Easy Innocence

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  DEREK JANOWITZ only worked half a day on Saturdays, but it was the most profitable day of the week. Not because he was a mechanic.

  He’d been at Horner’s gas station almost a year. He’d spend a few hours a day tinkering with cars, mostly nice ones, this being the North Shore and all. He’d adjust brakes, replace batteries, change the oil. Sometimes Horner would ask his opinion on a tricky fuel injector or transmission problem. The old man got stumped a lot these days. Everything was digital, he’d grouse. Too complicated. What happened to the time when all you needed to know were carburetors, distributors, and spark plugs?

  The lucrative part of Derek’s job came from his other customers. He wasn’t kidding when he told Lauren he knew what people wanted and how far they would go to get it. Derek was a provider. He gave people what they wanted when they wanted it. In fact, he thought of himself as a self-made dude. Like Donald Trump. Or the guy who started that airline. His reputation was growing. Pretty soon he’d be able to ditch this job and tell Horner where to go. Maybe Lauren, too. The bitch never gave him any credit.

  He wheeled a white Acura onto the lift. A note from Horner said it needed new pads and a wheel alignment. The car looked vaguely familiar. Probably belonged to some spoiled brat in Northbrook or Glencoe who didn’t know shit about car maintenance, who just fed it gas and expected it to run. He shook his head. If it weren’t for him, a lot of people would be up the creek.

  He was raising the lift when a silver Lexus turned into the station. The driver didn’t stop at the pump but pulled up to the little mart. Derek didn’t pay much attention at first. It was probably some asshole needing directions, or a woman who wanted her fix of sugar. Funny how many of them, older and loose around the middle, would come over to the mart to buy a candy bar or Wing-Ding, then sneak it into their purse like it was an illegal drug.

  But when the driver got out and started toward him, Derek saw it was Charlie, one of his regulars. Usually, the guy drove a Porsche 911 Turbo. He lowered the lift and wiped his hands on his pants.

  “Mornin.” He walked to the edge of the garage where Charlie was waiting.

  Charlie nodded.

  Something in his nod wasn’t right. Charlie normally booked online. And it was Saturday. Derek’s regulars didn’t do business on weekends. Weekends were for tourists. First-timers. Happily, there were usually plenty of them. And they often turned into regulars. “What’s happening, man?” Derek said.

  Charlie walked past Derek into the garage. Derek noticed the guy’s pressed khaki slacks and silk sweater. The rich ones couldn’t dress down even when they tried. Even their jeans were ironed. He watched Charlie slip his hands in his pockets, then take them out and clasp them together.

  “I wanted to—check up on a matter,” Charlie said.

  Charlie was usually pretty laid back. Not today. “What’s that?”

  “You remember the girl I was seeing?”

  Derek tensed. He knew who Charlie meant. The guy had sampled all the stock but settled on her. Until a few weeks ago.

  “I know you talk to your girls,” Charlie said. “To make sure they’re being treated right. That they’re not being hit or hurt or taken advantage of by their—clients.”

  Of course he did. In his line of business he couldn’t risk trouble. He did a pretty good job, if he said so himself. Where was Charlie going with this?

  “That’s what I need to know,” Charlie went on. “Did—well—did anyone…” Charlie paused, carefully avoiding any names, Derek noticed. “Did anyone make any comments about unusual activities during their— client meetings?”

  “Man, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  Charlie hunched his shoulders. His face took on a surly expression. “I’m sure they tell you where they go. And what happens after they get there. Guys like you—I expect they give you—well—a blow by blow?”

  Derek ignored the double entendre. Was Charlie some kind of pervert? He wouldn’t have thought so. With his Porsche and nice clothes, Derek had him figured for a guy who just wasn’t getting any at home. Maybe he had figured wrong. Sometimes they couldn’t get it up. Maybe he was embarrassed about it. Until he knew for sure, he should play it cool. “Hey, man, what you do is nobody’s business but yours and your lady’s, you know what I mean?”

  An even darker look came over Charlie’s face. Arching his back, slung his hands in his pockets. He looked like he was fighting to control his anger. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Derek shifted. “So, what do you mean?”

  “Do they ever report back about what happens before and after? Calls or other business related things. Not yours. Mine.”

  “You mean who gets the money and how? You know that happens up front.”

  Charlie slipped his hands out of his pockets and waved them in front of Derek. “Forget it. This isn’t working.” He shook his head irritably. “Just forget it.”

  A chill raced up Derek’s spine.

  “Hey…” Suddenly Charlie forced a smile, as if they were old pals. “… What about next Tuesday afternoon?” He crossed his arms. “Say around four? Can you set me up?”

  Derek wasn’t buying it. He replied cautiously. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Something new and different. You decide.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Have them come to the usual place, okay?”

  “Sure, man.”

  Charlie smile’s widened, baring teeth so white Derek knew they were bleached. He dropped his arms, turned, and headed back to his Lexus. Derek watched him start the car, release the brake, and give a little wave as he drove away.

  Derek went back to the lift. This was probably the longest conversation he’d ever had with the dude, but that didn’t mean it made sense. What was he getting at? Derek hated it when people talked in that roundabout way, hiding their real intentions, making him figure out what they meant. Lauren did that sometimes. Must be something they all learned in rich school, he thought. He raised the Acura six feet off the ground and shone his light along the frame. Horner had some Nissan brake pads he thought would work. Derek went back to the storeroom to get them.

  Thirty minutes later he was working on the car, still puzzling over Charlie’s behavior when he remembered. She had said something. It was one of the last times she’d been with Charlie—maybe the last. A Wednesday afternoon, he recalled. Near the end of summer. When she reported in to give Derek his take, she wasn’t cheerful like she usually was. He remembered asking if someone had roughed her up. No, she said. Nothing like that. Now Derek stared at the underside of the Acura. What was it she said? Something about bad things happening to good people. And that she would take care of it. Yeah. That was it.

  Shit. Now that he was thinking about it, she’d been starting to do the same thing as Lauren. And Charlie. What the hell did it mean? She says something. Then Charlie comes around asking questions. The whole thing was weird. Definitely not cool. Not in their line of work. Derek stopped working, dug out his cell, and text messaged his partner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AFTER SPENDING an uncomfortable night on Sam’s couch, Georgia rented a steam carpet cleaner, went home, and spent the day scrubbing. She scoured the steps and the landing with carpet shampoo and an enzyme cleaner until most of the smell was gone. The only way you could pick up anything at all was to burrow your nose into the carpet fibers. She half expected to run into her neighbor, but he didn’t appear.

  It was a crisp fall day with an achingly blue sky, and late that afternoon she went for a run. She jogged east to the lake and then up to Northwestern, making a loop around Evanston. As she reached the campus, she passed a couple strolling by the lake, their bodies melded together in a two-step of total absorption. She remembered that absorption: the overpowering need that only one person could satisfy, the joy that came from satisfying it. That joy, the joy that framed the corners of most people’s lives, made only a temporary foray into Georgia’s life. A dull pain
gathered at the center of her chest.

  Back home she showered, dressed, then returned the carpet cleaner to the supermarket. She must have still had soup on the brain, because she picked up a container of tomato bisque along with her other groceries. She wasn’t exactly sure what bisque was. It looked like cream of tomato but was more expensive. What was the difference, besides the fancy French name? She poured it into a pan and set it on the stove.

  She’d never been a soup person until Matt. He loved it. Said it must be the peasant stock in him. Shit. She was doing it again—using Matt as a benchmark for the events in her life. When would she stop? She stared at the bisque, then took it off the stove and poured it down the drain.

  She was lugging a load of clean laundry up from the basement when the phone rang inside her apartment. She sprinted up the last flight to get it.

  “Hello?”

  “Davis,” a tinny voice responded. “It’s Paul Kelly.”

  Saturday night. She hadn’t figured the lawyer for a weekend worker. “Hey, Paul. What’s up?”

  He cleared his throat, and there was a moment of silence. Then, “I was just going over my notes on the Jordan case and wanted to check in.”

  “It’s been an interesting couple of days.” She told him about the fish guts. “I could have used your help.”

  Kelly mumbled something she couldn’t make out.

  “What?” She smiled. “You don’t think cleaning up fish crud is in the line of duty?”

  “It was the first thing I learned in law school.”

  “Along with due process?” She opened her door to gaze at the now clean carpet. “Well, given that this was the same thing that was dumped on Sara Long’s head, I’d say someone was trying to send me a message.”

  “Brilliant deduction,” Kelly said. “But fish guts? It’s crude.”

  “That may be the only thing they could think up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m wondering if the perpetrator was a kid. From the hazing.”

  “You have any leads?”

  “You’re not going to like this, but one name keeps surfacing.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Monica Ramsey.”

  She heard him suck in his breath.

  “Just listen, Paul. Apparently Tommy Cashian—he’s the Ramsey girl’s boyfriend—had the hots for Sara Long. They hooked up over the summer. It didn’t last, but according to her friends, Monica knew about it. When I talked to the kid, he admitted he was crazy about Sara. He would have broken up with Monica, except Sara told him not to. In fact, she dumped him.”

  More silence.

  “There’s more. Ramsey was at the Forest Preserve during the game. Several people have backed that up, including her boyfriend. But there’s no mention of Monica Ramsey in the police reports. Not one word. The boyfriend claims he took her home when the hazing started, but maybe he’s covering for her. I’m going to dig deeper, and if we find evidence that she’s unstable, or has some—”

  “Davis,” Kelly cut in. “You know how when you want something to be true, you can stack the deck, slant things, so it seems like it can’t possibly be anything except what you want it to be?”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a lead, Paul.”

  “Is it the only one?”

  Georgia hesitated. “No,” she said quietly.

  “What else do you have?”

  “Sara lied about working at the bookstore.”

  “Really?”

  “The manager says she quit her job last spring. Hasn’t worked there in five months.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well now, that’s what I call a lead.” She heard him rustling papers. “What’s more, I don’t see anything about that in the police reports.”

  “You won’t. They didn’t follow up.”

  “Now that makes things interesting.”

  “Can you blame them? They’re convinced Cam Jordan killed her.”

  “Like you’re convinced it was the Ramsey girl?”

  “I’m not—” She cut herself off.

  “Look. Instead of chasing after the State’s Attorney’s daughter, why don’t you concentrate on this job thing?”

  “I will. But what about the fish guts in my hall? Whoever sent them clearly doesn’t like me nosing around.”

  “Who else have you pissed off?”

  “The line forms to the right.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s Tom Walcher. He’s the lawyer I asked you to check out.”

  “I did. Big real estate lawyer. Successful. Very much on the up and up. As far as I can tell.” Kelly harrumphed. “Who else?”

  “Sara Long’s father wasn’t too pleased with me. And the girls I interviewed didn’t want to talk to me. I wonder if one of them could be behind the fish guts.”

  “You thinking of someone in particular?”

  “Not sure yet.” Georgia tapped her finger on the phone. “You know, there’s still the matter of those sketchy police reports.”

  “I’m on them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I thought you weren’t going after Ramsey.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well then, who are—” She caught herself. “Are you going after the cops?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I used to be a cop, remember?”

  “But you aren’t any more. You can’t have it both ways, Davis.”

  She thought about O’Malley. He was her mentor and her friend. She didn’t want to make trouble for him. And though she couldn’t defend Parker’s sloppy ways, she’d been his partner for nearly ten years. When you risk your life every day, and your partner’s the only one watching your back, it creates a bond that can transcend the rules.

  “Paul, I think it’s more personal. I’ve been picking around the edges, and someone doesn’t like it. Don’t go after the cops yet. Let me follow up.”

  “Going after the cops—or, at least, pointing out what’s not in their reports—would buy us more time. And deflect attention away from the Jordan boy.”

  He had a point. “Enough to get him out of jail?” Cam Jordan was wasting away in Cook County in what was, for him, barbaric conditions. If there was a chance of getting his bail reduced so he could be released, it would be cruel not to try.

  “It’s possible,” Kelly said. “Especially now that the hazing is out. Public opinion is bound to start softening.” He paused. “You have any idea who leaked the hazing, by the way?”

  “No.” It came out quickly.

  “I see.” Kelly cleared his throat. “Probably just some enterprising reporter?”

  “Probably.” It was possible that someone had decided to play hero. O’Malley, for example. Of course, if it was him, he’d never admit it. And she’d never ask. “Paul, I still think we should wait on the cop angle. Keep it in reserve until, or if, our backs are up against the wall. It just doesn’t feel… right.”

  “Since when did scruples mean anything to a PI who lies to get what she needs?”

  She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure herself. On the other hand, at least Kelly was involved in the process: brainstorming strategies, trying out leads. One minute he didn’t want to go after anyone, the next he was ready to charge ahead on half-assed theories. Talk about being unencumbered by morals.

  “Your wife must love watching you weasel your way out of trouble,” she said.

  “I’m not married,” he said in his reedy voice.

  Somehow she had the feeling he’d say that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  NORTH SHORE Fitness was a suburban version of the East Bank Club, a successful downtown facility for exercise, business meetings,
and the amenities that fuel them both. Located near the Skokie courthouse, the yellow brick complex met those expectations, right down to a row of glassed-in conference rooms with a view of the racquetball courts and pool. Georgia pulled into the parking lot, having tailed Lauren Walcher from Newfield. She couldn’t imagine what business would draw the teenager to the Club.

  Earlier that morning Georgia had visited five different fish markets in the area: two Burhops, Don’s, the Davis Street Fishmarket, and Mitchell’s in the Glen. No one remembered any waste products being taken away, although one of the Burhops managers suggested she come back during the afternoon shift. In an ideal world, she would have gone back to question Sara’s friends, but both Heather Blakely and Claire Tennenbaum were under strict orders not to talk to her. She’d goosed them as far as she could.

  Which left Lauren Walcher. Lauren might have an idea about the fish guts, but getting to her was problematic. Georgia wouldn’t be welcome at the Walchers’ home, and another confrontation in a parking lot wasn’t a good idea. She’d decided to tail her and “accidentally” bump into her in a neutral location where the girl might be willing to answer a few questions. Not perfect, but worth a shot.

  Georgia parked two rows from Lauren’s Land Rover and kept a discreet distance behind as the girl walked to the entrance. Lauren wasn’t carrying a gym bag, but she might keep her workout clothes in a locker. Georgia would have to talk her way into the locker room or wait until Lauren finished exercising.

  The interior of the club looked like a hotel lobby with elaborate chandeliers, floor to ceiling mirrors, and splashy art on the walls. On the left a marble floor led to a cocktail lounge with couches and chairs. On the right was a juice bar and restaurant surrounded by screens and potted palms. Overhead signs that looked like the scrolling marquees inside movie theaters directed visitors to the locker rooms, pool, and courts. It was a far cry from the smelly gym and locker rooms of high school. In fact, Georgia detected a light fruity aroma in the air—peach-scented disinfectant, maybe?

  Georgia expected Lauren to go to the locker rooms, so she was surprised when the teenager headed into the juice bar. She followed the girl and peered inside. Half the tables were occupied. Two waiters chatted idly to each other. Lauren went to a table in the back corner where two men and a woman were seated. Georgia didn’t want to show herself, so before she got a good look at them, she slipped around to the back and positioned herself behind a row of palms. The table Lauren had approached was a few feet away. Palm fronds blocked her view, but she could hear clearly.