Easy Innocence

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  As Georgia sped north on Sheridan, she accelerated up a hill, crested the top, and started down a straight decline. At the foot of the hill was a sharp curve. She was winding around it when a sudden flash of light seared the darkness behind her. A loud crack accompanied it, and her rear windshield exploded. Glass shattered on the back seat. The sudden rush of air made the Toyota fishtail. She struggled to keep control of the wheel.

  Air and rain poured in. She shot a glance in the rear view mirror. Headlights pierced the black void. The downward angle of the beams suggested a high-riding SUV or small truck. She could make out two figures in the front seat. The figure in the passenger seat was aiming a rifle out the window.

  Another muzzle flash. She jammed the accelerator, preparing to swerve from side to side. But this stretch of Sheridan was only two lanes, and as she careened around a curve, another pair of headlights swam toward her: a car, speeding into the Toyota from the opposite direction. She jerked the wheel. The Toyota skidded and swerved on wet road. She barely missed the oncoming car. The other car’s horn blasted for a full ten seconds.

  Georgia shot another glance into the rearview mirror. Her pursuers were still behind her. Suddenly a driveway materialized on the left, practically on top of her. She wrenched the wheel. The Toyota lurched off at an angle. Tires crackled on gravel. Trees flashed past, and she felt the car bounce wildly onto gravel and rocks. She slammed on her brakes and heard a terrifying screech. The car started to spin. The force propelled her forward, and she strained against the seat belt. She thought she might sail through the windshield. The belt threatened to slice her stomach in half. Another powerful shove threw her back against the seat. Her neck snapped back, but the seat belt held.

  Then it was over.

  She sucked down wet air and mentally checked herself. Except for a cramp where the seat belt squeezed her chest, and a throbbing in her neck, she seemed to be okay. The Toyota sat partly on a driveway that stretched back into such dense blackness that she couldn’t see where it ended. It was probably one of those private roads that spider-webbed through the North Shore. Her eyes raked the darkness Whoever was shooting at her hadn’t made the turn. She shivered in the rain-soaked cold. They could be coming back. She needed to get to her destination fast. She threw the Toyota into reverse.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  WHEN GEORGIA pulled up, the floodlights above the Walchers’ garage flickered on. The lights cut irregular stripes on the grass, which was covered by a carpet of wet leaves. She parked in the semicircular drive. So far no one had followed her. She got out of the car and inspected the damage to her rear window. There wasn’t much glass left, except in the corners, and the back seat was a blanket of glassy pellets.

  She started toward the house, then slowed. Did she really want to confront Tom Walcher? Maybe she should turn it over to the cops. They could bring him in for prostitution. Question him about Sara’s death, Janowitz’s, his brother in law, Fred’s. The attempts on her life, too. No. She’d come too far. She crossed over the fishpond and rang the bell.

  Footsteps inside clacked. Her hand casually brushed the Sig and she moved to one side, just in case, but it was Andrea who opened the door. When she recognized Georgia, she scowled, and, without as much as a greeting, led her into the kitchen. A cup of steaming tea sat on the granite counter. A fruity aroma wafted through the air.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “Upstairs. In his office.” Her face grew worried. “What are you going to do?”

  “What happened to the meeting with Ricki Feldman?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Ricki might be in danger. I need to warn her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told her about the ‘expedited’clean-up on your brother’s land. She’s not happy about it. I’m sure that’s why she called Tom.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?” Andrea’s expression was a portrait of fear.

  Georgia glanced around the room, wondering the same thing. Then she heard a squeak from the hall.

  Andrea’s face went ashen. “It’s Tom,” she whispered. “If he finds you here…”

  Georgia cut her off. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

  Her hand slipped to her holster, but before she could draw the Sig, Walcher burst in. He was clutching a .38. “Don’t move. Either of you. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Tom!” Andrea’s face twisted in shock. “What are you doing? Put that down!”

  “Do what I say, Andrea.” Walcher’s voice was ice.

  Andrea raised her hands. He waved the gun at Georgia. “Now you.”

  Georgia slowly lifted her hands in the air.

  His chin shot up toward his wife. “How did she get in here?”

  Andrea didn’t reply.

  “You let her in.” His eyes strayed to his wife’s cup of tea. “Planning a tea party?” He took an angry step toward the counter.

  Andrea shot a look at Georgia that was a silent plea for help.

  Georgia cut in. “Walcher, come to your senses and put the gun down. Let’s talk.”

  “I heard plenty of talk out in the hall. I have nothing to say to you.” Walcher flicked his eyes to his wife. “Or you. I should have known you’d turn traitor. What did she promise you? A pass if you turned state’s evidence? She can’t do that, you know. She’s only a PI.”

  Andrea wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I want both of you in the living room where I can see you.” He pointed the gun at Georgia. “You first.”

  Georgia moved cautiously. So far he hadn’t noticed the concealed carry. She was glad she was wearing the fisherman’s sweater. Andrea followed Georgia, and Walcher brought up the rear. Georgia’s shoes thudded across the marble floor, then grew silent as she hit the carpeted steps in the living room. She stopped a few feet from the picture window. The glass was beaded with rain, but their reflections were sharp against the blackness. How could she get to her Sig?

  Andrea spoke up. “Tom, put that thing away before Lauren sees you. This—”

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  Georgia spread her hands. “She’s right. This won’t help your situation.”

  “I told you to keep your hands above your head. And what do you know about my situation?”

  She raised her arms again. “You helped Perl fake the environmental report on your brother-in-law’s land. Then you and Perl killed him so he couldn’t scuttle the deal. But too many people know about it now. Ricki Feldman. Your wife. Me. You can’t keep killing just to cover it up.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “You had Sara Long killed, too.”

  Andrea looked astonished. “Sara Long? What does she have to do with this?”

  Walcher’s eyes looked dark, large, and dangerous. She had a sudden vision of what evil looked like.

  “You killed Sara because she overheard you and Harry on the phone talking about Fred and the land. You and Harry were afraid she’d tell someone. Like her pimp, Derek.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” Walcher spit out.

  “You know the law. Doesn’t matter if you pulled the trigger. You’re an accessory.”

  “It wasn’t me!”

  Georgia pretended to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Then put the gun down and tell me who did. And why you were just on the phone with Perl.”

  “Perl can be—he’s impulsive. I was trying to talk some sense into him.”

  “He wants to go after Ricki, doesn’t he?”

  “I told you. He’s under control.”

  “For how long?”

  Walcher leveled the .38 at Georgia. “No more. You don’t get twenty questions.”

  “Why is she bringing up Sara Long?” Andrea cut in. “And talking about pimps? What the hell is going on?”

  “Stay out of this, Andrea.”

  “If it wasn’t you,” Georgia ignored Andrea. “It had to be Perl. Put the gun away and save yourse
lf, Tom.”

  “Stop!” Andrea hugged her arms. “Both of you! I want to know what’s going on!”

  Yanking her thumb toward Andrea, Georgia faced Walcher. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

  When Walcher didn’t answer, Georgia turned to Andrea.

  “Your husband had Sara Long killed. And her pimp, too.”

  Andrea Walcher tipped her head to the side. Her voice was thick and slow. “Sara—Long—had—a—pimp?”

  Walcher’s eyes skimmed Georgia then settled on Andrea. “Don’t believe anything she says, Andrea. She’s trying to drive a wedge between us. She’ll say anything.”

  “Sara Long was a prostitute, Andrea, and Tom was one of her best clients.” Georgia said it quietly, but her words cut the air like a scream. She hadn’t promised Lauren not to reveal the prostitution ring, but she had delayed the telling of it. Now it was coming out, and Lauren’s role in it would follow. This family, this girl, would be destroyed. Despite being held at gunpoint, a profound sadness came over Georgia.

  Andrea’s body went very still. “Is this true, Tom? Were you screwing Lauren’s best friend? A teenager?”

  “You have no proof.” Walcher’s voice was laced with venom.

  “You’re wrong,” Georgia said quietly. “There is proof. Right in this house, as a matter of fact.”

  “Don’t believe her, Andrea.”

  “In your daughter’s bedroom.”

  Walcher scowled. Andrea stared at Georgia.

  “Your daughter has been running a teenage prostitution ring on her computer.”

  Andrea’s jaw dropped.

  “In fact, she’s responsible for setting Sara up with you, Tom.”

  “NO!” A strangled shout came from Walcher. “You’re lying!”

  “For our special customers only,” Georgia recited. “A new shipment has arrived: young, blonde, sexy. Guaranteed to give you pleasure over every inch of your body. Sound familiar, Charlie?”

  For a moment Walcher didn’t move. Then, very slowly, he took a step towards his wife. “I didn’t know it was her. I swear. She looked older. Not like one of Lauren’s friends. I didn’t know until—”

  “Until she overheard the call from Harry about Fred,” Georgia interrupted.

  “I swear I didn’t know.” He continued to move towards his wife.

  Andrea threw out her arms. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Walcher stopped.

  “But once you figured out who Sara was, it gave you another reason to kill her,” Georgia went on. “Aside from not wanting anyone to know you were screwing your daughter’s best friend.”

  Andrea’s mouth was working and her lips were moving, but nothing came out.

  Georgia tried to muster some pity for the woman, if only because she was Lauren’s mother. She felt nothing.

  Walcher was another matter. She hated that he was a fixer with no conscience. She hated him for killing—or allowing others to be killed—so casually. And she hated that he abused young girls, using sex as his private currency. No wonder Lauren had no scruples about prostituting herself and finding a way to profit from it. She started to edge toward him, thinking she would throw herself at him and force him to drop the gun, when a scream split the air.

  “I hate you! I hate you all!”

  Tom whipped around, the .38 still in his hand. Lauren stood at the entrance to the living room, teetering on the top of the carpeted steps. Her eyes were huge, and her cheeks had spots of crimson on them.

  Georgia quickly drew her Sig. “Lauren, get out! Go away! Walcher, drop it!”

  But Lauren stayed where she was. She faced her father, her chest heaving. She didn’t seem to notice the gun in his hand. “Is it true? Are you Charlie? Did you have sex with Sara? My best friend? And then have her killed?”

  “Lauren, go upstairs. Now!” Georgia yelled again. “Walcher, drop the gun! I’m not gonna say it again!”

  Walcher hesitated for what seemed like forever, then closed in on his daughter. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her towards him and thrust her in front of his body like a shield. He slid the .38 against her temple.

  “Daddy, what are you doing?” Lauren shrieked. “Let me go!”

  “Quiet, Lauren,” Walcher spun her around so they were both facing Georgia. Walcher’s eyes locked on hers. “Your turn. Throw your gun on the floor. Now.”

  Georgia didn’t move. Her pulse roared in her ears. “You don’t want to do this, Walcher,” she said slowly.

  “Drop it! Now!” His voice was ragged.

  Lauren’s eyes filled with panic. A thousand thoughts tumbled through Georgia’s brain, but one took precedence. She’d promised to protect Lauren. And Andrea. Slowly, she extended her arm and lowered the Sig to the floor.

  “Now, get your hands in the air,” Walcher barked.

  Georgia straightened and raised her hands.

  Walcher motioned with his chin. “Andrea. Get the gun and give it to me.”

  But Andrea didn’t move. Her face wore a puzzled expression, as if she was watching a movie in a foreign language with no subtitles.

  “Did you hear me, Andrea?” Walcher’s voice was so taut it was almost a whisper. “Get her gun.”

  “Daddy, please…” Lauren broke in. Her face started to crumple.

  “I said be quiet, Lauren.”

  Andrea remained as immobile and silent as a statue. Georgia looked at Lauren. The girl’s shoulders were hunched, and her muscles were coiled. She looked scared, but Georgia thought she saw something more just under the surface. Determination. When she threw Georgia a calculating glance, it registered. She was waiting for Georgia to give her a signal. Georgia looked at her Sig, still on the floor.

  “Andrea!” Walcher shouted. “Are you deaf? Do what I tell you!”

  Suddenly Andrea came alive and launched herself at her husband. At the same time Lauren shoved against her father, broke his armhold, and lurched toward Georgia. Georgia pulled her onto the floor, grabbed her Sig, and threw herself on top of the girl. Walcher struggled with his wife and stumbled. A shot rang out. There was a loud pop, and an abstract but colorful canvas fell off the wall. A wisp of smoke floated out from the point of impact. Andrea dropped to the floor.

  For a moment, no one moved. Georgia wasn’t sure if Andrea had been hit along with the painting. Then,

  “The Chagall!” Andrea shouted.

  Georgia rolled off Lauren, propped her elbows on the floor, and steadied the Sig. Walcher extricated himself from his wife, stood, and pointed the .38 at Georgia, but she was ready. She aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  The flash from the Sig was accompanied by a deafening roar. Walcher’s face got soft and rubbery, and his lips curled in a baffled smile. Then his body seemed to fold in on itself, and he collapsed almost gracefully on the floor. Georgia watched a small pool of red soak into the white carpet.

  Andrea pushed herself up and covered her face with her hands.

  Georgia stood, then helped Lauren to stand. The girl looked at her father, then at Georgia. Her bottom lip quivered, and an anguished sob escaped her lips. Georgia holstered her gun and opened her arms to the girl.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  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.