Georgia checked her watch. Seven-twenty. Six people had straggled in, five of them women. Which one was Jill Beaumont? Two women sat near the front, holding hands. Their cropped grey hair reminded Georgia of the Sisters at St. Michael’s. Two rows behind was a man seated between two women. The fifth woman sat toward the back, alone, reading a paperback. Slim with blond curly hair, she wore a denim jumper over a long-sleeved tee. When she glanced up, Georgia saw deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, and bushy eyebrows. Dark half-moons rimmed her eyes. She looked exhausted. Was that Beaumont?
A few minutes later, another woman hurried in, trailing an exotic scent. Tall and willowy, she was dressed in a tight black sweater, short black skirt, and over the knee black leather boots. Her brown hair was tied back, and her mouth was a bright red slash. She strode to the stage, carrying a book in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. The room suddenly seemed charged. Georgia poured herself some soda and sat in the back row.
The woman at the register came to the platform and introduced Red Sladdick. Holding a slim book, she invited the audience to purchase the author’s first collection of poems,
Secrets
, after the reading. She dimmed the lights and took a seat.
Red straddled a stool on the dais, opened her book, and started to read. Her voice was low and lazy. Georgia scanned the room. The couple in the first row were eye-fucking each other, oblivious to everyone else. The man behind them seemed to be giving Red his full attention, but the two women with him were nattering behind his back. The woman Georgia thought was Beaumont gazed at Red dully, as if forcing herself to stay awake.
After listening to Red for a few minutes, Georgia felt sluggish, too. Whether it was the droning rhythm of Red’s voice, the poetry, or just fatigue, her eyelids drooped and a series of languid images drifted through her mind: Matt’s eyes when he made love to her; a brightly lit Christmas tree topped with a silver angel. She slouched in her seat, her index finger slowly circling the rim of her cup. They should have candles on the stage, she thought lazily, to chase away the shadows.
“We are one with nature... Undulating in the womb of life... So wet, so moist. I put your hand on my breast... you kiss me. I am home.”
Georgia jerked her head up. Did anyone take this seriously? When her eyes focused, she saw that Red was staring directly at her, an amused smile on her face. Georgia’s nerves jangled. For a split second, she was confused. Had Red spoken to her? Was she supposed to say something back?
When she heard weak applause, she relaxed. Red had just finished a poem; that was all. Georgia clapped too. But Red’s eyes lingered on Georgia as if they shared a secret. Georgia’s cheeks grew hot. Beaming as though she’d hit the bulls-eye, Red averted her gaze and thumbed through her book.
Georgia stood up, rolled her shoulders, and went to the back of the room. She was here to do a job. Not to be hit on by another woman. By the time Red was finished, Georgia was back in control. The owner of the store stood up, thanked everyone for coming, and embraced Red. The blond woman in the denim jumper zipped up her jacket and gathered her bag. Georgia hurried over.
“Jill Beaumont?”
The woman turned around. “Yes?”
“Hello. I’d like to talk to you. My name is Georgia Davis.”
Beaumont looked startled. She took a step back. “You’re the one who showed up at the Walchers.” Her eyes turned steely.
“I made a mistake.”
“That’s an understatement.” Her face looked pinched.
“I hope you didn’t catch any flak from it. The last thing I want is to make life tough for you.”
Beaumont pressed her lips together. “Well, you did. Even though I wasn’t involved in your little stunt, some people are questioning my loyalties. One or two actually think I put you up to it.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because Lauren Walcher is in my advisory.”
“Oh shit. I didn’t know.” Georgia blinked. “So they thought you told me about her, then I turn up at the Walchers.”
She nodded again.
“I’m so sorry.”
Beaumont tugged at the sides of her jacket. “Under the circumstances, I have nothing to say to you.” She started to walk away.
“Please,” Georgia threw out a hand to block her. “If there’s anything I can do... write a letter, make a statement, call someone, I will.”
The woman shook off Georgia’s hand. “You’ve done enough. Just leave me alone, okay?”
Georgia barreled on. “But I have a few questions. About Sara Long.”
Beaumont glanced around fearfully, as if she thought she might be under surveillance. “Look. The fact that we had another hazing was bad enough. We could probably have handled it, even with all the media. But then when you add the murder of a student, well, we’re in crisis mode. I have too much to deal with.”
“I get it, and I can’t make you talk to me. But I wish you’d reconsider. I’m only trying to make sure the right person is held accountable for Sara’s death.”
Beaumont faced Georgia. “They said you used to be a cop. Is that true?”
Georgia nodded uncertainly. Where was she going with this?
“But you don’t think the crazy guy did it?”
“It’s not my job to think one way or the other.”
Beaumont was quiet for a moment. “If he didn’t do it, who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do—do you think it was another student?” She asked softly.
“Do you?”
Beaumont looked away.
Georgia homed in. “You’re not sure, are you?”
Beaumont didn’t react. Then she shook her head. “I can’t believe any student would—No. Not at Newfield.”
“But it’s keeping you awake at night, all the same.”
She shot Georgia a look.
“Do you know of any problems between Sara and any other students?”
She took a breath, and her body sagged. “No. She and Lauren Walcher were pretty close.” Beaumont’s mouth twitched. “Then again, I gather you already know that.”
Georgia almost smiled back. “Someone I spoke to said Sara stole somebody’s boyfriend. Do you know anything about that?”
“No. But you have to remember something.”
“What?”
“Sara was turning into a beautiful young woman. That can cause all sorts of problems. Jealousy. Sucking up. Saying things behind each other’s backs. Girls can be vicious. This is high school.”
“Had you seen any behavior like that—where Sara was concerned?”
“I’m their advisor. They don’t reveal that side of themselves to me.” She hesitated. “But Sara was fairly level-headed. She and Lauren both. I got the sense they didn’t pay much attention to gossip.”
“Would you happen to know which boys?”
Beaumont looked puzzled.
“Which boys were attracted to her?”
“No clue. But I’m sure the line would have formed to the right, if she’d allowed it to.”
“What kind of student was she?”
“She was—well, to be honest, she was treading water.”
“How?”
“Sara used to be a lot more... involved. As a sophomore, for instance, she joined three different clubs and was in Chorus. Her grades were pretty consistent, too. B plus. But this year,” She shook her head. “She dropped her clubs, and her grades—well—it was too early to tell—but she didn’t seem... invested.”
“Did you ask why?”
She nodded. “She said she had a job and needed to work. To save for college. At the same time, she knew her junior year was going to be tough academically, and she promised to make more of an effort.” Beaumont shrugged.
“You didn’t believe her?”
“It’s not that. I—I got the feeling she was telling me what I wanted to hear.”
“Did she do that often?”
“She was a sweet kid. I think she wanted to please.” The owner of the store started coming toward them, eyeing her watch. “I think we’re being asked to leave.”
“One last thing. Did Sara tell you where she was working?”
“Let me think.” She frowned. “Oh yes. At the cafe. In the bookstore at Old Orchard. I remember thinking at their wages she’d have to put in a lot of hours to pay for college.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“Not long after school started. Why?”
“Nothing.” Georgia changed the subject. “One of the girls I spoke to said Sara always needed to know everyone else’s business. Did you pick up anything like that?”
She shook her head again. “I guess I’m not much of a help.”
“Oh, but you are,” Georgia said. “Listen. I know you still have—questions—about Sara’s death.” When Beaumont started to protest, Georgia raised her hand. “You don’t have to say anything more. And I’ll stay out of your hair.” They headed to the front of the store. “But if something else comes to you, anything at all, will you let me know?”
Beaumont didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “How come you’re not on the force anymore?”
Georgia was taken aback. “I was suspended,” she said after a pause.
“Why?”
“For not following procedure during an incident at a strip club.”
Beaumont threw her a look. “It figures.”
***
After handing Beaumont her card, Georgia exited the store. Her mood had lightened. She’d leveled with Beaumont, and in return Beaumont had leveled back. She might even have gained an ally. At least defused an enemy.
She was heading down Clark Street when all at once a hand clamped down on her arm. Adrenaline flooded through her. Without thinking, she whacked the attacker’s arm with a karate chop and whirled around, ready to gouge out their eyes with her fingers.
“Hey! Chill, sweetheart!” A female voice yelled. “It’s me!”
Georgia froze, her hand in mid-air. Red Sladdick, the poet from A Woman’s Place. She dropped her hand and staggered back. “Jesus Christ!” She sucked down air. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to grab people on the street? Especially at night?”
Red threw her hands up. “Sorry! I wasn’t—I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Think again.” Georgia tried to get her breathing under control.
“Like I said, I’m sorry.” Red hung her head. “I just wanted—I wanted to know what you thought.”
“About what?”
“My poetry.”
Equal amounts of relief and rage poured through Georgia. “Your what?”
“My—my poetry.” Red turned an anxious face to Georgia. “Did you like it?”
Georgia felt the muscles on her face tighten. No way was she going to discuss poetry on Clark Street at night with a stranger. In the dim light, the woman’s eyes glittered. Suddenly comprehension dawned. “Look. No offense, but I’m not into your scene, okay? I’m not gay.”
Red didn’t reply for a moment. “Just window shopping, huh?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“That’s cool.” Red grinned. “I’m a nurse. At Illinois Masonic.”
“No. You don’t understand. I was working tonight.”
Red looked her up and down with an expression that made Georgia think Red had her own experience with liars. Even so, it was time to end this conversation. Georgia started to walk away.
“Hold on,” Red called out. “Can I have one?”
Georgia stopped and turned around. “One what?”
Red pointed to Georgia’s pocket. “A card. You gave one to the other woman you picked up.”
Red had been watching her conversation with Beaumont. For some reason, that creeped her out. “I told you I was working.”
“Well, you never know when I might need a PI.”
“You’ll find plenty in the Yellow Pages.”
“Who knows? You might need a nurse.”
Georgia didn’t answer.
Red shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you ever need anything, sweet thing... anything at all... just come on down to the Silver Slipper on Diversey. I’m there every night by ten.”
Red turned around and headed north. Georgia set off in the opposite direction, trying not to run.
THERE WAS
more denim at Newfield High than a Levi’s factory
, Georgia thought the next day. As she waited in the parking lot across from the school, a steady stream of teenagers flowed past, all of them in configurations of blue: jeans, skirts, vests, jackets. Some of the kids wore smiles, but most had the sullen, rebellious expression that said they were destined for greater things than high school.
A couple of students lit up cigarettes as they exited. They tried to look nonchalant, even bored, but she knew better. They were flaunting the little power they had.
See? You can’t do anything about it, even though you’re an adult
. Georgia remembered how that felt. She still harbored a gnawing irritation when she had to navigate through the labyrinth of bureaucracy.
Rachel had said Heather Blakely thought she was Katie Couric. Strangely enough, when Georgia checked out her picture in the yearbook earlier, she did resemble the broadcaster: the same chin-length brown hair, big mouth, and petite, self-assured looks. Judging from the photo in which the girl was shoving a mic at Barack Obama during a school visit, she was following the same path, too.
The October morning had been balmy, but now a chill, blustery wind swept fallen leaves into tiny eddies before they tumbled to the ground. Georgia hung back at the edge of the parking lot, checking out the students.
Finding an individual among hundreds or even thousands of people was tricky. She remembered taking part in a NORTAF investigation as a rookie. She and Robby were stationed inside the Rosemont Horizon, waiting for a U2 concert to end. The task force was trying to crack a narcotics ring in Niles, and they’d been told the kingpin of the operation would be at the concert. After analyzing a seating chart, NORTAF posted cops in all the aisles and distributed blurry photos of the target. But when the concert ended, a sea of people streamed past, and she couldn’t identify anyone. It was only when she saw a scuffle a few aisles away that she realized someone else had made him. She hated to admit her relief.
At last, a girl who looked like Heather sauntered across the street. She was with another girl, and a boy who didn’t look old enough for high school. As they reached the parking lot, the second girl peeled off. Heather and the boy went to a silver RAV4.
Georgia hurried over. “Heather?”
The girl turned around. Under her jacket, which was open, she was wearing a white peasant-style blouse and jeans with a beaded design. Some of the beads looked like pearls. It all looked expensive.