She took a sip of coffee. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“And did you know it got a clean bill of health in record time?”
“I was the one who told Fred. After Tom told me.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“How did your brother react?”
“He—Fred—was angry.”
“Why?”
“Because—because he knew it couldn’t happen that fast.”
“He told you that?”
Andrea looked at the floor and nodded.
“Suppose you start from the beginning.”
She hesitated. Then, “After the stroke Fred was very weak. It was clear he couldn’t go back to work. We all thought—Fred included—that selling the place would be the best idea. He’d have some money to take care of himself; he wouldn’t have to worry. So Tom helped Fred sell it.”
Georgia took off her jacket and draped it over the back of the stool. “To Harry Perl.”
Andrea looked up. “Perl wanted the land and was willing to pay top dollar. It seemed like the perfect solution. Tom brokered the deal.”
“What about the fact that it was contaminated?”
“My understanding is that Tom promised Fred that Harry would take care of it. It was part of the negotiations.”
“Didn’t you wonder how the land came to be cleaned up so quickly?”
“I didn’t think anything about it.” She shrugged. “Not my business. But when Tom mentioned it was done, I told Fred. He knew right away something was fishy. He said you can’t have toxic ground on Monday and then find it’s gone by Tuesday. He said he was going to look into it. And that he might have to go to the authorities.” Her lips tightened. “He always wanted to do the right thing.”
“Did Tom know Fred was upset?”
She nodded. “They had a fierce argument about it.”
“When?”
“It was—must have been a couple of days before he died.” Andrea stopped herself. “Oh, God.” She clapped a hand over her mouth.
Georgia didn’t say anything.
Andrea’s face crumpled. “I—I don’t want to know any more.”
“You don’t have that luxury, Mrs. Walcher.”
Andrea squeezed her eyes shut. Then she slowly opened them. Her voice was tight. “I’m sure you’re wrong. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for the speed of the clean-up. And the attempt on your life. It could have been a random shooting. Evanston isn’t nearly as safe as people think.”
“Right.” Georgia shifted. “Tell me about your brother.”
“Fred was the only one in my family I talk—talked to.”
“Why is that?”
“The rest of them—well, they were just looking for a hand-out.” Andrea looked around her kitchen. Georgia followed her gaze, taking in the granite counters, the hand-painted tiles, all the latest appliances and gadgets. She looked like it might be the last time she ever did. “We didn’t come from money. It was always a struggle. We were what you call ‘lace curtain Irish.’”
Georgia winced, then tried to cover it up.
But Andrea caught it. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? An abusive father, a mother who hid the bottle under her bed, siblings always in trouble. The only one who looked out for me was Fred. I got out of there as soon as I could. Became a legal secretary. Met Tom. Put that part of my life behind me. Except for Fred. When Tom found the gas station, we arranged the down payment, and Fred moved up here.” She bit her lip. “It was the least I could do.”
“Until now,” Georgia said.
Andrea gazed around the room one more time. Then her eyes landed on Georgia. “What do you want me to do?” She whispered.
Was she ready to trade off her husband for her brother’s memory? Or was she just trying to protect her life-style? Either way, Georgia knew she had her.
“I need to know how that property came to be cleaned up so quickly,” she said. “I have my suspicions. But I need proof. I want to know whether anything related to the environmental situation precipitated Fred’s—well, I need to find what lengths they went to get that clean bill of health. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and call me with any information you find. Does your husband keep records at home?”
“He has an office upstairs.”
“That’s a start. I need information. Documents. Records of meetings or conversations between Perl and your husband. Or any other people. Jimmy Broadbent, for example. Anything else you come across about 2500 Chestnut. You need to report back on anything. Even if you don’t know if it’s important.”
A calculating look came over Andrea. “I thought you were investigating Sara Long’s death.”
“That’s right.”
“How is that girl’s death tied into this?”
Georgia didn’t like Andrea Walcher. She considered telling her about her husband and Sara Long. Maybe the woman’s shock and revulsion—and fear of reprisals—would persuade her to be even more helpful. But she couldn’t tell Andrea about “Charlie” without revealing Lauren’s part in it, and she wasn’t prepared to do that yet. “There might be a connection.”
“How? What?”
Georgia shook her head. It took an effort to muzzle herself. “Not now. Not yet.”
Andrea’s nostrils flared. “How am I supposed to tell what’s important? I don’t know the ins and outs of real estate.”
“You’re smart,” Georgia said. “You know more than you think.”
“And in return? What do I get out of this?”
“In return, I’ll try to protect you. And your daughter.”
Andrea wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, took a sip, and gazed at Georgia over the rim. “You’re going to destroy my life, aren’t you?”
“Your husband started down that road a long time ago, Mrs. Walcher.” She stood and shrugged into her jacket. “Just keep me informed.”
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 54
th
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 knick-knacks, 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.”
Georgia 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?”