Easy Innocence

Chapter 33

"I do. See, most people take for granted they're getting what they pay for. But the cost of even tiny inaccuracies can add up. For example, an error of one tablespoon per five gallons of gas can mean $125 million a year."

"No kidding." She tried to look interested.

"Yeah." He seemed to be warming to his subject. "And when you compute the added costs of—" He cut himself off. "Hey. You don't really care about this, do you?"

"Not really," she smiled.

"That's okay. No one else does either." He sipped his drink and looked around the living room. "You live—sparingly."

Her smile disappeared. "What does that mean?"

"It's just that you don't have a lot of things, you know? Pictures, knickknacks, vases."

She imagined the home he used to share with his wife. It was probably stuffed with "things." She looked around, trying to see her place through his eyes. It did look bare. Untended. Still. She felt a grain of irritation. "I'm not into clutter."

He backtracked. "I didn't mean to—actually I like it this way. More space."

She figured he was lying but let it go.

"So, what's been happening with your case?"

She set the glass on the coffee table. "You watch the news tonight?"

He nodded. "I had a feeling you were involved."

She filled him in, including her suspicions about Sara Long and Derek Janowitz. He listened so intently that her irritation dissolved, but when she finished, he shot her a disbelieving look. "Are you saying a bunch of suburban teenagers are running their own prostitution ring?"

"It might be tied into a larger operation." She explained about Derek's Eastern European roommates. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" She teased.

"Me?" A flush crept up his neck. "No. But I don't run in those—oh, never mind." He threw his arm over the back of the couch. "Tell me something. Why would girls do something like this?"

He'd asked the same question she'd been mulling over. "Money, mostly."

Pete shook his head. "Pretty extreme way to make it."

"Depends on your perspective," Georgia said. "You make a lot of money in a short period of time. And all you have to do is take off your clothes and fuck someone."

He gazed at her. She wondered what was going through his mind. Then he said, "Does that mean the Monica Ramsey angle is a dead end?"

"I'll continue to pursue it. But this—well, this could lead in a very different direction. It might turn out the only thing the Ramsey girl is guilty of is showing up at the Forest Preserve on the day Sara Long was killed."

He went quiet again and sipped his Snapple, then held it out and examined it. "This is good. I've never had it before."

"It's pricey, but I like it too."

He set down the glass and motioned to the computer. "I interrupted you."

"It's okay."

"What are you doing?"

"You really want to know?"

"It's got to be more interesting than weighing produce."

Georgia pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to her desk. Pete got himself across the room on his crutches.

An hour later, they'd printed out and skimmed half a dozen articles about suburban teenage hookers. How girls were approached at malls and recruited with promises of clothes, makeup, and accessories. How one girl started stripping in hotel rooms and "graduated" to placing ads on a personals service. How the term "Trix are for Kids" had a new meaning when girls as young as nine were recruited. They read how educated girls—particularly blondes—were considered preferable, because they worked harder and brought in more money. How the johns in the suburbs were mostly family men in SUVs with baby seats in the back. They also found an article on a new breed of pimp: "Popcorn pimps," high school students themselves.