CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ANDREA WALCHER might not know the ins and outs of real estate, but Georgia knew someone who did.
The area just north of the Chicago River is more upscale than the Loop, and the office Georgia drove downtown to was no exception. Harry Perl had taken over construction of a 93-story glass and steel tower on the lot of the old Sun-Times building after Trump backed out and another developer, Max Gordon, defaulted. Georgia had dealings with Gordon when she was on the force. He was in prison now, serving a life sentence.
The cheapest parking lot was several blocks away under Grant Park, but she didn’t mind the walk. Downtown Chicago was as beautiful as any European capital these days, mostly because of Millenium Park. Despite a multi-million dollar cost overrun, the park had created a corridor of graceful architecture, parkland, and sculptures that stretched from the Field Museum to Randolph Street. As Georgia cut across a wide concrete plaza, she gawked at the outdoor amphitheater. The arrangement of metal on the roof looked like a giant soup can that had been opened the wrong way, but it was supposed to deliver the best acoustics in the world.
She walked from Michigan Avenue to Wabash, then north over the river to the skyscraper. The marble floors, soaring ceilings, and walls of the lobby were as elegant as they were cold. Georgia tugged on her jacket. She’d started out dressing in a pair of nice slacks, an angora sweater, and makeup. She made sure her hair looked good. Then, in a sudden about-face, she changed back into jeans and a turtleneck, washed off her makeup, and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. She’d be damned if she would compete.
The elevator whisked her to the 54th floor. To the right was a law firm with five unpronounceable names, but on the left were two huge glass doors embossed with the words “Feldman Development.” She took a breath and opened the door.
The waiting room was spare and modern and looked like an art gallery: abstract pastels on the wall, area rugs, and an Asian-inspired flower arrangement. She could have sworn there was some kind of fragrance in the air, too. A sweet cinnamon, she thought.
The receptionist was blond and might have been attractive if she hadn’t worn so much makeup. She was dressed in a low cut blouse and miniskirt, and she looked Georgia up and down, taking in her jeans, turtleneck, and boots.
“May I help you?” she asked with that patronizing smile that usually means the opposite.
“Yes,” Georgia replied evenly. “I’d like to see Ricki Feldman. I don’t have an appointment.”
“I’m so sorry.” The receptionist frowned, revealing lines in her forehead that put her closer to forty than the thirty she clearly wanted to appear. “Ms. Feldman is booked all day.”
“Tell her it’s Georgia Davis. And it’s important.”
Either her voice carried more authority than she thought, or the name meant something to the receptionist, because the woman’s patronizing attitude vanished, leaving only the frown. She lifted the receiver of a phone with about twenty-five buttons and pressed one of them.
She spoke softly, and Georgia only caught a phrase or two. “Yes. She’s here now.” A pause. “Okay.” She disconnected and looked up. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” The smile was noticeably absent. “Ms. Feldman will see you shortly.”
“Thanks.” Georgia went to a grouping of low slung chairs near the windows. An assortment of magazines was fanned across a table. She remained standing and looked out the east window, which provided a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. She usually found solace in the whitecaps that sparkled in the sun, the horizon dotted with a few snowy sails. But today was November grim, and a gray curtain of fog hovered over the water, revealing glimpses of angry steel waves underneath.
“Hello, Georgia,” a voice said behind her.
She spun around. Ricki Feldman was standing across the room by a glass coffee table. Her eyes held a curious, appraising expression, but something else was there, too. Georgia couldn’t tell what it was. “Hello, Ricki.”
Ricki sported the obligatory business casual look: a pair of sharply creased gray wool pants, a thick black sweater, and dark but soft looking leather boots. Her silky brown hair, swept back in a knot, made her eyes look enormous. For a moment Georgia regretted she hadn’t worn nicer clothes. Then she rebuked herself for the thought.
“I’m working on a case,” she said, “and I need to ask you some questions.”
Ricki nodded as if she’d been expecting her. “Come into my office.” She turned around.
Georgia followed her down a hall. The same sweet cinnamon scent she’d smelled in the reception area grew stronger. Ricki’s perfume. Ricki led her into a corner office. Light poured in through two large windows, one looking south to the Loop, the other east to the lake. Ricki went to her desk, a huge slab of granite on a steel base, and waved her into one of two red upholstered chairs. Glass and metal shelving units behind the desk were filled with African masks, cloisonné bowls, cuckoo clocks, and other knickknacks, all no doubt designed to show visitors how well-traveled she was.
Ricki sat, leaned her elbows on the desk, and steepled her fingers.
“I’ll try to be brief,” Georgia said.
Ricki nodded again, but the submissive angle of her head and a slight narrowing of her eyes puzzled Georgia. It was almost as if Ricki was expecting a blow. Georgia dismissed it. Probably her imagination.
“I know this is awkward,” she began.
Ricki cut her off. “In a way, I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Matt and I—well, it was wrong from the start. We—we weren’t compatible.’ She paused. “We—it was like a fire that burned itself out.”
Georgia jerked her head up.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant to say. It just—We were just—well, from such different worlds. I’m sorry I caused it.”
Georgia kept quiet, marveling. Ricki couldn’t stop aggrandizing herself even when she was trying to apologize. As if she was the sole party responsible and Matt had nothing to do with it.
“He broke it off, you know. Before he went to Israel.”
She didn’t know. She remembered Matt talking about Israel when they were together. He wanted to make Aliyah, he called it. A pilgrimage to the Holy Land. At one point, he’d asked her to come with him. She would have. She didn’t believe in God, but Matt did, and if it was important to Matt, it would have been important to her. She was even willing to consider converting to Judaism. But then a few months after he and Ricki hooked up, he’d taken a leave of absence from the force. Georgia assumed they went to Israel together. She’d been wrong.
“I’m not here to talk about Matt,” she said finally.
“No?” Ricki looked genuinely surprised.
“I told you. I’m working on a case, and I need information.”
Now Ricki looked flustered. “For the police?”
“I’m working as a private investigator.”
“Really.” Her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched, and the imperiousness returned.
This was the Ricki she knew. “What can you tell me about Harry Perl?” She leaned back in her seat.
“Harry?” Ricki shot her a sidelong glance. “He and my father, and then I, were partners on several projects. He’s a dynamic businessman.”
“Are you still partners?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I told you I’m working on a case, and his name has—come up.”
Ricki stared at her.
Georgia’s breath hitched. She’d been counting on Ricki’s need to impress, to flaunt her knowledge, especially in front of a “rival.”
“Yes,” Ricki answered after a pause. “We have been and continue to work together occasionally.”
“There’s a specific piece of land I’m interested in. On Chestnut Street. Near the Glen.”
Ricki shrugged. “I’d have to check. I’m more or less a silent partner. I don’t know all the specifics.”
Georg
ia didn’t believe her. “Well, maybe you could answer—on a purely theoretical level. Let’s say there’s a property in the Glen. And the owner was trying to redevelop it quickly. In fact, let’s say there was some urgency to do it fast. Why would there be such a hurry?”
Ricki steepled her hands again. Did she think that made her look thoughtful? “It could be a number of factors,” she said. “There could be pressure from the investors. There could be construction warranties or deadlines. Or zoning issues.”
To her knowledge Perl didn’t have any other investors, and Georgia doubted there were any construction deadlines. She recalled the conversation she’d overheard in the health club. Someone had mentioned the zoning board. “What zoning issues?”
“Low income regs, for example.”
“What are they?”
“New state regulations require a village to have a certain amount of low income housing available. Ten per cent, I believe. But a lot of villages on the North Shore aren’t in compliance.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Georgia cracked.
“The problem is that in a year the governor will establish a statewide panel. The Zoning Board of Appeals. It will have the power to overrule any decisions made by a local zoning board. Which means there’s a chance local villages could lose control of their own zoning process. Particularly if they aren’t in compliance with the low income housing regs.”
“How would that affect our theoretical property owner?”
“Villages are running scared. They’re afraid that if they have too much commercial property now, there won’t be enough land to provide enough affordable housing down the road, and they could lose local control of their zoning, and, ergo, their land.”
“But that’s over a year away.”
“It takes at least a year—usually more—from the time you get the zoning until the building goes up. Your theoretical owner would want to make sure the land is zoned now, the way he wants, before the shit hits the fan.”
Georgia scratched her cheek. “There’s really a chance that could happen? That land could be rezoned?”
“Probably not if it’s a going concern, but if the land has been vacant or idle for a while, who knows?”
“And might he hire a lawyer to help him push things through?”
“What are you getting at?”
Her answer was cut off by a knock at door.
“Come,” Ricki said.
The receptionist poked her head in. She was holding a pink message slip. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Feldman.” She paused for such a long moment that Georgia wondered if the interruption had been planned. “Come into the office five minutes after we start talking, Sally—” Ricki could have whispered over the intercom.
“A message just came in. From Mr. Perl.”
Ricki motioned with her hand. “Bring it over.”
The receptionist stepped in front of Georgia, blocking her view, and handed the pink slip to Ricki.
“Thanks, Ashley.” When the receptionist didn’t move, she added, “You can go.”
Ashley turned around and shot Georgia a look. “Yes, ma’am.”
Georgia smiled up at her. Ashley walked out of the room. “Guess you’re not such a silent partner after all.”
Ricki waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Harry uses the phone the way some people use email.”
“What do you mean?”
“His grasp of technology stopped around 1972. He won’t get near a computer.”
Georgia motioned to the slip of paper. “But he manages to stay in touch.”
“He tracks people down all over the world. He once called me from Greece. At home. At three in the morning. Made me wish I’d never given him my number.” She laughed nervously. “Now, if that’s all…”
Georgia made a decision. She leaned forward. “One more thing. Let’s say this theoretical piece of land had been a gas station in its former life.”
Ricki shifted.
“A gas station which leached all sorts of toxic chemicals into the ground. How long would the clean-up take before it could be redeveloped? Theoretically.”
A muscle beside Ricki’s eye began to tic. “I couldn’t begin to say. Years, I imagine.”
“So if this property—this theoretical gas station—was cleaned up in record time, say six months, and had an NFR letter from the state, that would be unusually fast.”
“It was?” She looked concerned, then tried to hide it. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I figured you would be up to speed on all the appropriate waste disposal regulations. Given your—history,”
Ricki blanched. “You know, I really need to end this meeting. I have another appointment.”
“I thought you might.” Georgia smiled. “Well, thanks for your time.”
She left Ricki staring anxiously at the pattern of her granite desk.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
THAT EXPLAINED the urgency, Georgia thought as she drove north on Sheridan Road. Harry Perl wanted to cash in on the Glen property by building condos and a mall. He couldn’t risk it being rezoned in light of the upcoming low-income housing regulations. So after buying the land from Fred, Perl got Walcher to use his “leverage” with village officials to make sure the zoning went his way. He probably used the same “leverage” with Broadbent to come up with an environmental report that got a clean bill of health from the state.
A weak sun broke through the overcast. Georgia rolled down the window, bracing against the rush of cold air. She was close. When you examined Walcher’s business practices, factored in his relationship with Sara Long, his possible involvement with Derek Janowitz’s murder, maybe even the attempt on her life, even the most aggressive prosecutor—including Jeff Ramsey—would have to take a closer look.
But it wasn’t a slam dunk. She still had no proof Walcher had a hand in Sara Long’s murder. Kelly would insist that wasn’t necessary, that they had enough reasonable doubt to clear Cam Jordan, but Georgia wanted to find Sara Long’s killer. Not just for her own safety, but for Cam Jordan and his sister Ruth. For the Long family, as well, for Lauren, and for all the teenage girls who made decisions that put themselves at risk. The problem was she wasn’t sure of her next move, and she was running out of time to make it.
Her cell phone chirped. “Georgia Davis.”
It was her landlord. They’d finished the repair work, installed a new floor and window, even thrown a fresh coat of paint on the walls. She could move back in.
That afternoon she packed up her clothes, thanked Sam profusely, and went home. The living room was virtually empty, but the walls and new floor gleamed, and they’d put a special chemical coating on the walls and floor to seal in the lingering odor of smoke. The new furniture she’d ordered, thanks to a speedy resolution of her claim by her insurance company, hadn’t arrived, but her new computer, which the super had brought upstairs, was in a large box in the middle of the floor.
Her bedroom furniture was still intact, but her mattress reeked of mildew and smoke. She lugged it down to the curb and, anticipating the insurance reimbursement, went to buy a new one. It must have been a slow period at the mattress store, because they said they could deliver it that afternoon. She swung by Target on her way back and picked up new bedding, towels, and a pillow.
The mattress arrived on schedule, and she made up the bed. She was just pulling the computer out of the box, thinking she’d order a pizza before she assembled it, when there was a knock on the door.
Pete Dellinger grinned when she opened it. “I saw your lights were on. When did you get back?”
“Just now.” Georgia returned the smile. “Good to see you up and about. Are you okay?”
“The hospital kept me overnight, but I came home the next morning.” He kept one hand behind his back. “What about you? I heard someone tried to take a shot at you.”
“Looks that way.”
“Are you holding up?”
“Do I have a choice?”
&nbs
p; “Everyone in the building got a call from the detective in Evanston, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“I asked if they had any leads. He said there hadn’t been much movement, but the case was still open.”
“That’s cop speak for ‘we don’t have a clue, and we can’t spend more time on it.’” When Pete frowned, she shrugged. “Happens all the time.”
“How can they just give up?”
“They don’t have a choice. There are always new cases that demand your attention. Cases that haven’t gone cold.”
“Do you think the shooting is related to your case?”
“Probably.”
“Jesus! How can you be so—so calm?”
“What makes you think I am? Hey, let’s talk about something else, okay?”
He looked at her unblinkingly for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, pointing to his leg. “Look.”
She did. His cast was gone, and he was wearing a sock and sandal on his bad leg. His ankle seemed thick. “I’m down to an Ace bandage. And a cane.”
She looked around. “Where is it? The cane?”
“Still upstairs.” He moved his other hand from behind his back and held out a bouquet of flowers. “These are for you. To thank you.”
Her cheeks grew warm, her neck too. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had brought her flowers. She felt suddenly shy. “Let me find something to put them in,” but even as she said it, she realized she didn’t own a vase. The empty mayonnaise jar under the sink would have to do. She started for the kitchen, then stopped and turned back to the door. “Oh— I’m sorry. Would you like to come in? I promise to scare off any snipers.”
He grinned and limped inside. He was wearing his usual khakis and a button-down shirt. The light blue color set off his sandy hair. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the day he moved in. He’d been wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She remembered how his biceps strained against the load.
“Sorry,” she heard herself say again. “I bought some new furniture, but it hasn’t come yet.”
Easy Innocence Page 27
