Easy Innocence

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “No problem.” He carefully got himself down on the floor near the computer box. “New?”

  She nodded.

  “Need help setting it up?”

  She didn’t. Computers were easy to assemble. Even a kid could do it. “Sure.”

  An hour later, it was done. Including the cable connection, which had somehow survived the fire.

  “Did you salvage data from your old machine?”

  “I haven’t tried. It’s in the basement.”

  “Well, let me know if you want to try. Maybe I can help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to go online now and send me a test email?” he asked.

  “How about we order a pizza first? My treat.”

  “Deal.”

  After finishing the pizza, they tested out the broadband connection. Everything seemed to be working.

  “Do you ever wonder whether all this email has made a difference in the amount of snail mail?” Pete asked. “I mean, the post office ought to be thankful, don’t you think?”

  “Why? Their business is shrinking. Then again, we still get mountains of junk mail, so I guess they’re not suffering.”

  “And there are always some Luddites who will never use email.” He laughed. “It’s a major accomplishment for them to use a cell phone.”

  Georgia stopped short. She stared at Pete.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—you just said something that made me think.”

  “About your case?”

  She nodded.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “Cell phones. You said—” She shook her head. “Oh, never mind.”

  He continued to gaze at her for a moment. Then, “You never stop, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Georgia didn’t know what he was thinking, and that made her uneasy. Pete must have felt the same way, because he said goodnight soon afterwards and went upstairs. As Georgia closed the door, she wondered if she should feel bad the evening ended on a sour note.

  Then she pushed Pete Dellinger out of her mind. Ricki Feldman said Harry Perl didn’t go near computers. He used his cell all the time. He didn’t care who or what he interrupted. What if Walcher was with Sara Long when Perl called him? Lauren had said Sara had a special relationship with “Uncle Fred.” How Sara thought of him as the uncle she never had. What if Sara overheard something about Fred and his land and what Perl and Walcher were doing to get it? And what if Walcher realized she’d overheard? What would Sara have heard? And what would Walcher have done?

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  GEORGIA CALLED Andrea Walcher’s cell, hoping to get Tom’s cell phone number, but Andrea didn’t pick up. Georgia left a message to call her back. She considered calling Lauren for her father’s number, but decided not to. Now that Andrea Walcher was cooperating, Georgia needed to “manage” her relationships with mother and daughter. They were both her allies—for the moment—but it was a tenuous balance. If Lauren knew her mother was involved, she might pull away. But Georgia needed Andrea—she was more informed about her brother’s property and in a better position to help.

  She paged through the website files Lauren had printed out for her. According to the files, Sara’s last trick with Charlie was Wednesday, September 14. Three days before she was killed. And barely a week after Fred Stewart died in the fire.

  She went online and downloaded a picture of Walcher from his law firm’s website. His bio said he’d been with Phelps and Mahoney for twenty years, and was head of the Real Estate Practice in Chicago. He had gone to the University of Chicago Law School, and he was a member of the firm’s Executive Management Committee.

  Early Saturday morning, Georgia drove back to the McCormick Hotel. Most of the business clientele had departed the previous day, and the lobby was quiet. The coffee shop was virtually empty, but a fire roared in the fireplace, and a man sat before it poring over a newspaper. A hotel employee in a white jacket and black pants whisked the surfaces of tables with a brush.

  Georgia went to the clerks at the front desk. At resort hotels, the weekend shift was the most important and was manned by senior staff. Not here. A young man and woman, neither of whom looked more than twenty, stood behind the marble counter. They both wore crisp white shirts, red ties, and gray blazers with the hotel insignia embroidered in gold on their pockets. Georgia debated which one to approach. The girl might be more cooperative, and she didn’t want suck up to the guy just to get information. Then again, the girl could be the type who always played by the rules.

  Deciding to take her chances on the girl, she had just stepped up to the counter when another woman joined them. She wore same uniform as the others, but she was older and rounder, and when Georgia looked more closely, she spotted the word “Manager” on her jacket insignia. A pair of reading glasses was perched on her nose. She started to talk to the two clerks, gesturing to a sheet of paper in her hands.

  Georgia was only a few feet away, and after a moment the woman looked up. A jolt of recognition seized her. It was the same woman who’d given her coffee the morning she and Matt broke up. The woman flashed her a puzzled smile that said she thought she knew Georgia too, but couldn’t quite place her.

  Georgia recovered first. “Good morning. You probably don’t remember me, but you did something very kind two years ago.”

  “I did?”

  The other two clerks stopped what they were doing. The woman smiled triumphantly, as if to say “I told you service was important.”

  “You were working in the coffee shop. I had just broken up with my boyfriend. You poured me a cup of coffee. Said you thought I could use it.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “I remember.” She studied Georgia. “You were looking quite poorly that morning.”

  “I felt poorly.”

  The woman’s glance swept the lobby. “You’re—you’re not back with him…”

  “No.” Georgia laughed.

  “Good. So where’s your new guy?”

  “I don’t have one. My name is Georgia Davis, by the way.” She extended her hand.

  “Sherry Diehl.” They shook. “How can we help you?” Her gesture included the two clerks.

  “Actually, it’s a personal matter.”

  The woman gazed at Georgia, then turned to her charges. “It’s still slow. Why don’t you two head into the office and catch up on invoices?”

  The clerks retreated into the back room. Once they were out of earshot, Georgia leaned slightly forward and placed her hands on the counter. “I’m an investigator and I’m working on a case. I have a photo of a man, and I’d like to know if you recognize him.”

  Suspicion registered on the manager’s face. “Are you with the police?”

  Georgia told her the truth. “Up until last winter, I was. I’m working privately now. But the police are working the same case. You may have heard about it.” She summarized it.

  Although the lobby was warm, the manager shuddered. “I did hear. I have a fifteen year old daughter.” She frowned. “Wait. I thought they got the guy. A sex offender, something like that? Preying on young girls?”

  “There’s evidence that suggests he didn’t kill the girl.”

  “Is that so?” When Georgia nodded, she added, “And you’re trying to find the real killer?”

  “We think a man who—may be connected to it—stayed here several times.” She pulled out the picture of Tom Walcher. “Do you know him?”

  Sherry studied it. Then she looked up. Georgia saw the recognition in her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  Sherry nodded. “Is that all?”

  “Well, there is something else. I have reason to believe he was here on September 14th. It would help me out a lot if you could confirm that.”

  “You want me to check our records.”

  Georgia nodded again.

  Sherry didn’t say anything for a moment
. Then, in a quiet voice she said, “I can’t do that.”

  Georgia winced. “We can subpoena them, but you could save us a lot of time. And money.”

  “I don’t think you heard me.” Sherry’s voice was firm. “Our records are highly confidential. I could get fired for going into them without authorization.”

  “You wouldn’t have to speak or say anything,” Georgia persisted. “Just nod or shake your head.” When the woman didn’t reply, she laid it on thick. “This is a bad guy. If we don’t get him, he could go on killing. Do you really want him out there? What if he runs into your daughter?” It was a shitty thing to say, but she needed the information.

  Still, Sherry shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go through our corporate office. I can give you a name if you’re interested.”

  Georgia’s shoulders sagged. In a perverse sort of way, though, she wasn’t sorry. Sherry Diehl was no pushover. The world needed more women like her. She let Sherry write down the name of some corporate officer and headed back to her car.

  She had just exited 94 on Dempster heading toward Evanston when her cell trilled. She pulled to the side of the road and answered. It was Andrea Walcher with her husband’s cell number. Georgia could have kissed the woman. As soon as she got home she called her source in Florida. He said she’d have to pay double for a 24-hour-over-the-weekend turnaround. She gave him her credit card number without complaint.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “GODDAMMIT!” MATT’S employer thumped his folded newspaper on the table. “What the hell happened?” Lenny hung his head, as if he was a kid on his way to the woodshed. “The fucker missed.”

  His boss spun around. They were in his Lake Bluff study, a paneled room with a painting of a bearded rebbe and a student poring over the Torah on the wall. “I thought you were supposed to be a crack shot, Singer. The Mossad told me you could split a Goddammed hair.”

  Matt frowned, but inside he felt relief. His cover was holding. He and the Bureau had created it, step by painstaking step, making sure the right people would vouch for him, back him up. “I don’t have an excuse, Mr. Perl. The window glass I was shooting through must have been too thick.” He shrugged. “Shit happens. I take full responsibility.”

  Harry Perl glared at him. “You take responsibility. You….” He shook his head. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”

  He stared back. “I can’t.”

  “Well, boss…” Lenny shuffled his feet. “You could—”

  “Was I talking to you?” Perl snapped.

  Lenny closed his mouth.

  Matt waited. This could be the end of his job. And his undercover work. Maybe even his life.

  Perl’s cell phone jangled. “Perl…” A pause. “I can’t talk now, Ricki.” Matt went on full alert. “What are you talking about? You can’t!” Another pause. “I know what happened to your father. He was my partner. But what you’re proposing is unacceptable.” Silence. “Your reputation? This isn’t about you, Feldman. I’ll call you back.”

  Perl broke the connection and tossed the phone down on the desk. He gazed at Lenny. “As long as the checks keep rolling in, everyone’s happy. Then the first time something is off, they all want to jump ship.” He picked up the phone and tapped it against the desk. “I told her father I’d look out for her, but she’s turning out to be a problem.”

  Lenny nodded.

  “Stop bobbing your head like a fucking chimpanzee. If I want your input, I’ll ask for it.”

  Lenny looked chastened.

  “If I weren’t so Goddamned busy, I’d—” He cut himself off, then sighed. “One step at a time.” He gazed at the painting of the rebbe. “I’ll give you one more chance, Singer. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  As Perl explained, Matt felt a buzz along every nerve in his body.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  WALCHER’S PHONE records came back in less than 24 hours. Georgia pored over the calls he received on September 14. Six calls from one number, one of them around 4PM. After making sure her own number was blocked on Caller ID, she dialed it.

  “Perl here…”

  She hung up. Her heart was pounding hard enough to rattle her teeth.

  ***

  Lauren lay on her bed, eyes closed, earbuds blasting Metallica. If she could only make the black penetrate everything in her mind, her problems would disappear. Nothing would be real. She concentrated on the darkness, hoping the rough, pounding beat would crush her thoughts into dust.

  A gust of air rolled over her, and she opened her eyes. Her mother stood at the door. She came to the foot of her bed. Lauren couldn’t remember the last time her mother had actually come into her room. Usually, she’d buzz her on the intercom or shout up the stairs. She was wearing the same grey sweater and taupe slacks she’d worn this morning. Her mother never wore the same thing all day. And her hair looked as if she’d been trying to pull it out.

  Lauren propped herself up. Her mother’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear her words. Her face was bathed in anger—it never went away—but something else was there, too. It took her a minute to figure it out, but when she did, a chill crawled up her spine. Fear. Her mother was afraid.

  She waved her arms. Lauren removed the earbuds. A tinny bass spilled out of them.

  “That Goddammed noise…”

  Lauren pushed a button on her iPod, and the room went quiet. Her mother lowered her arms.

  “What’s the problem?” Lauren asked.

  “Someone called a few minutes ago. You answered the phone.”

  “So?”

  “Who was it?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I need to know.”

  Lauren cocked her head. Her mother rarely asked that kind of thing. “It was for Dad.” She had been trained from a young age to ask a caller’s name before transferring them to her parents. What if it was someone they didn’t want to talk to? A stranger, or, God forbid, a salesman? “A woman.”

  “What woman?” her mother said.

  “Ricki Feldman.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “No. But she sounded pissed.”

  “She did?”

  Lauren reached for her headphones.

  “Did you transfer the call to your father?”

  “Do I look stupid? Of course I did.”

  “Sorry.” She gazed around Lauren’s room. “So, what are you up to tonight?”

  Lauren frowned at her mother. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I—I thought maybe we could watch a movie or something…”

  “Together?”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  Had her mother been drinking? She didn’t look high, but after a lifetime of wine and martinis before dinner, who could tell? Lauren shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “Good. I’ll be back. I just need to check with your father.”

  ***

  It was Sunday night, and Georgia was gazing out the window at the red wagon across the street from her apartment when Andrea Walcher called. “I can’t talk, but something’s going on.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Ricki Feldman called Tom half an hour ago. Lauren answered the phone and said she sounded angry. Afterwards Tom called Perl.”

  Ricki hadn’t wasted any time. “And?”

  “I went into his office and asked him what the calls were about. He wouldn’t tell me, but he said he might need to meet with Perl tonight.”

  “On a Sunday night?”

  “That’s what I said. He said it was important.”

  “Did he say where? Or when?”

  “No. But his expression—it was something I haven’t seen before.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was—empty. Absolutely empty.”

  “Don’t let him leave,” Georgia said. “I’m on my way.”

  “You can’t come here. He’ll—”

  “Make him wait. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”<
br />
  Georgia hung up and grabbed her coat. She’d wanted Ricki to raise hell about the fake clean-up; apparently, she had. She tugged on her boots, then stood up and scanned the shelves above her desk. She took her digital tape recorder and slipped it in her bag. She started down the steps two at a time, then paused at the second-floor landing. She turned around and went back up.

  Inside her apartment she went to her closet and pulled out a shoebox. Lying underneath a soft cloth was her Sig Sauer 229. The Sig had the smallest recoil of any nine millimeter she’d used. She liked its feel, too. She’d had two Sigs when she was on the force. When she was suspended, she turned in one along with her badge. The other went into her closet.

  She lifted it out along with the kydek holster it was nestled in. She’d bought the holster for times when a concealed carry was necessary. Although it wasn’t leather—a fact which Parker always pointed out—the plastic hugged the contours of her body.

  She slipped the Sig out of the holster and checked the magazine. She found a small box of spearhead Gold Dot hollow points and loaded them into the clip. Then she went into her bedroom and changed from the thin black turtleneck she was wearing to a bulky white fisherman’s sweater. She snapped the holster over the belt of her jeans and slipped in the Sig.

  As its weight settled against her hip, she realized she’d forgotten how safe a gun made her feel. She was no Robby Parker—her partner used to say that they could take down anyone they wanted, anytime. They were “the Law.” And yet, the Sig did make her feel safe. And powerful. Maybe she wasn’t that different from Parker. She rummaged through the closet again, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and dropped them in her pocket.

  Outside, a light mist spit tiny droplets on the Toyota. She climbed in and turned on the defroster. The wipers smacked against the windshield. She eased out of her parking space and headed north on Green Bay Road. An accident was slowing traffic in Wilmette, so she cut over to Sheridan. As she made the turn, the rain started in earnest. She caught the sandy scent of just-wet concrete.

  Despite Illinois’s reputation as a flatland, a string of bluffs hug the shoreline of Lake Michigan from Winnetka north to Lake Bluff. Between the cliffs are steep ravines, and Sheridan Road cuts through them. For a few miles, especially in Glencoe, the road turns into a sharp winding thoroughfare that’s wonderfully scenic but can be treacherous, especially in bad weather.