Easy Innocence

Chapter 53

IT WAS a long night. The Glencoe cops took Georgia back to the station. Andrea was taken to the hospital. Lauren went too and was treated for shock.

Georgia was put in a windowless interview room with cinderblock walls where she was interrogated for several hours. The NORTAF task force was activated, and three detectives wandered in and out. They treated her cautiously: Walcher had been killed in his own home, and they had no way of knowing how or why she was there. Still, she wasn't too worried. Lauren and Andrea's stories would back her up, and the fact she'd been a cop should work in her favor.

After going over what happened several times, she told them what she'd uncovered about Harry Perl's land deal, the bribes, the fake environmental report, the murders, and the attempts on her life. But when she connected everything back to Sara Long's murder, they looked troubled. Two of the dicks who'd been questioning her left, presumably to check out her story. One of them came back an hour later.

"We called Robby Parker. He says the whole thing is fucked. The Long case is sewn up. They've got their man, and they're ready for trial."

Anger stung her. "I could have told you he'd say that. I'm working for the defendant."

"He said you and he used to be partners, but you got suspended. He says you never got over it."

Her hands clenched into fists. She slipped them into her pockets. "If you've been anywhere near a TV recently, you know that's bullshit. The women backed me up, didn't they?"

"We're already looking," he said tiredly. "Especially into Perl. But as for the rest of it..." He shrugged. "It's not our case, for starters."

Georgia paced the room, trying to control her frustration. She should have expected there'd be no help from Robby Parker. But she was sure O'Malley would vouch for her, once he heard about it. Paul Kelly, too.

For the moment, though, she needed to focus on a more critical problem: Harry Perl was still out there. If you believed Tom Walcher, he was a loose cannon, particularly when he was crossed. And Ricki Feldman, her unhappiness over the environmental troubles on record, had crossed him.

"You know," the dick said, "You've been through a lot tonight. You shot someone. Doesn't happen often. I'll bet the shrink who counsels cops in your area would be glad to see you."

Georgia stopped pacing. She'd grapple with that on her own time. "I don't need a shrink. I need to stop a killer."

The detective eyed her. "I have no idea what you need, but if half of what you said is true, what you need is to be careful."

They let her go home around seven the next morning. First she called Henry, a friend who had a body shop on Fullerton. He told her if she brought the car down he'd have it fixed in two days. She said she'd bring it in.

She couldn't confront Perl—the cops had confiscated her gun—but she might be able to do some reconnaissance. Tail him or his goons. Make sure they weren't closing in on Ricki Feldman. She told herself she should warn Ricki, too. She also wanted to check on Lauren.

She knocked on Pete's door, hoping to catch him before work. He was there. She convinced him to lend her his Acura.

After a quick shower, she raced up 41 to Lake Bluff, a well-heeled village adjacent to Lake Forest on the tip of the North Shore. She wound through the village to a street that ended a few feet from Lake Michigan. Overlooking the water was a huge estate that looked like an Italian villa, with carved stone work, Roman arches and gargoyles above.

The driveway in front of the house was empty. Georgia backed up to the road and parked at the curb. Clear morning sunshine threw an innocent light over everything. She'd staked out the house for about thirty minutes when a dark Chevy turned onto the street behind her. She checked the rear view. At the wheel was a lean man with curly, dark hair. Her heart started to hammer. As he passed her and turned into the driveway, he glanced over, and their eyes met. Her breath sucked out, and she felt like she'd been punched in the gut.