’d been right. To this day she wasn’t sure Owen knew she—or Matt—had ever been a cop.

  She watched Owen flip a white towel over his shoulder. They’d come here so often that she knew the rhythms of the place. How many times an hour Owen wiped down the bar—about twelve. How many TV stations Owen would let customers watch—only two. How many brands of bourbon he carried—seven. She recalled one night, giggling, a few brews to the high side, when she tried to swipe Owen’s towel, just to see what he’d do. She figured he’d freak out and frisk everyone in the place ‘till he found it. She sneaked up behind Owen, ready to snatch it off his shoulder when he whipped around to face her, and the chance was lost. Matt laughed so hard he knocked over his beer. They used Owen’s cloth to wipe it up.

  Now, she dipped a fry in ketchup and crammed it in her mouth. When would she stop using Matt to mark time? They’d split up two years ago, but he still haunted her dreams, his face appearing unbidden when she was cuffing an offender, writing tickets, doing laundry. She saw his crooked grin, the way he pushed his hair off his face. Once he’d let it get so long that Olson threatened to buck Matt back to patrol if he didn’t get a haircut. That afternoon Matt came back from lunch with a shaved head. She remembered how he walked up and down the hall past Olson’s office—it had to be twenty times—before the Chief finally noticed. And never said a word.

  She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Those were the heady days. When the touch of his finger sent shivers down her spine. When just being alone made them tear their clothes off, drunk with the smell, taste, and feel of each other. She thought it would never end. She took another bite of her burger. It was starting to taste like cardboard.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SOCIAL worker rooted around in a pile of olive green folders, extracted one, and scanned the first page. “Oh, here we go.”

  Georgia sat across from Carol Moore, a young woman with ash blond hair and enormous glasses. She was wearing jeans and a ribbed sweater, and she looked like she’d just graduated from high school. She and Georgia sat on either side of a metal desk in the North Shore Mental Health Clinic. The clinic operated out of an Evanston building near Oakton and Ridge that had once been a parochial school. A quick glance around revealed the same peeling paint, green walls, and chipped tiles Georgia remembered from St. Michael’s. A grimy, institutional odor seeped out of the walls. Georgia remembered that too.

  “Cam Jordan has been my client for over a year,” Moore said.

  “That doesn’t sound like a long time.” Georgia breathed through her mouth.

  “Let’s see. I took over from…” Moore paged through the file. “… Margie Hanson. She got married and had a baby. And before that, Shauna Alexander was his caseworker.”

  Georgia fidgeted. Passed from hand to hand, Cam was just another file to these people. A case number to justify their budget.

  “You have met with him?”

  “Of course.” Moore looked offended. “And now that he’s in the news, we’ve gotten more calls. We can’t comment, of course.”

  “As I told you, I’m a private investigator working on his case. Anything you can tell me about his mental state would be helpful.”

  Moore nodded. “I talked to the director before you came, and—” She looked up. “Hey, am I going to be called to testify?”

  “I don’t know if there will be a trial.”

  “But is it a possibility.”

  “Yes.”

  “I just wondered, you know.” Moore flipped up a lock of hair. Then she went back to the file. “The last time he came in was almost five months ago. In June.”

  “How often did you see him?”

  “Every six months. Unless there was a crisis.”

  “Only twice a year?”

  “Do you know how many clients I have, Ms. Davis? Some are victims of abuse. Child abuse. Sexual abuse. One of my clients was put in a cage by her father for two years. Another has been in thirty foster homes. Between home visits, clinical practice, and writing reports, it’s a miracle I see him that much.”

  Not something we’d want brought out in a trial, Georgia thought. She could just imagine Ramsey: “With forty-two clients and only two visits a year, in reality, you have no idea whether he was violent or not, do you, Ms. Moore?”

  Aloud she said, “What can you tell me about those visits?”

  “His sister brings him in. I talk mostly to her. It looks like she takes good care of him. He’s always been calm. Not agitated. At least the times I’ve seen him.”

  “Is he on any medications?”

  She frowned, pulled her glasses down her nose, and sifted through the file. “There’s a note from Margie that he was on Seroquel for a year. And Remeron. But it doesn’t say if they helped. I don’t know if he’s still on the meds.”

  “What do those drugs do?”

  “One’s an antidepressant. The other is specifically for bipolar disorder and schizophrenia
.” She looked at Georgia. “Psychopharmacological agents can improve quality of life for the mentally ill. But the best catalyst for change is still a positive and trusting relationship with a therapist.”

  “But you weren’t that therapist.”

  “I told you. We only see patients during physical or mental health crises. And check-ups. There’s nothing here about any other therapist.” She closed the file. “I’m guessing there wasn’t enough money for it.”

  Georgia motioned toward the file. “May I look through that? Make some copies?”

  “The director said you need to put any request in writing. Then it has to go before our internal committee for approval. And then to the state.”

  “Well then, may I look through it so I know which reports to request?”

  “I’m sorry.” Moore leaned back with an expression that said she was really doing Georgia a favor. “But I can tell you what they say.”

  Georgia bit back a reply. It infuriated her when people doled out information a bit at a time. They were usually sadists. Assholes who liked to watch people beg. They’d have to subpoena the records if they needed them. “Go ahead,” she said tersely.

  Moore took her time reopening the file and looking through it. “It doesn’t appear that there was any instance of real communication—at least while he was here. When he did talk it was mostly the repetition of certain words, or phrases from nursery rhymes.”

  “Are there any notes about his sexual offense?”

  “Let’s see…” She pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “Everyone agrees he masturbated in public. But apparently, there was some question about physical contact. His sister contends he never touched the woman in the Forest Preserve. The couple said otherwise, of course.” She read on. “Apparently, he had a history of being abused. His father beat him.”