As she logged off, she felt the ripple of satisfaction that comes with cracking a case. She loved feeling that—it’s what had attracted her to becoming a cop in the first place. The notion that she—ordinary Georgia Davis from the West Side—could actually right a wrong, mete out justice. She and Matt used to talk about what had brought them into law enforcement. For her it was the need for that affirmation. Recognition. For him, it was the need for redemption. Or so he claimed. But when she asked what sins he’d committed, he’d press his lips together and go quiet.
Suddenly she felt a twinge of what—regret? Loneliness? Pain? Time had made these pangs almost second nature, but she still couldn’t quite identify them. That must be part of the process, she guessed. You go on, one day at a time, and for a while the fog of misery thins, even lifts for a moment or two. Then, without warning, tiny knives reappear and slash their way through your psyche.
She and Matt had talked about leaving the force one day. Setting up shop as the “Nick and Nora Charles of the North Shore,” Matt said. Georgia wasn’t sure who Nick and Nora Charles were and had to sneak online to find out. They were different that way. Matt was well-educated. Georgia barely finished Oakton. Matt was Jewish; she was a lapsed Catholic. That didn’t seem to bother him. She didn’t see a problem either. Then.
***
It wasn’t hard to find out where Jill Beaumont lived, so that night Georgia drove down to Andersonville, a neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Andersonville used to be mostly Swedish, working class and quiet. Now ethnic restaurants and shops elbowed the blander, blonder haunts. As she cruised down Clark Street, she caught a glimpse of a second-story gym in a regentrified building with blue fluorescent lighting. Two guys were lifting barbells, sweat slicking their torsos.
She searched for a legal parking spot and found one two blocks away. Before she was a cop, she parked wherever she wanted, tickets be damned. If a summons showed up in her mailbox, she’d pay a visit to Max, her father’s friend in the Corporation Counsel’s office. She’d bring a copy of the Sun-Times, making sure two hundred dollar bills were nestled between Page Four and Five. Her tickets disappeared.
Then she became a cop and realized she couldn’t be beholden to anyone. Nor did she want to line anyone’s pockets. So she stopped. Max eventually ended up doing two to five in East Moline, and the city’s new computer-generated ticket system was incorruptible. Still, on nights like these, when everyone in the world seemed to have snagged a spot except her, she missed the old days.
She hiked back to Farragut, a quiet block north and east of Foster and stopped in front of a three-story greystone that looked like it had been renovated. Scanning the mailboxes inside a tiny vestibule, she spotted the names Beaumont and Podromos on #3A. She pressed the buzzer.
A tinny female voice replied through the speaker. “Yes.”
“Hello. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’d like to talk to Jill Beaumont.”
“Who are you?”
Georgia squared her shoulders. “I’m a private investigator.”
Nothing happened for a long moment. Georgia imagined Beaumont running through the possibilities, weighing whether to talk to her. It could be she was ordered not to. The Newfield administration might have insisted. They were under enormous pressure, not to mention liability, should Sara’s parents or any of the others decide to sue. She’d met the superintendent during the first hazing investigation. He was a spineless, nerdy type who tried to come on strong but capitulated at the first sign of conflict. When the buzzer finally sounded, she let out a breath.
The woman who opened the door was small and round and wore a curious expression.
“Ms. Beaumont? Thank you for seeing me. I was hoping you—”
“I’m not Jill. I’m her roommate.”
“Oh.” Georgia gave her a flustered smile. “Is Jill here?”
The roommate shook her head. She kept her hand on the doorknob, letting the door stay open just a crack. Even so, the tantalizing smell of pot roast seeped into the hall. Georgia’s mouth watered.
“Does she know you?” She asked.
Georgia tensed. “We—we haven’t met.”
“Does this have anything to do with Sara Long?”
This woman was the gatekeeper, Georgia realized. She needed to play it straight. “Yes.”
“I thought so.” The woman continued to hold the door slightly ajar as though she was using it as a shield. “Jill’s been under a lot of pressure. She was hoping to get away from it for a while.”
“I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”
“I don’t know if she’ll talk to you.”
Georgia nodded. The tension in her neck and shoulders mounted.
The roommate’s gaze swept over her. “But I guess you can try.” She sighed. “She’s at A Woman’s Place for a poetry reading.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TWO BOOKSTORES in one day. Was this some kind of sign, Georgia wondered as she walked back to Clark Street. Sister Marion would have said “of course” and would have quoted something appropriate from Hamlet or Macbeth to prove it.
A Woman’s Place was sandwiched between Ann Sathers and a Greek restaurant, but it had started out on Lincoln Park, a few miles south. Within two years, however, it outgrew its space and moved up to Andersonville. Inside was the same cramped, cheery chaos she remembered from Lincoln Park. Books crowded on shelves and counters; colored flyers were tacked on the walls, announcing everything from lost pets and want-ads to spiritual counseling and yoga for same-sex couples. The only concession to modern technology seemed to be the electronic cash register in the front which was operated by a woman who looked familiar—a little grayer, perhaps, but surely the same owner as in Lincoln Park.
Unlike the bookstore this morning, A Woman’s Place was warm and welcoming, and Georgia felt the tension drain out of her as she browsed. She wound around shelves labeled by subject: cookbooks, women’s issues, best-sellers, mysteries, and a gay/lesbian section. At the back was a raised platform with chairs in front. A cardboard sign in block letters said that Red Sladdick would recite poetry at seven thirty. A table with a jug of white wine, Diet Coke, and a plate of cheese squares sat nearby.
Georgia checked her watch. Seven-twenty. Six people had straggled in, five of them women. Which one was Jill Beaumont? Two women sat near the front, holding hands. Their cropped grey hair reminded Georgia of the Sisters at St. Michael’s. Two rows behind was a man seated between two women. The fifth woman sat toward the back, alone, reading a paperback. Slim with blond curly hair, she wore a denim jumper over a long-sleeved tee. When she glanced up, Georgia saw deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and bushy eyebrows. Dark half-moons rimmed her eyes. She looked exhausted. Was that Beaumont?
A few minutes later, another woman hurried in, trailing an exotic scent. Tall and willowy, she was dressed in a tight black sweater, short black skirt, and over the knee black leather boots. Her brown hair was tied back, and her mouth was a bright red slash. She strode to the stage, carrying a book in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. The room suddenly seemed charged. Georgia poured herself some soda and sat in the back row.
The woman at the register came to the platform and introduced Red Sladdick. Holding a slim book, she invited the audience to purchase the author’s first collection of poems, Secrets, after the reading. She dimmed the lights and took a seat.
Red straddled a stool on the dais, opened her book, and started to read. Her voice was low and lazy. Georgia scanned the room. The couple in the first row were eye-fucking each other, oblivious to everyone else. The man behind them seemed to be giving Red his full attention, but the two women with him were nattering behind his back. The woman Georgia thought was Beaumont gazed at Red dully, as if forcing herself to stay awake.
After listening to Red for a few minutes, Georgia felt sluggish, too. Whether it was the droning rhythm of Red’s voice, the poetry, or just fatigue, her eyelids drooped and a series of languid images dr
ifted through her mind: Matt’s eyes when he made love to her; a brightly lit Christmas tree topped with a silver angel. She slouched in her seat, her index finger slowly circling the rim of her cup. They should have candles on the stage, she thought lazily, to chase away the shadows.
“We are one with nature… Undulating in the womb of life… So wet, so moist. I put your hand on my breast… you kiss me. I am home.”
Georgia jerked her head up. Did anyone take this seriously? When her eyes focused, she saw that Red was staring directly at her, an amused smile on her face. Georgia’s nerves jangled. For a split second, she was confused. Had Red spoken to her? Was she supposed to say something back?
When she heard weak applause, she relaxed. Red had just finished a poem; that was all. Georgia clapped too. But Red’s eyes lingered on Georgia as if they shared a secret. Georgia’s cheeks grew hot. Beaming as though she’d hit the bulls-eye, Red averted her gaze and thumbed through her book.
Georgia stood up, rolled her shoulders, and went to the back of the room. She was here to do a job. Not to be hit on by another woman. By the time Red was finished, Georgia was back in control. The owner of the store stood up, thanked everyone for coming, and embraced Red. The blond woman in the denim jumper zipped up her jacket and gathered her bag. Georgia hurried over.
“Jill Beaumont?”
The woman turned around. “Yes?”
“Hello. I’d like to talk to you. My name is Georgia Davis.”
Beaumont looked startled. She took a step back. “You’re the one who showed up at the Walchers.” Her eyes turned steely.
“I made a mistake.”
“That’s an understatement.” Her face looked pinched.
“I hope you didn’t catch any flak from it. The last thing I want is to make life tough for you.”
Beaumont pressed her lips together. “Well, you did. Even though I wasn’t involved in your little stunt, some people are questioning my loyalties. One or two actually think I put you up to it.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because Lauren Walcher is in my advisory.”
“Oh shit. I didn’t know.” Georgia blinked. “So they thought you told me about her, then I turn up at the Walchers.”
She nodded again.
“I’m so sorry.”
Beaumont tugged at the sides of her jacket. “Under the circumstances, I have nothing to say to you.” She started to walk away.
“Please,” Georgia threw out a hand to block her. “If there’s anything I can do… write a letter, make a statement, call someone, I will.”
The woman shook off Georgia’s hand. “You’ve done enough. Just leave me alone, okay?”
Georgia barreled on. “But I have a few questions. About Sara Long.”
Beaumont glanced around fearfully, as if she thought she might be under surveillance. “Look. The fact that we had another hazing was bad enough. We could probably have handled it, even with all the media. But then when you add the murder of a student, well, we’re in crisis mode. I have too much to deal with.”
“I get it, and I can’t make you talk to me. But I wish you’d reconsider. I’m only trying to make sure the right person is held accountable for Sara’s death.”
Beaumont faced Georgia. “They said you used to be a cop. Is that true?”
Georgia nodded uncertainly. Where was she going with this?
“But you don’t think the crazy guy did it?”
“It’s not my job to think one way or the other.”
Beaumont was quiet for a moment. “If he didn’t do it, who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do—do you think it was another student?” She asked softly.
“Do you?”
Beaumont looked away.
Georgia homed in. “You’re not sure, are you?”
Beaumont didn’t react. Then she shook her head. “I can’t believe any student would—No. Not at Newfield.”
“But it’s keeping you awake at night, all the same.”
She shot Georgia a look.
“Do you know of any problems between Sara and any other students?”
She took a breath, and her body sagged. “No. She and Lauren Walcher were pretty close.” Beaumont’s mouth twitched. “Then again, I gather you already know that.”
Georgia almost smiled back. “Someone I spoke to said Sara stole somebody’s boyfriend. Do you know anything about that?”
“No. But you have to remember something.”
“What?”
“Sara was turning into a beautiful young woman. That can cause all sorts of problems. Jealousy. Sucking up. Saying things behind each other’s backs. Girls can be vicious. This is high school.”
“Had you seen any behavior like that—where Sara was concerned?”
“I’m their advisor. They don’t reveal that side of themselves to me.” She hesitated. “But Sara was fairly level-headed. She and Lauren both. I got the sense they didn’t pay much attention to gossip.”
“Would you happen to know which boys?”
Beaumont looked puzzled.
“Which boys were attracted to her?”
“No clue. But I’m sure the line would have formed to the right, if she’d allowed it to.”
“What kind of student was she?”
“She was—well, to be honest, she was treading water.”
“How?”
“Sara used to be a lot more… involved. As a sophomore, for instance, she joined three different clubs and was in Chorus. Her grades were pretty consistent, too. B plus. But this year,” She shook her head. “She dropped her clubs, and her grades—well—it was too early to tell—but she didn’t seem… invested.”
“Did you ask why?”
She nodded. “She said she had a job and needed to work. To save for college. At the same time, she knew her junior year was going to be tough academically, and she promised to make more of an effort.” Beaumont shrugged.
“You didn’t believe her?”
“It’s not that. I—I got the feeling she was telling me what I wanted to hear.”
“Did she do that often?”
“She was a sweet kid. I think she wanted to please.” The owner of the store started coming toward them, eyeing her watch. “I think we’re being asked to leave.”
“One last thing. Did Sara tell you where she was working?”
“Let me think.” She frowned. “Oh yes. At the cafe. In the bookstore at Old Orchard. I remember thinking at their wages she’d have to put in a lot of hours to pay for college.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“Not long after school started. Why?”
“Nothing.” Georgia changed the subject. “One of the girls I spoke to said Sara always needed to know everyone else’s business. Did you pick up anything like that?”
She shook her head again. “I guess I’m not much of a help.”
“Oh, but you are,” Georgia said. “Listen. I know you still have—questions—about Sara’s death.” When Beaumont started to protest, Georgia raised her hand. “You don’t have to say anything more. And I’ll stay out of your hair.” They headed to the front of the store. “But if something else comes to you, anything at all, will you let me know?”
Beaumont didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “How come you’re not on the force anymore?”
Georgia was taken aback. “I was suspended,” she said after a pause.
“Why?”
“For not following procedure during an incident at a strip club.”
Beaumont threw her a look. “It figures.”
***
After handing Beaumont her card, Georgia exited the store. Her mood had lightened. She’d leveled with Beaumont, and in return Beaumont had leveled back. She might even have gained an ally. At least defused an enemy.
She was heading down Clark Street when all at once a hand clamped down on her arm. Adrenaline flooded through her. Without thinking, she whacked the attacker’s arm with a
karate chop and whirled around, ready to gouge out their eyes with her fingers.
“Hey! Chill, sweetheart!” A female voice yelled. “It’s me!”
Georgia froze, her hand in mid-air. Red Sladdick, the poet from A Woman’s Place. She dropped her hand and staggered back. “Jesus Christ!” She sucked down air. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to grab people on the street? Especially at night?”
Red threw her hands up. “Sorry! I wasn’t—I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Think again.” Georgia tried to get her breathing under control.
“Like I said, I’m sorry.” Red hung her head. “I just wanted—I wanted to know what you thought.”
“About what?”
“My poetry.”
Equal amounts of relief and rage poured through Georgia. “Your what?”
“My—my poetry.” Red turned an anxious face to Georgia. “Did you like it?”
Georgia felt the muscles on her face tighten. No way was she going to discuss poetry on Clark Street at night with a stranger. In the dim light, the woman’s eyes glittered. Suddenly comprehension dawned. “Look. No offense, but I’m not into your scene, okay? I’m not gay.”
Red didn’t reply for a moment. “Just window shopping, huh?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“That’s cool.” Red grinned. “I’m a nurse. At Illinois Masonic.”
“No. You don’t understand. I was working tonight.”
Red looked her up and down with an expression that made Georgia think Red had her own experience with liars. Even so, it was time to end this conversation. Georgia started to walk away.
“Hold on,” Red called out. “Can I have one?”
Georgia stopped and turned around. “One what?”
Red pointed to Georgia’s pocket. “A card. You gave one to the other woman you picked up.”
Red had been watching her conversation with Beaumont. For some reason, that creeped her out. “I told you I was working.”
“Well, you never know when I might need a PI.”
“You’ll find plenty in the Yellow Pages.”
Easy Innocence Page 11
