Easy Innocence

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  She combed through the website trying to find an EPA field office on the North Shore so she could talk to someone in person, but the closest she came was a post office box in Elgin. She did find a staff directory for Community Relations officials in Springfield. She picked up the phone.

  On the third transfer she got a live human. She explained what she was interested in and was promptly transferred. A new voice mail said to press “0” for assistance. She did.

  A female voice with a decidedly southern Kentucky twang answered. “Zane here.”

  “Hello. My name is Georgia Davis, and I’m interested in the status of a specific site. I was transferred to you by…” she back-clicked on the website. “… Ginger Mitchell.”

  “Uh-huh,” Zane said after such a long pause that Georgia wondered if she was still there. “And what site is it?”

  Georgia gave her the location of the land.

  “Hold on.”

  Georgia took the phone into the kitchen, grateful there was no music or annoying radio station chatter while she was on hold. She opened the refrigerator to check the leg of lamb she bought that morning. She had enough to feed a dozen people. The only problem was she didn’t know a dozen people. She was starting to wonder why she’d bought it in the first place when Zane came back on.

  “I see the report here, but you’ll need to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act to get a copy.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Zane told her there was a website through which she could request the file. Or she could write a letter.

  “I’d like the website, please.”

  Zane gave it to her.

  Georgia clicked to the site and started entering information while she was talking. “This is great. In the meantime, while I’m waiting for the report, could you answer a question for me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can you tell me the name of the company that submitted the report on that property?”

  “Well, ma’am, technically, I should wait until I get the FOI request.”

  “I’m just sending it now.”

  “Uh-huh.” She paused.

  Georgia waited.

  “Well, I guess it’s okay. Says here the company is Environmental Engineers, Inc.”

  “Thank you. Do you have an address for them?”

  Zane reeled off an address in Skokie.

  Georgia decided to press her luck. “I assume everything was in order? I mean the report met your specifications and all?”

  “Well, ma’am,” Zane said, stretching the two words into five syllables. “The NFR letter went out two months ago.”

  “The what?”

  “When a piece of land is cleaned up right we send out a letter that says no further clean-up is required. It’s called a no further remediation letter.”

  “And that went out two months ago?”

  “Ma’am, I’ve already told you more than I should. You’re going to have to look at the report yourself.”

  “Of course. Thank you very much.” Georgia disconnected and finished sending her FOI request. They said they’d send her the report within two weeks. Too long to wait. She checked the time. Despite Andrea Walcher’s threats, she and Lauren had exchanged hurried emails yesterday. Lauren promised to call after school with the passwords to the website.

  That was still hours away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ENVIRONMENTAL ENGINEERS was in the industrial backwoods of Skokie, a locale that was dotted with warehouses and small plants. There was a quiet sameness to the buildings: most were one-story, flat-roofed structures made from indistinguishable yellow bricks. Georgia skirted the grass, almost the same pale yellow as the buildings, and walked up to two glass doors. White letters on the left-hand door indicated she’d arrived at the best kitchen remodeler on the North Shore. Black letters on the right spelled out the company she was looking for.

  Inside was a small room with a hallway off the back. A young woman in a black t-shirt, black pants, and black fingernail polish sat behind a gray desk. She looked up from a magazine as Georgia walked in.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a voice that bordered on surly.

  “Possibly. I’m looking for Mr.—uh…” Georgia pretended to search in her bag for a piece of paper.

  The girl failed to help her out. “He’s not here.”

  Georgia smiled. “I’m sorry. What is his name?”

  “Jimmy Broadbent.”

  “Of course. How could I have forgotten?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Georgia Davis, and I wanted to ask him about a project he worked on.”

  “He’s onsite today.”

  “Where?”

  The girl sighed, as if Georgia had asked for the impossible, and rummaged around the desk. Finally she picked up a slip of paper. “Des Plaines.”

  Georgia waited. When no further information was forthcoming, she cocked her head. “Des Plaines is a big place.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want him for?”

  “We had an appointment. You know, if you would just tell me where he is, I’ll get out of your hair and you can go back to work.” She gestured to the magazine.

  The girl glanced at her magazine, then at Georgia. She shrugged. “He’s at Wolf and Dempster. The old Malden plant.”

  Georgia made sure to smile. “Thanks.”

  ***

  Jimmy Broadbent looked like his name: stocky, lots of brown hair and a thick neck. Georgia wondered if he’d been a boxer once upon a time. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a windbreaker with a Sox logo, he was leaning over the ground about ten feet from an abandoned building. As she drew closer, she saw him shove a hand auger into the dirt. An open suitcase with test tubes in two neat rows and a glass jar lay nearby. After a moment, he pulled out the auger, dug deeper with a hand trowel, and poured what he’d collected into the glass jar. She waited until he closed the jar and made some notes on his clipboard.

  “Mr. Broadbent?”

  He looked up, startled.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—Your office told me I could find you here.”

  He leveled a cool glance her way. “I’m pretty busy right now.”

  “This will only take a minute. I’m interested in a project you did for Perl Development.”

  He didn’t move, but Georgia sensed his muscles tightening.

  “You do recall it, don’t you?”

  Broadbent frowned. “I work a lot of sites.”

  “This was an old gas station. Belonged to a man named Fred Stewart.”

  His eyes went flat. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Are you sure? Illinois EPA said they sent you the NFR letter about two months ago.”

  He shrugged. “Like I told you, I work a lot of sites. Maybe they gave you the wrong information. Those government types screw everything up.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  He examined her more closely. “Who’d you say you were?”

  “My name is Georgia Davis. I’m working on a matter that—that involves the man that used to own the gas station.”

  “You got a card?”

  Something in the way he was looking at her told her to back off. “Sorry. I didn’t bring any.”

  He didn’t say anything. Then he nodded.

  “So you don’t remember the Glenview job at all?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”

  “Well, in that case, I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  She felt his gaze on her as she went back to her car. Broadbent was lying, that much was clear. But why? She tried to piece it together as she drove back to Evanston. Fred Stewart has a piece of property. There’s good reason to think it was contaminated. He sells it to Harry Perl, and Broadbent cleans it up. Paul Kelly said the clean-up could take years. But Perl gets a clean bill of health in record time.

  There was no reason for Broadbent to lie unless he had something to hide. Then aga
in, there was no reason for him to tell the truth, either. He had no idea who she was or what she wanted. Why extend himself? In fact, why was she? The land deal didn’t have anything to do with Cam Jordan or Sara Long, and she didn’t have much ammunition to pressure Andrea Walcher. Still, one nagging thought kept bouncing around her brain: anything was possible when you had the right lawyer to fix things. And Tom Walcher, Harry Perl’s lawyer, was a fixer.

  ***

  Georgia was back in her apartment when the phone rang a few minutes past four. It was Lauren.

  “Where do the requests come in?” Georgia asked after they’d clicked onto the website.

  “Clients fill out a form, and that form gets sent as an email to my Yahoo account. I get back to them with the dates and the girl and how they’re going to hook up.”

  “How can I access those emails?”

  “First you need to know how to get around the website.” Lauren gave Georgia the URL, a user name, and a password. Georgia entered the information.

  “How do I make changes?”

  “It’s a little complicated. We use Dreamweaver. Then we upload it to the server. For now, you might just want me to do it.” She paused. “What changes do you want to make?”

  “Nothing right now,” Georgia replied. “But I might later. What about the email account?”

  Lauren gave her another password and user name. Georgia clicked to the Yahoo account, then entered Lauren’s user name and password. The website jumped to a page which said “Incoming Messages.” There were none. “How come there aren’t any messages? I thought you had clients writing in every day.”

  Lauren’s voice got small. “Well, see, I kind of sent a message to everyone.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “I—I told them we were going on vacation. That there wouldn’t be any action for a while. But we’d be back.”

  “Why?”

  “After Derek, well, I—I got scared so I decided to stop work until things cooled off.”

  “Probably not a bad idea,” Georgia admitted. “Did Charlie get that message?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Now, how do I send an email?”

  “Once you’re signed onto the account, you just send out an email like you would on your own computer.”

  “When I send out an email, who will it say it’s from?”

  “I’ve been using the name ‘Yvonne.’”

  “Did Derek set this up?”

  “Yes. But it’s not rocket science,” she said. “People do it all the time.”

  Georgia heard a trace of petulance in her voice. “How are things with your mother?”

  Lauren hesitated. “She doesn’t like you very much.”

  Georgia laughed. “That’s no surprise.”

  “Actually, she didn’t dwell on it, you know? Aside from saying you were a turd. She was freaked out about something else.”

  “What?” Georgia played innocent.

  “Something about Uncle Fred, I think.”

  “What about Uncle Fred?”

  “I told you he died a few weeks ago, remember? Well, I have a feeling stuff isn’t going the way she thought it would.”

  Georgia tapped a pencil against the desk. “What stuff?”

  “His will or something. I don’t know.” Lauren said impatiently. “Georgia…”

  Georgia stopped tapping. This was the first time Lauren had called her by name.

  “If Sara and Derek’s murder are connected to the business, what—what if I’m next? Please…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?” Georgia asked gently.

  There was a pause. Then, “Please don’t leave me out there by myself.”

  “I won’t.” Georgia stopped short. She was surprised; she’d almost said “sweetie.”

  She considered calling O’Malley. If someone was targeting Lauren, the cops had better resources than she. If she did, though, everything would go public, and Lauren’s life—as well as her parents’—would never be the same. Plus, the police never did much to protect people until after the fact. She cleared her throat. “Look. You’re doing the right things. You stopped the business. You’re divorcing yourself from the operation. And you’re talking to me. I’m on your side.” She hoped she sounded convincing.

  “Thank you.” Lauren’s voice was small.

  She toyed with her pencil. “Listen. I have another question. Where did Charlie take Sara for their—” She couldn’t bring herself to say tricks. “Where did they meet?”

  “Charlie likes the McCormick.” When Georgia didn’t answer, she added, “You know, the one they call the Colonel’s place? It’s in Highland Park. It’s more upscale than the Hyatt, but—”

  “I know it.” Georgia snapped the pencil in two.

  ***

  The Hotel McCormick was named for a powerful Chicagoan, Robert Rutherford McCormick. Known as “The Colonel’’ from a stint as an artillery officer in World War I, McCormick inherited the Chicago Tribune from his grandfather and ran it for several decades. His politics were to the right of Attila the Hun, and he often went over the top, labeling FDR supporters “Soviets,” for example, and skewering Eastern liberals with withering epithets. But Colonel McCormick was a well-bred, sophisticated man, and the elegant hotel that bore his name reflected it. Tucked away in the woodsy part of Highland Park, it catered to people with business in Lake or northern Cook County. Georgia knew this because she’d spent a weekend there with Matt. It was the weekend they broke up.

  She got up and poured herself a glass of water, drank it down. When she got back to the computer, she clicked on the mailing list and found Charlie’s email. She opened the email program, started a new message from “Yvonne”, and proceeded to type.

  “For our special customers only! A new shipment has arrived: young, blonde, sexy, and guaranteed to give you pleasure over every inch of your body. To introduce you to these new beauties, we’re cutting prices by 50 per cent! This offer only good for three days, so if you’re interested, act now.”

  She was just checking it over when the phone rang. The sound made her jump. She reached over. The caller ID said “Private.” She picked up.

  “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  No words, but she thought she heard someone breathing. She quickly disconnected. She didn’t play phone games with creeps.

  She went back to the email. It sounded okay. She clicked “send.” Then she changed the password to both the website and Lauren’s email account. Just to be sure.

  That night Georgia lit candles. She brought one over to the couch and placed it on the end table beside her. She’d bought it in Galena two years ago during a weekend with Matt. It had a vanilla scent. She lay down, breathed in the fragrance, then gave herself up to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  LENNY WAS built like an eighteen wheeler with an extra-wide load. Matt didn’t want to tangle with him. He wasn’t talkative, either. He didn’t say much about being away, and he didn’t look like he wanted to be asked. So it was a surprise when Lenny told him they would be doing a job together.

  “What kind of job?”

  “You’re the marksman, right?”

  “Yeah? So?”

  Lenny led him over to his SUV and opened the back door. Lying on the seat was a Remington 700 Bolt Action rifle. Lenny eyed him. “You know your way around one of these?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. “Lenny leaned over, picked up something from the floor, and handed it to him. It was a DNWS26 Day/Night Sniper Scope. “Saves me the trouble of teaching you.”

  Matt slid his hands in his pocket. “Pretty high end stuff.”

  “Only the best.”

  “So what’s the target?” He asked casually.

  “The P.I. She’s a problem. Boss wants the broad out of the way.”

  “The one I was doing surveillance on?”

  “Yeah. And you’re gonna do the deal.”

/>   “When?”

  “Tonight.” Lenny tipped his head and gazed at him with a curious expression. “You got a problem with that?”

  Matt didn’t react. Then he slowly shook his head. “No problem. None at all.”

  ***

  They met in the back yard of the house across the street from her apartment at two in the morning. Lenny handed him the Remington. He’d attached a suppressor to the barrel.

  “It’s still gonna be loud,” Matt motioned to the suppressor.

  “No problemo.” Lenny peered across the street. “Ridge is only a block east. If anyone hears it, they’ll think it’s a truck.” Lenny turned around and pointed to an embankment in the back that rose about ten feet above the rest of the yard. “Set yourself up there.”

  Matt took the rifle and retreated into the shadows of the evergreens on top of the embankment. A kid’s tricycle was in front of him, a red wagon to the side. He thought about using the wagon to brace the rifle but then kicked it out of the way.

  Below him Lenny paced back and forth, muttering about the window and where he should aim. He could see for himself. She was on the couch. She hadn’t moved. A candle was burning beside her.

  Lenny stopped pacing and looked at his watch. “Okay. Do it.”

  He looked through the scope. He could just see the back of her head. He slid the bolt back, chambered a round, and aimed. Then he squeezed the trigger.

  The shot went wide. “Shit!”

  “How the fuck did you miss?” Lenny exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be a crack shot!”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I had her in the crosshairs. Maybe she moved.” But she never moved in her sleep. “Or maybe it was the window. Shooting through glass can deflect the bullet.”

  “God dammit fuck it all,” Lenny said. “What am I gonna tell the boss? He was counting on you.”

  “I’m sorry, man. Just tell him the truth.”

  Lenny glared at him. “Yeah. Well, I hope you weren’t getting real attached to this job.”

  Matt stared at the window and saw light flickering from inside. “Oh, my God.”