Easy Innocence

Chapter 47

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 54th 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.