“Who knows? You might need a nurse.”
Georgia didn’t answer.
Red shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you ever need anything, sweet thing… anything at all… just come on down to the Silver Slipper on Diversey. I’m there every night by ten.”
Red turned around and headed north. Georgia set off in the opposite direction, trying not to run.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THERE WAS more denim at Newfield High than a Levi’s factory, Georgia thought the next day. As she waited in the parking lot across from the school, a steady stream of teenagers flowed past, all of them in configurations of blue: jeans, skirts, vests, jackets. Some of the kids wore smiles, but most had the sullen, rebellious expression that said they were destined for greater things than high school.
A couple of students lit up cigarettes as they exited. They tried to look nonchalant, even bored, but she knew better. They were flaunting the little power they had. See? You can’t do anything about it, even though you’re an adult. Georgia remembered how that felt. She still harbored a gnawing irritation when she had to navigate through the labyrinth of bureaucracy.
Rachel had said Heather Blakely thought she was Katie Couric. Strangely enough, when Georgia checked out her picture in the yearbook earlier, she did resemble the broadcaster: the same chin-length brown hair, big mouth, and petite, self-assured looks. Judging from the photo in which the girl was shoving a mic at Barack Obama during a school visit, she was following the same path, too.
The October morning had been balmy, but now a chill, blustery wind swept fallen leaves into tiny eddies before they tumbled to the ground. Georgia hung back at the edge of the parking lot, checking out the students.
Finding an individual among hundreds or even thousands of people was tricky. She remembered taking part in a NORTAF investigation as a rookie. She and Robby were stationed inside the Rosemont Horizon, waiting for a U2 concert to end. The task force was trying to crack a narcotics ring in Niles, and they’d been told the kingpin of the operation would be at the concert. After analyzing a seating chart, NORTAF posted cops in all the aisles and distributed blurry photos of the target. But when the concert ended, a sea of people streamed past, and she couldn’t identify anyone. It was only when she saw a scuffle a few aisles away that she realized someone else had made him. She hated to admit her relief.
At last, a girl who looked like Heather sauntered across the street. She was with another girl, and a boy who didn’t look old enough for high school. As they reached the parking lot, the second girl peeled off. Heather and the boy went to a silver RAV4.
Georgia hurried over. “Heather?”
The girl turned around. Under her jacket, which was open, she was wearing a white peasant-style blouse and jeans with a beaded design. Some of the beads looked like pearls. It all looked expensive.
“I’m Georgia Davis. I’m investigating the death of Sara Long, and I’d like to talk to you.”
Heather hesitated. Then, “I know who you are. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
Georgia stepped forward as if she hadn’t heard. “I know you were a good friend of Sara’s, and I know you want to make sure justice is done.”
“Look, I told you. I have no comment.”
Georgia had been trained in media relations back at the Academy, and the trainer said never to use the words “no comment.” It made you look like you were hiding something. Tell them you’re not going to say anything, sure. Just don’t use those words.
“Not the right answer, Heather,” Georgia replied.
Meanwhile, the boy with Heather spoke up. “You’re a real PI?”
“Jason, shut up.” Heather threw him a dark look.
Georgia ran with it. “Yes, Jason I am.”
“Like Magnum? They have these reruns on cable, and—”
“That’s right.”
“Cool. What kind of training do you need to be a PI?”
“I used to be a cop.”
“Magnum worked in Naval Intelligence.”
Georgia nodded, wanting to keep the kid talking, but Heather cut in. “Jason, cool it. Get in the car.” She started to shoo him away.
“Hold on. I just have a couple of questions. I’ve already talked to Claire Tennenbaum and Lauren Walcher.”
“I know,” Heather said.
“Then you know there’s a chance the guy who’s in jail didn’t kill Sara.”
Heather shot her a scornful look.
Georgia shrugged. “Seems to me you, of all people, would want to get the story right.”
“Come on. Everyone knows he did it.”
“Are you sure? Remember when the husband and mother of that judge were killed, and everyone was sure the murderer was a white supremacist?” She paused. “And then it turned out to be this guy who was suing all those doctors? You’re a journalist. You know better than to make assumptions.”
“A broadcast journalist,” Heather corrected.
Georgia nodded solemnly. “Even more so.”
Heather didn’t look quite as sure of herself. “Look, I’ll be in serious trouble if I talk to you.”
“How about if I ask you a couple of questions and you just nod or shake your head? To confirm information I already have. You know—the two source rule?”
A smug expression came over Heather.
“I know Sara stole someone’s boyfriend,” Georgia went on. “And that she was always poking her nose into other people’s business. I also know some of the girls wanted to teach her a lesson. What I need to confirm is whose boyfriend she stole.”
Heather looked at Georgia, then Jason. Georgia looked at Jason, too. Jason slung his hands in his pockets and started to slink away. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”
Georgia nodded. “Thanks, pal.”
Jason shuffled to the trees at the edge of the parking lot. Georgia turned back to Heather. “I need your help, Heather. You’re one of the few people I can trust. We’re after the same thing, you and I.” Jesus, she was laying it on thick. She waited. “Was it Monica’s boyfriend Sara stole?”
Heather bit her lip. Then she nodded. “I’m really sorry she’s dead, but the fact is Sara could have had anyone she wanted. She was that hot. But she picked Cash.”
“Cash?”
“Monica’s boyfriend. Sara hooked up with him last summer while Monica wasn’t around. That wasn’t—well, that was just bitchy.”
“Don’t you think Cash might have had something to do with it?”
Heather shrugged.
Georgia waited.
“Well, maybe,” she said grudgingly. “Of course, I don’t mean to say anything bad about Sara. She was one of my best friends.”
“Of course.” Georgia let it sink in. “So was Monica with you when you dumped the fish guts on Sara?”
Heather shot her a surprised look. “How do you know it was me?”
Georgia shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Claire told you, didn’t she?” An irritated look came over her.
“I can’t reveal my sources. You understand.”
“Claire couldn’t get it right if she tried.” Heather’s tone grew bolder. “Monica was there. But—”
“But what?”
“She didn’t do anything to Sara.”
“She didn’t?” Finally, Heather was talking without being prompted. That was good. “Then who did?”
Heather wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Heather?”
The girl’s voice was a whisper. “We had to.”
“Why?”
“The seniors made us.”
“” But you and Lauren and Claire were Sara’s best friends.”
“We didn’t have a choice. They pulled us aside before the game started and told us what we had to do if we wanted to make it through the year. They knew the only way Sara would leave the clearing was if we took her.”
“So you did.” Georgia remembered Matt talking about the concentration camps. His grandparents were
German Jews who narrowly escaped the Nazis in ’36. Many of their friends didn’t. Afterwards the survivors told stories about how Jews—prisoners themselves—persecuted other Jews in the camps: taunting, stealing, turning in other inmates. You did what you had to in order to survive.
“Who brought the bucket and fish entrails?”
“Don’t know. They were there when I got there.”
“But Monica Ramsey wasn’t one of the seniors who intimidated you… or Sara?”
“She had no reason to. She and Cash had hooked up again. When school started.”
“How do you know?”
“Monica and I sit next to each other in Spanish. I’m in Spanish IV.”
“Cool.” Georgia paused. “So Monica told you she and Cash were back together?”
“She tells me everything.”
“Tell me about Cash.”
“He’s a senior. He plays bass guitar in a blues band.” It came out almost reverently.
“Was Monica still around, once you left Sara in the clearing and came back to the game?”
“I—I don’t remember.”
“But you just said—”
“I said she was there when we left. I don’t remember when we got back. It was kind of confusing. Too many kids. All over the place.”
“Is it possible Monica might have been hiding behind a tree in the clearing?”
“I—I don’t know.” Heather bit her lip again, her expression guarded. “Look. That’s enough. I have to go now.”
Georgia nodded. “One more question. Do you know where Sara was working after school and on weekends?”
She shrugged and gave a little frown. “At the café in the bookstore.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
“What would you think if you found out she hadn’t worked there since last spring? Would you have any idea where she was instead?”
“She wasn’t at the bookstore?” Her eyes got a faraway look, and Georgia could tell she was trying to work something out.
“What is it, Heather? What are you thinking?”
Heather didn’t answer.
“Heather?”
The girl glared at Georgia. “That’s it. I’m done.” She spun around.
“Jason, let’s go. Now!”
***
Bill’s had to be the yuppiest Blues bar in Chicago. Tucked away on a quiet street in Evanston, the place had a clean floor, polished tables, and wonder of wonders, a spotless bathroom. Unlike the blues joints downtown, which were full of smoke and booze and late night angst, Bill’s sported gaily colored prints of dark-skinned dancers on the walls, and a card on tables explained that the first show of the night was non-smoking. There was even a “family” show on Sundays.
Only on the North Shore.
Ignoring interested glances from several men at the bar, Georgia ordered a soda. The second half of Joe Moss’s set thundered through the speakers, and the place was packed. As Joe cried about his baby leaving him, Georgia tapped her fingers on her leg, feeling the wailing guitars and pulsing beat. Another number and she’d be transported to a place where the pain of unrequited love, of being broke or drunk, was tempered by a bass guitar, funky keyboard, and raspy tenor.
When her drink came, she forked over a couple of dollars and swiveled around. A couple was already dancing in the aisle. Her friend Samantha used to say you could tell how a guy would be in bed from the way he danced. Georgia wasn’t so sure. Matt couldn’t dance at all. He’d throw himself around with more energy than skill, his body all limp and wiggly. But he knew all the right moves between the sheets. She felt a tingle work up her spine. She forced it back.
At the back of the bar four fresh-faced guys sat around a small table, their eyes locked on the stage. She’d called Tommy Cashian’s home earlier tonight. No, Tommy wasn’t home, a harried-sounding woman said. No, she wasn’t sure where he was, but he’d probably end up at Bill’s. He usually did on Fridays. When the woman asked who was calling, Georgia thanked her and disconnected.
Now she picked up her drink and strolled to the back of the bar. Her long blond hair was down, and she was wearing tight jeans and a turtleneck. A multi-colored pashmina, her only concession to fashion, was draped around her neck. As she approached their table, one of the boys glanced up, gave her the once-over, and smiled. Normally she would have ignored him, but tonight, she smiled back. “Are you Tommy Cashian?”
Disappointment flickered across his face. Then a cagey expression took its place. “Who wants to know?”
A thousand possibilities came to her, but in the end, she played it straight. “I’m Georgia Davis and I’m a private investigator.” She had to shout to be heard. “Which one of you is Cash?”
Heaving a sigh, the boy pointed to a young man sitting across the table with long dark hair, a slim build, and piercing eyes. He wore a Hawaiian shirt over his jeans. A long-sleeved thermal shirt poked out underneath. A pair of shades perched over his crown. At the sound of his name, he tore his eyes from the stage. He, too, checked Georgia out. She saw a glimmer of appreciation.
She moved to him. “Cash. Mind if I talk to you? Alone?”
He frowned. “Who are you?”
She introduced herself.
He turned back to the band. For a moment, Georgia thought he was ignoring her. Then he scooted back his chair and stood up. The drummer was into a solo riff, with Joe Moss, the keyboard player, and the bass player nodding approvingly. Georgia motioned Cash to follow her outside.
After the pounding noise in Bill’s, the quiet outside was a welcome reprieve. “So what do you play?” She asked, although she already knew.
“Bass guitar.”
“Blues?”
“And rock.” He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Hey, what’s this about? You didn’t bring me out here to talk about music.” But he didn’t sound hostile, and he lounged against the wall of the building, looking comfortable and composed. Georgia couldn’t help comparing this self-possessed kid to the bundle of insecurities and raw nerves she’d been at that age.
“It’s about you and Monica and Sara Long,” she answered.
A serious look came over him. Was he going over his script? The lines he’d rehearsed in case someone asked? He pushed off from the wall. “What do you want to know?”
“I think you know.”
“I have an idea,” he admitted.
“So tell me.”
“You want to know about me and Sara. Why I broke up with Monica. And why we went back together. And if there’s any connection to Sara’s murder.”
Not only composed, but smart. She could see why Monica Ramsey— and Sara—were attracted to him.
“Actually,” he went on, “I was kind of wondering when someone was going to come around.”
“Are you saying no one’s asked you about any of this?” When he shook his head, she added, “Not even the police?”
“Nope.”
The sound of the band inside was muted, but a few twangs from the guitars and thumps from the bass rumbled through the walls.
“You’re not with the police,” he said.
“I’m working for Cam Jordan.” At his frown, she explained. “He was arrested for Sara’s murder.”
“Right. The crazy guy.”
“You know him?”
He shook his head again. She saw no guile in his manner. Curiosity, but that was it.
“So tell me about Sara.”
He straightened up and took his hands out of his pockets. “I bumped into Sara over the summer. She was—well—Monica was back East with her family. Sara and I—we hit it off right away. She was—fun. “
“While the cat’s away…” Georgia said.
He shrugged.
“So what happened?”
“We hung out a few times. Blues Fest. Printers Row. I took her to Buddy Guy’s. Even brought her here once. I liked her.” He stopped.
When he didn’t go on, she asked, “How much—did you lik
e her?”
Even in the dim light, she saw his face redden. “I wanted—hell, I was ready to get involved.”
“But?”
“Sara put me off. Wouldn’t let me. It wasn’t for want of trying. I tried not to be an asshole, but she was so sweet. And so sexy. And just—well…”
“So you and Sara were seeing each other while Monica was out of town. What happened when she came back?”
“The day Monica came back—in August—I told Sara I was going to break up with her. Monica, that is. I called her and was on my way over to her house when Sara called me. She said we had to meet.” A sad look unfolded on his face.
“What happened?”
“I met her at the bookstore where she… proceeded to dump me.”
“Sara dumped you?”
“She told me not to break up with Monica. That I belonged with Monica. Not her.” His eyes met Georgia’s. “She said—it was weird, it kind of came out of left field—she said I was too good for her.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I kept asking her but she wouldn’t say more. Just said we weren’t right for each other.” He looked at Georgia with a pleading expression. “She wouldn’t explain. She just kept telling me not to ask. Eventually…” He looked down again. “Eventually, I let it go. And I left.”
Georgia knew how that felt. She let the silence swirl around them for a minute. Then she asked in a soft voice, “Does Monica know?”
“I never said anything, but it got back to her.”
“Through Sara?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But she—you’ve got to understand something. Monica’s a really sweet girl.”
“You said the same thing about Sara.”
“They both were. That’s why—you know, I read someplace that you get one person in your life who’s your passion, and someone else who’s your partner.” He broke off. “That’s the way I feel. They’re both incredible. Were. One was my passion, and one was…” His words trailed off, and for the first time, he looked uncertain.
Georgia waited until he pulled himself together, wondering how a kid could be so young and wise at the same time. “Did Monica ever ask you about Sara?”
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