Easy Innocence

Chapter 20

THERE WAS more denim at Newfield High than a Levi's factory, Georgia thought the next day. As she waited in the parking lot across from the school, a steady stream of teenagers flowed past, all of them in configurations of blue: jeans, skirts, vests, jackets. Some of the kids wore smiles, but most had the sullen, rebellious expression that said they were destined for greater things than high school.

A couple of students lit up cigarettes as they exited. They tried to look nonchalant, even bored, but she knew better. They were flaunting the little power they had. See? You can't do anything about it, even though you're an adult. Georgia remembered how that felt. She still harbored a gnawing irritation when she had to navigate through the labyrinth of bureaucracy.

Rachel had said Heather Blakely thought she was Katie Couric. Strangely enough, when Georgia checked out her picture in the yearbook earlier, she did resemble the broadcaster: the same chin-length brown hair, big mouth, and petite, self-assured looks. Judging from the photo in which the girl was shoving a mic at Barack Obama during a school visit, she was following the same path, too.

The October morning had been balmy, but now a chill, blustery wind swept fallen leaves into tiny eddies before they tumbled to the ground. Georgia hung back at the edge of the parking lot, checking out the students.

Finding an individual among hundreds or even thousands of people was tricky. She remembered taking part in a NORTAF investigation as a rookie. She and Robby were stationed inside the Rosemont Horizon, waiting for a U2 concert to end. The task force was trying to crack a narcotics ring in Niles, and they'd been told the kingpin of the operation would be at the concert. After analyzing a seating chart, NORTAF posted cops in all the aisles and distributed blurry photos of the target. But when the concert ended, a sea of people streamed past, and she couldn't identify anyone. It was only when she saw a scuffle a few aisles away that she realized someone else had made him. She hated to admit her relief.

At last, a girl who looked like Heather sauntered across the street. She was with another girl, and a boy who didn't look old enough for high school. As they reached the parking lot, the second girl peeled off. Heather and the boy went to a silver RAV4.

Georgia hurried over. "Heather?"

The girl turned around. Under her jacket, which was open, she was wearing a white peasant-style blouse and jeans with a beaded design. Some of the beads looked like pearls. It all looked expensive.

"I'm Georgia Davis. I'm investigating the death of Sara Long, and I'd like to talk to you."

Heather hesitated. Then, "I know who you are. I'm not supposed to talk to you."

Georgia stepped forward as if she hadn't heard. "I know you were a good friend of Sara's, and I know you want to make sure justice is done."

"Look, I told you. I have no comment."

Georgia had been trained in media relations back at the Academy, and the trainer said never to use the words "no comment." It made you look like you were hiding something. Tell them you're not going to say anything, sure. Just don't use those words.

"Not the right answer, Heather," Georgia replied.

Meanwhile, the boy with Heather spoke up. "You're a real PI?"

"Jason, shut up." Heather threw him a dark look.

Georgia ran with it. "Yes, Jason I am."

"Like Magnum? They have these reruns on cable, and—"

"That's right."

"Cool. What kind of training do you need to be a PI?"

"I used to be a cop."