Easy Innocence

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Hi, sweetheart,” a man said. His voice was familiar.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Tom Walcher.

  Georgia heard a chair scrape. He was getting up to embrace her.

  “You have the key to Mom’s locker?”

  “Right here.”

  Georgia imagined him digging into his pocket. Smiling as he handed it over.

  “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.” Lauren sounded almost pleasant. Daddy’s little girl.

  “You’ll bring it home when you’re done?”

  “Duh.” A trace of belligerence crept into the girl’s voice.

  “Honey, let me introduce you to some people. Harry, this is Lauren, my daughter. This is Harry Perl, sweetheart. He’s a real estate developer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perl.” Lauren’s voice sounded mechanical.

  “You too,” a nasally voice replied.

  “And this is another successful developer. You could do worse than to follow in her footsteps.”

  “Now, Tom,” the woman protested. “Don’t do that to the poor girl.”

  “Nonsense. You are what you are. Lauren, this is Ricki Feldman.”

  Oh my fucking God. For a second Georgia thought she’d said it aloud.

  ***

  They’d made her see a counselor after the suspension. It was part of the process, they said. She dutifully showed up. They moved past the incident in question quickly. Six months earlier Georgia had failed to turn in an offender’s gun, and she’d brought a civilian to a stake-out. Both of those were clear violations of procedure, and she’d been suspended from the force. Georgia understood, took full responsibility for her actions, and told the counselor under the circumstances, she’d probably do the same thing again. There wasn’t much more to say.

  The counselor nodded and started asking about her personal life. In retrospect, Georgia realized she must have been feeling chatty, because she actually told the woman about Matt. It was the oldest story in the world, she began. They were dating. She thought they made a perfect couple. They were both cops, they understood each other. Then he found another woman, and he dumped her.

  When prodded, Georgia admitted she’d underestimated the pull of his heritage. She’d heard how Jewish men liked to date gentile women. Shiksas, they called them. Especially if they were blond. But when it was time to settle down, they usually married a Jewish woman. It was his family, she told the counselor. His grandparents had escaped the Holocaust, and his parents never let him forget it. She’d met them once. At a Friday night Shabbos dinner. They were polite, even kind. Still, she felt like an outsider. At the time she didn’t think it mattered.

  But it did. Never mind that the woman he dumped her for was as shrewd and ambitious as a hungry fox. Never mind that her father had a reputation as a shark. She was Jewish, and Matt had fallen for her.

  “What do you mean,‘shark’?” the counselor had asked.

  Georgia explained. Thirty-five years ago, Stuart Feldman, Ricki’s father, had built a housing development near Joliet. Beautiful homes; affordable, too. The problem was he conveniently neglected to tell anyone they were built on the remains of a toxic waste dump. When abnormally high rates of cancer, mostly neuroblastomas, surfaced among the children living there, Feldman faced a huge class action suit. His business collapsed, and he suffered a stroke from which he never recovered. After his death Ricki took over the business and quickly settled the case.

  “But none of that mattered to Matt,” she added. “None of it.”

  The counselor listened sympathetically, then tried to explain the five stages of grief according to some woman named Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Georgia told her it was bullshit. She went through each and every stage at the same time. Grief clung to her, continually reminding her of what she had lost.

  Maybe she was stuck, the counselor said, in that nice, antiseptic way of telling someone they were crazy. She should consider ongoing professional help. Georgia told the counselor they were done and walked out.

  ***

  Now the woman she’d been dumped for was sitting next to Lauren’s father.

  Georgia’s throat felt thick, her stomach jumped, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. As slowly as she could, she lifted a frond of the palm tree she was lurking behind and peeked through. Ricki Feldman was sitting directly across from her.

  The first thing you noticed about the woman was her hair. Straight. Silky. Dark brown. No split ends in sight. Then her eyes—luminous, with thick lashes and perfect eyebrow arches. She had a slender, almost petite build and dressed in what had to be expensive but tasteful clothes. Georgia saw how the men in the room: waiters, businessmen, or exercisers, snuck looks in her direction. Even Lauren’s gaze was admiring.

  Screw it. Ricki knew the effect she had on people. Even drinking a pink smoothie, she displayed a studied arrogance, aware she was the center of attention. Georgia watched an enigmatic smile spread across Ricki’s lips after a comment by Walcher. Saw her wave a carefully manicured hand in the air. It was all stage-managed. Orchestrated with the knowledge that even her slightest action was riveting.

  Georgia ran a hand through her blond ponytail. She felt like a tacky bland giant in comparison. In a way she couldn’t blame Matt for having been swept away. But she could blame Ricki for stealing him.

  She forced herself back. Lauren was still standing by the table, looking speculatively at her father, who was talking to the other man.

  “We’re well on our way, Harry. The variance sailed through the zoning committee.”

  Georgia focused on Harry Perl. He didn’t seem that tall, but he was sitting down. He appeared to be fit, and he had a full head of curly gray hair worn fashionably long. He wore a plush warm-up suit—he’d probably just come off the racquetball court. He wasn’t unattractive, but something kept him from being truly handsome. Maybe it was his eyes, which darted from person to person but never lit for more than a second. His face was a blank slate.

  Perl cleared his throat and opened his mouth. Gold flashed in the right side of his mouth. “Excellent.” He looked over at Ricki.

  Lauren watched as Ricki nodded. “Yes. It is.”

  Walcher, also in a warm-up suit, folded his hands, the way he’d done at his house. “There are still challenges ahead. The full board still has to approve it. And they’re in the middle of all the low-income housing regs. Anything could happen.”

  Perl leaned forward. “That’s why we hired you. To make nice with the board.”

  “It will require some—delicacy.” Tom shot Perl a meaningful glance.

  Lauren cocked her head.

  “But you have—leverage.” Ricki interjected.

  “Whatever you need.” Perl added.

  Walcher’s nostrils flared. Georgia couldn’t tell if Walcher admired Perl, hated him, or was afraid of him.

  There was a brief pause. Then Ricki offered up a dazzling smile. “Lauren, sweetheart,” she said, revealing straight white teeth. “You are such the image of your mother. She’s a gorgeous woman, isn’t she?” She turned to the other men who nodded in unison.

  Lauren shot her an almost angry look, Georgia thought, then tried to cover it. “Well, I’ll be going now. Nice meeting you all. Bye.”

  Georgia watched her go. She felt heavy and lethargic. Questioning Lauren Walcher would wait. She turned around and headed back outside. As she pushed through the revolving door, she spotted a man getting into a car on the other side of the parking lot. She couldn’t see his face, but he had a slim build and curly, dark hair. Like Matt. No. It was just her imagination.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHEN GEORGIA went back to Burhops in Glenview, the afternoon manager told her someone did come in last Friday, looking for a bag of fish entrails.

  From the back of the shop came the sound of a radio turned up too high. Spanish rock. “Can you describe the person?” She tried to rein in her excitement.

  “A man. A boy, really,” the manager said.


  “How young?”

  “Maybe in high school. Small. Skinny. Sharp nose.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Jeans. T-shirt. Work shoes. Oh,” He smirked. “And lots of jewelry.”

  “If I showed you a yearbook, could you identify him?”

  The manager laughed. “No way! There’s gotta be—what—three thousand pictures in those things? I don’t have time.”

  Georgia bit her lip. “Well, tell me this. Did you give him the fish waste?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Less crap for us to get rid of.”

  Georgia thanked the manager and left. Was this the kid who was responsible for the mess in her apartment? She thought about running his description past Rachel, Ellie Foreman’s daughter. And if he turned out to be a friend of Monica Ramsey… Then she reconsidered. Better not to get Rachel involved. Lauren Walcher was still her best bet.

  That night it rained. A cold, stinging rain that stripped the leaves from trees, clogged gutters, and turned the satisfying crunch of shoes on dry leaves into a slippery ordeal. Georgia started to wander around the apartment. It felt empty and brooding. Too big. She grabbed her jacket and umbrella and headed to Mickey’s.

  The place smelled like a combination of wet wool and grease, but because of the rain, it wasn’t crowded. She went to a booth in the back. Owen brought her food promptly. She was on the second bite of her burger when she felt someone’s gaze on her. She looked up. One of the men at the bar was watching her. The light was dim, and she couldn’t quite make him out, but he looked friendly. Indeed, he was smiling. She squinted. He had sandy hair, long on top but short on the sides. Rimless glasses partway down his nose. Jesus! Her upstairs neighbor. She looked down at her plate.

  He didn’t get the message, because he picked up his drink and started over. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t interested, but something stopped her. Afterwards, she admitted she didn’t know what it was. Not his clothes; ordinary khakis and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem to care that his clothes were fifty years out of date. He looked comfortable with himself. Or maybe it was his smile. Not the plastic grimace she saw on so many men, especially men on the make. His was warm, and that warmth was mirrored in his eyes. Or maybe it was just that it was a bad night, and she was tired of feeling lonely. Whatever it was, when he reached her table, beer in hand, she gave him a nod.

  He sat down, the scent of Aramis drifting over to her. “Catch any big ones lately?”

  She blinked.

  He put the glass down. “Fish. The fish guts.”

  “Oh.” She ran a hand through her hair. “You were right, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “Compost. As a disposal method.”

  “How did you figure it out?”

  “I went online.”

  “First time.”

  “What?”

  He looked at her. “First time someone said I’ve been right in a while.”

  She cocked her head and took a bite of her hamburger. It was missing something. Ketchup? Relish?

  “My name’s Pete Dellinger.”

  She swallowed her food. “Georgia Davis.”

  “Like the state?”

  “You got a problem with the South?” But she grinned when she said it. He grinned back. Yes, it was a good smile.

  He motioned to his glass. “Can I buy you one?”

  She looked longingly at his beer. It had been a tough day, coming up against her nemesis. A beer would take the edge off. A lot more than Diet Coke. Probably make the burger taste better, too. She wanted it. Deserved it. Just this once. Anyway, it was free. The word tumbled out, almost of its own accord. “Sure.”

  He got up, went to the bar, and gave Owen the order. Owen dipped his head at Georgia, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Owen shrugged and poured the beer into a glass. Pete brought it back.

  “The bartender seems to know you. Do you come here often?”

  The oldest line in the world and the guy said it with a straight face. She bit back a reply. “Yes,” she said simply.

  “I like it.” He gazed around with a satisfied expression.

  “Glad we have your approval.” She lifted the glass of beer, hesitated, then took a long pull. Just like she remembered it. Frosty and tart with a grainy aftertaste that danced on her tongue. How long had it been? A year? Eighteen months? Damn. There was nothing like a cold brew. She set the glass down and stole a glance at the bar. Owen was watching her, hands on his hips. She looked away.

  “So how do you like our building?” She focused on Pete.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Except when somebody spreads fish guts in the hall.”

  “I’m guessing there’s a good story there.”

  Georgia took another long swallow. Half gone already. “I’m a private investigator,” she began. Ten minutes and another beer later, she’d told him about the case. Again, she surprised herself. When she was on the force, she rarely talked to civilians about her cases.

  Pete listened attentively—she had to give him that. Even though she left out some information, he didn’t interrupt, something Matt used to do all the time. He’d claim he just wanted to understand, but it often felt like he was interrogating her. Pete nodded at all the right times and kept his mouth shut. When she was done, he leaned his elbows on the table.

  “So what’s your next step?”

  “I’m not sure. Like I said, I have a theory, but not enough evidence.” She finished off her beer.

  “Want another?” He pointed to her empty glass.

  She hesitated. She’d already downed two. A third would be asking for trouble. But he had to be on his fourth or even fifth by now. If he could handle it, so could she. “Okay.”

  He returned with their drinks and settled in, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. She wondered what was so amusing but felt too shy to ask. Instead she asked, “So what about you? Why did you move in?”

  “My wife and I separated.”

  “Sheila,” she murmured.

  A flush crept up his neck.

  “I heard you two arguing the other night,” she added, remembering how quickly Sheila had exploded.

  “Oh.” The flush spread to his face. “Yeah. She came over.”

  “Sounds like she wants you back.”

  “She’s… well…” He shook his head, flustered. “It’s not gonna happen…” He looked over. “Let’s not go there.”

  Georgia shrugged and took another bite of her burger. Pete watched with a curious expression.

  She caught his look and pushed the food toward him. She wasn’t hungry any more. Alcohol did that.

  He frowned at the plate.

  “Something wrong?” She asked.

  He shook his head again.

  She looked at him, then at her plate. “You’re a vegetarian.”

  He shot her an embarrassed smile. “Will you still talk to me?”

  “Hey, it’s your life.”

  A vegetarian. Probably a “my body is my temple” guy. She sighed. How come she always ended up with the weird ones? Truth was, until Matt, her relationships with men had been limited. She’d only had sex with three men. They’d all been sweet, but slightly off: a software geek in high school, an accountant for a chain of pet stores a few years later, then Matt, who, for a cop, was bookish. She must have been sending out subtle signals: all nerds welcome.

  She tossed back the rest of her beer. Ricki Feldman wouldn’t do that, she’d lay odds. She’d set her sights on the richest, most handsome man in the room. And get him too. Georgia set her glass down carefully. Too carefully. The room was starting to wobble.

  Pete’s eyebrows arched. “You downed that one pretty fast.”

  “It’s been a bad day.”

  “Aren’t they all?” He asked a little sadly.

  He was right. Everyone suffered. She wasn’t so special. Why did she think she was? Suddenly, she couldn’t think. Three beers and practically no food. Wha
t happened to her tolerance? She used to be able to toss back four or five with no problem. Now, her head felt too big and too far away from her body. She needed to lie down. She balled up her napkin, tried to pitch it on the table. She missed, and the napkin bounced onto the floor. She stood up unsteadily. “It’s time for me to go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE THING was to act like you weren’t there for anything important. Like you couldn’t care less. That was what she’d told them. After a while you could layer on a smile if you wanted. Make them feel special. Lauren checked her watch. Being prompt was important, too. Clients didn’t have all day. Neither did she. And Derek was late.

  She slouched on the bench, wondering whether to call him. Not that it would do much good. He’d have to stop whatever he was doing and call her back. And time was growing short. She looked around the mall. Monday was always slow. Things didn’t heat up until mid-week; Thursday and Friday were busy. And Saturdays were crazy. She usually took off the first two days of the week. Worked out, did her homework, chilled. Her cell phone buzzed. She checked the caller ID. Heather. She ignored the call.

  Tonight was meant to be a business meeting. She and Derek had to talk. Derek was recruiting girls who—well—just weren’t good enough. He’d started cruising Golf Mill and Woodfield, but frankly, Mount Prospect and Schaumburg weren’t the North Shore. The girls weren’t as classy— though she’d be the last to admit the North Shore had cornered the market on class. She’d seen plenty of clients who picked their noses, chewed with their mouths open, or sported bellies that hung over their belts. Still, there was a cachet about North Shore girls. After she trained them, they were good. She was proud of her work.

  Derek’s point was they had to expand, maybe even start another branch. To stay where they were meant they were falling behind. But this wasn’t fast food, and they weren’t McDonald’s. She liked the control of a small operation. They were pulling down great money. That was important. People respected women with money. Their own money. Like Ricki Feldman. They’d only met for a minute, but they were two of a kind, she and Ricki. She could see it in the woman’s eyes. They understood each other. Lauren recalled her comment about how beautiful her mother was. That was code. Ricki didn’t like her mother. Lauren understood.