Easy Innocence
Page 1
Easy Innocence
by
Libby Fischer Hellmann
Published by Bleak House Books
a division of Big Earth Publishing
923 Williamson St.
Madison, WI 53703
www.bleakhousebooks.com
Copyright © 2008 by Libby Fischer Hellmann
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-932557-66-4 (Trade Cloth)
ISBN 13: 978-1-932557-69-5 (Evidence Collection)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Printed in the United States of America
11 10 09 08 07 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Set in Perpetua
Interior by Von Bliss Design
www.vonbliss.com
For Robin whose song brings joy and sunshine to my life
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgments
I AM continually amazed by the generosity and patience of so many people, without whose help this book would not have been written. Thanks (again) to Mike Green, Deputy Chief of Police in Northbrook, Illinois; Detective Mike O’Malley of Northbrook; Cook County Prosecutor Robert Egan; P.I. Joel Ostrander (who put up with endless questions); Sue Trowbridge; Attorney Dan Franks; and therapist Rick Tivers. Also thanks to Illinois EPA official Bob Carson;Judy Bobalik (is there anything she hasn’t read?), Kent Krueger, Roberta Isleib, Deborah Donnelly, and Ruth Jordan. And, of course, the Red Herrings.
The transcript of an Oprah show on high school and teen prostitution was also useful.
Finally, sincere thanks to Jacky Sach, who helped conceive the story; Nora Cavin, whose editorial expertise shaped it; Ann Rittenberg, whose insight strengthened it; and Alison Janssen, whose sharp eye polished it.
CHAPTER ONE
LONG AFTER she moved on, she would remember the smells. Her eyes, she kept closed—she’d never been a watcher, and most of the time there wasn’t anything worth looking at. But the smells were always there. Sometimes she made a game out of it. She could usually tag them by their aftershave. Brut. Old Spice. The man who reeked of Opium. Those were easy. It was when they didn’t bother to clean up, when their greasy hair or body odor or foul breath made her gag, that it got hard. Then she stopped playing the game and took shallow breaths through her mouth.
There was also the dusty smell of the blankets. The starchy scent of the sheets. The faint residue of smoke in the rug and curtains. In nicer hotels, she might catch a lingering trace of disinfectant.
But the smell of sex—that was always the same. It didn’t matter whether the man was white or black or Asian. It didn’t matter the state of his personal hygiene. Sex gave off that slightly chemical, briny odor. Sometimes yeasty. Sometimes flavored with sweat. It wasn’t offensive. Just different.
As she rolled off his body, his aftershave cut through the smell of sex. Spicy but sweet. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew it was expensive. She sat up. The room was large and elegantly furnished. Late afternoon sun spilled through wooden window slats. He always brought her to nice hotels. And he paid well. They never haggled.
She grabbed the small towel she’d left at the end of the bed and gently rubbed his cock. He moaned and stretched out his arms. He claimed he liked to clean up right away, but she knew he just wanted some extra attention.
She kept rubbing. “How we doing?”
He kept his eyes shut, but a smile tickled his lips, and he angled his pelvis up toward the towel. “Mmmm.”
Men were so predictable. But this was what made it worthwhile. Besides the money. She loved the moment when they reached the edge of passion and couldn’t hold on any longer. When they shot into her, relinquishing everything. The feeling of power at that moment was incredible. And addictive.
She massaged him for another minute, then stopped. Always leave them wanting, she’d learned. Sometimes it meant another round. And more money. This time, though, he didn’t move. He lay so still she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She hoped not. She had another appointment.
She bunched up the towel and lobbed it across the room. It landed on her black leather miniskirt. Damn. She’d paid nearly two hundred dollars for it, another two for the jacket. No way she’d let it get ruined by a sex-stained towel. She got out of bed, picked up the clothes and the Coach bag lying nearby. She remembered when she bought the bag. How she handed over the three hundred dollar bills with a blasé expression, trying not to show how proud she was to have that kind of cash. How the sales clerk at Old Orchard Mall squinted, trying to hide her envy. Yes, it was worth it.
She headed into the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. He liked to watch her get dressed. She tried to remember if he’d always been that way. She thought not. Of course, things were different then. She smiled to herself. If he only knew. She cleaned herself up and put on the skirt, then the filmy see-through blouse. She checked herself out in the mirror, pirouetting left then right. She’d lost a few pounds over the summer, and she liked her new lean look. She’d be shopping for winter clothes soon. That would be fun.
She was reapplying her makeup, thinking about Prada boots and Versace sweaters when his cell chirped. She heard him curse, then fumble around for his jacket. She heard the metallic click as he flipped the phone open.
“Yeah?”
She studied her hair in the mirror. It had come down, and her blond waves framed her face. But she had another job, so she rolled it back up into a twist. With her hair, her makeup and clothes, no one recognized her. Including “Charlie.” She almost giggled. Charlie. What kind of name was that for a john? He should have been more creative. Sometimes she said her name was Stella. The object of desire. Better than that stupid streetcar.
“I’m in a meeting,” he said into the cell.
She couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but the long exhalation that followed told her he wasn’t going to be hanging up.
“That’s what we’re meeting about.” A pause. “The funeral’s at Christ Church up here. She refuses to go back to the old neighborhood.” Another pause. “Memorial Park.”
She stopped fiddling with her hair.
“I told you. I don’t want to talk about this. I told you I would handle Fred. But you couldn’t wait. Now we’re both up shit creek.”
Fred? She dropped her arms and slowly turned around. He sat on the edge of the bed, his profile to her. His cell was glued to his ear, and he was trying to pull up his pants with his free hand. She leaned against the bathroom door.
“Of course, she’s upset.” He snapped the button of his trousers. “He’s the only one in the family she talked to. For him to die—alone—in a fire—she’s devastated. Everyone is. I told you not to jump the gun. We were practically there.”
She bit her lip, trying to piece it together. When she thought she had it, she sucked in a breath.
He twisted around and stared at her. The anger that ran hard across his face disappeared, and his expression grew puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ll call you back.” He released the cell from his ear and snapped it closed.
She looked down. But not fast enough.
CHAPTER TWO
A PRINCESS. That’s what she looked like to him. A fairy princess.
Shh. Quiet. Don’t make a sound. Have to watch the silky, golden-haired girl. See her twist and twirl in the clearing.
He slipped behind a tree. As quiet as a mouse. A furry mouse. Mousekeeters. Karen and Cubby. But the girls with her in the clearing were not quiet. They shouted and laughed. And made the princess spin around in a circle. She stumbled from one to another while they clapped and cheered. They should stop, he thought. Fairy princesses are not meant to fall. Fairy princesses are meant to smile, to soar, to glide. Their wands flickered as they touched the anointed, and the anointed rose up strong and powerful.
No. Must not touch myself. It is bad. Everyone says so.
The branch he’d been holding fell back, but the girls, absorbed in their chanting, didn’t notice. He waited a moment, then lifted the branch again.
The girls had gone. The princess was alone. But she did not flutter from spot to spot, bestowing magic with her wand. She stomped around the clearing, her arms out in front. Long, bare arms, her summer tan not quite faded. He imagined the shapely, tanned legs beneath her jeans. He felt himself stiffen.
She couldn’t see. A white metal bucket covered her head. A foul smell came from the bucket. Fish. Dead fish. How did that happen? She pulled at the bucket, tugging, yanking, trying to take it off. But it would not come off. Her ring made a tinny sound against the metal. A quiet clang. Knock knock. Who’s there? Who’s coming?
“Is anybody there?” He could barely hear her muffled cries. “Please. Help. It’s getting hard to breathe!”
He let the branch fall again. Her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her. He, the gallant prince, would rescue her. But first he had to attend to the urge. It was strong, his urge. Sometimes it consumed him. It was what he did when he saw beauty. It was the only thing that soothed him. And the fairy princess was very beautiful. He hid behind a tree and dropped his pants. Quiet. Very quiet. Can’t let anyone see.
“Hey. Come on! I need help!”
His heart began to pound. She was calling. I am here, your highness, he wanted to say. I will be there. But first, I need to do this. It will only be a minute. Minute rice. Minute men. Minute. Minute. Minute.
A moment later, he sagged and clung to the tree. He had finished. He peered around. The princess was standing strangely still. Had she heard him? No. How could she? He was always quiet. And she had that bucket on her head.
Bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing. Who was creeping out of the woods toward the princess? Was that a baseball bat in their hands? Or was it his imagination? The doctors kept saying he saw things that weren’t there. Did things he shouldn’t do.
His father had bought him a Louisville Slugger when he was young. Told him about Ted Williams and Harmon Killebrew. Taught him how to swing from his hips. He remembered that day. It was a good one.
Wait. What was happening? The bucket wasn’t a ball. Stop striking the bucket. The princess will get hurt! Already she was swaying from side to side. But the bat kept pounding the metal. Swing and a miss. Strike one. The princess fell to her knees, still clutching the bucket. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. The princess was down for the count. Ten, nine, eight. One more swing connected with the bucket with a loud clannngggg. The princess dropped to the ground.
Home run. The home team won! Where are the bells? The whistles? The scoreboard lit up like the Fourth of July? A trickle of red seeped under the rim of the bucket onto the ground.
Suddenly it was quiet. Even the crickets stifled their song. He stared at the princess. She wasn’t moving. Oh God, it was good. He was good. His pants were stained. He was wet. Sticky. So was the princess. Have to mop up. Clean us both. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet. Cleaning her curds and whey.
Her sweet, milky neck. The soft, golden hair. Streaked with red now. Did he do this? He was going to be her salvation. The leaves on the trees shivered. He did too.
The Louisville Slugger. It lay close to the princess. He had wanted to play Little League. Shortstop, he thought. Stop short. But he didn’t make the team. His father was angry. He remembered that day, too. It hurt. He stood up and raised the bat to his shoulders. Swing and a miss. Strike two.
Screams pierced the silence of the woods. The ladies in waiting were back. Their hands flew to their mouths. Their eyes grew wide with horror. You are too late, he wanted to call out. You could not save your Princess.
He dropped the bat and knelt down next to her body. He touched the bloody rim of the bucket. He wiped his hands on his shirt. The silence of the woods pressed in. He would have cried, if only he knew how.
CHAPTER THREE
THAT TWO-TIMING bitch,” he spat. “She’s going to pay. Big time.”
Georgia Davis tried to ignore the man’s venom, but the more he talked, the more vicious he grew. A potential client, he’d met her at Starbucks and immediately started to rant about his wife. Georgia listened, hoping she could remain dispassionate. “When did you first suspect she was seeing someone?”
“About six months ago.”
“You waited a long time to act on it.”
“I thought maybe she was telling the truth about the Goddammed class. Then I called the school, and they had no fucking record of her registration.” His face grew so crimson, his body so rigid she was afraid he might explode. “She’s a whore. A Goddamned cheating whore. After all I’ve done for her. She was nothing before she married me.” He bunched his hands into fists. “A fucking nobody!”
Georgia sipped her coffee. The guy had come in as a referral from a PI she hardly knew. The dick worked in the western suburbs, but the client lived on the North Shore, and he thought Georgia would be better suited to the case. She’d gratefully snapped it up, but now she wasn’t so sure. Did the PI know what an asshole this guy was? Maybe she should have grilled him more before she jumped.
Except the guy was paying good money. He hadn’t blinked when she gave him her per diem, payable up front, and he agreed to a bonus if she came up with the goods.
“Let me look into it, Mr. Colley.” She put down her coffee. “If it’s true, you’ll have your proof.”
“What, pictures? Videotape? Or other crap?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s gonna have to hold up in court.”
“It will.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Lamont says you’re new to this game.”
Georgia looked him in the eye. “I was a cop for ten years.”
“Where?”
“Up here. On the North Shore.”
“You spent your days tracking down lost bicycles and cats?”
And covered a lot of domestics, she thought. “Among other things.”
She leveled another look at him. “You don’t.” She paused. “But if you have any doubts, you’re free to find someone else.” She lifted her bag off the back of the chair, and hiked it up on her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.” She stood up and turned around.
“Hold on.” Colley raised his hand. “I’ll write out a check.”
***
Something was off, Georgia realized the next night.
The woman threw her arms around her boyfriend, her face so full of joy and abandon it lit up the motel parking lot. As she pressed against him, he tipped up her chin and kissed her eyes, her nose, her throat. Then he tenderly brushed the side of her cheek. She winced. He wrapped his arms around her, and the two of them clung together, as if they might melt into each other through sheer will. The man fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door to the room. The woman followed him in.
Georgia frowned and stopped her digital camera. They didn’t look like a couple in the throes of a tawdry, furtive affair. They looked like a couple in love, the kind of love that makes old people smile indulgently and causes the envious to avert their eyes. The kind of love that refuses to hide, even when it should. She’d been less than fifty yards away from the motel, filming their every move, and they never bothered to check if anyone was watching.