“Davis,” Kelly cut in. “You know how when you want something to be true, you can stack the deck, slant things, so it seems like it can’t possibly be anything except what you want it to be?”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s a lead, Paul.”
“Is it the only one?”
Georgia hesitated. “No,” she said quietly.
“What else do you have?”
“Sara lied about working at the bookstore.”
“Really?”
“The manager says she quit her job last spring. Hasn’t worked there in five months.”
“What was she doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well now, that’s what I call a lead.” She heard him rustling papers. “What’s more, I don’t see anything about
that
in the police reports.”
“You won’t. They didn’t follow up.”
“Now that makes things interesting.”
“Can you blame them? They’re convinced Cam Jordan killed her.”
“Like you’re convinced it was the Ramsey girl?”
“I’m not—” She cut herself off.
“Look. Instead of chasing after the State’s Attorney’s daughter, why don’t you concentrate on this job thing?”
“I will. But what about the fish guts in my hall? Whoever sent them clearly doesn’t like me nosing around.”
“Who else have you pissed off?”
“The line forms to the right.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s Tom Walcher. He’s the lawyer I asked you to check out.”
“I did. Big real estate lawyer. Successful. Very much on the up and up. As far as I can tell.” Kelly harrumphed. “Who else?”
“Sara Long’s father wasn’t too pleased with me. And the girls I interviewed didn’t want to talk to me. I wonder if one of them could be behind the fish guts.”
“You thinking of someone in particular?”
“Not sure yet.” Georgia tapped her finger on the phone. “You know, there’s still the matter of those sketchy police reports.”
“I’m on them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m working on it.”
“I thought you weren’t going after Ramsey.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well then, who are—” She caught herself. “Are you going after the cops?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I used to be a cop, remember?”
“But you aren’t any more. You can’t have it both ways, Davis.”
She thought about O’Malley. He was her mentor and her friend. She didn’t want to make trouble for him. And though she couldn’t defend Parker’s sloppy ways, she’d been his partner for nearly ten years. When you risk your life every day, and your partner’s the only one watching your back, it creates a bond that can transcend the rules.
“Paul, I think it’s more personal. I’ve been picking around the edges, and someone doesn’t like it. Don’t go after the cops yet. Let me follow up.”
“Going after the cops—or, at least, pointing out what’s
not
in their reports—would buy us more time. And deflect attention away from the Jordan boy.”
He had a point. “Enough to get him out of jail?” Cam Jordan was wasting away in Cook County in what was, for him, barbaric conditions. If there was a chance of getting his bail reduced so he could be released, it would be cruel not to try.
“It’s possible,” Kelly said. “Especially now that the hazing is out. Public opinion is bound to start softening.” He paused. “You have any idea who leaked the hazing, by the way?”
“No.” It came out quickly.
“I see.” Kelly cleared his throat. “Probably just some enterprising reporter?”
“Probably.” It was possible that someone had decided to play hero. O’Malley, for example. Of course, if it
was
him, he’d never admit it. And she’d never ask. “Paul, I still think we should wait on the cop angle. Keep it in reserve until, or if, our backs are up against the wall. It just doesn’t feel... right.”
“Since when did scruples mean anything to a PI who lies to get what she needs?”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure herself. On the other hand, at least Kelly was involved in the process: brainstorming strategies, trying out leads. One minute he didn’t want to go after anyone, the next he was ready to charge ahead on half-assed theories. Talk about being unencumbered by morals.
“Your wife must love watching you weasel your way out of trouble,” she said.
“I’m not married,” he said in his reedy voice.
Somehow she had the feeling he’d say that.
NORTH SHORE
Fitness was a suburban version of the East Bank Club, a successful downtown facility for exercise, business meetings, and the amenities that fuel them both. Located near the Skokie courthouse, the yellow brick complex met those expectations, right down to a row of glassed-in conference rooms with a view of the racquetball courts and pool. Georgia pulled into the parking lot, having tailed Lauren Walcher from Newfield. She couldn’t imagine what business would draw the teenager to the Club.
Earlier that morning Georgia had visited five different fish markets in the area: two Burhops, Don’s, the Davis Street Fishmarket, and Mitchell’s in the Glen. No one remembered any waste products being taken away, although one of the Burhops managers suggested she come back during the afternoon shift. In an ideal world, she would have gone back to question Sara’s friends, but both Heather Blakely and Claire Tennenbaum were under strict orders not to talk to her. She’d goosed them as far as she could.
Which left Lauren Walcher. Lauren might have an idea about the fish guts, but getting to her was problematic. Georgia wouldn’t be welcome at the Walchers’ home, and another confrontation in a parking lot wasn’t a good idea. She’d decided to tail her and “accidentally” bump into her in a neutral location where the girl might be willing to answer a few questions. Not perfect, but worth a shot.
Georgia parked two rows from Lauren’s Land Rover and kept a discreet distance behind as the girl walked to the entrance. Lauren wasn’t carrying a gym bag, but she might keep her workout clothes in a locker. Georgia would have to talk her way into the locker room or wait until Lauren finished exercising.
The interior of the club looked like a hotel lobby with elaborate chandeliers, floor to ceiling mirrors, and splashy art on the walls. On the left a marble floor led to a cocktail lounge with couches and chairs. On the right was a juice bar and restaurant surrounded by screens and potted palms. Overhead signs that looked like the scrolling marquees inside movie theaters directed visitors to the locker rooms, pool, and courts. It was a far cry from the smelly gym and locker rooms of high school. In fact, Georgia detected a light fruity aroma in the air—peach-scented disinfectant, maybe?
Georgia expected Lauren to go to the locker rooms, so she was surprised when the teenager headed into the juice bar. She followed the girl and peered inside. Half the tables were occupied. Two waiters chatted idly to each other. Lauren went to a table in the back corner where two men and a woman were seated. Georgia didn’t want to show herself, so before she got a good look at them, she slipped around to the back and positioned herself behind a row of palms. The table Lauren had approached was a few feet away. Palm fronds blocked her view, but she could hear clearly.
“Hi, sweetheart,” a man said. His voice was familiar.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Tom Walcher.
Georgia heard a chair scrape. He was getting up to embrace her.
“You have the key to Mom’s locker?”
“Right here.”
Georgia imagined him digging into his pocket. Smiling as he handed it over.
“Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.” Lauren sounded almost pleasant. Daddy’s little girl.
“You’ll bring it home when you’re done?”
“Duh.” A trace of belligerence crept into the girl’s voice.
“Honey, let me introduce you to some people. Harry, this is Lauren, my daughter. This is Harry Perl, sweetheart. He’s a real estate developer.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Perl.” Lauren’s voice sounded mechanical.
“You too,” a nasally voice replied.
“And this is another successful developer. You could do worse than to follow in her footsteps.”
“Now, Tom,” the woman protested. “Don’t do that to the poor girl.”
“Nonsense. You are what you are. Lauren, this is Ricki Feldman.”
Oh my fucking God.
For a second Georgia thought she’d said it aloud.
***
They’d made her see a counselor after the suspension. It was part of the process, they said. She dutifully showed up. They moved past the incident in question quickly. Six months earlier Georgia had failed to turn in an offender’s gun, and she’d brought a civilian to a stake-out. Both of those were clear violations of procedure, and she’d been suspended from the force. Georgia understood, took full responsibility for her actions, and told the counselor under the circumstances, she’d probably do the same thing again. There wasn’t much more to say.
The counselor nodded and started asking about her personal life. In retrospect, Georgia realized she must have been feeling chatty, because she actually told the woman about Matt. It was the oldest story in the world, she began. They were dating. She thought they made a perfect couple. They were both cops, they understood each other. Then he found another woman, and he dumped her.
When prodded, Georgia admitted she’d underestimated the pull of his heritage. She’d heard how Jewish men liked to date gentile women.
Shiksas
, they called them. Especially if they were blond. But when it was time to settle down, they usually married a Jewish woman. It was his family, she told the counselor. His grandparents had escaped the Holocaust, and his parents never let him forget it. She’d met them once. At a Friday night Shabbos dinner. They were polite, even kind. Still, she felt like an outsider. At the time she didn’t think it mattered.
But it did. Never mind that the woman he dumped her for was as shrewd and ambitious as a hungry fox. Never mind that her father had a reputation as a shark. She was Jewish, and Matt had fallen for her.
“What do you mean,‘shark’?” the counselor had asked.
Georgia explained. Thirty-five years ago, Stuart Feldman, Ricki’s father, had built a housing development near Joliet. Beautiful homes; affordable, too. The problem was he conveniently neglected to tell anyone they were built on the remains of a toxic waste dump. When abnormally high rates of cancer, mostly neuroblastomas, surfaced among the children living there, Feldman faced a huge class action suit. His business collapsed, and he suffered a stroke from which he never recovered. After his death Ricki took over the business and quickly settled the case.
“But none of that mattered to Matt,” she added. “None of it.”
The counselor listened sympathetically, then tried to explain the five stages of grief according to some woman named Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Georgia told her it was bullshit. She went through each and every stage at the same time. Grief clung to her, continually reminding her of what she had lost.
Maybe she was stuck, the counselor said, in that nice, antiseptic way of telling someone they were crazy. She should consider ongoing professional help. Georgia told the counselor they were done and walked out.
***
Now the woman she’d been dumped for was sitting next to Lauren’s father.
Georgia’s throat felt thick, her stomach jumped, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. As slowly as she could, she lifted a frond of the palm tree she was lurking behind and peeked through. Ricki Feldman was sitting directly across from her.
The first thing you noticed about the woman was her hair. Straight. Silky. Dark brown. No split ends in sight. Then her eyes—luminous, with thick lashes and perfect eyebrow arches. She had a slender, almost petite build and dressed in what had to be expensive but tasteful clothes. Georgia saw how the men in the room: waiters, businessmen, or exercisers, snuck looks in her direction. Even Lauren’s gaze was admiring.
Screw it. Ricki knew the effect she had on people. Even drinking a pink smoothie, she displayed a studied arrogance, aware she was the center of attention. Georgia watched an enigmatic smile spread across Ricki’s lips after a comment by Walcher. Saw her wave a carefully manicured hand in the air. It was all stage-managed. Orchestrated with the knowledge that even her slightest action was riveting.
Georgia ran a hand through her blond ponytail. She felt like a tacky bland giant in comparison. In a way she couldn’t blame Matt for having been swept away. But she could blame Ricki for stealing him.
She forced herself back. Lauren was still standing by the table, looking speculatively at her father, who was talking to the other man.
“We’re well on our way, Harry. The variance sailed through the zoning committee.”
Georgia focused on Harry Perl. He didn’t seem that tall, but he was sitting down. He appeared to be fit, and he had a full head of curly gray hair worn fashionably long. He wore a plush warm-up suit—he’d probably just come off the racquetball court. He wasn’t unattractive, but something kept him from being truly handsome. Maybe it was his eyes, which darted from person to person but never lit for more than a second. His face was a blank slate.
Perl cleared his throat and opened his mouth. Gold flashed in the right side of his mouth. “Excellent.” He looked over at Ricki.
Lauren watched as Ricki nodded. “Yes. It is.”
Walcher, also in a warm-up suit, folded his hands, the way he’d done at his house. “There are still challenges ahead. The full board still has to approve it. And they’re in the middle of all the low-income housing regs. Anything could happen.”
Perl leaned forward. “That’s why we hired you. To make nice with the board.”
“It will require some—delicacy.” Tom shot Perl a meaningful glance.
Lauren cocked her head.
“But you have—leverage.” Ricki interjected.
“Whatever you need.” Perl added.
Walcher’s nostrils flared. Georgia couldn’t tell if Walcher admired Perl, hated him, or was afraid of him.
There was a brief pause. Then Ricki offered up a dazzling smile. “Lauren, sweetheart,” she said, revealing straight white teeth. “You are such the image of your mother. She’s a gorgeous woman, isn’t she?” She turned to the other men who nodded in unison.