She finished for him. “I need to let things slide off my back. Isn’t that what you were going to say?”
O’Malley sighed. “From your mouth…”
But she’d had enough. “Look, Dan. I owe you. Youknow that. Buthim…” She flicked her hand at Parker. “I got no use for him anymore. Keep him away from me.”
Before either of them could answer, she wheeled around and went back into the courthouse, shaking her head. She’d become a cop ten years ago because of the loyalty and structure it imposed: the rules, clear procedures, and, despite the occasional squabble, the implicit knowledge that if you watched your partner’s back, he’d watch yours. It was like being part of a family, a family she never had. Now, though, that loyalty and structure had frayed, and the family ties were in shreds.
Inside, she started down the hall to the court room. Maybe she’d find Kelly, take him to lunch; congratulate him on his argument even though they’d lost. But as she opened the door, she saw Kelly and Ramsey at the side of the now-empty room, deep in conversation. They were out of earshot, but Ramsey didn’t look happy. Georgia turned around and headed back outside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
GEORGIA MULLED things over as she drove home. Tom Walcher must have gone to the police after all. Or maybe it was Ramsey he’d complained to. He’d boasted of having connections; but she had no way of knowing how strong they were. Was there a relationship between the two men? Did the men have business connections? Did their spouses work together on Newfield school activities?
Or was Walcher just the kind of guy who liked to buddy up to cops? She’d run into cop-wannabes when she was on the force, guys who scanned police radio frequencies and showed up at crime scenes, sometimes even before the cops. Others hung out at cop bars and restaurants. You had to be careful with them. From time to time they might actually have valuable information, but there might be a quid pro quo when they surrendered it.
She wouldn’t have figured Walcher for a wannabe, but, ultimately, it didn’t matter which type he was. Or who he’d talked to. Parker was a pompous asshole, but he was right about one thing. It had been a mistake to impersonate a social worker. It wouldn’t happen again.
She drove west on Old Orchard Road. A country club took up one side of the road; a cemetery the other. It was a gray day, and the air felt wet and raw. A few dispirited leaves still clung to tree branches, but they weren’t able to muster much fire.
She reviewed what she knew about Derek Janowitz. Was he the one who spread fish guts in the hallway of her apartment? The descriptions matched. But was it his idea? Or could it have been his partner’s? And how could she find out who that partner was? She needed to. Whoever it was could be the only remaining link to Sara Long.
She thought about going to Derek’s apartment and trying to bully her way in to question his roommates. But they’d just endured a rough police interrogation; they’d slam the door in her face. The police had his PDA in any case. A better solution would be to get his cell phone records. She knew his number.
Some people might bicker about the ethics and legality of obtaining cell phone records without subpoenas. Frankly, before she was suspended, she might have, too. But if she was going to be a PI and work big cases, she couldn’t be squeamish about her sources. The police had resources—indeed, access to them was one of the things she missed about being a cop. As a PI, she was a lone ranger, relying on contacts and connections to get what she needed.
Sure, there was a trade-off: tracking bad guys versus infringing—at least a little—on people’s privacy. Still, for a couple of hundred dollars, she could get Derek Janowitz’s cell phone records, and she would have a slew of new leads, any number of which might lead to his partner.
Back home, she called a PI who’d referred a case to her a few months ago. He gave her the name and number of someone in Florida. Five minutes later, after surrendering her credit card number, the number of the cell she wanted to trace, and the dates she needed, she was told they had a heavy backlog. The results would be emailed to her within seven business days.
She hung up the phone and looked around. It was on nights like these that she felt the weight of time and how untethered she was. She had no ties any more, emotional or otherwise. Her mother abandoned her when she was a child, leaving her with a father who ended up loving the bottle more than her. He’d died seven years ago. She was alone now. But she was free, white, and twenty-one, an expression her father liked to repeat between shots. She’d decided that freedom was an overrated concept.
She went around her apartment and lit candles. Although she didn’t collect things anymore, she couldn’t bring herself to throw out her candles. Some were scented, and she breathed in mint, coconut, and berry. When they were all lit, she lay down on her couch and watched their lights flicker. The candles helped chase away the void, providing clarity and definition. They reminded her that, like them, she’d once had fire and heat.
***
Friday morning Georgia went to the gym to work out. Afterwards she stopped for a cup of coffee at a gas station. A radio inside the mini-mart was tuned to the all-news station. She had just forked over a dollar to the guy behind the counter, congratulating herself that she wasn’t springing for a three-dollar latte, when the female anchor came on in the tense, breathy voice that says they have important news. “This just in. State’s Attorney Jeff Ramsey has announced he will recuse himself from the murder trial of Cameron Jordan. Jordan, if you remember, was indicted for killing teenager Sara Long in the Cook County Forest Preserve last month.”
Georgia looked up, startled. The man behind the counter didn’t notice.
“In a statement, Ramsey said the situation has turned out to be more complicated than first thought. Ramsey admitted that his teenage daughter was present in the Forest Preserve during the hazing incident that preceded the homicide. Monica Ramsey is a senior at Newfield High School.
“Ramsey turned over the prosecution of the case to his second in command and said his daughter will cooperate fully. He hastened to say she is not a suspect in the homicide, nor is she directly connected to the crime. He made the decision to recuse himself to avoid even the appearance of conflict of interest. Stay tuned for more developments in this breaking story.”
The broadcast cut to a commercial about a car dealership in Arlington Heights. The man behind the counter absently handed over her change. He hadn’t heard a word. Georgia pocketed the coins and took her coffee outside. She thought back to the bail reduction hearing. Ramsey had won. No contest. Then she flashed to his conversation with Kelly in the courtroom afterwards. Ramsey hadn’t looked like a winner then. He’d looked worried.
Sliding the coffee into the cup holder in her car, she pulled out her cell and punched in Paul Kelly’s number. The call went to voice mail. She left a message.
Kelly had berated Georgia about going after Monica Ramsey. So what if the girl was at the Forest Preserve, he said? You don’t make a case out of innuendo and hearsay. They couldn’t go after the State’s Attorney’s daughter. Evidently, something had changed.
By evening she still hadn’t reached Kelly but at least now she knew why. He’d been giving interviews to the press all day. The story was all over the news, with dueling sound bites from both Ramsey and Kelly. First, Ramsey: “The most important thing to remember is that nothing that’s happened has altered the facts of Sara Long’s murder. We have the offender. We believe he did it, and that he acted alone. However, our office will make every effort to get all the facts.”
Then, a quote from Kelly: “It was clear from the beginning that the State’s Attorney’s Office was attempting to rush Cam Jordan through the system without the proper investigation and care. Now we know why. I think the charges against my client should be dropped.” Kelly turned his head so he was looking at the camera when he spoke, which gave the impression the he was talking directly to the people. Slick, Georgia thought.
Sandwiched between the sound bites were reporte
rs, most of them broadcasting live from the Skokie Courthouse. However, one enterprising woman was staked out at Sara Long’s Wilmette home. The Longs wouldn’t comment on camera, but issued a statement that read, in part: “We hope today’s developments will not deter the course of justice. There is not a minute of any day that we do not grieve the loss of our daughter and what she suffered. We want to see justice served, no matter where it leads.”
Did they really? Georgia wondered. What if the pursuit of justice revealed that their daughter was a whore?
She switched to the public television station and found pundits shouting at each other in the rude discourse that passes for debate these days. Republicans clamoring for Ramsey’s head suggested he pack his bags and go back to New York.
“Don’t be absurd,” countered a woman with long hair and a dour expression. “He’ll ride this out. And rise above it. It was a gutsy thing to do.”
“It was the responsible thing to do,” someone else said.
“It was the only thing to do,” said someone else.
A discussion about ethics followed, and a florid-faced man with white hair pronounced the real winners the people of Cook County. The system worked, and we were all the better for it, he proclaimed.
Georgia snapped off the TV and went into the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge for something to eat, she settled on a grilled cheese sandwich. She threw bread and cheese into the frying pan. She didn’t know who was right about Ramsey, but she did know one thing. It was easy to be gutsy when your back was up against the wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
HER CASE was heating up. Matt continued to tail her up and down the North Shore. To Burhops, the courthouse, even to Mickey’s, where she had dinner with her neighbor. He checked out the guy later; a state bureaucrat. Probably nothing to do with her case. He read the reports about Ramsey, and he wondered if the State’s Attorney’s recusal had anything to do with her work.
Things were heating up for him, too. Especially after he reported how she’d tailed the Walcher girl to the health club. Matt wasn’t part of the inner circle, but he noticed several closed-door meetings between Lenny and his employer, and when the man wasn’t in conference, he was on the phone. Then, a few days ago, Lenny disappeared. Just up and left. R&R, his employer said; the guy needed a break. Just a coincidence that Lenny took off right after the kid who worked at the gas station was killed. The one she visited.
With Lenny gone his employer was pressing Matt. Calling his cell ten times a day, demanding to know where she was and who was she talking to. He knew better than to ask why, but he sensed something had shifted. Intensified. He started to watch more carefully, measured every word, alert for clues, subtle mood shifts, even double entendres.
He wasn’t sleeping well. The stress was getting to him. But this was his gig—he’d wanted it. Except this time he was flying solo. There were no rules, no guidelines about what to do when. He wondered how he’d perform when they gave him a job that required more than surveillance. He needed to come through. He had a feeling he knew what that job was going to be. And he couldn’t let his personal feelings get in the way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AT FIRST Georgia didn’t hear the knock at her door. She was working on the computer and the TV was on. When the tapping persisted, she thought about ignoring it. She was in the middle of searching articles on teenage prostitution. Then she realized whoever was there probably could hear the TV’s babble from the hall and knew she was home. Easier just to get rid of them.
She opened the door to see her upstairs neighbor, Pete Dellinger, leaning on a pair of crutches.
Her eyes widened. “What happened to you?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Fractured my ankle playing basketball two days ago.”
She opened the door wider. “Well, I guess you’d better come in and sit down.” So much for getting rid of them.
He hobbled in. He’d cut off the right jeans leg, and the leg was encased in plaster from his toes to his knee. She examined the cast. “All that for an ankle?”
He shrugged, or as good a facsimile as he could while manipulating the crutches. When he reached the couch, he turned around and leaned the crutches against it. Plopping down on the cushions, he blew out a breath.
Georgia followed him over. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too much.” He patted his shirt pocket. “Vicodin.”
She nodded. “What can I get you?”
“You got a beer?”
“You’re on Vicodin.”
“One beer won’t kill me.”
She eyed him, then shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t drink.”
He frowned. “Then what were you doing at Mickey’s the other night?”
“Making a mistake.” She shot him a look, daring him to contradict her.
He looked back. Then his eyebrows smoothed out. “No problem. I’ll take whatever you have.”
She went into the kitchen, got out a couple of Snapples and poured them into glasses. Coming back into the living room, she handed one over. “Did you at least make the shot?” She pointed to his foot.
“Nope. Lost by two points.”
“The final indignity.” She settled on the other end of the couch. “What about your job? Can you work?”
“I’m a bureaucrat. I’m always able to push paper around.”
She thought back to his comments about fish waste and how to dispose of them. “You do environmental stuff?”
He grinned. “Nope. But I used to go fly fishing with my father in the North Woods.” He paused. “I work for the State of Illinois. In the Department of Agriculture’s Bureau of Weights and Measures.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I’m the director.”
“Oh.” She crossed her legs uncertainly.
“Don’t worry. No one else knows we exist either,” he said. “And with any luck, we’ll keep it that way.”
“What do you do?”
“I travel around the state measuring and weighing products.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you get what you pay for. For example, I make sure you’re really getting a gallon of gas, a bushel of potatoes, or a pound of hamburger.”
“How?”
“I weigh things. With my scales.”
“You have a special set?”
“I do. See, most people take for granted they’re getting what they pay for. But the cost of even tiny inaccuracies can add up. For example, an error of one tablespoon per five gallons of gas can mean $125 million a year.”
“No kidding.” She tried to look interested.
“Yeah.” He seemed to be warming to his subject. “And when you compute the added costs of—” He cut himself off. “Hey. You don’t really care about this, do you?”
“Not really,” she smiled.
“That’s okay. No one else does either.” He sipped his drink and looked around the living room. “You live—sparingly.”
Her smile disappeared. “What does that mean?”
“It’s just that you don’t have a lot of things, you know? Pictures, knickknacks, vases.”
She imagined the home he used to share with his wife. It was probably stuffed with “things.” She looked around, trying to see her place through his eyes. It did look bare. Untended. Still. She felt a grain of irritation. “I’m not into clutter.”
He backtracked. “I didn’t mean to—actually I like it this way. More space.”
She figured he was lying but let it go.
“So, what’s been happening with your case?”
She set the glass on the coffee table. “You watch the news tonight?”
He nodded. “I had a feeling you were involved.”
She filled him in, including her suspicions about Sara Long and Derek Janowitz. He listened so intently that her irritation dissolved, but when she finished, he shot her a disbelieving look. “Are you saying a bunch of suburban teenagers are running their own prostitution ring?”
“It might be tied into a larger operation.” She explained about Derek’s Eastern European roommates. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” She teased.
“Me?” A flush crept up his neck. “No. But I don’t run in those—oh, never mind.” He threw his arm over the back of the couch. “Tell me something. Why would girls do something like this?”
He’d asked the same question she’d been mulling over. “Money, mostly.”
Pete shook his head. “Pretty extreme way to make it.”
“Depends on your perspective,” Georgia said. “You make a lot of money in a short period of time. And all you have to do is take off your clothes and fuck someone.”
He gazed at her. She wondered what was going through his mind. Then he said, “Does that mean the Monica Ramsey angle is a dead end?”
“I’ll continue to pursue it. But this—well, this could lead in a very different direction. It might turn out the only thing the Ramsey girl is guilty of is showing up at the Forest Preserve on the day Sara Long was killed.”
He went quiet again and sipped his Snapple, then held it out and examined it. “This is good. I’ve never had it before.”
“It’s pricey, but I like it too.”
He set down the glass and motioned to the computer. “I interrupted you.”
“It’s okay.”
“What are you doing?”
“You really want to know?”
“It’s got to be more interesting than weighing produce.”
Georgia pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to her desk. Pete got himself across the room on his crutches.
An hour later, they’d printed out and skimmed half a dozen articles about suburban teenage hookers. How girls were approached at malls and recruited with promises of clothes, makeup, and accessories. How one girl started stripping in hotel rooms and “graduated” to placing ads on a personals service. How the term “Trix are for Kids” had a new meaning when girls as young as nine were recruited. They read how educated girls—particularly blondes—were considered preferable, because they worked harder and brought in more money. How the johns in the suburbs were mostly family men in SUVs with baby seats in the back. They also found an article on a new breed of pimp: “Popcorn pimps,” high school students themselves.
Easy Innocence Page 18
