“You didn’t ask?”
“She had a bunch of papers, and she kept going through them. I—I figured she was.”
“Was she wearing a uniform?” Heather asked.
Claire shook her head.
Heather stole a glance at Lauren, then pronounced, “Cop or no cop, you know we’re not supposed to talk about anything without our parents there.”
“That’s what I told her.” Claire nodded energetically.
“And?” Lauren said.
“She said we could call them, if it made me feel more comfortable, or we could go home and talk.”
Heather threw an exasperated what-are-you-gonna-do look at Lauren.
Lauren ignored it. “What happened next?”
Claire slowly folded her legs Indian-style and popped a gum bubble.
She was thrilled to be the center of attention
, Lauren thought. “Well, first, she looked inside the Jeep.”
“What for?” Heather cut in.
“I don’t know. Drugs, maybe?”
“You don’t have any drugs.” Heather scoffed.
“Of course not.”
“Claire...” Lauren cut in. “What did she want to know?”
“Well, she asked me about the powder puff game.”
“What about it?”
“She wanted to know how many girls were there... what the score was... stuff like that.”
“I don’t get it,” Heather piped up. “Why would she ask that? The police already know. It doesn’t make—”
“Shut up, Heather.” Lauren waved a hand at Claire. “Go on.”
Heather shrank against the wall.
“I asked her why I had to go over it all again,” Claire said. “Like, did I say something wrong the first time?”
“And?”
“She said they go over the same thing again and again. That sometimes people remember stuff they didn’t the first time. You know, details and things.”
Two geeky looking boys appeared at the other end of hall, talking boisterously. Both had the gang-wannabe look: oversized pants that hung below their waists, long t-shirts, and baseball hats on backwards. They trudged toward the girls, waving their cell phones, comparing features and games. Having a cell phone on during school was a breach of rules, but you could get away with it on the third floor.
Claire smiled at them.
Lauren shot Claire a stern look, then glared at the boys. All at once they quieted, scurried past, and disappeared through the door. Lauren caught a powerful whiff of aftershave. One of them probably dumped an entire bottle on his face. She turned back to Claire, who was snapping her gum. “How many times do I need to tell you not to waste your time on these guys, Claire? They’re—immature.”
Claire’s jaws stopped moving. She looked like she’d been slapped.
“So what else did this—Davis woman ask?” Lauren said.
Claire picked at her jacket, although there was no lint in sight. “She wanted to know who took Sara away.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” When Lauren winced, she added, “I had to. The cops already know anyway.”
“Of course. You’re right. What else?”
Claire shrugged.
Heather gave a theatrical sigh. “Claire, I’m sure you can be more specific. Think.”
“Well...” Claire looked from Heather to Lauren, drawing out the moment. “I told her about Sara sticking her nose into everyone’s business.”
Heather winced.
“You know, all the stuff we talked about. Like how Sara had to know what everyone was doing.”
Lauren didn’t react.
“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, her tone defensive. “The police know that too.”
“Did you tell her about the blindfold?” Heather asked.
Claire nodded. “And the bucket. How grody it was, and how bad it smelled.”
“What else?” Lauren asked.
“I said the seniors may have wanted to teach her a lesson, but nobody wanted her to get hurt. I told her the crazy guy definitely did it.” She looked back at Lauren as if for approval.
“Did she ask who the seniors were?” Lauren asked.
Claire nodded.
“What names did you give her?”
“Annie Chernow, Judy Bobalik, Monica Ramsey...” Claire recited.
“You told her Monica Ramsey was there?”
Claire nodded.
“Anything else?” Heather asked.
“That was it. The first bell rang, and I had to go.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. Why are
you
asking so many questions, Heather?” Claire shot Heather an angry glance. “You can’t broadcast this on the school news.”
Lauren stifled a smile.
“I sit next to Monica Ramsey in Spanish,” Heather said in her self-important voice. A totally irrelevant piece of information, Lauren thought. But you couldn’t blame them. They were both clueless.
“And, like, I know Sara was our friend,” Heather went on. “And that boys were hot for her. But she wasn’t perfect. I mean, there were things she did—well, you know what I mean.”
“No.” Lauren frowned. “I don’t. What things?”
“The thing with Cash, for instance.”
Lauren waved a dismissive hand. “Ancient history.”
“Well, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Better not tell the cops that. Or the investigator,” Lauren said. “They might think you had something to do with her murder.”
“Ewww...” Heather whined, stretching the sound into three syllables. “That’s disgusting.”
“And to top it all off, the woman made me late for my math teacher.” Claire clacked her gum again. “I’m gonna fail this quarter for sure.”
Lauren yanked her thumb toward Heather. “She’s smart. She’ll tutor you, won’t you, Heather?”
Heather pursed her lips.
SO FAR
the job had been routine. So mundane, in fact, that he wondered why his employer needed protection. Maybe he was the type who thought his footsteps made an indelible imprint, who was sure nothing could be accomplished without his intervention. Sitting at the right hand of God.
One thing was clear, he thought as he wiped down the Jag. The man
was
a micromanager. Down to his instructions on how to wash the car. What cloths to use. How much wax. How long to buff. Still, he was grateful to be working at all. It had been a while. He’d provided references. Impressed them with his resume. And they’d scooped him up. Good thing, too. Any longer and his skills might have deteriorated. He practiced, tried to make sure he was still sharp. But until you were actually on the street, you never knew.
He was the back door guy, the outsider. He didn’t even have chauffeur status. It would stay that way until he earned their trust. But he’d expected that, and he was prepared to take it slow. It was important to be a team player.
He finished buffing the car and went around to the back. A huge turquoise swimming pool bordered by marble statues lay behind a wide veranda. Beyond that was a sweep of broad, sloping lawn with thick green grass. His employer emerged from the water, sun-sparkled droplets beading the gray hair on his chest. A silver mezuzah around his neck flashed in the morning light. Wrapping himself in a soft white towel, he gazed around his estate with a satisfied expression.
A cell phone trilled. The man grabbed it, listened, barked a response. Then he tossed the phone down on the table. He spotted him at the edge of the cabana. His bushy eyebrows rose.
“Lawyers!” His boss spat out. “They don’t do what you want, and they fuck you while they’re not doing it.”
THE PUNGENT
smell of pizza from someone’s apartment wafted through the air vents, making Georgia realize she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She finished her notes, went into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but mayo, wilted lettuce, eggs, and a hunk of muenster cheese. She got out her one good Cutco knife, sliced a piece off the cheese, and wolfed it down.
Her first full day on the case, but it wasn’t very productive. First she’d played telephone tag with Cam Jordan’s social worker. It was just a courtesy—she figured the social worker would echo what Ruth Jordan said. Still, the call had to be made. Paul Kelly might be able to use the information in his defense, particularly if it turned out Cam had never been known to be violent. But the woman was either in a meeting or out of the office, and when she called back, Georgia was at the gym. She dutifully left her number on the woman’s voice mail again.
She did manage to question Claire Tennenbaum, one of Sara Long’s friends, before school. She hadn’t found out much that wasn’t in the police reports—just that Sara had been taken away from the game “to teach her a lesson,” the girl said. When Georgia asked why, she admitted Sara was a busybody. “Sara had to know what everyone was doing. She’d read people’s notes. Diaries, too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She wasn’t always that way.”
“So this—behavior just started recently?”
Claire looked uncomfortable, as if she’d said too much. “I guess. Maybe.”
The most interesting piece of information she’d picked up was the name of one of the seniors who’d been at the Forest Preserve. Monica Ramsey.
Now, she went back into the living room and turned on the news. She was startled to see a photo of Sara Long behind the shoulder of the anchor woman. She turned up the volume.
“... a high school hazing was taking place during the powder puff football game at which Sara Long was killed last month,” the newscaster said. “According to sources, the victim was taken to another part of the forest where she was subjected to taunting and a series of practical jokes. As you recall, hazing is not a new activity on the North Shore...”
File footage from someone’s video camera two years ago flashed across the screen, including shots of girls on the ground covered in what Georgia knew were feces, urine, paint, pig intestines, and fish guts. More video showed girls being punched, kicked, and pummeled with buckets.
The story cut to Police Chief Eric Olson, Georgia’s former boss, who said while the hazing was regrettable, it would not change the course of justice. In a statement that sounded scripted, Olson maintained they had apprehended the offender and had solid evidence to back up their case. They would, however, continue to conduct a thorough investigation into every aspect of this heinous crime. Robby Parker, tall, blond, and smug, stood at Olson’s side, hands clasped behind his back.
So much for keeping the hazing under wraps. Now that it was out, the question of why it had been kept quiet in the first place would undoubtedly surface. Who would take the heat, Georgia wondered? Would school officials claim something about an internal investigation and wanting to be sure before they went public? Would parents admit pressuring the authorities to keep it quiet? Or would the cops and the State’s Attorney’s Office offer some half-assed explanation?
She turned off the TV. The good news was that the fact of a cover-up, however short-term or benign, could help raise reasonable doubt about Cam Jordan. She and Kelly ought to brainstorm some strategies. Maybe talk to a friendly reporter. She’d call Kelly tomorrow.
She looked around the apartment, aware she’d been alone most of the day. Too much isolation wasn’t good. She grabbed her jacket, locked her door, and went down the stairs.
The night air had a snap to it, and a breeze carried the tang of burning leaves. She zipped up her jacket. Another month and she’d be wearing her down jacket. She jogged the six blocks to Mickey’s on the east side of Ridge and pushed through the door.
“Hey, Davis.” Owen Dougherty, Mickey’s owner, grinned. A big man, he wore a flowing white shirt and a bartender’s apron over his pants. He looked a lot like Jackie Gleason in the reruns of
The Honeymooners
she’d caught on cable. Even the same mustache.
“How’s it goin’ Owen?” she asked, enjoying the rhyme for about the thousandth time.
“Can’t complain.” Over the past few years Evanston had become fashionable, its new condos, upscale eateries, and shops a haven for empty-nesters and singles who didn’t want to live downtown. With its dim light, scarred wood, and good burgers at decent prices, Mickey’s was one of the last of the old neighborhood places. “What about you, Davis?” He wiped down the bar with a damp cloth.
Everyone went by last names at Mickey’s except Owen, and, presumably, the Mickey who owned it before him. She didn’t mind. It made her feel she belonged.
“Surviving.”
Dougherty had bought the place eight years ago. “Didn’t have to change a thing,” he’d said proudly. Gazing at the old neon signs, shabby tables, and scuffed floor, Georgia wasn’t sure that was a good thing. While its grunginess was comfortable, almost endearing, Mickey’s
was
becoming a dinosaur. Which made it ripe for a buyout. Of course, that could have been Dougherty’s plan all along, which would make him a lot cagier than she thought. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar.
“So what’ll it be, tonight? The usual?”
She nodded. Dougherty filled a tall glass with ice, reached under the bar for a nozzle and spritzed cola into the glass. He reached under the bar again and came up a slice of lemon which he anchored on the rim. “One Coke, plenty of ice and lemon.”
“Thanks.” She took a pull, wondering why Coke always tasted better here than at home. Swiveling around, she checked out the crowd. The bar was half-filled; most of the faces were familiar. Of the five booths, three were taken, two by couples, and one by a family with two kids. A jukebox stood in the corner, but no music was playing. Instead, a TV above the bar tuned to ESPN was replaying clips from Sunday’s games. At least it wasn’t the news. Georgia took her drink to one of the empty booths. “This okay?” she called out.
He nodded. “Gemma’s not here tonight. You want food, order through me.”
“Make it a burger and fries. Rare, this time.”
He appraised her. “Raw meat, huh? You got something going I should know about?”
“Nope. I’m saving myself for you.”
He ducked into the kitchen. Georgia settled herself in the booth, and thought about the hazing announcement. Two days after she talked to O’Malley, the hazing surfaced. Had he leaked it? It was possible; he clearly wasn’t happy with the way the case was going. But O’Malley was a team player. No matter how unhappy he was, he wouldn’t cause trouble. Or stick his neck out. Leaking the hazing took guts.